One Young Heart
Chapter 18: Rivers Run Red
A gathering crowd of students, clinging together in wisps of memory, fearing past rumors and present horrors, drifted toward the pool of light where Professor McGonagall stood, hands clasped theatrically across her thin mouth. Resting on the floor before her, torn and filthy, was a cloak- an invisibility cloak. A shredded, ravaged cloak, caked with mud and torn by a thousand sticks and spells. And before the cloak, fallen low on the floor, a scarlet bird, beaten and injured, his magical properties almost exhausted. Professor Flitwick skidded to a sudden halt behind her, and Sprout bustled up, spraying earth as she ran. A glimmer of spectacles and a flash of white hair was all that could be seen of Albus Dumbledore, as he remained behind a pillar. Loony Lovegood turned away from watching and refocused on the circle of light, choosing to believe that the Headmaster's business was his own, and that if it were of any interest she would read it next month in her father's paper.
As the entire school focused its attention on the bird before them, the bird's head sank painfully down to the stone, and as its beak relaxed its efforts to remain sternly shut, a piercing whistle echoed throughout the room.
"Yes, well, this is VERY interesting, isn't it, Headmaster? So, in case your intelligence isn't quite as good as mine, I will outline the salient points. I have Potter. I will soon have Weasly the Younger. You have my potion. Until now, I have tolerated your quaint little establishment. But I cannot ignore your latest transgression on my patience. Give it back, and you can have these creatures back. If you'd rather not, well, that's no loss to me."
The leering voice of Voldemort, faded. As the spell the bird had carried dissolved, the high, malignant voice was heard to whisper "I'll give you a week to stew on this. If you reach the moral conclusion, which I have no doubt you will, I will know what to do. If, on the other hand, you suddenly decide to imitate an intelligent being and retrieve your wayward students, we may hope to meet on more amiable terms."
McGonagall sank to the floor, her eyes showing only too clearly the horror she felt. Standing behind the pillar, Albus Dumbledore bowed his head for a moment. When he raised it, there was no longer any hint of the tired old man who hung about the school, singing the school song and seeking for a room full of chamber pots.
---
Severus was briefly aware of a flash of red sweater before he collided with Hermione. Until then his only thought was how it would look if he was caught in the vicinity of whatever happened to be going on right then, but by the time his head had cleared from its impact on the floor, he noticed the painfully tight grip on his arm, which, he suspected, had very little to do with the crash and rather a lot to do with emotion. Pulling back a bit, he was suddenly possessed of a feeling of sympathy for the girl. The stubborn thought line that always seemed to rest between her brows was gone, and her amber eyes were stretched as wide as they could go, the reflection in them a watery reflection of the entire hall.
"oh, I....oh, professor, that painting is horrible!" she wailed, and her grip on his arm tightened, if that was possible. Severus was impressed by her unusual show of emotion, and entertained the thought of comforting her. Which still left the question of how to go about it. He patted her head awkwardly, wondering precisely how a teacher is supposed to comfort a teenage girl. He seemed to have hit on the right idea, though, as she buried her head in his shoulder and attempted to inhale his shirt. After a moment, she retreated again and permitted his arm to resume circulation. "Really, professor! I was looking at the painting, and it smiled, and then someone screamed, and it looked right at me! smiling and everything! She looked so....evil."
---
Hermione swore inwardly. Snape had looked sympathetic at first, but his lips had just curled up into the characteristic Snape sneer. Why did she tell him that? He was clearly thinking she was just a child. Her humiliation only increased at his words: "Are you quite sure?" She leapt to her feet, dragged him through the corridor to the room, and froze as she passed through the door again. The painting was staring sternly off into the distance, as it had before.
Snape walked evenly into the room, examined the painting silently, then spun easily on his heel and added a shrug to his sneer. "I don't see anything to suggest that the painting has any malicious intent towards you, Miss Granger. Perhaps you were merely startled by the scream in the hallway? We really ought to be investigating that now."
---
Severus watched as Hermione's face went from embarrassed to furious. Silently, she turned and ran from the room. Girls, he thought, turning back around to face the painting again. They overreact to everything. "I bet you aren't even capable of moving, are you?" He asked the painting casually. Years of being trapped alone in the dungeons, where the woman's portrait hung in nearly every room had given him a curious sense of empathy for Mrs. Slytherin, and years of teaching in that house as well. Turning to leave, his eye was caught by a flash of red. he glanced back at the image.
His eyes were as wide a Hermione's had been earlier, but it was no hallway that they reflected. The woman's outstretched hands were still clasped to tightly to see through, but in the tiny crevices of her mortal flesh, rivulets were becoming trickles, channels, rivers. Rivers that ran red with blood.
Chapter 18: Rivers Run Red
A gathering crowd of students, clinging together in wisps of memory, fearing past rumors and present horrors, drifted toward the pool of light where Professor McGonagall stood, hands clasped theatrically across her thin mouth. Resting on the floor before her, torn and filthy, was a cloak- an invisibility cloak. A shredded, ravaged cloak, caked with mud and torn by a thousand sticks and spells. And before the cloak, fallen low on the floor, a scarlet bird, beaten and injured, his magical properties almost exhausted. Professor Flitwick skidded to a sudden halt behind her, and Sprout bustled up, spraying earth as she ran. A glimmer of spectacles and a flash of white hair was all that could be seen of Albus Dumbledore, as he remained behind a pillar. Loony Lovegood turned away from watching and refocused on the circle of light, choosing to believe that the Headmaster's business was his own, and that if it were of any interest she would read it next month in her father's paper.
As the entire school focused its attention on the bird before them, the bird's head sank painfully down to the stone, and as its beak relaxed its efforts to remain sternly shut, a piercing whistle echoed throughout the room.
"Yes, well, this is VERY interesting, isn't it, Headmaster? So, in case your intelligence isn't quite as good as mine, I will outline the salient points. I have Potter. I will soon have Weasly the Younger. You have my potion. Until now, I have tolerated your quaint little establishment. But I cannot ignore your latest transgression on my patience. Give it back, and you can have these creatures back. If you'd rather not, well, that's no loss to me."
The leering voice of Voldemort, faded. As the spell the bird had carried dissolved, the high, malignant voice was heard to whisper "I'll give you a week to stew on this. If you reach the moral conclusion, which I have no doubt you will, I will know what to do. If, on the other hand, you suddenly decide to imitate an intelligent being and retrieve your wayward students, we may hope to meet on more amiable terms."
McGonagall sank to the floor, her eyes showing only too clearly the horror she felt. Standing behind the pillar, Albus Dumbledore bowed his head for a moment. When he raised it, there was no longer any hint of the tired old man who hung about the school, singing the school song and seeking for a room full of chamber pots.
---
Severus was briefly aware of a flash of red sweater before he collided with Hermione. Until then his only thought was how it would look if he was caught in the vicinity of whatever happened to be going on right then, but by the time his head had cleared from its impact on the floor, he noticed the painfully tight grip on his arm, which, he suspected, had very little to do with the crash and rather a lot to do with emotion. Pulling back a bit, he was suddenly possessed of a feeling of sympathy for the girl. The stubborn thought line that always seemed to rest between her brows was gone, and her amber eyes were stretched as wide as they could go, the reflection in them a watery reflection of the entire hall.
"oh, I....oh, professor, that painting is horrible!" she wailed, and her grip on his arm tightened, if that was possible. Severus was impressed by her unusual show of emotion, and entertained the thought of comforting her. Which still left the question of how to go about it. He patted her head awkwardly, wondering precisely how a teacher is supposed to comfort a teenage girl. He seemed to have hit on the right idea, though, as she buried her head in his shoulder and attempted to inhale his shirt. After a moment, she retreated again and permitted his arm to resume circulation. "Really, professor! I was looking at the painting, and it smiled, and then someone screamed, and it looked right at me! smiling and everything! She looked so....evil."
---
Hermione swore inwardly. Snape had looked sympathetic at first, but his lips had just curled up into the characteristic Snape sneer. Why did she tell him that? He was clearly thinking she was just a child. Her humiliation only increased at his words: "Are you quite sure?" She leapt to her feet, dragged him through the corridor to the room, and froze as she passed through the door again. The painting was staring sternly off into the distance, as it had before.
Snape walked evenly into the room, examined the painting silently, then spun easily on his heel and added a shrug to his sneer. "I don't see anything to suggest that the painting has any malicious intent towards you, Miss Granger. Perhaps you were merely startled by the scream in the hallway? We really ought to be investigating that now."
---
Severus watched as Hermione's face went from embarrassed to furious. Silently, she turned and ran from the room. Girls, he thought, turning back around to face the painting again. They overreact to everything. "I bet you aren't even capable of moving, are you?" He asked the painting casually. Years of being trapped alone in the dungeons, where the woman's portrait hung in nearly every room had given him a curious sense of empathy for Mrs. Slytherin, and years of teaching in that house as well. Turning to leave, his eye was caught by a flash of red. he glanced back at the image.
His eyes were as wide a Hermione's had been earlier, but it was no hallway that they reflected. The woman's outstretched hands were still clasped to tightly to see through, but in the tiny crevices of her mortal flesh, rivulets were becoming trickles, channels, rivers. Rivers that ran red with blood.