TITLE: SUCH MORTAL DRUGS
DISCLAIMER: I don't own them, JK Rowling does.
SUMMARY: "He could scream, some small part of Seamus remembered. He had permission."
RATING: R for darkness and blasphemy.
PAIRING: SS/SB for the series.
SERIES: Fourth in 'The Ceremony of Innocence'. Sequel to 'Poppies'
ARCHIVE: Nope.
THANKS TO: My wonderful beta-readers, who saved you from the first three or four drafts of this. They are kind, thoughtful, clever people and any remaining mistakes are entirely my own pig-headed fault.
Revised 10 November 2003.
(YEAR FIVE: DECEMBER)
. . . presented new problems for the re-formed peacetime Ministry of Magic. The veracity of those claiming to be victims of the Imperius curse could be verified by truth serum; however, those claiming suffering from possible trauma-induced amnesia could be neither prosecuted nor have their names cleared. The mental trauma that psychiatrists supposed that they were suffering from could not be verified, as a simple memory charm could have been used to good effect. [ On more information on the application and possible side effects of memory charms, see G. Lockhart, Who Am I?, Whizz Hard Books, London: 1993 . . .
"Seamus, are you in there? C'mon, hurry up, you'll miss dinner!" Ron peered in between the bed-curtains. "What are you doing up there? We missed you in the common room." He spotted the heavy tome open in Seamus' lap. "You're not still reading that great big thing, are you? Honestly, you're getting as bad as Hermione. Put it away and come eat."
. . . Dumbledore to allow the patent to his Pensieve creation to lapse, enabling the Ministry to begin manufacturing the new devices en masse. Dumbledore, who is still Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, had jealously guarded the patent rights, refusing to allow further copies of the Pensieve to be created and storing the prototype in his Gringotts vault. He cited possible long-term problems and recommended further research on its side effects before the device was released to the public. The pressing backlog of trauma cases at St. Mungo's, however, necessitated that the Ministry pursue a more expedient approach, and in June 1982, the Pensieve entered mass-production.
The initial sales figures were impressive enough to warrant the global marketing campaign that was launched in early 1983 [ see Ministry of Magic, Annual Report 1983, for further details . The Pensieve was initially marketed as relief from the pain of unpleasant or traumatic memories . . .
Seamus sat cross-legged on his bed, his brow furrowed in concentration, chewing on his lower lip.
. . . published 'Pensieve Addiction: The Myth of Independence' [ New Wizard, Vol. 4, August 1984 , to world-wide condemnation and disbelief. Nonetheless, the medical evidence cited was indisputable, and professional institutions immediately ceased their use of the Pensieves pending further research . . .
"Seamus?"
Seamus looked up, startled, and sat back heavily. He hadn't even heard Ron the first couple of times he had been called. "What? Oh -- yeah. Uh, give me a minute, okay?" he said, patting the book. Ron looked thoughtful for a moment then nodded.
"Good luck tonight." He disappeared back behind the curtains.
Seamus returned to the book.
. . . Longbottom, diagnosed in September 1984; Frank Longbottom, diagnosed in October 1984. These three cases - all still committed to the psychiatric wing of St. Mungo's - are literally textbook examples of the "Morphium Paradox" . . .
He was shivering slightly. Ron knew that tonight he'd. . . but he was being silly now. Of course Ron knew. All the Gryffindor fifth-year boys knew; they had shared a dormitory with Seamus for five years. They knew his belongings and his business almost as intimately as they knew their own. It was hard to miss his dread increasing with each Advent- and Lent- Sunday; the nervous way he fingered his rosary – thoroughly mystifying to the purebloods – as if 'casting protective charms or praying for divine intervention. Each drew their own conclusions, according to their background, and had plenty of time to do it, for it was hard to not notice Seamus' twice-termly trips to Snape's office. Everyone knew, more or less, what the trips entailed and what they cost him. Everyone took good care of the quiet, frightened, morose boy who emerged in his place and headed home for Christmas or for Easter. Everyone knew that term breaks were not fun holidays for him; that only the summer held any appeal.
Everyone knew that it was perfectly possible to live with certain events of your life trapped inside the mist of the Pensieve.
. . . resulted in complete breakdown. Whereas previously their resiliency to emotional and mental shocks would have protected them, the three years' dependency on the Pensieve in the relief of V's fall had taken their toll. All three former Aurors fell victim to the Morphium Paradox and surrendered their consciousness to inhabit their dreams. They were committed to St. Mungo's for further study, but a meaningful recovery is highly unlikely.
A recent attempt was made to force the three subjects to reclaim their memories through the use of Expergefacio Medicamentum; this attempt had no discernible effect on their mental states. . .
It was possible, oh yes. It just wasn't recommended.
Seamus closed the book and regarded its plain cover thoughtfully for a long moment. The Morphium Pensieve: A History, by Dr Rhoeas Stalk. He knew that name well. He'd seen it at the bottom of official-looking documents for as long as he could --
Dear Mr and Mrs Finnegan,
Please submit your report on Seamus Finnegan's progress during the Muggle religious holidays for the past year, signed and in triplicate, as soon as possible to the DMW, Division 6. Please focus specifically on any unusual events surrounding Mass and private worship.
Sincerely,
Dr R. Stalk,
Department of Mage Welfare
Division 6
-- remember. Damn. He had hated those letters with a passion when he had been younger; he still did, come to think of it. A special loathing had been developed for their sender, a scary, preachy-sounding Dr R. Stalk, who, it transpired, had Muggle qualifications as well as a Healer's license. Seamus wondered how the Muggle title 'Doctor' – instead of the traditional 'Healer' – had been received at Division 6 of the Ministry of Magic. It was a good book, though, he grudgingly admitted.
Of course it was a good book. He would not have been given it otherwise. He would not have kept it otherwise. All of the precious few books Seamus kept by his bedside were paradigms of scholastic virtue and achievement. They were also more or less accessible by people who did not possess a degree in academia.
Seamus carefully returned the book to its permanent resting place, in between well-thumbed copies of Theories of Transubstantial Transfiguration and The International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy and Other Laws That Concern the Average Mage. He jumped a little as the distant chime of the common room clock began to strike out the dinner hour, cursing fluidly and at length in Gaelic. Six in the evening and it was December 17th. Saturnalia, the start of the week-long festivities for Yule and the Winter Solstice. Why did he always leave this until December 17th; the last minute bar one? He couldn't really put it off much longer; he had to go. And, he reasoned, it may as well be tonight. It may as well. . . He glared at the imposing stack of books one more time and drew the bed-curtains back.
"Maire." The owl chittered at him from her make-shift perch on the windowsill, then flew to land on his shoulder. Seamus quickly scribbled a note and attached it to her left leg. "Take this to Professor Snape and bring me back the reply as quickly as you can. I'll be having dinner in the hall." Maire clicked at him again and nipped his cheek affectionately before flying off.
Seamus stood still for a moment as if savouring another moment of freedom, then turned and trudged towards the door of the boys' dormitory.
"Well, we can't leave you here by yourself, Hermione; we'll just stay too," Ron declared around a mouthful of chicken drumstick. He snagged the gravy boat and poured a small lake over his Yorkshire puds.
Hermione looked like she was attempting a smile. It didn't work. Hermione had stopped smiling over a month ago, becoming pale and wan-looking. Seamus had mutely noted Harry and Ron's efforts to console her after her parents had abruptly decided to move to America, of all places (scuttlebutt had any number of unlikely reasons for their disappearance). Privately, Seamus was not so sure of that story. Hermione did look alone, but by no means abandoned. It was a feeling hard to describe in words when the best example he could use was Professor Snape, who was totally alone but in no way abandoned. He had chosen solitude.
Had Hermione done the same? Seamus watched her carefully. Underneath the traditional cheerful crown of candles all the girls adopted for Sow Day, she looked thin and haggard. She was developing that same look of carefully controlled guilt and tightly-reined power, and she was certainly stronger magically than she had previously been; her teachers were singing her praises for random strokes of genius as well as diligence and attention to detail. Hermione was finally fulfilling her potential and was on her way to becoming a strong witch, which was something quite different from the good pupil she used to be.
"Don't worry, Hermione. It's not like I want to go to the Dursleys; I'll stay here too, same as usual. And this Christmas will be brilliant. We'll..." Harry helped himself to another dollop of mashed potato and visibly groped for something to suggest that wouldn't seem like a waste of time, "we'll study Animagism! It'll be great; I bet we get it by sixth year." He grinned. Ron quickly joined in.
After a moment, Hermione relented and gave the boys a cautious but nonetheless genuine smile. It looked like it had cost her a great deal. Seamus wondered at this, while Harry and Ron pretended not to notice.
Seamus also occasionally wondered at the frequent references the trio made to sixth year – everything from annoying Professor Snape to learning Animagism seemed to depend on entering the sixth year for those three – but he honestly couldn't spare the subject much thought tonight. Not tonight.
"Seamus, mate, you all right?" Dean Thomas, seated next to him and working his way through a mountain of bangers'n'mash, paused in shovelling food into his mouth to stare at him in concern. "Is it time yet?" He said under his breath, so quietly that Seamus almost didn't hear him.
Starting, Seamus suddenly realised that he hadn't touched his food. "I – uh, what, me? Yeah, yeah, I'm fine."
"Seamus –"
"Yeah. Yes." He scowled and Dean abruptly shut up.
Ron cast a quick, concerned look in their direction. "He's got a date with Snape," he said a bit too loudly, causing Lavender Brown to spray her food and gulp down her pumpkin juice.
Dean cracked a smile at this. "How romantic," he said, but he still looked faintly worried.
Maire chose that moment to make an appearance, raising a few inquisitive glances from the nearby Slytherin table. She clicked at them irritably and swooped towards the group of Gryffindors still working their way through impressively-piled plates. Seamus looked up, saw her approach and froze. Maire dropped her letter and flew off without even waiting for an acknowledgement, much less a treat. She knew she wasn't wanted.
The entire table slowly became aware that Seamus hadn't opened his letter and was in fact regarding it with a cold kind of fear. The Gryffindor fifth-year boys immediately began a small, controlled food-fight, giving Dean time to open the letter once it became clear the Seamus was intending to just look at it from afar.
"Is it a love letter?" Lavender giggled, casting Seamus a flirtatious look.
"Oh, yes, Professor Snape writes such romantic poetry for a miserable git," Dean said automatically. He scanned the letter, nodded once and pocketed it. Seamus still hadn't moved.
Not tonight. Not tonight. He suddenly wished he hadn't sent Maire off. He wished that the owl – the owl he had had for eight years – had died en route. He wished that Dean had destroyed the note. He wished that his friends didn't know him so well.
He wished a great deal and knew that it was pointless.
"Come on, Casanova, let's get you ready for your date. See you later, guys." Dean grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the hall, leaving Lavender giggling in their wake.
They barely made it to the boys' bathroom before Seamus doubled over and started to retch, the cracked tiles cold under his knees and bare hands. Dean grabbed him hurriedly and practically carried him to a stall. There really was no need to move from the floor; Seamus hadn't really eaten anything much for the last week, so it wasn't as if he had anything significant to bring up. His body, however, continued convulsing, his hands shaking as he clung to the toilet bowl so he could dry-heave without choking on his own tongue. Dean knelt beside him, carefully keeping his hair out of his face and sleeves and tie out of the toilet bowl.
"Hey, it's okay mate. Just... it's okay." He rubbed Seamus' back comfortingly. "The food wasn't that nice anyway; you're not missing much," causing Seamus to choke as he tried to laugh and retch at the same time. He waited until the shaking eased. "Okay for now?"
Slumped tiredly over the toilet bowl, Seamus nodded and allowed himself to be pulled upright. "I'm fine," he whispered.
He didn't even need to wipe his mouth, Dean realised with a start. He couldn't have eaten anything in days.
"'Course you're fine. Never said otherwise, did I? But you look a state. Wash that mug o' course, eh?" He carefully wiped the pained tears from Seamus' blotchy cheeks and nodded in the direction of the washbasins. "Unless you want to tell me that these tears weren't from puking but from an emotional trauma?" His voice was light, but Seamus stiffened all the same.
"My guts are in the plumbing right now; what do you want from me?" He staggered to the washbasin and splashed some cold water on his face, his sleeves trailing in the damp of the basin and tangling around his wrists. "What time?" He asked without looking up.
"Eight. " Dean leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. "You've got half an hour. D'you want anything?"
"I want to be sick again."
He bent over the basin, his body taut as he retched. Dean stood by him, not saying anything, not touching him, just waiting. They had half an hour. Plenty of time to wait.
Seamus eventually composed himself enough to wave Dean away and set off for Snape's office alone. Dean had wiped his face again, straightened his tie, told him that he'd be in the common room all evening, and left him on his own. Seamus didn't particularly want anyone walking with him to this rendezvous. Every step was a test of character; every step was a test of courage.
The first two years, he had been forcibly restrained by a weeping Madame Pomfrey.
Dear Professor Snape,
Thank you for the potion. I am sorry I was deliberately difficult. I am sorry I upset Madame Pomfrey. I am sorry I threw up on your desk.
Seamus
Letter after letter; year after year; a macabre correspondence with a man he hated more than anything.
Dear Professor Snape,
Thank you for the book you gave me, it was very helpful. Thank you for the potion. I am sorry I was difficult and I upset your familiars. I am sorry I broke the potion bottles on your desk. I am sorry I upset Madame Pomfrey. I am sorry she had to Stupefy me. I realise that it was a childish thing to do (Prof. McGonagall certainly seems to think so). I am sorry I am not making this easy for you. I am sorry that nothing you can say will make me take the potion voluntarily.
Seamus
Was it his imagination, or had the whole thing become worse once he began to choose to undergo this? Aged twelve, he had sworn that they would have to hold him down for the rest of his days. Now, barely three years later, he walked a dead man's walk to Professor Snape's office. He didn't have anyone to blame but himself; he knew this well. It was simply something, Professor Snape never tired of telling him, he would have to learn to live with.
. . . Paradox, coined by Severus Snape [ see The Journal of Moste Potente Potions, where Prof. Snape is associate editor , whose work with Albus Dumbledore resulted in both a diagnosis and a possible course of recuperative treatment via the reclamation potion, Expergefacio Medicamentum. The Morphium Paradox typically affects long-term users who have developed a high tolerance of the Pensieve.
It wasn't even anything bad; he had been a mere child, after all.
A trauma victim's initial use of the Pensieve would normally involve the commitment of a particularly painful memory to posterity.
It had been an accident.
Dumbledore postulated that the safest and most efficient way to achieve this would be to limit the process to the emotions associated with the memory concerned, as they were the cause of the trauma. The Pensieve, as used by trauma victims, effectively acts as a storage device for the emotions attached to traumatic events, without removing the memory itself.
He would eventually grow mature enough to accept it
The subject retains intellectual knowledge and their capacity to evolve emotionally is not impaired; indeed, replacing the traumatic memory with one that is simply factual ensures that the subject is cured of the debilitating mental problems these memories would ordinarily cause.
without the aid of
Dumbledore termed this procedure the 'bleaching' effect, as it leaves behind whiter, purer memories.
a Pensieve.
If use is left to the subject's judgement, there is often a temptation to bleach a growing portion of their memories, where the rate of growth is estimated to be exponential. The subject loses the ability to distinguish between debilitating horror and mere unpleasantness, bleaching an ever-growing portion of their psyche. The three studied cases had a substantial number of distressing memories from their jobs as Aurors for the Ministry of Magic; their abuse of the Pensieve magic was thus impossible to diagnose until the number of bleached memories reached critical mass and . . .
Maybe not. Professors Snape and Dumbledore evidently thought that he would abuse the Pensieve if left to his own devices; the treatment they had prescribed allowed continued use only if repeated attempts at reclamation took place during term breaks. It was for his own good, everyone kept saying, until Seamus wanted to scream. It was for his own good. No one wanted to see him end up committed, like those poor, poor people in St. Mungo's.
"I know what you are thinking, Mr Finnegan."
. . . The reclamation potion, of which Expergefacio Medicamentum is by far the most sophisticated version developed to date, can be taken orally in both liquid and/or tablet form. It can also be injected subcutaneously, intramuscularly, or intravenously; the last is the route recommended for those with an established progressive Pensieve dependency.
Snape was seated behind his desk, his fingers steepled in front of him, hair carefully tied back, out of his way. He wore slightly lighter robes than usual, with fewer layers, allowing him greater ease of movement. His skin had the faint pink twinge that recent dedicated scrubbing always produced. His desk, usually covered in a peculiarly organised clutter of unmarked papers, half-finished potions recipes and any number of confiscated items, was completely clear. It always was for this task, Seamus had noted relatively early on, just as Snape was always freshly bathed, his long hair tied back, his hands scrubbed raw. Everything about the man reeked of cleanliness and disinfectant, so much so that Seamus had sometimes wondered, confused, if his tormentor and his teacher - who always carried with him the scent of burned monkshood - really were the same person. It was hard to tell, sometimes, which persona was more real. Seamus had known of "S. Snape" before he had ever met Professor Severus Snape. Strange that it had taken him three years to finally meet the man who brewed the potion Seamus had labelled the bane of his existence. He had hated Severus Snape for his discoveries and for the damnable reclamation potion before the two had ever met.
Possible side effects of Expergefacio Medicamentum include dizziness, drowsiness, nausea, sweating, agitation, 'pinpoint' pupils, rigid muscles, abdominal pain, chills, fainting, high blood pressure and insomnia.
"I know what you are thinking, Mr Finnegan." Snape's gaze was level. "But you are wrong.
Expergefacio Medicamentum is a prescription-only potion and supervision during its use is highly recommended.
I do not enjoy this."
[ For further information on the use and effects of Expergefacio Medicamentum, see S. Snape, 'Experrectus: Expergefacio Medicamentum', inc. in S. Snape & A. Dumbledore, The Morphium Paradox: Diagnosis and Treatment, Obscurus Books, London: 1986 .
"Then don't do it. Let me leave." Seamus was actually a little surprised that he still had a voice left after retching for almost an hour. He stepped forward, deeper into the office. He was assailed once more by the nauseating smell of disinfectant. "Let me go without."
Dear Professor Snape,
Thank you for the potion. I will not be needing it.
Seamus
I will not be needing it - No, he didn't need the potion. What he needed was the Pensieve. What he needed was an end to this pointless attempt at cave-man psychiatry; a carrot and a stick stuck in an endless circle of treatment and weaning, narcotic and withdrawal.
No. He didn't need this.
"You are free to leave –"
"And be brought back Stupefied by Madame Pomfrey and Professor Dumbledore! That's not exactly a choice, is it?" He wasn't angry – not really – but this had become a sort of ritual. It seemed that Seamus' life was filled with rituals, each containing its own poison pill. He knew this was for his own good, of course. He knew this, intellectually. He just didn't feel it.
"It's only for a little while longer, Mr Finnegan. Until you are old enough." Snape's eyes were unreadable.
Despite the harsh tones of his teacher's voice, Seamus understood that Snape was trying to be kind.
It had the sound of nails on a blackboard.
He sighed; a tired, angry sigh full of resignation. "Let's get this over with." Such a far cry from his screams the first, second, third, last time here. Dear Professor Snape -- Such a far cry from --
Dear Professor Snape,
Thank you for making the reclamation potion for me. It is horrid and it makes me very ill, but mum says it is good for me so I have to thank you. Please don't make any more, as it is horrid and it makes me sad and it spoils Christmas. I have twenty Chocolate Frogs and two bags of Every Flavour Beans and I have put them in a bag for you. Please stop making the potion.
Seamus, age 8 3/4
a child's hope that a bribe would fix things. Give me --
Snape inclined his head towards the stoppered bottle perched on the edge of a small side table, next to which a Pensieve had been placed. An armchair had been stood by the table; Seamus did not recall it being there when he visited this office for detentions. Clearly, it was only brought out for special occasions.
-- some hope, Professor. Is there as end in sight?
Dear Professor Snape,
Thank you for making the reclamation potion for me. Thank you for returning the sweets and thank you for the laughter potion. My mate thought it was well cool. I have put all my marbles and a game of Exploding Snap in a bag for you. I also have some Cockroach Clusters, but they melted a bit. Please stop making the potion.
Seamus
How nice, Seamus couldn't help thinking bitterly. I'm a special occasion. He sat down,
Dear Professor Snape,
Thank you for making the reclamation potion for me and for returning
shivering in fear despite his resolve.
the bag I sent you. Thank you for the owl-treats for Maire.
Took a deep breath.
"Scream if you need to," Snape said quietly, as he had said a countless number of times before.
Please stop making the potion. I will never misbehave ever ever. My mate reckons I should give you my immortal soul. I asked mum and she said I wasn't to do that, but I wrote it down anyway in case you are interested. I don't reckon mum'd notice.
Seamus
Seamus nodded.
Dear Professor Snape,
I will be coming to Hogwarts this year. I am sorry that you do not
Took another deep breath.
want my soul.
Lifted the bottle to his lips and
After drinking the reclamation potion I don't want it either.
drank.
Thank you for making it but please stop.
Please.
Seamus
Nothing.
Professor Snape --
"Don't tense up," Snape's voice suddenly came from behind him. "Don't tense up, boy."
Seamus was shaking almost too much to register the voice, but strong hands caught him and pressed him into the soft, mindless comfort of the armchair.
It was worse than it had ever been. Seamus' breath caught somewhere south of his windpipe; his hands clenched into fists and his head snapped forward into his chest. "Oh -- God -- oh --" He gasped for air, fighting the nausea that immediately arose. "Oh --"
'S. Finnegan' - December 17th, 1996
Session report:
Subject responded poorly to the elevated Expergefacio Medicamentum dose.
"It's okay –" Strong fingers carded through his hair, trying to keep his head still.
He could scream, some small part of Seamus remembered. He had permission. He could scream.
He shook off the hand in his hair with a low growl, threw his head back and – as he had permission, as it was okay – screamed at the top of his lungs.
Liquid fire poured through his veins.
That had always been among the first indications that it really had been Expergefacio Medicamentum that he had downed. That, combined with the nausea and the tight, suffocating grip his oesophagus clenched into, made him dread the initial fifteen minutes more than anything else. The rest of his symptoms had always been eased by various charms and spells and the liberal application of a bag of hot barley seeds across his stomach and chest; in the first fifteen minutes, though… in the first fifteen minutes it was just a case of waiting it out. The burning would ease eventually.
Eventually.
"Count, Mr Finnegan." The vice-like grip on his upper arms intensified, yanking him into an upright position. "Count to one hundred for me."
"One --" Seamus gasped, feeling as though he were speaking through treacle, "two --"
"In Russian, if you please."
Russian? Snape had always previously asked for Greek or Latin; Seamus' Cyrillic was pitiful. At least he wasn't likely to be punished if he got it wrong.
"Adin --" his stomach was doing its best to reject everything that had ever passed through it. "Dva -- tri --" It was lucky, really, that there was absolutely nothing left in him. And he wouldn't -- "chitiri --" vomit the potion. He could never vomit the potion, no matter how hard he tried. "Pyat -- shyas -- sem --"
That didn't mean that he couldn't retch, though. "Oh, God!" He struggled out of the tight grasp, throwing himself on to the floor, curling into a semi-foetal position and clawing at his throat. His oesophagus was melting. "Nghghghg!"
"Count, Mr Finnegan." There was a blur of black in front of Seamus' face; Snape had knelt in front of him. Seamus felt himself enfolded by strong arms and pulled over a heavy mass of thigh, hands rubbing his back all the while. The strange position eased his clenching stomach muscles somewhat, allowed him to retch more easily and - he figured this was the real purpose - protected his throat from his grasping, clawing, desperate hands. "Count, Mr Finnegan. Sem."
Sadist. "Sem --" Our Father, who art in heaven --
His consciousness fled.
Symptoms included a seizure, vomiting, elevated temperature and high blood pressure. Treatment of symptoms was focused on keeping the subject clean, cool and hydrated. Treatment was temporarily suspended 14 minutes after ingesting the potion as the subject began to choke. The subject was placed in the recovery position until the seizure eased after 8 minutes.
When he came back to himself, his muscles had cramped. His throat felt dry as sandpaper; Seamus correctly guessed that it was the result of artificial respiration.
"Dry mouth?" Snape was still kneeling by him.
Seamus nodded cautiously. The world spun and he clenched his eyes tightly to will it to rights. He heard Snape stand and move away, no doubt reaching for the various remedies he had already prepared.
Sem, he thought, clenching his teeth. A dull, throbbing ache had appeared, worse than in previous years. Osyam. His muscles burned. Had he stopped breathing for quite a while? It would explain the oxygen-starvation his body was angrily complaining of. Devyat.
A soft rustling sound indicated that Snape had returned. "Open your eyes."
He did so, with difficulty. A very blurry Snape carefully dripped two drops of some clear liquid into the inside corner of each eye.
"Blink."
That wasn't a problem. His tear ducts were still working.
"A distilled Elecampane-based solution, in case you are interested." Snape rolled his sleeves back and dipped his fingers in the small pot he had brought over. "And this?" He rubbed the cream between his fingers to warm it.
"Daftodi, cress and powdered bezoar, emulsified. Numbs burns, heals most respiratory ailments --" those elegant, long-fingered hands were slowly massaging the cream into his throat and chest. Seamus saw a slash of pale scarred flesh, disappearing into those dark sleeves, but wasn't focused enough to really care. Daftodi. Cress. Bezoar. "The smoke of the burning cress keeps serpents away, according to Pliny." The first time he'd read that, he'd burnt an entire basketful of the stuff. It hadn't worked. Snape still came for him.
"Another name for daftodi?" The touch was feather-light, rubbing in small circles.
It was becoming hard to think again. Daftodi. "Narcissus." Used externally to heal burns, sprains and wounds.
"Very good. What could have been used instead?" His vision began to swim again. Seamus blinked rapidly.
"Arnica. . . crushed root and flowers, for bruises and wounds. Figs. Great mullein. Is it time, yet?" He couldn't think. How long had it been? How long was left?
"Nearly. One other use for great mullein."
Nearly time. He'd feel it. He always did. Always when the fear crashed into him.
"Mr Finnegan. Great mullein."
Oh, go f--- "Bleach. It dyes hair."
"Take ten points for Gryffindor."
Yes, he was going mad. Tiny, hungry ants marched across his skin and began to devour him. It was more of an itch than real pain, until he felt them reach the tender layer of baby fat that still remained.
The reclamation potion began to interact with the subject's mind after 43 minutes. Upon its activation, the subject became agitated
At last he was on his feet, his wand out. He knew how to stop this. He knew he knew he knew to
and attempted to
break it! Break it, it'll end!
smash
The ants had stripped all his skin away; a boy-shaped piece of meat, he staggered towards the source of all his hate and all his pain, brandishing his wand as one would a sword.
Break it!
the Pensieve. This was unsuccessful as contact with its
It was what it had been waiting for. It knew.
surface forced him to reclaim the expunged memory.
And it had been ready.
Offerte vobis pacem.
After registering the handshake with the scared girl next to him, his memory was not clear: it did not wish to be clear. Incense hung in a thick shroud around him, draping him in Latin he still could not decipher.
Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi: miserere nobis. Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi: miserere nobis.
It seemed to take forever. The priest's hands worked nimbly at the semi-covered slab on the altar, carefully breaking the bread that would become the Body of Christ.
Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi: miserere nobis. Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi: miserere nobis.
The priest was indistinct, his form ragged through the shroud of incense that stung Seamus' eyes and made him blink away tears. He remembered strange things from then on, things that did not connect. He remembered his father polishing his shoes for him by hand; he remembered his mother pressing his First Communion suit with the wave of a wand. His parents had always done their best to include him in both of their worlds. They took him to church, and they bought him a toy broomstick to ride on, feet dangling barely two feet from the ground. And when he was old enough, his mother's world – Hogwarts – would embrace him.
But today was special. Today was when he would embrace his father's world. Today he would show himself a Real Catholic. Today was when he could show that the magical world wasn't his only birthright; when he could make his father proud. All it would take was Faith, and Seamus had faith; he always had. If it was just faith, it would all be all right on this Sunday. Today. Today, above all days, was special. This was the day Seamus was to remember, his father had said.
Seamus did not remember.
Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi: miserere nobis. Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi: miserere nobis.
Seamus did not wish to remember.
Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi: dona nobis pacem.
It was done at last. The white on the priest's robes was very white; the purple was very purple; the gold was very gold. The priest himself was faceless, voiceless, nameless, formless, frightening and benevolent all at the same time as he took the host – the Body of Christ, Seamus remembered, it was to be the Body of Christ, endless catechism had hammered it into him – and broke it over the paten. He placed a small piece in the chalice, where the Blood of Christ was kept.
Haec commixtio Corporis et Sanguinis Domini nostri Iesu Christi fiat accipientibus nobis in vitam aeternam.
There were saints all around him, their tortured faces shining down from the walls, their tear-stained visages carved into the very fabric of the church itself. What was he to do? The Blood of Christ. The Body of Christ.
He was hiccupping with fear.
Seamus knew which saints to ask for what; he knew which saint had died in what manner; he knew, above all, how to distinguish saints and their saintly miracles from mages and their other-worldly deeds.
Real Catholics do not know such things, he was sure. Real Catholics have Faith. What did he have? How could he do this? Was he Real enough for First Communion, where God tested you? Catechism wasn't enough.
It wasn't enough.
Domine Iesu Christe, Fili Dei vivi, qui ex voluntate Patris, cooperante Spiritu Sancto, per mortem tuam mundum vivificasti: libera me per hoc sacrosanctum Corpus et Sanguinem tuum ab omnibus iniquitatibus meis et universes malis: et fac me tuis semper inhaerere mandates, et a te num quam separari permittas.
And here, in front of everyone, he would be found out. He would be cast out. No place for magi in the Church. No embrace of the Father; no amount of Faith could help him. No amount of his father's prayers, no amount of book-reading his mother forced him to do each week, no catechism class could help him, because he wasn't a Real Catholic, and now, all the others would Find Out.
The priest genuflected and Seamus started to shake.
They'd know. They'd know.
The incense seemed impossibly thick.
They'd know, and he would be thrown out. His mother would still love him, but his father would disown him, would excommunicate him, as would the Church, and rightly so. He'd be burned at a stake.
Ecce Agnus Dei, ecce qui tollit peccata muni. Beati qui ad cenam Agni vocati sunt.
Seamus started to cry.
Domine, non sum dignus ut intres sub tectum meum: sed tantum dic verbo, et sanabitur anima mea.
One step.
Two steps.
Three steps.
Corpus Christi custodiat me in vitam aeternam.
The priest consumed the Body of Christ, as he was allowed to do. As God wanted him to. As Seamus was sure he never would. Bread on his tongue, just bread.
Sanguis Christi custodiat me in vitam aeternam.
No blood here, of Christ or otherwise, because he would not be given that. All he could do was watch the priest drink it, and know that, for him, it would be forever denied. His parents would hate him. They had their worlds, and he could fit into neither.
The priest was in front of him, the holy man of God. He held out his hands, where bread lay. Where a chalice was cupped.
And all Seamus could do was stare at him numbly and pray and hope and wish and beg God that it wouldn't be just bread on his tongue, just wine on his lips. He prayed and begged and hoped and wished and strained against what he knew, deep down, he would receive: just the image of blessedness. He wouldn't be a Real Catholic after this. He had never been Real, but they had never known. Surely, surely they would know now. They would know that he was not wanted. That God did not want to bless him.
Oh please oh please oh please oh please I don't want to lose this I don't want it to not work for me oh please oh please oh please let it be the Body and the Blood, I don't want it to not work for me I don't want it to not work for me --
Corpus Christi.
Seamus' eyes closed in terror. "Amen." He closed his mouth around the communion wafer.
It was impossibly salty on his tongue, thick and unyielding. He couldn't force himself to swallow it; not this lead, salty weight, heavy on his lying tongue.
Sanguis Christi.
"Amen."
And this, this he knew. From scraped palms and paper cuts, he knew this taste. And he gagged.
The Body of Christ fell from his open lips on to the floor amid the screams of the congregation.
"Steady – steady now . . . " Strong, warm arms were around him; a hand in his hair; his face pressed against a clothed shoulder. The cloth scratched his cheek where the tears had made the skin red-raw.
"Oh God – oh God – oh God –" Warm tears flowed afresh down his face, salty on his lips. Just water and salt, as is our blood. As is His Blood. "Oh God –"
"You're all right, boy. You're all right. I have you. You're all right." The mantra continued while Seamus retched and cried and wailed, white-faced, as if his world had broken. Anything but this. Oh please, anything but this hideous emptiness when he realised that despite what he wanted, despite his dearest wishes, despite all his prayers, he could not remain in the Church. In one swift painful move, his faith had been torn away from him, despite his pleading and tears.
He did not remember much after that. He did not remember his parents' arms around him, although they must have felt something like this. He did not remember the pale, horrified faces of the congregation, the screams or the crash of windows that signalled the entry of Aurors. He did not remember the blinding light of the endless series of Obliviate charms cast one after the other, one after the other, just the taste of copper and salt on his tongue, like undercooked meat. Like lost faith, or faith taken away.
And there, in the cold of the dungeon, because it was allowed, because this was the only thing he could do, he cried.
The subject became hysterical and had to be forcibly restrained from harming himself. After 18 minutes, the agitation passed to be replaced with withdrawal.
"Fruit juice?"
"No, thank you, sir," Seamus replied automatically, nervously re-knotting his tie. His hands stilled. "I – um . . . thank you. For your help. For the potion. I should –"
"Have some fruit juice."
Snape was standing too close. Seamus could feel the rough fabric of his outer robes prickling on the edges of his personal space. Too close, too close. It reminded him that he had been closer; that he knew how that fabric felt against tear-streaked skin. And, once again, he thanked whoever might be listening that Snape put such a high premium on privacy. To have his secrets bared to the student body . . .
He was not entirely sure he could survive it.
He was not entirely sure he could survive walking out of here and out among them again. But he would. He always had. If he could just leave as soon as possible –
"Have some fruit juice," Snape said again in that deceptively pleasant voice he favoured when someone was really in trouble.
Once he became coherent, the subject was offered food and fruit juice. He refused.
"Professor –"
He was compelled to imbibe the refreshments through reinforced suggestion. [Charm used: 'Oboedire Totalus', mild Imperius variant, see attached authorisation paperwork for extreme control measure. The sugar entered the bloodstream swiftly, as 6 minutes later the subject's discomfort eased somewhat.
He didn't even see the flash of the wand. "Oboedire Totalus." Snape handed him the flask. "Drink."
He didn't really want the fruit juice. Not really. He drank anyway. Not because he was afraid of Snape, although he was. Not because he felt the delicate but steady threads of the spell working their way through him, although he could. Not because it would make him feel infinitesimally better, although it would.
He drank, because he was grateful that someone cared enough to make him drink.
Even if it was their job.
"Professor?"
Snape looked up from his paperwork. "Yes? Better now?"
It was an hour later. Of course he was better. Sitting still in an armchair that was too comfortable, watching his erstwhile tormentor record his progress in that perfect script of his, he did indeed feel better now.
What else was left to feel? He only needed to find out when he could get rid of this – this – whatever this feeling was that left him so out of breath.
He was better now.
All that was left was to find out when Snape would make the 'better' stop.
"Yes. I – what is your prognosis, Professor?"
It was a real chance for Snape to be cruel. He could refuse to disclose his report, as was entirely his right. He could lie. He could prevaricate, obfuscate, stall or just simply send Seamus off to bed.
It was to his credit, then, that Snape did none of those things. In a flat monotone, he read his report of Seamus Finnegan for this day, December 17th, Sow's Day, the first day of Solstice and the start of the Yule Festivities. ". . . the subject's discomfort eased somewhat.
"NB: Investigate possible swelling of trachea / liquid in lungs as a temporary side-effect. Switch to subcutaneous injections instead? Investigate possible cumulative increase of belladonna levels in the subject. Full blood work-up and chem. analysis required. Contact Muggle Edinburgh Royal Infirmary for external assessment.
"General conclusion: improved initial response to memory reintegration. The subject became agitated rather than catatonic with fright. The subject has responded in an active rather than passive manner, and this should be encouraged. There is some uncertainty as to whether he is developing a tolerance to Expergefacio Medicamentum, or accumulating levels that will eventually result in an allergic reaction. More subject-based individualised research is required. Parents' permission is insufficient; the Ministry must secure the subject's consent, as his co-operation is paramount.
"Recommended time for duration of reintegration: 21 days.
"Next appointment: 8pm, January 7th, 1997, Slytherin Dungeons, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
"Signed: Prof. S. Snape, supervising general practitioner
"Date: 17/12/96."
Twenty one days.
Three weeks. Three whole weeks of this feeling, as if he had been hollowed out with the apple corer his mother stored in the bottom cutlery drawer.
I will not cry. He did not. He cleared his throat and thanked his hated professor once more, pulled himself together and moved, finally, toward the door of the dungeon. Nearly there. Nearly home. Twenty one days. He could survive that, right?
"Mr. Finnegan?"
Snape's voice was barely above a whisper.
Seamus stopped at the door and turned around. Snape still sat at his desk, the candle light making him look older, more tired than normal. It glinted off the spidery pale white scars that whispered up his arms.
Outside, a dog howled.
"Yes sir?"
Snape's eyes were impossibly dark. "We have a chapel, for the use of Muggle-born students. It's on the third floor. Non-denominational. A priest comes in from Hogsmeade for Christmas and Easter."
Seamus' mouth was dry. "Yes sir."
And Snape said nothing more, merely looked at him.
The subject has responded in an active rather than passive manner, and this should be encouraged.
"Thank you sir."
He closed the door on his way out.
. . . was targeted by the pressure group 'One Age', which claims to represent the interests of young mages across Britain. The ban on under-age use of the Pensieve was added to the growing list of grievances cited by 'One Age' as age-discriminatory, racist and ridiculously bureaucratic:
"1. At age 16 we are allowed to have heterosexual sex, but not engage in sodomy. We are allowed to get married but not leave home without our parents' consent.
2. We must wait until age 18 to view pornography and to drink alcohol, despite the fact that many 18-year-olds will have young children by then. Evidently, we can be trusted to bring up infants but not to decide how to relax.
3. Aged 17 we are allowed to take the test to drive Muggle vehicles, but we must wait until age 18 to be tested for an Apparition license.
4. At age 16 we can be prosecuted as adults for the illegal use of potions and receive a jail sentence. We can be sent to Azkaban for breaking the law, but we are not trusted to use a Pensieve responsibly."
[ extract taken from a 'One Age' rally, Newcastle, 1992
'One Age' propose the lowering of the age limit of all age-restricted activities to age 16. The Ministry of Magic is currently in discussion with the Muggle Houses of Parliament, but an agreement is unlikely to be reached before...
Seamus closed the book with a sigh. It was nearing midnight and he could hear the gentle snores of his roommates, worn out after too much food and worry. It was always the same on Sow's Day, and he regretted ruining the feasts for them through all of this. They wouldn't listen, though, and he could not bring himself to prolong his misery by bringing the entire thing forward a day or two. Not a second more than was necessary.
He wondered if the tightness in his chest really was down to the potion, or whether it had always been present and he had never noticed. Could someone simply not notice this? Could he have been too busy during term time, or was it all down to the Pensieve after all, taking the sting away each day. . .
Sleep did not come easily for him that night, nor the night after, although he did not suffer from nightmares. Sometime in the course of the previous year, he had outgrown them. No more screaming wakefulness, no more glasses of water knocked over on the bedside table as he flailed and cried for his parents. No more drama, no more terror.
There was nothing left but a lingering pain where his faith had used to reside. It was not something he had cast out but something taken from him by force; it was still raw around the edges, rough and bleeding.
It was the third night, the night before he boarded the Hogwarts Express, that he finally gave in.
"Hello? Is anyone here?"
The cubicle was stifling.
"Yes."
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I fear that I do not belong in the Church.
"Father, I have sinned. I . . ." He couldn't even go through confession properly. His hands dove into his pockets to come up, triumphant, with a kerchief unfolded for eight years. Seamus stroked it meditatively. "I have – I – I'm not sure if you're meant to stay in the Church after your powers have manifested. No one has ever told me what I'm supposed to do, and . . . I'm not sure that what I'm doing is right. I'm not sure that God wants me." It would have to do.
"And do you want God, child? Do you still have faith?"
Seamus thought.
He thought of his father and mother, so different, yet somehow trying to create a harmony in their familial life.
He thought of Cedric's death, and of Harry's shattered visage.
It wasn't the doctrine that swayed him, or the rituals or the Latin or even the thick smell of incense, so long forgotten. In the end, it was Cedric's face on the cold white bed of the Infirmary and the silent fear of his fellow students that tipped the balance. That such evil should exist, and that they would stand against him . . .
He thought of Cedric, and of Harry, and of Professor Snape.
And he thought of Voldemort, whose shadow grew to fall over wizarding folk. Harry was just a boy. Just a boy, like himself.
How could any hero triumph without divine favour?
How could he sustain this small flame of hope throughout the winter months ahead?
"I don't know Father," he whispered. "I'm afraid. I'm so afraid –" his voice cracked on the last word. "How are we to survive?"
A long silence in the darkness of the confessional. "Child, would you pray with me?"
His hands stole guiltily to the folded kerchief and to the precious contents therein. "I'd like that," he whispered.
There was the heavy clunk of the rosary beads, and a soft murmur as Seamus Finnegan knelt on the cold stone and began to pray for the salvation of his soul.
. . . despite the growing evidence supporting the existence of the Morphium Paradox, the Pensieve magic is still the only way of treating some severe trauma victims, who would be catatonic without its intervention. Its use is now carefully regulated and requires the supervision of one of the 28 UK-based qualified general practitioners specialising in Pensieve addiction. Professors Snape and Dumbledore have also donated their services to oversee the underage cases requiring Pensieve intervention. The children cannot be named due to legal restrictions, but all four are currently attending HogwartsSchool of Witchcraft and Wizardry. . .
fin
A/N
1. Liturgy of the Eucharist in Latin
2. Expergefacio – to be awake (Latin).
3. Experrectus – to wake up (Latin).
4. Medicamentum – remedy, drug, magic potion (Latin).
5. Oboedire – obey, from OB- audire, to hear (Latin).
6. Some of the books cited have been mentioned in the Harry Potter novels or, more likely, in the two charity books: "Quidditch Through the Ages" and "Fantastic Beasts".
7. Edinburgh Royal Infirmary – actual place.
8. General practitioner – i.e. GP in the U.K., akin to a family doctor. While you would go to the casualty (or Accident & Emergency) department of a hospital for emergencies, if you were just a bit poorly, you'd go along to your local GP.
9. Maire – Irish name. Also, both of Seamus' parents are Irish, as far as I know, and the RC is still the official church of Eire, just in case you were wondering.