Chpt27: See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Date No Evil.
It was seven thirty, and Hermione Granger, Gryffindor Groupie, Head Girl, role model of all academics currently at Hogwarts, was still in her dorm, standing in front of the mirror and glaring disapprovingly at her reflection. What had originally seemed to be such a simple plan (make dress, choose colour, go to ball, change colour, go to see - swoon - Severus) was now turning out to be a not-so-simple and terribly indecisive plan.
Well, ok, it wasn't the plan that was indecisive (can plans even BE indecisive?!) , it was her. How could she not have thought of this before? With the million and more colours that were presented on the spectrum, how was she meant to choose just one? One out of a million! It was, quite simply, an impossible task.
"Impossible, I tell you!" she shouted at the mirror, knowing that, could it talk, it would be making a sarcastic remark of some sort.
She glanced at the room reflected before, searching for some sort of inspiration, and was forced to acknowledge - for the first time in her seven years as student - that the décor of Gryffindor Tower was more than monothematic, it was very. *Gryffindor*.
The floor was of a rich, dark wood, and was mostly concealed by a large woven rug. It, like the curtains, the bed clothes and hangings, and even the leather writing place on the desk, was red; a deep red that was not quite crimson, and lacked the tangy shade of metal that would describe it as blood-red.
Hermione had always thought of the Gryffindor colours as the fiery tones of the November lights, and the shared warmth between a Phoenix's golden feathers. But at this moment, that which was usually a comfort seemed dull and tarnished; monotony had suddenly become the eighth deadly sin.
What could possibly break the normality that surrounded her? What could intrigue and inspire?
She closed her eyes and thought of faraway days when magic had been nothing but a dream, and remembered the countless fairytales that she had cherished. She thought of the first time that she had truly felt her love of learning.
She had been seven, her eyes wide with anticipation as the culmination of her four-week holiday had culminated with a visit to the Northern Lights. They had sparkled above the horizon like the beacons of forsaken spirits, each one carrying a small light in their palms, hoping that one day they would be released.
Hermione had seen them and had been lost for words, stopping to admire its revered beauty, and had then pestered her parents for every scrap of information about the Aurora that they could remember.
*Make it blue*, the memory whispered to her, *Make it pink!* it quickly amended. *Make it BLUE!*
Lifting her wand, Hermione pointed at the dress, and painted it in the soft tones of a lily; white, but for the subtle tint of pink that crept into the material, highlighted by stronger shades around the bodice. The sheets of satin fell about her, and Hermione stared into the mirror. She could see herself wearing this dress as a bride, could almost see the people around her as the handfasting ceremony took place. Quickly turning away, she changed the colour to the first thing that she could think of - a blue so dark that it was almost black, and as it drew light from the room, it encircled her in darkness, making her features gain a tanned, mystical quality. Her hair suddenly seemed three shades darker than it was, her eyes deep with hidden knowledge.
She did not wish to play the role of seductress.
Still pointing her wand at the robes, she allowed her mind to skim over various other colours, barely allowing them a second before a swift judgement had been passed and the next colour appeared. The many shades of blue, cream, red and violet came and went, with only the slightest of pauses occasionally, but Hermione was still displeased, finally, the scheme moved to green, and she stopped on one of the darker tints.
Still gazing fixedly at the dress in the mirror, she changed the material again, this time to velvet, and felt the falling sheaths of fabric thicken and grow heavy.
The sleeves fell down from her shoulders, widening until they flared out from her hands in wide arcs. The square collar was defined by a velvet corset, still woven in tiny beaded flowers that were invisible but to the observant viewer that saw them glistening subtly in the light. The skirts were not vast, but the abundant texture of the velvet gave an appearance of fullness, and Hermione remembered the illustrations of sixteenth century nobles that she had seen.
She felt like royalty, and remembered thinking that she looked like an Ice Queen in the pale Yule Ball blue. This green made her feel that way again, but not so much the ruler of winter and ice, as the monarch of the New World that she had encountered.
Slytherin did not seem so bad in this light.
Wrapping a cloak over her shoulders, she warded her rooms, and crept into the deserted corridors of Hogwarts.
~*~*~*~
As soon as he had left the warmth of the great hall, the Potions Master had headed towards the dungeons, but had quickly encountered an unexpected obstacle.
"Where are you going Severus?" she said, her wiry voice rising and falling in a dazed, unmelodious singsong.
"Why Professor," his lip curled disagreeably, "what a pleasant surprise it is to find you so far from your charming little nest in the attics. Surely you did not abandon your shelter for the sake of the Ball."
He had not phrased it as a question, had not, moreover, intended it to be a question, in fact, even as he uttered the words, he made to step around her and leave.
The Seer, however, had other ideas. "I have no interest in the Ball," she snapped, clicking her tongue indignantly, her voice harsh, empty. "I am here to see that fate is done. I have seen grave deeds, and so I ask you, Severus Snape, where are you going?"
Staring down at her, Snape merely retorted, "I assume that your question is solely metaphorical, and refrain from telling you that I am on my way to my quarters."
"Ha! Snape, who are you to judge what is rhetorical, metaphorical, or literal! You are a fool, and grave deeds are at hand."
He rolled his eyes, "Sybil, grave deeds are always at hand - you forget that the great Harry Potter still resides within the school walls. Perhaps you should speak to him." Stepping back slightly, he waved towards the hall's closed doors. "He's in there, disguised as some sort of servant in cross-gartered yellow stockings."
Trelawney gave him an infuriated look, and Snape pretended to mistake it for puzzlement, "It must be a Muggle thing," he clarified.
"You are too stubborn and too blind to see what the Fates have shown us Severus, and when these deeds have encumbered you, you will remember my words! Beware the burning of the Snake!"
"Beware the burning of the Snake?" he said, "at least 'Beware the Ides of March' was original, but, I mean, really, Beware the burning of the Snake?!"
Trelawney's eyes widened to the size of tennis-balls, and she shouted, "Beware the burning of the Snake! Beware the burning of the Snake!" Retreating, she turned with a flourish and made to sweep from the vicinity, but her over-long moth-eaten robes promptly tangled themselves in her feet and sent her flying into the air in an ungracious arch.
Snorting as only a supremely satisfied person can, Severus showed her how it was really done, and made his usual dramatic exit.
~*~*~*~
They spoke to me at Midnight
but what they wished to say
were not the words I speak to thee,
for as they did away
They warned me that my soul and yours
did surf upon the winds and
in the hour when darkness dawns
you'd account for both our sins.
~*~*~*~
The passageway was oddly quiet as Hermione entered via the door from Hogsmeade. Many of the characters in the paintings had disappeared - gone to join in the festivities within the main building; and when the friendly Duke at the entrance did nothing but to courteously bow his head when she greeted him, Hermione had felt the millions of tiny hairs behind her neck stand up on end. Her footfalls echoed as she made her way down towards the gargoyles, glancing at the various empty landscapes that lined the walls. Even the two vulgar guardians of Snape's quarters withheld their usual obscene mutterings, choosing to merely leer down at her and glance at each other in a way that caused Hermione to wrap her cloak more closely around herself.
"La vie est morte," she said, her voice gliding over the words with a refined comfort found only in those cultured in the foreign tongues. The door, however, did not budge.
She repeated the password uneasily, glancing up and down the deserted passageway as though the solution to this might be hidden in its walls, but she could think of nothing. Feeling the tight knot of worry that was building in her gut, she pushed the door, and fell back with a small cry of surprise. It swung open, silent and swift, beseeching her to enter.
Inside, perched comfortably on the great mahogany table, was Wystetia, Snape's familiar, and she was singing.
It was seven thirty, and Hermione Granger, Gryffindor Groupie, Head Girl, role model of all academics currently at Hogwarts, was still in her dorm, standing in front of the mirror and glaring disapprovingly at her reflection. What had originally seemed to be such a simple plan (make dress, choose colour, go to ball, change colour, go to see - swoon - Severus) was now turning out to be a not-so-simple and terribly indecisive plan.
Well, ok, it wasn't the plan that was indecisive (can plans even BE indecisive?!) , it was her. How could she not have thought of this before? With the million and more colours that were presented on the spectrum, how was she meant to choose just one? One out of a million! It was, quite simply, an impossible task.
"Impossible, I tell you!" she shouted at the mirror, knowing that, could it talk, it would be making a sarcastic remark of some sort.
She glanced at the room reflected before, searching for some sort of inspiration, and was forced to acknowledge - for the first time in her seven years as student - that the décor of Gryffindor Tower was more than monothematic, it was very. *Gryffindor*.
The floor was of a rich, dark wood, and was mostly concealed by a large woven rug. It, like the curtains, the bed clothes and hangings, and even the leather writing place on the desk, was red; a deep red that was not quite crimson, and lacked the tangy shade of metal that would describe it as blood-red.
Hermione had always thought of the Gryffindor colours as the fiery tones of the November lights, and the shared warmth between a Phoenix's golden feathers. But at this moment, that which was usually a comfort seemed dull and tarnished; monotony had suddenly become the eighth deadly sin.
What could possibly break the normality that surrounded her? What could intrigue and inspire?
She closed her eyes and thought of faraway days when magic had been nothing but a dream, and remembered the countless fairytales that she had cherished. She thought of the first time that she had truly felt her love of learning.
She had been seven, her eyes wide with anticipation as the culmination of her four-week holiday had culminated with a visit to the Northern Lights. They had sparkled above the horizon like the beacons of forsaken spirits, each one carrying a small light in their palms, hoping that one day they would be released.
Hermione had seen them and had been lost for words, stopping to admire its revered beauty, and had then pestered her parents for every scrap of information about the Aurora that they could remember.
*Make it blue*, the memory whispered to her, *Make it pink!* it quickly amended. *Make it BLUE!*
Lifting her wand, Hermione pointed at the dress, and painted it in the soft tones of a lily; white, but for the subtle tint of pink that crept into the material, highlighted by stronger shades around the bodice. The sheets of satin fell about her, and Hermione stared into the mirror. She could see herself wearing this dress as a bride, could almost see the people around her as the handfasting ceremony took place. Quickly turning away, she changed the colour to the first thing that she could think of - a blue so dark that it was almost black, and as it drew light from the room, it encircled her in darkness, making her features gain a tanned, mystical quality. Her hair suddenly seemed three shades darker than it was, her eyes deep with hidden knowledge.
She did not wish to play the role of seductress.
Still pointing her wand at the robes, she allowed her mind to skim over various other colours, barely allowing them a second before a swift judgement had been passed and the next colour appeared. The many shades of blue, cream, red and violet came and went, with only the slightest of pauses occasionally, but Hermione was still displeased, finally, the scheme moved to green, and she stopped on one of the darker tints.
Still gazing fixedly at the dress in the mirror, she changed the material again, this time to velvet, and felt the falling sheaths of fabric thicken and grow heavy.
The sleeves fell down from her shoulders, widening until they flared out from her hands in wide arcs. The square collar was defined by a velvet corset, still woven in tiny beaded flowers that were invisible but to the observant viewer that saw them glistening subtly in the light. The skirts were not vast, but the abundant texture of the velvet gave an appearance of fullness, and Hermione remembered the illustrations of sixteenth century nobles that she had seen.
She felt like royalty, and remembered thinking that she looked like an Ice Queen in the pale Yule Ball blue. This green made her feel that way again, but not so much the ruler of winter and ice, as the monarch of the New World that she had encountered.
Slytherin did not seem so bad in this light.
Wrapping a cloak over her shoulders, she warded her rooms, and crept into the deserted corridors of Hogwarts.
~*~*~*~
As soon as he had left the warmth of the great hall, the Potions Master had headed towards the dungeons, but had quickly encountered an unexpected obstacle.
"Where are you going Severus?" she said, her wiry voice rising and falling in a dazed, unmelodious singsong.
"Why Professor," his lip curled disagreeably, "what a pleasant surprise it is to find you so far from your charming little nest in the attics. Surely you did not abandon your shelter for the sake of the Ball."
He had not phrased it as a question, had not, moreover, intended it to be a question, in fact, even as he uttered the words, he made to step around her and leave.
The Seer, however, had other ideas. "I have no interest in the Ball," she snapped, clicking her tongue indignantly, her voice harsh, empty. "I am here to see that fate is done. I have seen grave deeds, and so I ask you, Severus Snape, where are you going?"
Staring down at her, Snape merely retorted, "I assume that your question is solely metaphorical, and refrain from telling you that I am on my way to my quarters."
"Ha! Snape, who are you to judge what is rhetorical, metaphorical, or literal! You are a fool, and grave deeds are at hand."
He rolled his eyes, "Sybil, grave deeds are always at hand - you forget that the great Harry Potter still resides within the school walls. Perhaps you should speak to him." Stepping back slightly, he waved towards the hall's closed doors. "He's in there, disguised as some sort of servant in cross-gartered yellow stockings."
Trelawney gave him an infuriated look, and Snape pretended to mistake it for puzzlement, "It must be a Muggle thing," he clarified.
"You are too stubborn and too blind to see what the Fates have shown us Severus, and when these deeds have encumbered you, you will remember my words! Beware the burning of the Snake!"
"Beware the burning of the Snake?" he said, "at least 'Beware the Ides of March' was original, but, I mean, really, Beware the burning of the Snake?!"
Trelawney's eyes widened to the size of tennis-balls, and she shouted, "Beware the burning of the Snake! Beware the burning of the Snake!" Retreating, she turned with a flourish and made to sweep from the vicinity, but her over-long moth-eaten robes promptly tangled themselves in her feet and sent her flying into the air in an ungracious arch.
Snorting as only a supremely satisfied person can, Severus showed her how it was really done, and made his usual dramatic exit.
~*~*~*~
They spoke to me at Midnight
but what they wished to say
were not the words I speak to thee,
for as they did away
They warned me that my soul and yours
did surf upon the winds and
in the hour when darkness dawns
you'd account for both our sins.
~*~*~*~
The passageway was oddly quiet as Hermione entered via the door from Hogsmeade. Many of the characters in the paintings had disappeared - gone to join in the festivities within the main building; and when the friendly Duke at the entrance did nothing but to courteously bow his head when she greeted him, Hermione had felt the millions of tiny hairs behind her neck stand up on end. Her footfalls echoed as she made her way down towards the gargoyles, glancing at the various empty landscapes that lined the walls. Even the two vulgar guardians of Snape's quarters withheld their usual obscene mutterings, choosing to merely leer down at her and glance at each other in a way that caused Hermione to wrap her cloak more closely around herself.
"La vie est morte," she said, her voice gliding over the words with a refined comfort found only in those cultured in the foreign tongues. The door, however, did not budge.
She repeated the password uneasily, glancing up and down the deserted passageway as though the solution to this might be hidden in its walls, but she could think of nothing. Feeling the tight knot of worry that was building in her gut, she pushed the door, and fell back with a small cry of surprise. It swung open, silent and swift, beseeching her to enter.
Inside, perched comfortably on the great mahogany table, was Wystetia, Snape's familiar, and she was singing.