PAYBACK TIME
By Bellegeste
Chapter 14:QUIG'S CURE
The Potting Shed was hot and humid. It reminded him of Professor Sprout's greenhouse. And that, in turn, reminded him of Neville Longbottom. Snape swore under his breath, realising that the blasted boy would have arrived at Hogwarts expecting to see him. He had sent for Neville following a less than amicable conversation with his grandmother - she of the sugary Chorley Cakes and Parkin Pigs, but in real life a much tougher cookie. And now he was regretting it. He was not in the mood today for Longbottom's brand of hapless incompetence.
Given that it was late December - hardly a prime growing season - the shed was unseasonally fruitful. Sprouting from a half-barrel in one corner, a stout-stemmed, broad-leaved vine-like plant had been trained upwards into and along the roof beams, its leafy tendrils twining towards the light, each twisting branch grafted from a different stock: dangling amidst the lush foliage like ripening multi-coloured baubles, Snape could see a mixed crop of gourds, squash, capsicum, tomatoes, grapes, mangosteen, sapodilla and spiny rambutan. From the rafters swung hippy necklaces of drying fungi: coffee-coloured, warty Panthercaps, bulbous Satan's Bolete, Scarlet Sickeners… On the far side, behind a leaning bundle of bamboo canes, the drooping, black-satin bells of Ink-head Hoya dripped their treacly nectar into a wide-brimmed collecting cup. The cup drained into a pipe, attached to a flask which led into a tube… The whole set up looked suspiciously like a still, and Snape averted his eyes.
The potting table was given over entirely to rows of shallow, loam-filled pots each containing about a dozen cuttings, some still in leaf, others mere sticks. Again Snape experienced - and impatiently dismissed - a glimmer of déjà vu : Longbottom once more, pink with perseverance, labouring over a small forest of infected wands. Was that child fated to dog his thoughts today? Snape ran his gaze over the table. He believed he recognised a few of his rarer potion-plants, though it was impossible to identify them all from the short spikes. Quig had evidently lost no time in re-rooting cuttings salvaged from the fire, preparing to replant and restock the trampled, scorched, ash-contaminated herb garden, his pride and joy.
The light in the shed, straining to penetrate the clusters of waving fronds as they leaned towards the windows, was greenish and diffused with a strange, rippling mobility which gave Snape - already swimming in the humidity - the impression that he was underwater. The surface of the pots, he noticed, glittered as though the earth itself were formed from crushed sequins. Snape picked up a pot and with his wand prodded at a shiny, reflective disc in the soil. So Quig was experimenting with his new Skin 'n' Scale fertiliser. That would account for the overpowering smell of rancid fish. Snape had been afraid that the elf was cooking up another delicacy, and that he might be required to eat it.
Sweating in the tropical atmosphere, Snape shed his coat and scarf rather hurriedly, flinging them loosely behind him and leaving them to hang themselves up on a convenient nail on the back of the door. Then, cooler and less encumbered, he manoeuvred his way around the empty wheel-barrow which blocked the left-hand gangway, and made for the source of the heat. A rusty, metal brazier about the size of a large dustbin with a lid like an inverted funnel was glowing ominously, virtually red-hot, belting out enough heat to bake the entire Potions dungeon, let alone this cramped and – Snape double-checked the exits – wooden shed. Spurts of pink smoke puffed out of the funnel at rhythmic intervals, and the compact furnace crackled and spat like a baby dragon learning to whistle.
At the base of the brazier, so close that stray sparks were bouncing off his belly, (clearly not sufficiently traumatised by his recent ordeal to scare him from the hot-seat), lay Braque. Snape crossed to the lizard's side and crouched down, wordlessly examining the stump of the severed tail, running expert fingers across the scaly hide, checking for irritation, burns and sores. The Giant Tuatara fixed him with an amber, reptilian stare and greeted his master with a volley of dry clicks. A long, purple tongue flickered out and licked him on the wrist.
The sight of the truncated, weirdly frog-like torso sent a surge of rage coursing through the man. His jaw clenched as he fought back a tide of anger and his muscles locked, gripped in a seizure of grief and fury. For several minutes he squatted there, unmoving, his hand resting lightly on the back of the wounded lizard.
A slight pressure on his shoulder brought Snape leaping edgily to his feet, and he whipped round in one fluid movement, wand raised to attack. He found himself looking down upon the potato-bald, shrivelled head of Quig. The elf's leguminous features were distorted into a mud-caked crinkle of delight and concern. Immediately the gnarled hands began to gesture.
'Master Snape is imprudent in permitting Quigley to approach unobserved' he signed.
"I know," Snape admitted wearily. Careless
'There is evidence of tail tissue regeneration.'
"Yes. I can detect no infection. You've done well."
'Quigley sent Master Snape a message, with the female whose hair resembles a Rainbow Lorikeet.'
"Auror Tonks?" Yes, Longbottom had mentioned her name. That boy again!
The elf's hands worked rapidly, weaving questions and comments:
'The white-beard wizard informed Quigley of master's whereabouts. Quigley has been awaiting instructions.'
"I was detained." No need to go into details. Dumbledore would have told him everything he needed to know.
'Master Snape has inspected the Cottage? He has visited the Manor?'
"I have."
The fluttering fingers left a great deal unsaid. Snape was grateful to the ancient elf for his stalwart composure and common-sense. Rather than dwelling on the past, he was forward-looking and practical. Not once had he reproached Snape for the attack or strayed into sentimental histrionics. Not all elves were like that long-nosed, bat-eared, hysterical creature who fawned and fussed over Harry.
'Quigley has been entering the basement via the ventilation duct…' the hands informed him. Uncomplaining and resourceful, Quig had found a way to see to the needs of the laboratory animals. Snape took a guilty step towards the door - he hadn't yet checked on his menagerie.
'And the perimeter breach has been only temporarily re-warded…'
"Alright! I shall un-spell the door," Snape said heavily, "and recalculate the wards for the Estate."
Ideally he would have liked to intensify the wards even further, but that would require the co-operation of at least two other wizards, preferably ones well-versed in the Dark Arts. Snape knew he could always count on Dumbledore, but who else could he ask? Lupin? The irony of approaching the werewolf for assistance did not escape him. But he'd been brewing his Wolfsbane for long enough - the creature owed him a favour, at the very least. He'd have to send him an owl.
The list of magical chores was getting ever longer and Snape didn't feel equal to them. He was beginning to wish he had taken Pomfrey's advice and rested for another day. He wiped a hand across his brow.
"Quig, it's appallingly hot in here," he snapped. "Those plants aren't equatorial, you know. What do you think you're playing at?"
The long-suffering, old retainer regarded the young, over-wrought wizard with tolerant forbearance. He had known Snape all his life and he could tell when his master was reaching his limit.
'Quigley is maintaining an elevated ambient temperature in the shed to raise the metabolic rate of the Tuatara and enhance the healing process' he signed calmly, (though he personally attributed Braque's recovery to the barrow-loads of anti-bacterial Manuka mushrooms he had been force-feeding him). Years of working for Snape, however, had taught him to marry scientific and magical remedies. He moved a watering-can and a hand-trowel off a garden stool, making space for Snape to sit down. Then he waddled off - this time Snape noticed the flat-smack footsteps – and began fossicking for something under the bench.
Snape watched him listlessly.
"Where does it all end? It doesn't get any easier," he muttered, addressing the floor, knowing the elf would be unable to hear him.
The elf stopped what he was doing and rapped on the table to attract Snape's attention. The pale, stressed face of the wizard as he looked up reminded the elf acutely of his dead mistress - her son had inherited the same chiselled cheek-bones, the same jet-black eyes, but without the laughter-lines. Things were bad enough when I was young, Snape was thinking, but at least when I was young I still had hope...
'Master Harry is at Hogwarts?' With intuitive understanding the elf eased Snape back into the present and towards a new hope…
Then he extracted a square-sided, glass cod-bottle from a crate hidden beneath a length of tarpaulin. Pressing in the marble stopper, he passed it across to his master with a wink. The liquid was nettle-hot and peppery, with a smoky under-taste and a tart hint of salmonberry, pitanga and other less conventional ingredients. Preferring not to be told the recipe for Quig's 'special brew', Snape accepted it without comment and took a tentative sip. Spiced warmth spilled into his body and the future began to look less bleak.
Harry? Perhaps he should have brought Harry with him today. Would all this have been any more bearable with Harry at his side? The fact that he was even asking himself the question made him shake his head in wonder. What was this stuff of Quigs? Mushroom Mead? He took another appreciative sip.
…he was Jonah in the belly of the whale… it was hot in here, damp…moisture dripping… a salty, fishy smell, not unpleasant… he was diving, diving to the depths of the ocean, deeper and deeper… it was warm in here, and safe…no work, no worries…no family…no obligations…
Snape's eyes shot open. Grinning hideously, Quig gave him a thumbs up and tapped him on the knee.
'Master is wanting to send an owl?' There was a slightly singed tawny owl perched nervously on his shoulder.
How the hell did he know that, mused Snape, rubbing his forehead, dragging his responsibilities back into focus. Taking the quill he sighed and scratched a curt note to Neville Longbottom.
End of Chapter.
Next Chapter: DEBTOR'S PRISON. Is that a kind of financial Azkaban? Or am I being pretentiously metaphorical? Anyway, it's another angsty Neville, Harry, Hermione chapter…