DECK THE HALLS
By Bellegeste
CHAPTER 7 : DISCOVERIES
Tuesday 19th December
The scene in the Great Hall reminded Harry of something out of the Goblin riots of 1752. Chairs and tables were overturned, pushed back towards the walls in defensive barricades; the centre of the Hall was a bleak no-man's land, littered with the wreckage of broken furniture, plates, glass and cutlery, hurriedly abandoned or thrown and left lying where they fell. There was wood everywhere: great Beech branches ripped, jagged-ended, from limbless trunks; Willow twigs in long, flailing whips, an Autumn avalanche of leaves, spiky Hawthorn stems, bark shards in chunky, ridged Oak knobbles or curling, green and white Silver Birch peelings; entire Holly boughs, prickly with their sharp, glossy, evergreen foliage were strewn anyhow, wrenched down from their seasonal posts on ledge and mantle. Deck the Halls? Fa-la-la!
It was as though a tornado had torn through the Forbidden Forest, wreaking woody havoc, or the Whomping Willow, uprooted, unshackled, had embarked on a devastating spree of destruction.
The visibility in the Hall was poor. It was dim, murky, shrouded. A dismal, grey, morning light loitered by the bare windows, still starkly undraped after Peeves' stripping, but it seemed unwilling to penetrate the gloom. The floating candles had all been extinguished, save one or two, very high up near the ceiling, which twinkled bravely like solitary stars in an empty universe. The air was thick and scratchy. As Harry's eyes accustomed to the darkness, he could see low bonfires of smouldering brush, the green-wood spitting and hissing, and trails of acrid smoke drifting to the rafters.
After a momentary lull in hostilities occasioned by the opening of the door, the bombardment recommenced. A barrage of small missiles shot across the room, ricocheting off the upturned trestles; the returning salvo peppered the walls. Attack and counter attack: the fusillade whizzed and whirred; a blitz of ammunition rained down from an overhead assault, and the air crackled with tiny, plosive pops.
"Missed!"
"Gotcha!"
"Take that!"
"Take this, and weep!"
From time to time a louder explosion sent a blast of sound shocking through the Hall, followed by silence and then cheers and sporadic applause.
Dodging and weaving to avoid the strafing, ducking the flak, Harry, Hermione and Neville made a charge to the far end of the room where the bounds of High Table appeared to be neutral territory. A few conscientious objectors were there, resolutely eating their breakfast, their expressions prim and self-righteous. Another group of peace-niks watched from the sidelines, disapproving, but grimly enthralled. There was no sign, as yet, of the staff.
"What the hell's going on?" Harry yelled, above the din.
Rather than answer, Hermione tipped out her pockets. A pile of nuts, fir cones, wood-chips, galls and berries fell to the floor. Just then a cannonade of bristly sweet-chestnuts shelled them from the right flank.
"Oi!" bellowed Harry, "Pax! Cut it out! We're non-combatant here!"
Neville went round the table solemnly gathering up the napkins and, stuck forks into them to make a dozen flags. He handed them out to the eating 'civilians', not bothering to ask whether they were pacifists or just very hungry, and they wedged the fork-handles into a crack in the table, the white damask squares waving a silent, non-violent protest.
About half the school was there, mostly manning the barricades or sheltering behind up-ended benches or the trestle barriers. The other half, Hermione estimated, were probably in the hospital wing or confined to bed - no one would have missed this beano voluntarily. Holding her clip-board in front of her like a riot-shield she announced,
"I'm going in!"
"Are you mad? That's the 'front-line'. There are maniacs out there firing nuts. They'll shoot you!"
She tossed back her massive hair and squared her shoulders.
"I am a Prefect. They wouldn't dare! And, if they do, I've got the water-cannon!" She raised her wand with a haughty flourish and strode down into the action...
Neville knelt down and began to examine the pile of nuts, sorting them by species. Harry watched Hermione's retreating figure until she was swallowed in the shadows by the Slytherin table, then he shrugged and helped himself to some toast.
A few minutes later Hermione was back to file her report.
"Ron's over there," she pointed, "but he says his eyes are too sore for him to aim properly. He's really cross." She consulted her list, where she'd filled-in a lot of the blanks. "OK. What've we got? Well, Seamus is one of the ring-leaders - he's got a Chestnut wand with an Erumpent Tail core. Quite an explosive combination. Says he's got a range of at least twenty yards with the heavier conkers. And Dean is almost as bad: er, English Oak with Firecrab shell. He seems to be able to shoot red-hot acorns. On the other side, Crabbe's got an Ash wand, and his core is, um, wait a minute… …oh, Clabbert Horn. I don't know if that's relevant or not, but he's the one setting fire to everything. And Goyle says his is Rowan - he's firing berries like red bullets, but he seems to be burning stuff too…"
"Mountain Ash," said Neville, helpfully. "Rowan is another name for it."
Hermione was too engrossed in her list to be piqued by being corrected.
"Then there are several Hufflepuff hostages behind the Christmas tree, tied up with some kind of vine and Acromantula silk. I'd steer clear of Terry Boot, if I were you - he's Box with Re'em hide - but he's pretty much out of control and he's quite likely to thump you. The Re'em's acting like some sort of a strengthening spell."
She stopped speaking as a deafening siren sounded and an ark-light raked round the room, a shaft of paler grey cutting through the haze.
"Oh yes, that'll be Anthony Goldstein - Hornbeam, you know. Now then, Neville, here's another one for you: Euan Abercrombie told me his wand is something called Styrax, but he's not sure what that is. It's making him awfully cold though and he's got a dreadful ringing in his ears - I was trying to persuade him to come up here near the fire. Well?"
"Styrax? Um, deciduous, native to China and Japan, greyish bark, long, ovate leaves, clusters of white bell-shaped flowers… Oh, yeah, some people call it the Snowbell Tree."
Hermione continued to comb through her list.
"There's a virtual pine forest of Firs, Spruces and Larches, with the occasional Cypress, over near the portrait of Burdock Muldoon. They're nearly all second and third years - goodness knows why that should be. They seem to be supplying most of the ammunition. Pucey's wand - damn, I haven't written down what it is; I know he told me - has turned into a kind of bazooka thing, and he's firing-off fir cones like there's no tomorrow. Malfoy's, I think, is a Sycamore - he started to tell me and then he changed his mind for some reason and told me to 'piss-off' instead. Charming! That's all I've managed to get so far. I'll have to - "
The grand double doors at the far end of the Hall swung open, signalling an immediate, guilty ceasefire. Professor Dumbledore, at the head of the entire staff (minus McGonagall and Sprout) stepped into the war zone. The undergrowth and fallen branches parted before him like the Red Sea. In absolute silence the group marched to High Table. Behind the barricades, the ranks struggled upright and stood stiffly to attention, awaiting Court-Martial. Dumbledore mounted the platform and, peering over the rim of his half-moon spectacles, surveyed the assembled school. His expression was severe.
"Children! Students! We are, I fear, late for breakfast!"
A shuffle of relief amongst the crowd. The Headmaster's gaze systematically took in the damaged furniture, the vandalised Christmas tree, the destroyed decorations, the botanical carnage.
"It appears that out Yuletide festivities have begun a little early," he said. He lifted his wand as though, in a single wave, to set the room to rights, and then, regretfully, lowered it again. "You will assist each other in restoring the tables to their rightful positions, and then you will all eat. After breakfast I wish to inform you of a matter of grave concern."
At once the hall erupted into a flurry of activity; chairs scraped, benches banged. Susan Bones ('Broom with Invisible Flying-Fox brush') conjured a Sweeping Spell to clear the floor.
"Sir? Professor Dumbledore, Sir?" Hermione, Neville and Harry edged forwards as the headmaster took his seat, spreading out his 'peace flag' on his lap. The other teachers were also sitting down, uprooting their napkins in bemusement (Trelawney), amusement (Remus) or annoyance… Snape was looking at Harry. Sensing it, the boy turned his head and their eyes met, full tilt, clashing with an almost physical impact that jolted through his whole body. Observing them, Hermione noticed Snape cock an enquiring eyebrow and Harry, in reply, flex the fingers of his right hand and give a quick, imperceptible thumbs-up. The dark eyes flashed again, and then Snape was talking to Flitwick, seemingly oblivious to the presence of his son.
Hermione sighed deeply. She knew that Quig, Snape's house elf, was deaf, but did they all communicate in sign language? If so, it was going to be an extremely quiet Christmas!
"Ahem!" Tonc-tonc! Dumbledore coughed and tapped his wand against a butter-dish to attract the attention of his staff. "If you could be so good as to gather round. I think you should all hear what our Mr Longbottom has to say."
Snape looked as though he had a few choice things to say to Longbottom himself, but he moved closer and, after listening for some minutes to Neville's rambling explanation, his sceptical sneer developed into a frown - but a thoughtful one.
Hermione became aware that Harry, opposite her, was fidgeting, trying to catch Neville's eye, making frantic 'shut-up' and 'cut-throat' signs. Longbottom expounded his subject doggedly, from fungal samples to contaminated potion to suspected viral infection and, seemingly, back to mouldy wands again, with forays into experiments with fungicide and medi-herbal treatments.
"It's not as though it's going to respond to Permethrin or DDT or Doxycide," he said, "and besides - " He saw Harry and faltered, stammered. " – b-besides, that's as far as we've got," he ended rather hurriedly. "I wasn't going to tell them," he whispered in self-defence as Harry rounded on him.
Then Dumbledore was on his feet, speaking.
"Well done, Neville. That is a most valuable piece of research and deductive reasoning. It does you credit, my boy. We may well find that we call on your advice on certain botanical issues, especially in the unfortunate absence of Professor Sprout. We will defer to your herbological experience, Mr Longbottom!"
Neville blushed pinkly with pleasure; Snape looked aghast at the thought.
"Interesting though that may be," went on the Headmaster in a more sorrowful tone, "it does not, I'm afraid, negate the news I have to announce. Attention everyone, please!"
An expectant hush fell over the Hall.
"It cannot have escaped your notice that the school has been experiencing one or two magical irregularities over the last few days."
Someone tittered.
"And - purely as a precautionary measure, you understand – I have decided to take an unprecedented step. To prevent the accidental use of mis-magic, I will be confiscating your wands until further notice… Expelliarmus!"
A low retaining-wall comprising several rows of ornamental brickwork in a herring-bone pattern with upright 'soldier' coping stones, materialised on the floor in front of High Table.
"Walnut," breathed Neville into Hermione's ear. "I bet you."
"Ah. Oh dear me. Well, well… In that case Professor Lupin will collect your wands," the Headmaster amended. "Remus, if you don't mind…"
Ripples of protest grumbled through the room.
"Furthermore," Dumbledore had not finished. He stroked his long beard and, unusually, looked to the other members of staff for moral support. "I am sorry to be the bearer of sad tidings, especially at this joyful season. We have, er, received instructions from the Ministry of Magic that, until we have a clearer understanding of the nature of the problem, Hogwarts is in quarantine…"
He paused to let this sink in. But there was no significant rise in the level of demur, and he realised that the implications of his words were not clear.
"This will mean, I regret to say, that unless a solution to the problem is discovered in the next twenty-four hours, you will all be unable to return home for Christmas…"
Now there was no mistaking the objections. The news hit the younger students hardest - several of the first years were inconsolable, and had to be taken up to their dormitories by long-suffering prefects, who were themselves trying, with mixed success, to put a brave face on their own distress.
Malfoy shared the general disappointment, but with an additional cause. Foiled! At the last minute, and by that fossilized old fogey. Draco had been monitoring the unfolding crisis with a burgeoning delight. To think that he was responsible for all this chaos! A simple practical joke had, under its own mouldy momentum, grown into what (he flattered himself to think) might have been the greatest threat to wizard-kind since the rise of the Dark Lord. Forewarned, the Death Eaters would be able to discover some antidote to protect their own wands, while the rest of the unsuspecting wizard world watched their own powers disintegrate… Damn Dumbledore! For either way, Malfoy's plot was now doomed: if they cured the magic, he'd failed; if the kids were quarantined in Hogwarts, he'd failed. Oh well, he thought philosophically, you win some, you lose some… …and he had got into that Pensieve…
Under cover of the universal upset, Malfoy slunk out of the Hall, heading (for reasons best known to himself) towards Hagrid's Hut.
x x x
There were two people in the room who received Dumbledore's announcement with equanimity. Though they scarcely admitted it to themselves, and certainly not to each other, Harry and Hermione could both see distinct advantages in being detained at Hogwarts for Christmas…
X X X
"And what exactly were you 'not going to tell' us, Mr Longbottom?" Snape barred their way as the three turned to join the Gryffindors at table. Harry remembered Neville's indignant whisper and, too late, his father's ability to lip-read. With a hunter's instinct, Snape had isolated the weakest member of the group, and brought him down with a single, sharp question. Neville's resolution stumbled, kicked weakly and then rolled over, belly up.
"About the list, Sir. We were going to talk to you about it last night, Sir, but you were asleep, so we did more experiments, and Hermione's been making a list…" Neville blurted, infuriatingly incoherent.
"A list? Miss Granger, I hardly think that now is the time to be getting up a petition. Show me."
With great misgiving she handed over her clipboard. Snape scanned the names, flicking through the pages, noting the information in each separate column. Once or twice his eyes slid from the paper to the timber-yard litter in the Hall - the irrefutable, corroborative evidence - and then back to the damning list. When he reached his own name, his face paled. He directed his fury at Harry.
"How dare you!" Outrage had stolen his voice; the words were pure anger, unadulterated by sound.
"Sir! It was me, Sir. I guessed it. Harry never let on. He wouldn't, Sir. I could be wrong, Sir, couldn't I? I mean, I usually am…" Neville made a brave stab at nobility, wishing that, in denial of the facts, he were wrong this time. He would give anything not to know incriminating information about the Potions master. The man hated him quite enough already.
"We wanted to talk to you in private, Sir, but -" Hermione stopped. A bumbly droning sound just behind her - Professor Dumbledore's humming rendition of 'Good King Wenceslas' – told her that the Headmaster had joined them.
"A capital idea! Wouldn't you agree, Severus? Let us adjourn to my office - it is so much more agreeable than yours - and we can discuss the matter more fully. A little privacy may be no bad thing."
X X X
"I was impressed before, Mr Longbottom, but now I see that those were merely your preliminary findings…" Professor Dumbledore had a wonderful way of glossing over one's misdeeds, if he thought there were bigger issues at stake. "And it is gratifying to discover that your evidence supports our own tentative hypotheses. Is it not, Severus?"
This elicited a grudging 'Indeed' from Snape, who was standing at the window with his back to the room, unable as yet to enter a discussion in which his private affairs would be publicly exhumed.
The confiscated wands, tied in neat bundles of twelve, lay on the floor like sets of chopsticks or asparagus spears, depending on whether or not the wand wood was sprouting. They looked harmless enough.
"Come now, Severus. A little more faith in the discretion of these children would not go amiss… It is my impression that they have acted with most admirable restraint. Don't you agree?"
"Indeed."
Snape could hardly concur when, all about him, the walls of his privacy were crumbling like Jericho. They had been breached before - Harry had found a way through his defences - but he had shored them up, contained the damage. And now another hole had been blasted right through and the invading hordes were scrambling up the rubble, ready to trample through his life with their filthy hob-nailed boots and prying eyes.
"Severus?" the Headmaster repeated. Hermione, who had been drifting slightly, lulled by the warmth and the relief of having finally shared their discovery, glanced up, surprised at the gentleness in the old man's voice. It seemed incongruous for Dumbledore to be addressing Snape in that tone. Snape swung round.
"Admirable," he conceded coolly, jettisoning his precious seclusion into a municipal skip. Dumbledore's whiskers lifted encouragingly in what might have been a smile.
"Severus, it may still be possible to preserve the confidentiality of that list. It seems that we can now establish the cause of the problem - it is a shame we were unaware of the full extent of Mr Longbottom's herbological research, though you, Severus, if I recall, did have your suspicions. And we have all seen the effect… And now, it behoves us, as a matter of urgency, to find a cure.
"I suggest that you and these three - ah, alas, Miss Granger is asleep-"
"We've been up all night," Neville admitted.
" - these two entrepreneurs, get your heads together…"
"You'd better count me out - I'm crap at Herbology. I'm pretty duff at Potions too," Harry interjected. Then, correctly interpreting Snape's scowl, he changed tune, "but I'll help out if I can."
"…and, if I may finish my sentence, discover a miracle cure before the departure of the Hogwarts Express tomorrow afternoon."
X X X
They toiled through the morning, through lunch, testing every antidote, fungicide and pesticidal potion known to wizardry. By mid-afternoon the Greenhouse was verdant with their failures. After a particularly violent hazelnut hailstorm, Neville sorted through the wand-bundles until he found Hannah Abbott's wand (Umbrella Pine with spell-repellent Graphorn Hide) after which he and Snape could work together in comparative shelter.
"By 'eck, this is hopeless!" Neville couldn't help exclaiming as their latest experiment with a systemic cellular strengthening solution had yielded a cannonball conker with a shell spiked like a WWII land-mine. "What do we do now, Sir? Go back to the basics and start again with bezoar and Mandrake juice?"
Snape regarded the dishevelled, dirty, exhausted boy. He was not a quitter, he'd give him that. He'd expected Longbottom to give up hours ago, but the lad had plodded on with the work, methodical and pedestrian, laboriously thorough, painfully so - but he had stuck at it. Snape was, he had to admit it, impressed. Harry's patience had long since worn thin, and for the past forty minutes or so, he had been amusing himself by dropping aphids, Frit Fly maggots and wireworms into a jar of Streeler slime, and watching them shrivel.
The door of the Greenhouse shuddered open, rattling on its runners as it slid sideways, letting in the weather and a horsy figure dressed for walking in thick tweeds and a deer-stalker hat.
"Oh, it's only you, Snape. Saw the light on. Thought for a mo' it might be Pomona. Came to take a decko. Still no news?"
Professor Grubbly-Plank's 'county' boom shook the window panes. Four dog leads strained from her right fist and out into the sallow afternoon. In the few seconds she had been talking, they had twined and plaited like Maypole ribbons until she was left clutching a single, twisted, leather line which she played, tensing and relaxing her arm as though she had a Red Marlin on the end and not four energetic Crups.
"Dashed dawgs!" She gave a throaty snort as one of them came spinning in through the doorway, chasing his tail, winding himself in to the shortest limit of the leash. "Don't know what's got into 'em today. Sometimes I could just Hex the little rascals!" She gave the dizzy Crup an affectionate nudge with her boot and it somersaulted back outside, yelping.
"Looks like someone already did," said Harry.
Professor Grubbly-Plank didn't waste her breath on niceties.
"You, boy - " She addressed Harry. "Strikes me you're about as much use here as a Shrake in a sandstorm. What say you give me a hand, walking these here Crups? If that's all the same to you, Snape?"
It clearly was not all the same to Snape.
"I will decide whether or not Potter's presence is useful, Professor," he replied, sourly. "But, if you are unable to manage the creatures on your own, then I will allow him to assist you…"
Their egos squared-up; it was a stand-off. Then Grubbly-Plank checked her watch.
"Ha! Haven't got time for this tomfoolery! You're a rum bugger, Snape - I enjoy our little spats. Yes, I could use the boy…"
She unravelled two squirming Crups and handed the leads to Harry.
"Fancy a tramp round the lake, boy? Best foot forward!"
X X X
Neville was left alone in the Greenhouse with Snape. There was not another living person in sight, in screaming distance even. It was his worst nightmare. It was worse than his worst nightmare - it was Snape!
Neville was very, very tired; he couldn't remember when he had last eaten; he had run out of ideas about the wands and yet everyone seemed to be looking to him for a solution; he was stuck here with the man he had accidentally poisoned the previous day, who had probably no intention of ever forgiving him; and, if he didn't come up with an answer, he and the entire school would be forced to stay at Hogwarts all Christmas. It was all too much…
A large, round tear rolled down the side of his nose.
"Longbottom?" Snape could see that the boy needed a break.
"I… I'm sorry, Sir," Neville snuffled. Another tear welled and he was too tired to stop it. "It's just that…"
At this moment the misery became unbearable; it was swelling in his chest, pressing on his lungs, his throat, strangling him with helpless grief. He had to let it out or he would burst.
"It's just that I always go… ..to visit my parents at Christmas…"
He went every year, every holiday. He went willingly, dreading it. It was a duty, an obligation, a torture. He went to visit them in St Mungo's. He hated it. He hated seeing them like that, seeing what they had become, what they had lost. He hated them for not dying, for leaving him with the responsibility of loving them. He loved them so much, and that love tore at his heart until he hated himself too.
"Sorry… sorry, Sir," Neville sniffed. The next tear dripped into the corner of his mouth and he caught it on his tongue. "They… she… …she recognises me… I know she does. It's hard, Sir, seeing her like that…"
I know, thought Snape. Oh, I know... A sultry, smooth-throated voice murmured in his mind; a crème brulée voice, rich and sensual but cracking to the sharp, crazed bitterness of a maddened hag: "Severus, mon fils!" ('My son!')1
"Longbottom," he said. "Tiredness will result in inefficiency and inaccuracy. Go back to the castle and get something to eat. Have a rest. Return only when you are capable of constructive thought."
Neville just stood there, gulping lumpy breaths, waiting for the next sentence - the one about imbeciles and detentions and being a disgrace to the wizard world.
"Go on, boy," said Snape, not unkindly. "And, Longbottom - " he added as Neville shuffled past him, picking his way over the leafy debris, "they would have been proud of you today…"
X X X
Outside a sudden frenzy of barking snapped at the shabby heels of the afternoon. They heard shouting, exclamations and then footsteps, urgent running feet.
"Sir! Sir!" It was Harry calling. Fear. Desperation. "Come quickly, Sir!" Harry was out of breath, panting. "We - we've found Professor Sprout!"
She was in the Herb Garden, unearthed, her squat, bulbous body lying on the freshly turned soil like a giant potato. Behind her, the four Crups, frantically yapping, were scrabbling with mindless, doggy enthusiasm at a deep depression in the newly dug ground. Professor Grubbly-Plank was on her knees, brushing mud off Sprout's face, tenderly wiping it out of her eyes and mouth.
"Come on, Pomona. Come on, dear. Don't do this to us. Wake up now."
"Alive?" Snape ran up to them. Grubbly-Plank nodded.
"Barely. She's under some kind of Petrificus, but she's still breathing. She was buried… buried alive! Down there." She pointed grimly into the hole, where the Crups were still digging, sending spirals of dirt showering up and out behind them. Deep in the mud at the bottom Neville saw several tuberous, white shapes.
"Shark-Lily!"
"Evil plant! It's as bad as Devil's Snare. When is the Ministry of Magic going to see sense and re-classify it? That's what I'd like to know! I've a good mind to owl them. Damn stuff's downright dangerous!"
"In the wrong hands…" Snape commented with feeling. Neville looked away. The Potions master was heaving Sprout into a sitting position and, unable to conjure a stretcher without his wand, picked her up in a Fireman's lift.
"I'll take her to Pomfrey," he said, grunting with the effort of raising her dead-weight - for a small woman, Sprout was surprisingly heavy. "Harry, find Professor Dumbledore and ask him to meet us in the Hospital Wing. And Neville, can you prepare the ingredients for a Mandrake Restorative Draught - we're going to need it."
Swelling with pride, tiredness temporarily forgotten, Neville trotted off to the Potions dungeon.
End of Chapter
1 'My son' – For Snape's mother see Repercussions, Ch. 9, or Snape's Confession, Ch. 4
Next Chapter: LUNA'S SOLUTION. She had to get in on the act somewhere... Neville and Hermione Vs Luna and Harry, eh? Are we talking Sense and Sensibility here?