A Season for Healing
By Dien
Summary and disclaimer in part one.
Rating: The series overall has an adult rating due to the Severus/Harry plotline... This part is PG.
Notes: "Family of Ill Faith." Subtle plug of Azalais's neat-o series. Go check it out. And Review. She's in my faves.
"Letter from some grand exile?" Subtle plug of Textualsphinx's BEAUTIFUL Letter from Exile. Sphinx is in my FA, go read her and REVIEW.
"But that was in another country..." is from the play Jew of Malta, by Christopher Marlowe.
"One of the stately homos..." is of course Quentin CRISP, don't I feel stupid. Thanks to Tragos for catching that.... *thwaps self*
An explanation of Casimir: Basically, he's here so that I have someone to lust after once Severus and Harry start shagging. He's my stand-in. :P
Continual thanks to lovely beta Nyarth. Everyone: GO READ HER STUFF! She's in my Favorite Authors. Go! Go! *but finish this first*
Chapter Eight. In which Day Two of the Great Summer Experiment takes place, in which we meet Casimir, in which Harry receives owls. Though not necessarily in that order.
Harry yawned and stretched, hearing vertebrae crack in his neck. He smiled sleepily, pulling the thick comforter up to his chin and snuggling deeper in under the covers. Mmmm. This was what summer should be.
Outside his window, birds were twittering and chirping merrily, seemingly as pleased as he was to be alive. He caught a glimpse of sky through the glass; clear and blue, not a cloud in sight. He smiled a bit more, thinking with anticipation of flying around the courtyard. At the moment, though, he was content to be lazy.
His eyes drifted shut again, and he exhaled in a satisfied fashion. Maybe just five minutes more...
Tap. Tap tap. Rap. Tap-rap. Harry sighed and blinked, looking over to the window where the noise was coming from. In an instant his sleepiness was gone, and he threw back the covers and leapt from the bed. Four long strides took him over to the window, which he energetically threw open, unmindful of the still-cool morning air that rushed in. Who cared-- when Hedwig was back, with Strix and a letter from Ron?
His owl nearly attacked him in her own exuberance at the reunion, and it wasn't until he had petted her for a good five minutes that she finally relented and let him open his letter.
Harry ripped it open, eager to hear from his best friend.
Harry--
Great to hear from you. We'd thought it might be something like that. George, Fred, and me were all for another Grand Rescue, but Mum put her foot down.
Everyone says hello. Gin and the twins wanted to send you dung bombs and other such fun. I got them to lay off-- told them 'not on his FIRST letter.' Second, sure, but not his first. I swear, she's as bad as them ever since they hired her to help in the shop. It's getting downright hazardous to accept ANYTHING from those three...
Been practising like bugger all. We're going to sweep Slytherin next year, wait and see. Gin's also shaping up to be a damn good Chaser-- though you never heard it from me.
Alright, I have to try and guess? I bet you're some secret place only Dumbledore knows about or something. Dad and Mum said we shouldn't pry or get you to tell since it's your safety at stake and at all. What do they know, right? Anyways, I tried to guess. Give me at least a hint.
And tell us if we can come visit, wherever this mystery place is.
Take care.
-Ron (and all the clan)
Harry grinned. The refreshing cheerfulness of his best friend was a breath of fresh air.
Not that the air around here wasn't fresh to begin with. He inhaled deeply of the morning air, looking out over the grounds. Maybe today he'd do some exploring outside.
He folded up Ron's letter, chuckling slightly at the thought of what Ron's response to "I'm-staying-with-SNAPE" might be. He'd have to write back-- after breakfast. First things first, and all...
Harry felt uncomfortable with the whole idea of summoning the house-elves at the ring of a bell, and blamed Hermione and her war for house-elf civil rights (even though SPEW hadn't been mentioned for quite some time now). He opted instead to go down to the kitchens for food, and five minutes later he was dressed and taking stairs three at a time on his way.
This time, the kitchen was empty except for the elves, who instantly bustled around him with food and drink. Harry happily settled in to eat.
When he was sated on the truly magnificent breakfast, he leaned back in his chair and sighed happily. A smile twitched the corners of his mouth as he remembered last night in this same kitchen, the exchange with Professor Snape.
The world, it seemed, was changing. Or at least his world. It was amazing how different, how much more human, Snape seemed out of robes and his classroom. He went from I-Exist-For-The-Sole-Purpose-Of-Making-Your-Life-Shit-Potter to something more like... normal. Human. A person who got tired, and had his triumphs and his failures, and slouched in his chair, and drank coffee with an expression like he was on the ninth cloud of heaven. And made sarcastic comments just because, because that was Snape, and Harry distantly understood it was just the way the man it was. Something intrinsic. You couldn't imagine him otherwise.
Maybe he's finally maturing a bit. Maybe he's realizing he has no justification in hating me. Maybe we could actually come to respect each other, Harry mused to himself as he took one last bite of toast.
The world was definitely changing.
The owl tower was the same crowded, bird-filled mess it had been yesterday- with the addition of one. Hedwig hooted softly at him and he smiled back at her, pausing to set his broom up against the wall before he pet her on her head-feathers. Then, he opened the drawer that contained the owlery's writing supplies and started his letter back to Ron.
June 29
Ron--
Great to hear from you! The Rescue would've been nice, but last thing you need is getting in trouble with your mum AGAIN.
Thanks for the warning about the Gin/Twin combo. I'll be very careful before opening the next owl from your house.
As for practice-- you should see the place where I'm getting to fly. You'd gibber and drool. Which brings me to the next point. You did try and guess, so I'll give you a hint: we have twenty-six house-elves waiting hand and foot, and no, it's not Hogwarts. I think there's more than that at H, anyway.
Off to practice flying. I've gotten rusty last few weeks.
--Harry
P.S. As for visiting... we'd have to see about that!
Hedwig was already eagerly hopping around, and he smiled indulgently at her. "Yes, you've got a letter to carry, silly bird. Hold still." As soon as it was affixed, the white owl hooted happily, and was off through the window with a flurry of wings. He smiled after her, then picked up his broom and left the owlery, careful to shut the door behind him. Who knew where Macavity might be?
A stiff breeze ruffled his hair as he stood on the battlements. The mid-morning sun was just warm enough that the breeze was welcome. He stepped to the edge of the curtain wall, looking into the courtyard. For a moment his eyes fixed on the base of the library tower, where Snape was probably working away on his bloody potions... then he looked back towards the big, empty volume of air that the courtyard represented. And grinned.
With skill born of familiarity, he threw his leg over the broomstick and eagerly took off. A long, hurtling dive towards the flagstones of the courtyard, pulling up at the last minute, rising in a twisting spiral to circle, madly, around the towers, weaving in and out and up--
The air was his space, his domain. He flattened himself to the broom, loving the feel of flying, loving the freedom. Here there was no war. No Voldemort. No death. No responsibility. Just-- this. Speed. Wind. Exhilaration. The air was his.
He heard breathless laughter and realized it was his own.
Bubbles drifted slowly up through a semi-opaque liquid of a murky violet tint. Long, powerful fingers held the vial up to the light; keen black eyes stared at it condemningly. With a muttered curse, the liquid was poured down a drain, and the glass beaker it had been in set down with other empty containers, all waiting to be washed.
Severus sighed and sat back on his stool, rubbing the back of his neck with a tired hand. Obviously not persicaria.
He rested his chin on his hands and ran through ingredients. Asphodel. Convolvulus.
Fennel. Teazel. Maidentears. Cinquefoil. Persicaria. No. No. And no.
Shrivelfig? No, it would interact badly with the powdered dragon's fang, as would extract of belladonna. Perhaps salamander skin. Yes? No? Properties-- if not properly treated, feels hot to the touch, to the point of burning. Dried and powdered salamander skin is used in several preventative and blocking potions, including contraceptive draughts and Robell's Fire-Proofing Serum.
The gentle notes of Pachelbel's Canon in D flowed around him as he considered, tilting his head to one side. One of his hands dropped from his chin to pick up a quill and doodle absently on a piece of parchment. He did not so much as blink when a figure popped through the far wall of his workshop, though he did say irritably, "Casimir. I do wish you'd ask for permission before entering."
A ghostly pair of the black eyes that were the hall-mark of the Snape family regarded him with some slight sheepishness. In his crisp, polished tones, Casimir Snape-Malfoy said, "My apologies, Severus. I'm afraid I was bit perturbed. Are you aware there happens to be a young man-- a live young man-- flying around the south tower yelling at the top of his lungs?"
Snape sighed and gestured for the ghost to have a seat. "I was not so clear on the yelling at the top of his gods-damned lungs part, but I was aware of a flying boy, yes," he said grimly. "Very aware, for that matter, as I spent a good two hours this morning altering the wards so he could fly his silly stick without getting deep-fried. He happens to be our guest for the summer; I thought Poe had told everyone by now.
"...His yelling-- it upsets you?" Severus finished.
Casimir made an expression that managed to be disdainful, offended, annoyed, and impossibly aristocratic all at the same time. "It is rather what he is yelling," he said distastefully.
"Oh? Do tell," Severus said with an arched brow.
"Yes. 'Death to Slytherin' and 'Eat that, Malfoy!' are the primary battle-cries of your young guest, it seems. I cannot say I approve."
Severus couldn't help a chuckle. "He's a Gryffindor. What can I say? Gods... he's really yelling 'Death to Slytherin'?"
"Indeed. May I ask what a Gryffindor--" the word was spat with such venom it was a wonder the air around the ghost didn't crackle, "is doing in our house? By Father Set's scales, I should think Lucien is quite enough to satisfy any vacuum or quota that might exist."
Severus leaned back and regarded the ghost consideringly. Casimir was a ghost among ghosts, regal in his elegant eighteenth century clothing. His silvery-blond hair and pale face had been rendered even paler by death, providing a startling contrast to his black eyes. Their arrogance remained unabated, three centuries of ghost-hood not-withstanding. Currently, the aristocratic features that had made him a stunningly gorgeous man during life were grimacing in discontent, and Snape tried to think of a way to get him off Gryffindors. Possibly get him onto Malfoys.
"But surely you can't disapprove of the anti-Malfoy sentiment?" he asked casually, still doodling with the quill.
Ghostly black eyes snapped with anger. "Ohh, Malfoys. The family of ill faith indeed! A lot of cowards, of fools, of weaselling, shameful, shameless, dishonourable, grubbing, tasteless, tactless--"
"It's a pity you are one, isn't it?" Severus murmured, half of his mind already returning to a different track. However, powdered dragon's fang and powdered salamander skin together will--
"That's right, bring up a man's failings and weaknesses," groused the ghost. "And it's half, thank you very much. Well, as they say, we cannot choose our relatives. More's the pity." Casimir heaved an impossibly aristocratic sigh, then glanced curiously around Severus's workshop.
"I say. You've moved some things around, haven't you? Very nice. What are you working on?"
Perhaps with unicorn hair to counteract the powder mixing? No-- that would render the hippogriff blood useless. "Potion," he murmured aloud. Casimir looked annoyed.
"Fire and fang, Severus, simply because I did not have quite the same skill with a cauldron the rest of our illustrious family is known for does not mean I am a complete neophyte. I rather gathered the 'potion' part. Is any elaboration forthcoming?"
Severus's eyes had glazed over, and he was murmuring under his breath as he stared unseeing at jars on one of the walls. Casimir sighed. "Severus? Still with us, great-great-great-great-grand-nephew mine? Yoo-hoo. Sevvveerus...."
The live Snape blinked and focused and the ghost. "Thank you," he said breathlessly, then jumped up from his stool and began to hunt through the bottles and jars behind him on the wall.
"Burnt salamander skin, why didn't I think of that? The ashes will have the same potency, but the difficulty with the powder should be overcome..." he muttered as he looked for the ingredient. Casimir looked bewildered and aristocratic.
"Er... right. Glad to be of assistance. I think I'll just go stare unnervingly at the Gryffindor invading our house, alright?"
Snape waved a hand in dismissal, paying much more attention to his potions work than the ghost. As Casimir drifted out of the south wall, he muttered to himself, "Bloody workaholics..."
The score was seventy to ninety, Slytherin in the lead. Draco Malfoy was zipping around frantically on a broom Harry would have sacrificed his Invisibility Cloak to hav-- well, that was maybe going a bit far.
A Quaffle sailed through the air and the Gryffindor goal post. Harry groaned as Slytherin gained another ten points.
In the stands, Dean and Hermione looked worried. But he didn't have time for that. Draco zipped by him, green-and-silver robes flapping annoyingly, and making enough snide comments about Gryffindor house that Harry had to wonder if he spent free time just sitting around coming up with them.
Ah. There! The little flash of gold. Yes. But Malfoy... he had to play this carefully. He zipped off round the tower. Then up. Then behind. As he'd predicted, Draco followed his every move. Exxceellllent.
Quick turn now! Around! Over! Swoop! AND THE SNITCH WAS HIS!
He pulled a loop-the-loop in the air, singing loudly (and very off-key),
"Oh, A Slytherin named Malfoy
"Got his pale ass kicked
"By a Gryffindor named Potter
"Out on the Quidditch pitch!"
"Oh, he did, did he?" said a distinctly cool voice. Oh crap. That sounded like Snape. Harry opened his eyes to find himself flying through something-- no, make that someone-- cold and transparent. Eeeyehh.
Instantly, he leaned back to stop his broom, then swiveled around to see who he'd just flown through. He could feel his cheeks reddening. Man, now that was embarrassing. Fantasizing about a Quidditch match. Aloud. And getting caught. And flying through the person doing the catching.
A ghost hovered in the air in front of him, which was no mean feat as they were some seventy feet off the ground. He was-- or had been-- a tall, slim, courtly man, with longish pale blond hair pulled back in a green velvet tie. Handsome enough by half. Jet-black eyes stared from under silvery-blond brows. And currently staring at Harry as if he was dealing with something he'd scraped off the bottom of his eighteenth-century heeled boots.
"Er... sorry," Harry managed. "Sorry. I'm... didn't see you. Or mean to fly through you. Sorry."
"Hmph."
"Umm. Sorry."
"Yes, so we've established. What, exactly, are you supposed to be?"
"Sorry?" the Boy Who Lived said, confused.
"Kindly stop saying that."
"Uh..." Harry muttered, biting his lower lip. "I think we got off on the wrong foot. I'm Harry Potter... I'm, well, a guest of Sn- Professor Snape's."
The ghost did not seem impressed. "Really."
"Really."
"A Gryffindor."
"Um, yes."
The ghost glared at him in an aristocratic fashion. Harry made his teeth let go of his lower lip. "Um, you're... Casimir Malfoy-Snape or something, right?"
The ghost stiffened with outrage. "That is Casimir SNAPE-Malfoy, Mister Potter-- and to you, that is Lord Brennigan."
Harry winced. What was this, open-mouth-insert-foot contest? "Sorry," he muttered.
"Stop that."
"Right. Sor-- I mean, uh, damn. I mean--"
"Hmph."
Harry closed his eyes and recollected Snape's comment that this was the 'decent' one to talk to. On what planet? He took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and tried again.
"Look, if I offended you, my apologies. I'm obviously new here and haven't been formally introduced yet. I also wasn't expecting to run into anyone up here," he said with a gesture to the empty air around them.
The ghost stared at him, a calculating expression on his face. "Indeed," he said after a moment's pause. "Very well. I accept your apology," he said regally, "and tender my own. I become, ah, irritable on the subjects of Snapes and Malfoys, as well as Slytherins and Gryffindors."
"Not all Gryffindors are bad, you know," Harry began cautiously.
Casimir Snape-Malfoy arched an aristocratic brow. "Indeed. I cannot argue with that. I once met two Gryffindors whose presence I could abide for periods up to an hour. But that was in another country, and besides, the wench is dead."
Harry blinked. "Sor-- I mean, what?"
Casimir shook his head sorrowfully. "Ah, one of the culturally ignorant. Well, young Philistine Gryffindor, I shall not hold it against you. It is a comment more on the state of society than it is on you. Scales of the Oroboros! They teach children nothing, these days..."
Harry shook his head and began taking his broom lower, towards the stone walkway below. Casimir floated easily next to him, seemingly pleasant now that they were off the subject of his name, or House rivalries.
"Might I inquire as to the reason for your stay here as our guest? Obviously, you're not here for social reasons," the ghost stated as they drifted downwards. Harry focused on that 'obviously' rather than answering the question.
"Why am I 'obviously' not here for social reasons?" he asked curiously. Casimir gave him a Look, and Harry was forced to re-evaluate his conclusion that Snape's glares came from his mother's side.
"Severus Snape, much as I love that young man and his many excellent qualities, does not list the skill of socializing as one of them. To be blunt, he does not socialize. He disregards his position, duties, name, and place, and his sister is little better," the ghost stated grimly. "At least she causes a scandal once in a while."
Harry was considering how to follow up that tantalizing bit of information, and hopefully get more out of Casimir on the subject, but Snape's ancestor was eyeing him critically. And still speaking, with words guaranteed to put all thoughts of Snape's sister out of mind.
"Of course, at first I thought you might be a, hmm, friend... but I think not, on closer inspection. Severus's gentlemen tend to be of legal age, last I checked."
If Harry had had any such thing as liquid in his mouth, he would have done a marvelous spit-take. As it is, he blinked and assimilated for several seconds.
"Uhm. Uh... gentlemen?"
The ghost was only half-listening to him, as they were down at the battlement level now and Casimir was focusing on floating at just the right height so it appeared he was standing on the stone rather than sinking into it. "Hmm? Yes," he said absently, staring at his feet and moving one half-inch higher.
"Gentlemen. As in, y'know, males. Guys. And all."
Mildly annoyed by the Gryffindor flair for repeating the obvious, Casimir nodded impatiently.
"Are you saying Snape's gay?" said Harry, not sure what answer he was hoping/dreading. There were rumours, of course; just like the rumours of vampirism. But he had to admit he'd accorded them about the same amount of seriousness.
Casimir's faint annoyance grew stronger. Brushing an imaginary piece of lint from his crushed velvet shirt (in tasteful dark green) he said, "I believe that is the current term, yes. We, by which I mean the family, prefer to call him 'one of the great stately homos of old England;' a reference which you, being the young Gryffindor Philistine you are, are likely not familiar with. I suppose you're also homophobic?"
"Er," Harry managed, once more. "Em. Er. No. Not exactly."
Casimir peered at him severely, the kind of peering one normally does over the tops of glasses, except the ghost was not wearing any. "Hmmmmm."
Harry found his damned blush creeping once more to his cheeks. Fortunately for him, Somebody Upstairs was watching out for him that day, because his embarrassment was conveniently interrupted by an owl.
A tawny owl was wheeling down out of the sky with a soft hoot, her wings flapping as she brought herself to a stop on the end of Harry's broomstick. It was Aluco, the owl he'd dispatched to Hermione.
He took the letter from her claws, and with one more hoot, she was off to the owlery, not even staying to be thanked. He shrugged and busied himself with opening the missive.
Dear Harry~
So glad to get your owl! Whose is the owl, by the way? She wouldn't accept payment, and looked like she was impatient to be going, so I'm writing this quickly and hoping she'll stay long enough to get it sent.
Good to hear from you of course, but that goes without saying. Have you been making up your Transfiguration final? I told you and Ron both that practising Quidditch instead of studying would have its drawbacks, but you didn't listen, did you? Males.
I'm sure I have no idea where you are. Maybe with Sirius or Remus? No, you said it was someone I would never guess, so it can't be them as I just guessed them. Well, I suppose you'll tell me sooner or later. Promise me you're keeping a low profile and not doing a lot of magic to draw attention to yourself. Just because the Ministry says you can doesn't mean you should. Oh, who am I kidding? You're probably charming and hexing everything within reach.
Oh dear, that owl's getting impatient. I'll write more as soon as I can, write back, alright?
~Love,
Hermione
Harry chuckled, imagining the thought of Hermione trying to scribble down the note while the owl shifted anxiously on the windowsill. Her handwriting did look awfully rushed.
"Letter from some grand exile?" Casimir's voice intruded.
"Huh?" Harry said, and Casimir shook his overly-handsome head. "Never mind, Philistine child. I shan't intrude.
"Well, if you'll excuse me, Mister Potter, I have things to do and graves to visit on such a lovely summer's day as this. It was a pleasure-- admittedly mixed, but it showed definite signs of improvement towards the end-- talking with you. If I've your leave, I shall be off to hunt down the damnable raven for a game of chess."
"Oh, um, sure. It was nice talking to you to, Mr. Um. Lord Brennigan, I mean."
Casimir waved a transparent hand airily. "Oh, never mind that. I was in the throes of passionate indignation when it was said. Technically speaking, I haven't been Lord Brennigan for two hundred and seventy one years. You may call me Casimir, so please it you."
"Okay. Thanks, Casimir. Er, you can call me Harry, if you'd like."
"How... decent of you, young man. Good day."
And with that, the ghost slid down into the stones beneath Harry's feet and was gone. He smiled slightly and shook his head. This place was still going to take some getting used to. Idly, he wondered how Casimir had died, but supposed he'd find out sooner or later.
Hermione's letter tucked safely into one pocket, he sighed and decided to head back to his inside the house. He was getting hungry after the several hours of flying he'd indulged in. And there was always his studying to start on...
