This is the second chapter posted today. Make sure you read chapter six first.
SEVEN.
The ball of white feather looked as though it should never have been airborne. Still, it made its way staggeringly across the Great Hall, drawing low enough for an intended recipient here and there to untie a letter from the roughly affixed leather string. Severus watched it over his eggs, curious as to why what appeared to be a plush dove fresh out of the wash was now delivering post, until his curiosity was satisfied when with a final effort the thing dropped right onto his plate.
It blinked its beaded eye, framed with red pluming as though it had developed a bad case of allergies, then set about picking at his eggs. Severus untied the final letter, then took the string off to untangle as he read.
Dear Professor Snape,
I've just finished writing letters to lots of people so sorry if my handwriting is horrible.
I'm writing I'm so I'm writing to apologise for what happened at the match. I don't think you were hurt (?) but you could have been and I never meant for any of it to happen. I didn't even really decide to do natural magic—I think it was one of those adrenaline reactions to threat, you know, where you stop thinking straight—but I know that's not an excuse. I know you said I should focus on normal magic but I think at this point I have to practise some natural magic, too, so I can control it better. At least while I'm here there's not much risk of collateral damage because there is literally nothing around.
I don't know if you want to hear about Durmstrang, so you can just skip this part because the apology was the main thing in the letter. But I thought maybe it would be interesting for you to know about how other schools work. I've only been here one full day, though, or probably like two before the letter reaches you—I don't know how fast the ptarmigans are. That's what the bird's called: rock ptarmigan. It's too cold for owls to fly so if you want to write me back you'll have to make the bird wait somehow. They like berries and spiders. This one teacher told me about them, I can't remember her name because everyone's names are weird here. She's supposed to teach me natural magic but all she's done so far is tell me about the birds and then that she was busy. I think Headmaster Karkaroff is forcing her to teach me and she doesn't really want to.
Anyway, in the morning when I woke up no one told me what to do or what my schedule was or anything. No one tells me anything here and then they get upset when I'm not where I'm meant to be. I don't know if this is normal. In the end I asked this older boy who looked like he might have been a prefect because everyone was very polite with him, and he asked me for my age and then told me where to go. But then it turned out that they start school a year later than us, so I was in the wrong classroom, and they sent me to another one again. Now everyone's taller than me and I missed most of Standard Charms. Also, I later found out that the boy I asked isn't a prefect because they don't have those (and there are no houses, either) but this really famous Quidditch player called Viktor Krum. I thought I'd recognised him from somewhere. I guess it's not very interesting to you, but he plays for the Bulgarian national team and he's super very famous.
So, normally the year groups are divided according to language, so you have English, Norwegian and Russian separate, but for some reason in two classes the teachers just spoke a bit of everything and it was very confusing. There was also a test in History of Magic which obviously I didn't know about. I hope I can retake it but I'm not sure it's allowed. Potions was dead easy though. The professor just had us all stand around and we all brewed the same potion together in one cauldron, with him telling us what to do. I think none of these kids would last a second in your classroom, to be honest.
A lot of other things happened and I've just realised I haven't written anything about the castle or the shoes, but it's very late and I can't really see what I'm writing anymore. Also, can you tell Professor Dumbledore that I'm sorry about the match? I was going to write him but I didn't really know how to without being awkward.
Harry.
Well, it was certainly one of the saddest displays of poor penmanship Severus had seen. He imagined the boy sitting in a dark dungeon at the end of the world, half-starved because no one had explicitly informed him he was allowed to eat, labouring over his ridiculous apology letters to half the Hogwarts population while shivering with cold in a body unused to the harsh climate, and possibly not wearing any shoes—had they been stolen? What was the thing about shoes?
'How is Harry?' Albus asked without looking. He was eating his oats with a golden teaspoon made for a house elf's hand, thin and dainty.
'Miserable,' Severus snapped. 'How did you expect him to be?'
'I will be speaking with Igor Karkaroff tomorrow,' Albus reminded him, only a hint of censure in his voice. 'I expect it won't take more than a week to arrange for your tenure.'
'And if he refuses to have me? I don't believe I am of Durmstrang's preferred stock, Headmaster.'
Albus's features tightened. 'Igor Karkaroff owes me a debt. He will not refuse. And I do not like it when you speak of yourself this way, Severus.'
Severus pushed his plate away. The white fluff of nonsense made a sound like a displeased hen and trotted over to peer into Albus's bowl of oats. Severus's eggs had been thrown all around the table, made inedible.
'I will speak of myself any way I like,' Severus said. 'I apologise if it offends the delicate sensibilities of your pure breeding.'
He was being unfairly cruel, picking arguments to siphon off anger. He wasn't angry with Albus. He certainly didn't give a toss about Durmstrang's antiquated policies. He hadn't even been enjoying the eggs.
He wished he was possessed of some of the boy's skill in making apologies.
As he exited the Grand Hall, strange pigeon under his arm, he heard behind him the soft fall of a predator's footsteps.
'I've noticed your post today. Do you mind me asking if that was a letter from Harry?'
Severus suppressed the sigh. He turned.
'Surprising though it may be, I do mind it when others pry into my private correspondence, Lupin.'
Lupin looked not a whit moved. 'I only wanted to ask if he was alright. I imagine it must be a very difficult adjustment for him.'
'Since Mr Potter did not see fit to write you himself, I imagine it must be none of your business,' Severus parroted. 'Now kindly desist from stalking me down the corridors and go chase a rabbit.'
Finally, a thread of annoyance pinched his expression. Severus smirked, satisfied.
'I am not your enemy, Severus.'
The gall.
'You are certainly not my friend,' he snapped. 'And if you'd wanted to be Potter's, perhaps you should have made an effort to re-establish your little gang sooner. With Black at large, you'd only be missing one.'
When Lupin's eyes met his next, they were wild. His teeth gritted, a harsh sound that Severus felt mirrored in his own jaw. Lupin breathed, fighting to control anger, and a half-forgotten fear seized Severus's stomach.
'I have no fight to pick with you, Severus,' Lupin said hoarsely, coward that he was, 'so don't misunderstand my warning as threat. But don't alienate Harry from his father. In the long-term, it will only hurt you both.'
What load of nonsense was this?
'The boy's father is dead,' Severus said. 'I don't see how it would be possible to alienate him further.'
With a swish of robes, he stalked off. The whole of the conversation had been unpleasant but inconsequential, yet for some reason it left a burning feeling in him that would not be identified one way or the other. It pressed on something in Severus, hastening his steps and tightening his airways.
The bird found itself a spot on the bare stone above the fireplace and happily nestled there into its own plumage. Severus sat with a roll of parchment, then stood, then sat again. What could he possibly write? That the boy's instincts had been right when he'd asked Severus for help practising natural magic, even if his proposed methods had been overambitious to the point of foolishness? That Severus had been a short-sighted idiot to have denied him, and thus at least partially responsible for the mess that had resulted? That they may all have been better off if the boy had argued on this issue more, not less?
He could not write any of it. Not when Harry was caught in the clutches of Durmstrang and its unreliable headmaster, deceit and danger shadowing every corner. Not when he needed the boy to trust his word and obey. And who was he kidding—not ever, not ever could he say any of it to Potter's face, let alone commit it to paper for recurring perusal.
Dear Mr Potter, he wrote.
I suggest you approach your History of Magic professor and respectfully explain the circumstances behind your failure on the test, in which case I am positive you will be allowed to make up your grade. However, I will remind you that not all of your new teachers will be native speakers of English, and so retuning an assignment scrawled onto paper with anything resembling the care you have applied to your letter might well frustrate the most well-meaning instructor into failing you three lines in.
Please inquire with the professor assigned to instruct you in natural magic whether she could recommend some reading to introduce you to the subject without taking up her time. Hopefully once she has seen you display real dedication to the study, she will alter her approach.
As for your trouble navigating the new schedule, although it seems to me a failing on part of the school that you have not been given appropriate orientation, it is poor excuse for missing class and, let me venture a guess, missing meals. Might I put forward the unusual idea that approaching a member of staff for help will yield better results than approaching a Quidditch player, no matter how famous he might happen to be.
I will await a report on whether you have successfully implemented my suggestions, and details on the matter of the castle and the shoes.
As for your apology, it is unnecessary.
Sincerely,
S. Snape
Next time, we're back at Durmstrang, wher Harry continues to have a Very Bad Time.
Thank you for reading!
