One Young Heart
Chapter 17: The Painting
It was ten o'clock that night when they got Colin fully extricated from the explosive goo, two hours into which his mouth had been unfortunately liberated. Attempts at sophisticated analysis of the goo's makeup had resulted only in a reflected breaking spell knocking Snape's legs out from under him and Colin becoming silenced with a possibly overenthusiastic spell on the part of Miss Granger. With Colin finally sent off to the infirmary, happily mouthing words held inaudible by the spell, Severus just wanted to sit down and read, whilenHermione had experienced just about every emotion possible during the course of the day, culminating in a burst of merriment at her professor's furious and largely ineffectual assault on the substance, which had nearly landed her in the same predicament as Colin, and told her that it wasn't quite time to mock him yet.
Together, they sat down and directed their attention to finding a simple way of removing the goo from the trees it had covered, as the hours flew by. "Might as well name the stuff 'solution of Colin'." Snape muttered. "It reflects his character perfectly". Hermione woke with a start from her precarious perch on a stacked pair of stools, dusty with long disuse, as was everything in the room. They had chosen the abandoned honors potions classroom as their study for the large fireplace that illuminated their work, and as Hermione started back to her feet a pile of ancient papers fell to the floor and disintegrated, sending a fine spray of dust to hang incandescent in the air, framing her hair in a golden halo and glinting on Snape's lashes as they swept down over his dark eyes.
"Yes, well there is no need to remain up, Miss Granger. Clearly, this problem will not be easily remedied. We will resume work in the morning." He rose, and lifted the sweater she had discarded on a tremendous sofa that looked oddly incongruous in the classroom setting. As Hermione slipped her arm into the sweater, she glanced higher on the wall- and paused, interested. High on the wall, far enough up that her head was all but hidden in the oak beams of the sealing, hung the mirror image of the woman she had seen in the castle.
She was stern, as before, an old fashioned dowager glowering out on a world she seemed to have no part in. In this image she wore simple, austere black. A single white feather, absurdly large, stuck out of her hat, contrasting with her small sharp nose to give the impression of a beak. Her hands, wrinkled and old, were extended before her, as though to reveal a secret delight known only to her. Hermione stood, neck craned back to gaze up at the woman, sweater dangling from one arm in an eerie parody of a small girl staring at an image whose import eluded her.
Quietly, she turned her head a fraction of an inch, eyes never leaving those of the woman, to ask Snape, "Who was she?" He stirred, a tiny rustle of fabric sending ripples of sound before he spoke ina voice softened to include- was it respect? Hermione could not be sure. "She was Marie Slytherin. The school's founder built the rooms we call the castle for her. She never left them. She wasn't a normal woman. They say she converted to Puritanism, decided that magic was bad, just before she died, that Slytherin killed her for it. They say that her pictures won't move out of respect for her religion. And they won't. I've tried." He paused to look up at her himself before he continued, "Of course, they also say that one day she will emerge from the paintings, and wreck vengence upon they who are unfaithful, and follow the god of blood rather than faith. I, for one, won't hold my breath. Goodnight".
He slipped from the room, leaving Hermione alone with the painting. Knowing the painting's history, the woman seemed all the more terribly real, angry, loathsome. What was it they say Marie means? bitter?
The seconds ticked by, and Hermione had just turned away, when she heard a rustle of fabric echo in the room, much as Snape's had earlier. Except that there was no Snape there now. She looked back at the picture quickly, human rationale asserting that she was being stupid, that even if the painting had begun to move, that was perfectly normal and certainly couldn't hurt her.
She looked back at the woman, at the stern scowl focused into the distance.
The scowl that had been replaced by a satisfied smile.
A smile that, combined with the now closed eyelids, seemed more sickeningly evil than the scowl had ever been.
Hermione backed away slowly from the now completely still painting, one foot, two feet. When she had backed up three feet, several things happened.
Her back met the wall of the classroom.
A scream rent the air.
The painting's eyes flew open again.
Staring.
Straight at Hermione.
She flew down the corridor, and slammed straight into Snape as he ran full tilt the other way.
Chapter 17: The Painting
It was ten o'clock that night when they got Colin fully extricated from the explosive goo, two hours into which his mouth had been unfortunately liberated. Attempts at sophisticated analysis of the goo's makeup had resulted only in a reflected breaking spell knocking Snape's legs out from under him and Colin becoming silenced with a possibly overenthusiastic spell on the part of Miss Granger. With Colin finally sent off to the infirmary, happily mouthing words held inaudible by the spell, Severus just wanted to sit down and read, whilenHermione had experienced just about every emotion possible during the course of the day, culminating in a burst of merriment at her professor's furious and largely ineffectual assault on the substance, which had nearly landed her in the same predicament as Colin, and told her that it wasn't quite time to mock him yet.
Together, they sat down and directed their attention to finding a simple way of removing the goo from the trees it had covered, as the hours flew by. "Might as well name the stuff 'solution of Colin'." Snape muttered. "It reflects his character perfectly". Hermione woke with a start from her precarious perch on a stacked pair of stools, dusty with long disuse, as was everything in the room. They had chosen the abandoned honors potions classroom as their study for the large fireplace that illuminated their work, and as Hermione started back to her feet a pile of ancient papers fell to the floor and disintegrated, sending a fine spray of dust to hang incandescent in the air, framing her hair in a golden halo and glinting on Snape's lashes as they swept down over his dark eyes.
"Yes, well there is no need to remain up, Miss Granger. Clearly, this problem will not be easily remedied. We will resume work in the morning." He rose, and lifted the sweater she had discarded on a tremendous sofa that looked oddly incongruous in the classroom setting. As Hermione slipped her arm into the sweater, she glanced higher on the wall- and paused, interested. High on the wall, far enough up that her head was all but hidden in the oak beams of the sealing, hung the mirror image of the woman she had seen in the castle.
She was stern, as before, an old fashioned dowager glowering out on a world she seemed to have no part in. In this image she wore simple, austere black. A single white feather, absurdly large, stuck out of her hat, contrasting with her small sharp nose to give the impression of a beak. Her hands, wrinkled and old, were extended before her, as though to reveal a secret delight known only to her. Hermione stood, neck craned back to gaze up at the woman, sweater dangling from one arm in an eerie parody of a small girl staring at an image whose import eluded her.
Quietly, she turned her head a fraction of an inch, eyes never leaving those of the woman, to ask Snape, "Who was she?" He stirred, a tiny rustle of fabric sending ripples of sound before he spoke ina voice softened to include- was it respect? Hermione could not be sure. "She was Marie Slytherin. The school's founder built the rooms we call the castle for her. She never left them. She wasn't a normal woman. They say she converted to Puritanism, decided that magic was bad, just before she died, that Slytherin killed her for it. They say that her pictures won't move out of respect for her religion. And they won't. I've tried." He paused to look up at her himself before he continued, "Of course, they also say that one day she will emerge from the paintings, and wreck vengence upon they who are unfaithful, and follow the god of blood rather than faith. I, for one, won't hold my breath. Goodnight".
He slipped from the room, leaving Hermione alone with the painting. Knowing the painting's history, the woman seemed all the more terribly real, angry, loathsome. What was it they say Marie means? bitter?
The seconds ticked by, and Hermione had just turned away, when she heard a rustle of fabric echo in the room, much as Snape's had earlier. Except that there was no Snape there now. She looked back at the picture quickly, human rationale asserting that she was being stupid, that even if the painting had begun to move, that was perfectly normal and certainly couldn't hurt her.
She looked back at the woman, at the stern scowl focused into the distance.
The scowl that had been replaced by a satisfied smile.
A smile that, combined with the now closed eyelids, seemed more sickeningly evil than the scowl had ever been.
Hermione backed away slowly from the now completely still painting, one foot, two feet. When she had backed up three feet, several things happened.
Her back met the wall of the classroom.
A scream rent the air.
The painting's eyes flew open again.
Staring.
Straight at Hermione.
She flew down the corridor, and slammed straight into Snape as he ran full tilt the other way.