Disclaimer: I don't own anything that was originally written by J.K. Rowling, and I don't own the line "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn", which I changed slightly, either.
Chapter 4: Between The Shadows
Fortunately for Geillis, the next several weeks contained very few encounters with the unpleasant Potions master. Even the Slytherins managed to be at least cordial towards her; the news of what she had done to Draco Malfoy had spread quickly, and in the end, it had done more for her to earn the Slytherins' respect than the elimination of a thousand House points would have. Some of them even managed to get their homework assignments in on time.
One evening as Geillis sat in her office marking some fifth-year compositions, she looked at the Muggle wristwatch that she habitually wore on her left wrist. Drat! If she didn't hurry now, she would miss dinner. She had already skipped lunch that day, and if she didn't eat now, she wouldn't until breakfast the next day. Her rooms included a cozy little kitchenette, but between one thing and another, she had never yet had time to go down to Hogsmeade for supplies. Besides, she was nearly worse than hopeless at cooking; during her marriage, Nathan had actually been the one who cooked their meals.
She threw on her hat and all but ran down to the Great Hall. Fortunately, the students had not arrived yet, but there was only one seat available now. Oh, great. On top of everything else, I have to sit beside that bloody great greasy git! She sighed. Normally she was there in time to secure a place at the table as far as possible from Snape, but now there was no hope for it. Hopefully they would not say much to each other.
Her dismay must have shown on her face, for he gave her an especially unpleasant sneer. "Professor Gaerwing," he acknowledged her, giving her his trademark scowl.
"Professor Snape," she replied coldly. They sat in uncomfortable silence for several minutes as they awaited the arrival of the students and then waited for the house elves to serve the meal. Finally, Snape said, "You are quiet, Professor Gaerwing."
"Perhaps, Professor Snape, that is because I have nothing to say."
"They say that a silent mouth is the mark of an empty mind," he sneered.
"Is that so?" she asked. "The by that token, my dear Professor Snape, you are the most empty-headed fool who ever drew breath. And if not, then would you care to explain to me precisely why they say the same thing of people whose chatter could not be stopped with the most powerful of 'Silencio' spells?"
"I would not. To attempt an explanation of something so trivial would be worse than mindless chatter—something of which I believe I am incapable. However, I would not say the same of you."
"I did not expect you to. As far as I can tell, you have not formed a very flattering opinion of me. And frankly, Professor, I don't give a damn."
He looked at her with an indecipherable expression in his eyes. "But you do not know my entire opinion of you, Professor."
Good Heavens, even his eyes are black! "I do not imagine that it could possibly be very good, Professor—or else you would not insult me at our every meeting."
She became aware of a subtle probing in her mind. She gave him an annoyed look. "Now, see here, Professor, why on Earth should you want to read my thoughts? Don't bother to deny it. My husband was skilled at legilimency and occlumency, and although I was never as good at them as he was, he at least taught me to know when someone's trying to take a peek where they shouldn't. In any case, there's no need; I have been honest even with you."
"It is foolish to think that you can hide everything from me, Professor Gaerwing."
"Nonetheless, I can hide the things which you do not already know. Now please, do us both a favour and kindly bugger off. I am certain that neither of us needs the aggravation of attempting a conversation between the two of us."
He was silent then. Good. Maybe I can finish my meal in peace. No such luck, though. After fifteen minutes had passed, he spoke again. "You dress soberly, Professor Gaerwing, for one so young. Of all the teachers here, we are the only ones who wear only black."
"How good of you to notice."
"There are only two reasons why a teacher would wear black around here, Professor Gaerwing—and I do not think that you mourn anybody or anything."
Her face grew cold even as she coloured slightly out of anger that he would imply that she had ever had anything to do with Voldemort or his like. In a chilly voice she told him, "I am not so young as that, Professor Snape. I am thirty-two years old—not ancient, not even middle-aged, but not a child, or close to being one. And perhaps you should know that I am a widow. My husband was killed in an accident with a volatile potion almost two years ago."
Once again he was silent; he bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement of this unexpected information. However, he made no move to apologize. Somewhat angered, she said, "And yourself, Professor Snape? Surely you have a reason of your own for wearing such sombre tones."
She had clearly touched a nerve; his scowl grew even deeper, if that were even possible. "Indeed, Professor, I have my reasons—and they remain precisely that. My reasons."
The interview was over—and thankfully, so was the meal. Geillis rose and excused herself from the table and drifted back to her rooms.
She was so preoccupied with thoughts of what she had just endured that she never saw the black-cloaked woman who watched her with hate-filled eyes.
The next morning, Geillis entered her classroom and knew immediately that something was very, very wrong. She looked about, but everything seemed to be in its proper place. Cautiously, she sang herself a shield so she would not come to harm. Confident that she was as safe as she would ever be, she sat down at her desk and plucked a note on her small teaching harp…
KA-BOOM! The explosion sent her flying across the classroom. Immediately there came a sound of running feet. The door opened, and professors McGonagall, Flitwick and—most surprisingly—Snape spilled into the room. Geillis remembered dully that the classroom of the last of these was just down the hall. "What happened?" squeaked Flitwick, worried.
Before Geillis could reply, Snape said acidly, "Did you not notice, Filius, that there was an explosion? Though I do believe that an explanation is in order from our newest staff member. Tell me, Professor Gaerwing, have you been experimenting with explosives?"
"Of course not!" she cried, indignant. "Somebody just tried to kill me!"
"Oh, really? Perhaps you might tell us who it was, then."
"I don't know who it was—"
"Then how do you know that they were trying to kill you? How do we know that you are not lying to us?"
"Severus, please!" said Professor McGonagall. "Let her finish!"
"Thank you," said Geillis, gratefully. "As I was saying before I was interrupted so rudely—" she gave Snape a withering glance—"I don't know who it was, but I have some ideas. As for what happened, I was sitting at my desk, about to compose a new tune, when I plucked a string on my harp and it exploded. If I hadn't noticed that something was wrong and shielded myself, I'd be dead right now."
Snape examined the ruins of the small harp. "The strings have been coated with something," he reported. "I'm going to take this to my laboratory to see what it was that caused the explosion." The frame hadn't been tampered with, and Snape was able to pick up the largest fragments of it without endangering his own life.
Flitwick and McGonagall shared a brief puzzled look. It was rare for Snape to volunteer his help in any matter—usually Dumbledore had to badger him into doing it, and even this generally took quite some time—and they were certainly aware that there was no love lost between the Potions master and the Songspells teacher. Masking her confusion, Minerva McGonagall told Geillis, "And you, young lady, are to go directly to the hospital wing. The Songspells class is cancelled for today."
"But my students—"
"I will not allow you to risk your health for a single class! We must be certain that you have not been harmed."
"But—"
"No, she is right, Geillis," said Flitwick. "If you have been seriously harmed, it may not be apparent until you actually die. And if you die, what use are you to us then?" He shuddered. "One ghost teaching in this school is enough. And in any case, the room must be tidied up, and we must ensure that there are no more traps laid out for you—or for your students."
Geillis hated to admit it, but he was making perfect sense. "Oh, all right," she said, giving in. "I wouldn't want to risk my students' lives just for my own pride. I'd imagine that they will welcome this unexpected break."
And your own life? thought Professor Snape, in a rare moment of humanity. Would you risk or sacrifice that for pride?
As Geillis limped to the hospital wing, leaning heavily on McGonagall—her ankle and knee had been badly wrenched as she'd fallen—she read that question in his normally indecipherable black eyes. She shook her head once, clearly and honestly, to tell him, "no".
It was probably just her imagination, but out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw him give a sigh of relief.
So, she would not, mused Snape. He sighed, relieved that he had some form of proof that she was not a spy for the Death Eaters. I am safe. He has no spy at Hogwarts—or at least, no spy among the teaching staff. If she had been a spy, she would probably not have even understood the question; to a Death Eater, pride was of the utmost importance—pride, and loyalty to the Dark Lord.
He looked at the pieces of the harp in his hand. Being careful not to touch the volatile strings, he turned it over, searching for clues. He looked at the ruined desk, and on it lay a piece of paper. It had obviously been enchanted to withstand the explosion.
He hesitated, and then picked it up. Unfolding it, he read the paper's brief contents:
REVENGE AT LAST
C.T.
He stared at the paper in disbelief. Revenge? What had Professor Gaerwing done? Who would hate her enough to want to kill her?
Half the world illuminated, half the world in darkness…half of it visible, half of it unknowable…
Severus Snape stormed down into his laboratory, fragments of the ruined harp in his hands. Why had he volunteered his help for some damn' fool wench with a head of air who didn't know enough to check her classroom before she did anything? Even without assassination attempts there was enough magic zooming around the place that there could be some fairly serious consequences if the wrong spell were to be cast at the wrong time.
He scowled at a passing student. Merlin knew he hadn't volunteered to help because of any kind of attraction. The woman wasn't much to look at, after all—mud-brown hair and dull grey eyes, with skin almost as pale as his own. Her nose was a bit too small for his tastes. Besides, her carelessness had proven her to be as stupid as a stump. Few people despised stupidity more than Severus Snape. No, he concluded—he had not helped her because of any stupid attraction.
Sheer heroism wasn't it, either, for the simple reason that he was no hero. He hated the world and damn' near everything in it, except for Hogwarts. He admitted a grudging respect for the school—and its Headmaster—because this was the only place where he had been shown any sign of welcome after he turned away from the Dark Lord. Only Albus Dumbledore had given him a second chance.
"Potter!" he snapped, seeing his least-favourite student in the hall.
"Y-y-yes, sir?" stuttered Potter, clearly frightened.
Snape smirked happily. At least he knew where he stood with James Potter's insufferable son.
"Shouldn't you be in class right now, Potter?"
"Yes, sir. I slept in, sir, and got lost."
"I'm not looking for excuses, Potter. Ten points off of Gryffindor for your cheekiness, twenty points off for being late to class, and thirty points off for…for getting in my way."
Potter's shoulders slumped. "Yes, sir," he said, and dragged himself off to class.
Snape sneered. Good; he'd put the little brat back into his place. He stalked down into his rooms. There was about an hour and a half yet before he had to teach this morning. With any luck, he would be well on his way to figuring out what had caused the explosion.
Best have a look at that note, too. The ink might hold a clue as well.
His sneer grew deeper as he contentedly realized why he had volunteered his expertise. It wasn't heroism, or any uncharacteristic helpfulness. It was sheer curiosity; whoever had tampered with the harp was obviously a genius, and he wanted to know what had been done and how to do it.
Severus Snape flowed into his laboratory and closed the door firmly behind him.
A/N: More allusions, I'm afraid. =)
"Between the Shadows" is one of my favourite tracks on Loreena McKennitt's CD "The Visit". I've been told that it's also known as "Persian Shadows".
"Frankly, Professor, I don't give a damn" is, of course, a reference to Rhett Butler's famous line from "Gone With The Wind". Sorry; I couldn't resist.
The exploding harp isn't a reference to anything, though. I just had her walk into her classroom, and it just sort of happened. It's the same with Snape's reflection while bringing the fragments of Geillis' harp to his laboratory; I figured that he had to have a reason to want to discover how the exploding harp trick had been pulled off, so I set about finding the reason out in the best way that I could. =)
P.S., Alana Hikari-Chan: Thanks for reviewing. I'm glad that my work isn't as bad as I was afraid it was. And I'm more fond of amethysts than I am of diamonds, anyway. =)