Author's Note: Hi, all. This chapter may seem like a long time coming, but I must admit I had writer's block and when I finally got ideas I was in no real position to continue. The latter half of this chapter is the product of one Bank Holiday weekend. Hurrah for the holidays!
Dinah may or may not feel different to the Canon Severus we're so used to and, therefore do feel free to speak your mind.
I realise there may be repetition in this chapter, for which I do apologise.
I do appreciate people reading my fics, so thank you very much for your time.
Chapter Seven: Bat of the Dungeons
The route from Hogsmeade Station to the wrought-iron gates of Hogwarts was a path Dinah had taken many times over the years.
In her youth, she would have taken one of the boats across the Black Lake or ridden in a carriage which had moved by itself. She never questioned the carriages themselves; after all, this was the magical world and even inanimate objects had been known to have lives on their own.
Of course, she knew better now; had done for years. Those carriages were not pulled by magical at all, but by unusual creatures visible only to those who had witnessed death.
It had been her first evening back after the Christmas holidays in her fifth year that she first saw them. At the time she didn't understand it, but something had happened at New Year. She'd seen death that winter and she now couldn't bear to look at them. Her initial intrigue on sight of the skeletal, horse-like creatures had left when she realised what they represented. She couldn't bear the sight of them now. Their mere presence had her stomach in knots.
In one way, she rather liked walking from the Station to Hogwarts. It gave her time to think, and with the frequent dark thoughts that plagued her mind, she found comfort in the silence.
As if expecting her, the gates to the castle opened wide and permitted her entry, as she wended her way towards the dungeons where her personal quarters were located.
The corridors were free from students once more, which she was glad of for the moment. Of course, they'd be arriving in a few short hours, so she had to make the most of the quiet while she could.
"Merlin, you look scruffy," a voice spoke up. "Fall off yer broomstick, did ya?"
Dinah stopped abruptly and slowly turned her head to the right to face a portrait. Dead people in picture frames were criticising her now? That was rich coming from a man who passed on after falling from his own broomstick.
She knew she wasn't much to look at. True, she never made a great deal of effort, but apparition sometimes turned her into a ragamuffin. Being tousled about like that did often leave her hair a mess and after the graceless landing she'd experienced earlier she wasn't the most desirable of witches, with dirt on her clothes and twigs and leaves decorating her hair. Admittedly, she'd been so distracted, she hadn't noticed, and merely glared at the portrait before continuing on her way.
She was fortunate there was no human traffic walking by as she made her way down the halls and corridors. She had no questioning glances, nothing to explain, which suited her just fine.
Leaving the warmth of the upper floor, she made her way down into the dingy dungeons and through the passageway to her private quarters.
One might say she lived in the bowels of the castle. She'd often deemed such a term rather fitting. She was out of the way of most people - or, essentially, all people; even the young Slytherins she played 'mother' to for a considerable portion of the school year. She wouldn't get in anybody's way and they could avoid her.
She was 'never any good for the civilised,' he said, and those words continued to return to her conscious so many times. She was unworthy, pathetic, useless. She knew he'd be rather pleased with her living arrangements in the castle, though there was another situation, which, if it ever came to fruition, would have left him positively ecstatic.
Being a muggle he'd never know, for muggles could neither see nor access Hogwarts. She supposed it was just as well. She needn't worry too much about him until she had to return home at the end of the month. Always the same… nothing ever changed. She could just hear his voice now.
Pausing with her hand on the door handle, she attempted to shake those words free from her mind, before entering her room.
It was about as cheerful as Spinner's End was on a good day. There was no joy even here.
Her dull eyes slowly scanned the room. Nothing had changed. She'd had little need for house-elves in her private quarters; she did all the cleaning herself and it was exactly as she had left it in June, save for a thin layer of dust, which she vanished with her wand, having closed the door behind her.
Ignoring the lounge itself, she ventured into the next room to clean herself up and get changed.
After a quick bathe, she dried herself off and opened her wardrobe. She only had two sets of robes; one of which Sirius had given her years ago as a congratulatory gift for her first year of teaching. She didn't wear the deep purple velvet now; hadn't for almost a decade. How could she after all that had happened? It would have betrayed the memories of her dearly departed children, and there wasn't a single day that went by when she didn't think of them.
She'd worn black these last nine years and it was only recently she added some colour to them; though admittedly of the silvery-grey variety.
The addition of colour, a term her son used rather loosely, had, in fact, been encouraged by the boy and it had been during a trip to Diagon Alley to purchase his supplies for his first year of school that he had withdrawn some extra gold to have a new set of robes made for her.
Rigel was perhaps the only good thing Dinah had; the one constant in her life. She was so fortunate to have him as a son.
He loved his mother to pieces, though, she hated to admit, she had a rather hard time believing it. Regardless, she knew he'd do anything to give her peace of mind; to see her happy.
After dressing and donning her shoes, she focused on her hair. What a mess. She didn't even have a hairbrush.
Running her fingers through it a few times, having dried it with magic, she began to fix it into a loose, low, plaited bun, before finishing it off with a hair comb adorned with a silver dove.
That was a sentimental piece, and it would have been strange for anyone to ever think that the dark Potions Mistress would have ever worn, let alone kept, anything of sentimental value. Sirius had given her that; said the dove represented her as a 'caged bird.'
In one respect she agreed with Sirius, but it had also meant disagreeing with Lily, who had reiterated that doves were birds of peace and, despite her upbringing - which the redhead had learned more of during her education at Hogwarts, and the presence of Dinah's baby told her more than enough in the end - Dinah was still very much a peaceful person, even with the occurrence of her own inner turmoil. Lily had also suggested that the Bird of Peace may have brought her some semblance of peace; like a 'good luck' charm. Rather unfortunately, it had yet to provide her with a great deal of it, save, perhaps, for Rigel.
Returning to the living room, she removed June's Edition of The Practical Potioneer from her bookcase, grabbed a few sheets of parchment and quill and sat at her desk along the back wall to make notes. She could at least be productive during the Waiting Game.
She often considered other people's experiences with potions and applied their findings to her own experimentation. She would try them out herself; report their effects and see if any positive changes could be made for improvement.
Of course, it was not to last and, not twenty minutes into her studies, she was summoned to the Headmaster's Office for a meeting.
With a fatigued, inward sigh, she abandoned the task at hand and set off for her destination.
As it had happened, there was something of a new addition to the school - the Philosopher's Stone.
Despite the Dark Lord's alleged demise a decade previously, Dumbledore had his concerns for the murderer's return. He knew of the Stone's power; how Voldemort would stop at nothing to gain immortality, and, of course, how much danger the entirety of both the Wizarding and Muggle Worlds would be in should he succeed.
The teachers, of course, were to protect the Stone at all costs, and had been instructed to provide numerous obstacles for potential thieves.
Dinah expected little else from the Headmaster, in truth; that he would leave it until the last minute.
She had left his office in somewhat of a foul mood. Not only had he left it until the last minute to tell her of his plans but she had discovered that the other teachers had played their part in the protection scheme over the course of August and all, bar hers, had been set up.
Returning to her domain, she threw the door open with such force it ricocheted off the wall, thus slamming back into place behind her, made her way back to her desk, took one look at her notes, screwed them up, tossed them behind her and grabbed yet more parchment before taking her seat, audibly sighing in aggravation and began scribbling the beginnings of a riddle.
By the time three hours had passed, the carpet in her living area had several new additions, which, riddle written, she proceeded to vanish with a flick of her wand, as she had done with the dust from earlier.
Only half-satisfied with the finished product, it would have to do. If the Headmaster didn't like it he could lump it; he wasn't the one doing it.
Abandoning her room, parchment in hand, she made her way down the damp corridor to the store cupboard and began examining the contents.
Choosing a selection of different potions, she returned to the Head's office, only for the aged wizard to instruct her to place the protection there herself.
Before the afternoon was out, Dinah had been attacked by a hellhound, almost strangled by a plant, chased by a room filled with flying keys on one of the old school broomsticks that she recalled had bucked her off twenty years previously and almost broke her neck, nearly had herself sliced in three during a dangerous game of wizard's chess and nearly clubbed to death by a troll before she was able to set up her potions riddle. Did the man seriously want her dead? The charms couldn't have been placed after she had been able to set up the last protection?
Shaken following the ambush, Dinah set up her riddle and continued on her way, leaving the series of death-defying tasks behind her.
True enough for the other aspects regarding danger, not one of her chosen potions would cause a great deal of harm, though the implication was visible in the written word.
Fleeing the chamber, in a subtle state of distress, she retired once more to her quarters, though not before encountering a concerned Mediwitch, jovial Charms instructor and tipsy Divination teacher, who had attempted to forewarn her of her impending death in the night.
Dinah may not have had the Inner Eye and was, admittedly, sceptical over whether it was present in her colleague, but she knew when the wild-haired witch was having a genuine premonition or making a prophecy and when she wasn't.
But Dinah had little patience for fraudulent claims in that moment and strode away from the woman, heading right back to her own store cupboard. Now she had a migraine.
With a calming draught and pain relieving potion inside her, the 'Bat of the Dungeons,' as she had come to be known by many students, once more entered her living area, though continued through to her bedroom. She needed to clear her head.
Removing her shoes, she glanced at the clock on her bedside cabinet. Ten past four. Was she to have no rest before the students arrived?
Lying on the bed after what must have been half an hour, any effort to rest had been futile and she had resigned herself to the fact that she'd simply never get any peace that afternoon and lifted her head from the pillow, pain still prominent, and prepared herself for the journey to the Great Hall.
As expected, the short trek to the Great Hall was not without its problems. Peeves the Poltergeist had clearly decided to make an early appearance and had proceeded to taunt the Potions Mistress the moment she stepped on the Grand Staircase.
"Ooh-ooh!" he exclaimed, rhythmically. "If it isn't Whiner Dinah, the Greasy Dungeon Bat!"
'Whiner Dinah.' That's what the Marauders had called her all those years ago. She had forgiven Sirius, of course, despite never getting an apology. It had been enough that he had ceased the name-calling the moment they became an item. In turn, he had encouraged his friends to stop it, and they had, even if James, at least, had done so reluctantly. Unfortunately, of course, with their teaching Peeves to call her that, it wasn't nearly so easy to tell the conscious spirit to pack it in, unless one threatened to tell the Bloody Baron, the Slytherin House Ghost. Even then, of course, the taunter who flew erratically above Dinah's pounding head never took even him seriously in the end.
Rising above the juvenile insult, Dinah continued on her way to the Great Hall, leaving the cackling entity making rude noises in her wake.
The Great Hall itself hadn't changed for many years. It was just the same now as when she entered it for the first time; a stark contrast to the dark-haired witch herself.
Dinah would liked to have thought that she could have been as stable as the foundations she walked on, but couldn't bring herself to live in such delusion. She hadn't the same mindset she had all those years ago. She didn't have much hope anymore. Initially, Lily had been the one to give her hope, but, ultimately, the War had torn the two apart and, as it was, Lily had died for her baby. Dinah knew it was her fault; she'd been foolish enough to think that the man she followed might show mercy or compassion.
Sirius had later given her hope, but then he was carted off to Azkaban an innocent man. She'd given up hope on Sirius when she realised her pleas for his unjust imprisonment fell on deaf ears and any possible reprieve for him to walk away a free man was never going to happen.
She'd lost hope for Harry Potter's chance at a contented childhood, knowing full-well the extent of his Aunt's resentment toward Lily, and that such envy would surely be thrust onto him. Dinah's fight for his right to a decent upbringing also failed.
She'd lost hope with the deaths of Vega and Little Sirius. Vega wouldn't be coming through those double-doors tonight to be sorted into her House. Dinah frankly couldn't have cared where Vega would have gone at all, as long as she was happy and healthy. Remembering her daughter as she was, there was little doubt in Dinah's mind that her daughter would have been a Hufflepuff.
For Little Sirius she did not know. She didn't know him at all; he was taken too soon. He'd never even opened his eyes; never seen his Mummy's face. All that pain she'd experienced, only to wish for herself to die in his place.
And then there was Baby. She thought of him every day too and that was what she called him - Baby. She didn't know what happened to him. For all she knew they'd likely killed him themselves; they were so ruthless.
She could never forget the face of the young woman dressed all in pink with a sickening grin plastered all over her face, like a wolf in sheep's clothing; the Smiling Assassin. Her whole demeanour was flooded with glee at fourteen-year-old Dinah's distress.
She had hoped that perhaps they had found a nice family for Baby to go to. Surely there were families in abundance, magical and muggle alike, who would have loved to have had a baby boy. There was no way of knowing if her hopes and dreams for his happiness would ever come to pass, however. He was long gone now. It would be seventeen years on the twenty-seventh. He'd be a man in just under a month.
Truth be told, she didn't even know if he was a wizard at all. For all she knew he could have been a squib, but she wasn't about to stop loving him. He was her baby and, even under a different name with a different mother living a different life, he always would be.
Remorse so frequently set in these days. She had ignored him; rejected him, as though she knew at the time she couldn't keep him, even before such words were spoken. Oh, how she regretted it now.
But Rigel… she still had Rigel. He was her hope now.
All those years ago, as a first-year student, and she had been hoping for change; hoping for a chance to get away from the violence and ridicule she experienced in the home. That had been such foolish thinking, for it never left completely and it was only her surroundings and the people around her that changed; the situation never really altered.
With her mind actively reminiscing on things she'd much rather forget, she took her seat at the staff table at the far end of the Great Hall. No, the vast room had not changed, but she had. Her cynicism became much more noticeable to her colleagues the more they spoke to her, which was saying something in itself, for Dinah wasn't exactly a woman of words and generally kept herself to herself.
While her colleagues conversed amiably with each other, Dinah sat in silence; no communication from anyone. In one respect, it was something of a blessing. She didn't have anyone chewing her ear off and worsening her throbbing head.
The sound of excited teens filled the air with the entry of the returning students, Rigel among them.
Lifting her head, Dinah focused her eyes on the tall, curly-haired boy with raven black hair and warm grey eyes, as he playfully fooled around with the Weasley twins and their friend, Lee Jordan, who was to be the new quidditch (a magical sport played on broomsticks) commentator.
Rigel was so like Sirius. Same curly hair, same eyes, same values (his Gryffindor robes were proof enough of that.) He even had the same playful nature and knack for mischief, if slightly dampened down, likely due to his mother. And he had his father's straight teeth… and his nose… and even his ears. Were it not for the fact that Dinah had physically given birth to him she might almost have considered the prospect of Sirius having slept with the milkman.
Before the boys had even sat down four of her own Slytherins had made their move to start trouble.
With a sigh, and a glance at her ignorant colleagues, she strode from the table to the scene unfurling before her, where eight wands were already being prepared.
"Wands away," Dinah said slowly, as she took her stance between the two lines of boys, all significantly taller than herself, and who all reluctantly returned their wands to their pockets. "Would one of you care to explain?" she offered.
Receiving no reply, save for some awkward shuffling of feet and glares sent to one another, Dinah spoke again. "No? Then there is scarcely little reason for you to arm yourselves. Sit down."
In spite of her calm voice, all eight boys knew well enough not to push their luck with their Potions teacher, as they took their seats at their respective tables, sitting as far away from each other as possible, while Dinah returned to her seat at the head table.
The bearded Headmaster turned his attention to his young colleague. "Now, Dinah, what was that about?"
"Nothing of significance," was her blank-faced response.
As the mindless chatter continued by both teachers and students alike, Dinah remained silent, her eyes frequently switching between the golden double doors and the troublesome boys.
Eventually, the aforementioned golden doors opened and permitted entry to the new students. Dinah didn't want to believe that her daughter wasn't there, but it was painfully true. She wasn't now and never would be. She could only hope that Sirius never had to find out; it would kill him. Vega was his Princess; that's what he called her.
As the Head of Gryffindor led the new first years towards the end of the Hall, the chatter stopped and the focus fell upon a ratty old hat sat atop a three-legged stool. The bespectacled witch stopped to the left of the stool, and took a scroll in hand, upon which the students names were listed, as the unassuming object sang of the four Hogwarts Houses.
After applause from the inhabitants of the Great Hall, the Sorting Hat bowed in gratitude and the Deputy Headmistress spoke.
"Now, when I call your name you will come forth, I will place the Sorting Hat on your head and you will be sorted into your houses." Opening the scroll, she called the first name. "Abbott, Hannah."
A pretty girl with blond pigtails nervously hopped onto the stool, only for Professor McGonagall to drop the Sorting Hat over her eyes. She'd been there only for a short moment before the Hat shouted "Hufflepuff!" over the Great Hall, and the table in the robes with the black and yellow crest cheered for their new House member.
"Bones, Susan," was the next to be sorted.
Abbott… Bones… no "Black, Vega."
Dinah's heart ached, but she couldn't allow anyone to know; to see. Her face remained expressionless, despite the agony in her heart. Then, however, her dark eyes fell upon a pair of green, hidden behind round glasses. The boy's hand went to his forehead as though he were pained, resulting in an expression of concern from the youngest Weasley boy. The boy's green eyes never left that of his new teacher, just as they hadn't at the hotel, despite the latter casting a glance sideways to her turban-headed colleague.
As Susan also made her way to the Hufflepuff table, Dinah held little interest in the remaining students, until "Potter, Harry" was called. Everyone was interested in his Sorting, though the boy himself appeared to be incredibly uncomfortable with all those eyes upon him.
He had been one of the more difficult students to sort, it seemed, for he was there considerably longer than the majority of his classmates.
Dinah wondered what the Sorting Hat was seeing. She recalled the object had struggled to sort her when she was in the same position. It had never mentioned any other House aside from Slytherin, of course, but, even with her nerves, she had heard the implication of other Houses from the voice in her ear. Was Harry experiencing the same problem?
Eventually, the Sorting Hat roared "GRYFFINDOR!" over the Hall and the aforementioned table cheered emphatically; Rigel, perhaps cheering the loudest.
Distracted once more by her own musings, she tuned out of the remainder of the Sorting, before the Headmaster stood and made a few announcements. Dinah herself wondered why the man announced the school grounds, admittedly with subtlety, as a literal death-trap. To tell a room full of teenagers not to venture to a certain part of the castle or grounds, surely it was evident that curiosity would get the better of a few too many students?
"Let the feast begin," he finished, as food appeared suddenly on the five long tables.
Dinah often considered the feast as something of a medieval-type custom, with the plates piled high with rich food. With every passing year she still expected the Headmaster to challenge someone to a joust.
While everyone else dug into their meals with great enthusiasm, Dinah ate like a bird.
She was still self-conscious about her eating habits in general, but she didn't eat as much as she used to. In fact, she'd eaten so little the last few weeks that she instinctively knew she'd be up in the middle of the night with her head over the toilet bowl.
Just a small slice of chicken and some veg was more than enough.
The Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher was in conversation with her, though he did make her feel uneasy. She'd never been completely convinced by his nervous disposition.
She knew him vaguely as a peer, a student and now a colleague and she didn't feel comfortable with him regardless of whichever stage of life he happened to be in. But, she spoke to him out of courtesy.
Across the Great Hall, there was a great deal of talk (primarily about Harry Potter) but none so animated as that of a small group at the Gryffindor House table.
Questions were asked, certainly, one in particular which Rigel's ears perked up at.
"Say, Percy," Harry began, "that teacher talking to Professor Quirrell? I saw her at a hotel over the summer. What does she teach?"
"Professor Snape? Potions," the prefect answered, at which Rigel was rather amused. The first-year could just as easily have asked him; he'd been at the hotel too. "But everyone knows it's the Dark Arts she fancies. She's been after Quirrell's job for years."
Rigel knew his mother better than that. She hated the Dark Arts, if she was completely honest. It had taken so much away from good people, as well as herself. She loathed the Dark Arts. "That's only a rumour," he stated, calmly. "You can't believe everything you hear."
"She looks like she's into the Dark Arts," the youngest Weasley said, mouth full of chicken.
"Appearances can be deceptive," the grey-eyed teen stated, cryptically. Ron saw her at the Leaky Cauldron, along with the majority of his family. Surely she hadn't come across in such a manner at the time. The senior Weasleys didn't exactly give the impression she wasn't to be trusted, and they'd have set the example for their children.
"Is Professor Snape really your mother?" a girl with bushy, brown hair asked with intrigue.
After a short pause, Rigel answered. "She is indeed."
"What's she like?" The girl seemed rather curious.
"Well," he began, "she's my mother?" His tone of voice prompted subtle chuckles among the group. "There isn't much to tell really. She's just your average Mum… who happens to be a witch… and teach at a magical school…" He trailed off. There wasn't much to really be said.
"What's she like as a teacher?"
"You're full of questions, aren't you?" he smiled, good-naturedly. "Well…" he began, though was cut off by the redheaded twins.
"Frightening," they said in unison.
"You don't want to get on her bad side," Fred (or was it George?) said.
"She can rip your head off," George (Fred?) added.
"Oh, you know that's ridiculous," Rigel said, shaking his head at the twins, before turning his attention back to the girl. "Follow her instructions, don't hex people, don't use the M-word and you'll be fine. She's a pussycat really."
"Been dating Filch, has she?" Fred joked.
"Always wondered who Mrs. Norris was," George added.
"The plot thickens."
"Time for her - "
" - to come out - "
" - of the - "
" - broom cupboard," they finished together.
Rigel had honestly expected that. The end result had been inevitable; it wasn't even funny. A groan resounded from his vocal chords, as the girl spoke again.
"What's the M-word?" she asked, curiously.
"A word I don't wish to use," was the boy's response.
"Oh," was her response, as her eyes remained focused on the teacher. "She doesn't eat very much, does she?"
Rigel considered this girl very bold; he could understand why she'd been placed in Gryffindor.
"No," he replied, faintly, his eyes focusing on his mother who was nibbling slowly on a piece of chicken. "No, she doesn't."
The sight of her not eating properly always saddened him. She always had the bare minimum and gave him whatever she could, and she was far too proud to ask for help, unless it involved money that his grandfather so frequently demanded, but even then she was selective in her choice of aid.
He was brought back to reality by an exclamation of surprise from Ron, as the Gryffindor House Ghost made his appearance.
"Hello!" he greeted jovially. "How are you? Welcome to Gryffindor."
Simultaneously, several other ghosts entered the Great Hall, as Sir Nicholas began conversing with the students of his former House. As expected, the topic quickly changed to how he could be called 'Nearly-Headless,' followed by the demonstration Rigel had just seen for the third year running, which certainly put him off his dinner.
Ignoring the plate of food before him, of which the ghost looked at longingly, clearly missing the opportunity to enjoy it having been dead almost five centuries, Rigel once more turned his attention back to his mother. In one way, he found himself having to keep an eye on her because it was evident nobody else would and she certainly would never tell anybody she was struggling. People tended to ignore her; to act as though she didn't exist, but it's one thing her son could never do. In fact, it so often pained him to watch everyone ignore her needs when, in his mind, she needed more help than anyone.
Just before the school body was dismissed from the Great Hall, Dumbledore stood to announce that all would be singing the school song, as a gold ribbon burst forth from his wand and the lyrics appeared in the air. "Everybody, pick your favourite tune," he encouraged, as the student body sang. The cacophony of noise pained Dinah, as she wished only for her bed and complete silence.
She certainly didn't sing. She hadn't sung that song in four years. She hadn't sung any song in four years; not since Vega died, and that was certainly a long four years.
As the Hall ceased singing, slowly all the students moved to leave, the teachers following suit; the four sub-Heads leaving for the House Common Rooms to greet the new first-years, as the others went about their own business.
Dinah had rushed her speech this year; she just wanted to get her head down and, no doubt, the first-year Slytherins likely didn't desire to listen her. Too many, Dinah suspected, had been raised with a certain mindset and, if their parents had said anything regarding the Potions Mistress herself, would likely have told them of her undesirable status. Why should pureblooded children express any desire to really listen to anything a 'filthy half-blood' had to say?
She left the Common Room, ignoring the whispers of 'undesirables' and retired to her quarters, having stopped off at her private store cupboard once more for another calming draught, pain reliever and a Dreamless Sleep potion.
Taking potions wasn't something she liked doing, but nobody would wish to deal with an irate migraine-induced Dinah Snape if she went without sleep.