I'll be honest, shall I?

I. Hate. Writer's. Block.

It is the reason for the long wait, and the shortness of this chapter. I was simply stuck in some places of Ch. 17, and I feel sorry and guilty for breaking my promise to have it out soon after June 3. But anyway, I hope you enjoy.

Chapter 17

Percy Weasley blinked when he opened his door to see an unfamiliar man standing there. He was brown-haired and blue-eyed, and almost singularly nondescript in appearance. "Yes?" he said inquiringly.

Then the man smiled, and Percy knew who it was. Snape's little smirk on the man's face. "I had an appointment with you, if you recall—I was hoping to speak to you about business," Snape said smoothly, "concerning the regulations of caldron bottoms, and it is a very urgent matter—"

Percy cut him off. He usually didn't interrupt Snape, but then again, that was when Snape was in his usual visual form; here, the scenario was Percy Weasley the bureaucrat speaking curtly to some insignificant unknown. Odd, really, how he felt amusement in doing so. "Oh, yes, that. Please, do come in, Mr—" he cast around for a suitably British last name "—Quin." He opened the door a little wider and stepped to one side.

Snape's face did not alter when he heard his new name. "Yes. Thank you, Mr Weasley."

Percy suppressed another frisson of amusement. The Severus Snape everyone knew would never be caught saying thanks of any kind to… well, to anyone.

He closed the door behind Snape as the wizard entered, and turned to see Snape eyeing him curiously. "Mr Quin?" Snape murmured; his glamour charm faded away, revealing his black eyes, black hair.

"I could hardly call you Professor Snape, could I?" said Percy. "Tea?"

Snape nodded. Percy flicked his wand, and the tea kettle floated over to him. "Sugar?" he asked, the kettle hovering over two slightly chipped white cups.

"Two lumps."

Percy handed a cup to Snape. "So you did receive my Patronus?"

Snape looked up, his eyes narrowed. "Why else would I be here, unless it were for something of interest?" His voice fell on Percy's ears like shards of glass.

"I'm not quite that stupid," the redhead muttered. "Confirm, not ask out of ignorance."

The smirk on Snape's face widened ever so slightly. "So you say," he said. "Well? What is it that I'm supposed to find of interest? And be quick about it, I need to return to Hogwarts for the Halloween feast."

Percy got to his feet. "I'll be right back," he said. "If you would be patient—"

"A piece of advice which your family would do well to follow," said Snape. "I caught your youngest brother yesterday trying to hex Draco Malfoy for no apparent reason whatsoever, except that he was near the headmaster's office and was supposedly 'acting odd,' as he put it. It might not surprise you to know that I assigned him a week's worth of detention."

Percy only scowled (although he was not quite sure whether it was at Snape's snide words or at Ron's doubtless impulsive actions) and left the room. He came back, carrying a rather dusty looking tome in his hands, and handed it to Snape, who gave it a piercing look.

"Where did you get this?" the professor asked. The book looked ancient and was bound in dark blue leather that was slightly warped, Percy supposed from age or perhaps damaging storage conditions; it could have been in a worse state, but preservation charms had been cast upon the manuscript. Snape opened the book, and on the first page, in small, cramped handwriting, was written, Eadmer ap Sirideainn. Snape's dark eyes showed no sign of recognition (Percy thought rather sourly that Snape's eyes might as well be chips of black ice, for all the knowledge that could be gleaned from them), but he tilted his head up to look at Percy and said, "Sirideainn?"

"I recognised the last name from what you told me of the research," Percy answered, shifting uncomfortably under Snape's relentless gaze. "Tracing werewolves—you said that the earliest one was a man by the name of Thorvald ap Sirideainn. And I thought—that it was a remarkable coincidence."

Snape made a nod of assent; repeated, "Where did you get this?"

"Well," began Percy, "I was looking through some reports on property confiscated from the houses of Death Eaters—those in Azkaban—and one summary brought this up. 'A diary written by a wizard named Eadmer ap Sirideainn.'"

"How did you manage to take the diary, then?"

Percy kept a perfectly straight face as he replied, "I work in the Minister's office, you know—and I was sure that Minister Scrimgeour certainly wouldn't notice the removal of just one book. The papers don't say anything about it."

"Not anymore, I suppose," said Snape pointedly. "And imagine, you were Head Boy and prefect, stickler for rules."

"It's not as though you ever followed the rules," Percy said.

"I was never Head Boy," Snape said. "Another person had that most dubious honour."

Percy frowned as he remembered just who had had that honour, but he said nothing. Instead, he leaned over and turned the pages to a certain passage he had noticed. "In any case," he said, "read this, if you will."

Snape frowned as he looked at the page. The words were written in faded black ink, blurred due to time, but they were still legible.

Celadon has already not so very kindly informed me that he will be unable to obtain the supplies I need for my experiments until the next full moon. According to him, the wolfsbane must be harvested at a certain time of the year. I have no doubt this is probably because Celadon wants to charge more for the plant, and withhold it until I am ready to pay more for it, but I admit it is needed. Celadon knows all there is to know about what specific type of wolfsbane is needed. In order to test the magic channeling properties of the plant, I have enlisted Thorvald to help me with the experiment.

"What relation was Thorvald to Eadmer?" Snape asked softly, his dark eyes fixed on the passage.

"Thorvald was the older brother," Percy answered succinctly. "There's more." He turned several more pages and jerked his head at another excerpt, disfigured by smudges of ink. The writer had plainly wrote the entry in an agitated state.

Something has gone wrong.

I started working just last night, the night of the full moon, with Thorvald at my side. He gave me aid in trying to channel as much magic as possible through our wands, without causing that strange dementia which happens if one uses magic too much. We were outside, in the middle of a henge—it would allow for the maximum amount of magic to be used. Somehow—I don't know how it happened, magic is such a chaotic force, with no rules whatsoever—the magic Thorvald was using turned upon him while he was preparing the wolfsbane. I was several feet away, but I saw how it seemed to drive into him with a spitting fury.

I was almost afraid that it might kill him, just as Wulfstan of the hills was killed by his magic. Instead, he began to twist in convulsions—I tried to use the Captura Wulf spell on him, the one we regularly use to keep the wolves from attacking us, but it only seemed to worsen his situation. And all that time, I could hear him screaming, as though he were being torn apart from the insides and slapped back together. I dared not get close to him, so I rushed to Caedmon's house through Aparoir, and fetched him for help. But when we finally got back to the henge, I could not find Thorvald anywhere. There was blood on the ground and the stones of the henge, but we could not find him. There is still no sign of him, and he has been gone for nearly a day. Father Aelfric is worried; he cannot eat.

Snape's head came up. "A magical experiment?" he asked harshly. "Do you mean to imply that lycanthropy came about due to someone's stupidity?"

"I'm implying nothing," Percy snapped back. "I'm showing you what I found. Remember, didn't Alric Aranærdin create a passageway between the material and spiritual planes—just through experimenting? Look—this Thorvald ap Sirideainn was preparing the wolfsbane when the magic rebounded back upon him and attacked him. You know the magic back then was wild and chaotic and uncontrolled at times—and then Eadmer used a spell on him that they specifically invoked against wolves! Couldn't that have influenced the wild magic to change Thorvald into a wolf form?"

Snape was silent. Then he said, "Yes. It does not seem to be a coincidence."

Evanthius, who lives at the lake, has found Thorvald. Father Aelfric, Caedmon, and I went to see him. His appearance is horrifying—he bleeds all over, and scars run along the length of his body. He himself remembers nothing of what happened, only that horrible pain. Evanthius says he discovered Thorvald next to the body of a dead doe, but Thorvald says he does not even remember what killed it. Caedmon suggested that Thorvald may have killed it himself, but if that were the case, why are the marks on the doe that of a wolf's? I myself imagine that a wolf killed the doe, and then later Thorvald stumbled upon her, blinded by the wild magic though he was. Although I still do not quite see how that works, as the blood of the doe was still rather fresh.

Father Aelfric has forbidden us from using our magic for many moons. I am sorely disappointed, but I understand his fears. It is not as though I would like to suffer what Thorvald suffered.

The last entry in Eadmer ap Sirideainn's writing was several hours before the full moon after Thorvald's accident.

Thorvald has changed. It is very odd—he is able to smell odours, hear noises, see things that he never did before. I admit, it disturbs me. The magic has warped him, I think—he does not quite seem to recognise me at times. But oddly enough, he cannot stand wolfsbane. It must have been the wild magic—if only it had not happened. I wish that I had never bothered with the experiments—that Celadon had not obtained the supplies for me, if only Thorvald could be the way he once was.

I am at Caedmon's house now. Caedmon has agreed to read through my notes on the experiments and see what might have happened. I leave this record with him for now, as hopefully it may help him in discovering what has happened to Thorvald.

"Is that it?" Snape asked.

"There's one more entry," Percy said; his heart seemed to skip a beat. "But Eadmer didn't write it. His friend Caedmon did. And—well."

Aelfric and Eadmer ap Sirideainn are dead. I was going to return this and his records to Eadmer, and yet when I arrived at the house all was silent. The door had been battered to pieces, and when I came up the path, I smelled blood. The two of them had been torn to shreds; it was horrific.

I know Thorvald has something to do with this—I know he must. He is missing, and I have called the others to help me look for him, but he has disappeared.

I have handed this over to the lord nearby, to preserve it for others to read in the years to come. Magic is not a plaything—I fear that many may ignore this, but it has cost the lives of two of my friends and ruined the life of another. So let my descendants know of this, and be careful.

The two wizards sat there. Percy watched Snape's facial expression; the black-haired wizard said nothing. He only closed the book and stood up, turning to face Percy. "I will take this book to examine it more carefully," he began. "Speak of this to no-one. No-one, you understand?"

"Yes, sir," said Percy. There was something about the tone of Snape's voice that automatically demanded for him to be addressed seriously and with respect.

Snape swung back around, but Percy caught a glimpse of his face suddenly tightening, lines of strain appearing, before his glamour fell over him again and Professor Snape was no longer there. Mr Quin nodded at him and opened the door. "Thank you, Mr Weasley," he said, his voice perfectly normal and almost flippant. "I appreciate your help. I trust you are satisfied with the results?" He looked at Percy.

"Yes, very much indeed," Percy said. "Good day, Mr Quin. Have a pleasant Halloween." Snape gave him a nod of acknowledgement, and then Disapparated with a quiet, barely noticeable pop.

Percy stared at the place where Snape had been. Then he went back into his flat, the door closing behind him; pinched the bridge of his nose; sighed; and then proceeded to pour himself another cup of tea.

oOo

Hats off to the mysterious Mr Quin, the eponymous detective of an Agatha Christie book (The Mysterious Mr Quin).

"Captura" is Latin for "seizure," "wulf" is Old English for (what else?) "wolf," and "aparoir" is Old French for "appear." I imagine Aparoir to be sort of an older form of Apparation, one which at that time utilised "Dark" magic. Apparation is based upon the system of "Light" magic. You may want to refer back to Ch. 4, concerning the excerpts from Alistair Norman's History of the Unforgivables.

A henge is a prehistoric circle with standing stones: a prehistoric oval or circular area, often bounded by a mound or ditch, that contains standing stones or wooden pillars that were erected during the Neolithic or Bronze Age (definition from Encarta Dictionary Tools).

Of course, in the old days Eadmer ap Sirideainn would have used some ancient form of English, incomprehensible to us present-day English speakers. I didn't want to translate all of his diary entries to Old English or something like that. Just imagine the headaches! ;)

Once again, I am very sorry about the delay. I'll try to have Ch. 18 up much more quickly. Please review!

Talriga