ccxxxi. waiting
Severus Snape hated many, many things about his choices and the life they'd led him to lead—but one of the most regrettable consequences, in his opinion, was the constant fucking waiting.
He should have abhorred it less than the violence, the indoctrination, the literal torture, yet the waiting bore upon Severus like kneeling on rock salt. He could handle pain with more aplomb, as it was expected for his hands to twitch, his body to quake, or his face to grimace—but waiting? Waiting involved sitting in a state of perfect, obedient serenity when all he wanted to do was rip someone's bloody head off.
There were different kinds of waiting. Looming over a simmering cauldron was anticipation, the knowledge of a finished product brought together under his hand. It was creation—patience, timing. Sitting behind his desk watching his students was boredom, but he could always preoccupy himself with a different task, and though he'd curse himself before admitting it to the likes of Minerva or Albus, there was fulfillment in teaching. Not with every class, not with every student, but when one of the muling little pustules actually perfected a brew and their eyes lit up, it resonated with Severus. It gave the boredom meaning.
Waiting at Slytherin's side in complete stillness was not anticipation or boredom. It was simply apprehension—because no matter what Slytherin had him doing or saying or how he expected him to behave, Severus remained conscious of the danger that hung above him like the sword over the idiot Damocles' head. Unlike the fool of Cicero's tale, however, Severus could not simply ask to be excused. He had to wait, knowing the sword was there, knowing it could be cut by accident or miscalculation or by madness, but it would be cut all the same. The sword would descend.
Over the years, he'd questioned whether or not Slytherin knew of his discontent, or if the bastard truly needed such prolonged moments of strained silence to gather his thoughts. The Dark Lord didn't—or the version Severus had known in the past, before Slytherin and Gaunt and Merlin knows who else made their appearance. The Dark Lord as he existed now spent much of his time trying to repress his rage; he didn't have enough followers to curse them senseless as he wished to do.
Slytherin continued to stare into the belly of the hearth, his fingers steepled before himself. The firelight made for an eerie reflection in the man's crimson eyes, like visions of hell projected from his turbulent soul. If he had a soul. Severus sometimes had to wonder.
"Gaunt will be dealt with in his own time," Slytherin finally said, voice soft as a whisper, almost lost to the pops and snaps of the fire burning in the common room. Part of his young face remained lit by the fire, the other drenched in a leaching, aquamarine glow coming through the windows abutting the lake. Severus himself remained standing somewhere in between, his back straight, his posture stiff. His gaze occasionally drifted toward the windows and the stray shafts of sunlight that pierced the water. He felt like a boy just then, a distant hankering to go above ground, to set aside his studies and feel the fresh air. An echo of a memory, ephemeral at the summer sun.
"Have you come out of your dungeon then, Sev? C'mon, let's go outside!"
He blinked and lowered his eyes to the fire.
"Tell me, Severus. Have you ever heard the story of Oruneth of Trevisto?"
"I do not believe so, my Lord."
"He fashioned himself the greatest wizard of his kingdom. Powerful, handsome, intelligent. Perhaps he was, or perhaps not. For what is power or charm or knowledge in the hands of a man unable to use it?" Slytherin's pale, boyish fingers traced the edge of his robes against his knee, every stitch careful laid into the fabric. "Oruneth fashioned himself a king, and he reached too greedily into the pockets and hearts of his neighbors. He lacked…finesse. The true King of Trevisto did nothing to stop him. When his advisers asked him why he did not act, the King simply said 'wait, just wait.'"
Severus withheld an annoyed sniff. More fucking waiting.
"And so the King waited. Oruneth claimed his people for his own, and in doing so, made powerful enemies. Humans—magical or otherwise—are resistant to change, Severus. It must happen slowly, like the drip of water against stone, carving a steady, narrow path, because if it happens too quickly—." Slytherin splayed one hand open, a vague gesture that caused the fire in the hearth to swell like heaving lungs. "It inflames, like an irritant under the skin, causing infection. Rot. Demise. Oruneth may have been a great wizard, but we will never know because the people he sought to control simply turned upon him and ate him whole, so to speak." Slytherin smiled. "And the King of Trevisto never lifted a finger."
He fashioned himself the King in this strung-out metaphor. Severus wondered if the Dark Lord had ever heard of the Tortoise and the Hare, or if he found himself too grandiose for such a simple comparison. Or boiling the frog, which was a much more apt description of what he meant to do to the wizarding world than whatever shite he'd developed in that contrived and clearly fake story.
"Patience, my boy. Patience. It is something they have grown beyond and left behind, to their detriment. Movement creates waves, and waves drown the unprepared. Gaunt is his own problem. We need not lift a finger for what comes next."
Severus did not reply because Slytherin did not require it. He wanted allow to dictate and hear himself speak, and the Potions Master remained his ready servant, taking in the words, letting them either sink into or skip across the cold, roving waters of his mind. Perhaps that was why Slytherin seemed so unmoved by Potter's arrest and incarceration. The man surely felt nothing towards the girl other than a petty form of possessiveness like a favorite tool, not wanting to lose it—but ultimately able to replace it if needed. He expected for Gaunt's designs to fall through, or knew something Severus didn't. Or, more likely, he simply expected those around him to act in a manner that would benefit him. After all, many people wanted Potter free; Slytherin didn't need to act to see it done.
The onus sank upon others—upon Severus—because he was not the slow, lazy king of Slytherin's pretentious story. He understood if something must be done, then he would have to do it himself.
Another quiet, purposeless hour of attending passed before the snake within the portrait called Slytherin's attention away, and he dismissed Severus as if only just remembering he was there. Severus didn't mind; he always counted his blessings when able to walk away from a meeting with Slytherin without kissing the floor for the privilege.
On his way to the door, Slytherin's voice caught him short. "Oh, and Severus?"
"My Lord?"
"Do remember to pass my message to Potter."
Severus' stomach sunk to the floor and he bowed low, then exited the common room, robes catching and flaring in the breeze of his passage.
Your message? he thought, fingers curling into fists at his side, hidden in his sleeves. No, fuck that. Because Slytherin wanted her to go before the Wizengamot and tell them all about the Dark Lord. He wanted Gaunt and the Dark Lord to be at one another's throats, even if it meant throwing Potter to the wolves. If she sparked a feud that better his ends, Slytherin would see her purpose as being a fulfilled.
A tool used, broken, discarded.
Thinking of the girl brought Severus to London without focused intent, his black boots gliding over the scorching tarmac, hidden from the Muggles beneath a Disillusionment Charm. He crossed the estate and climbed the steps to Number Twelve, the door opening of its own accord when it sensed his presence.
Noise permeated the house in a manner Severus had come to expect with its new occupants. The Weasley twins and the Longbottom idiot came clattering down the stairs, chattering loudly about something one of the older boys held in his hand, though Severus couldn't see what it was. The youngest pair of Arthur's brood sat in the parlor, a chess board between them, and piano music drifted through the closed door to the conservatory. He dismissed the cloaking spell as he strode to the steps and climbed them.
Where the dog and his mooning werewolf were, Severus didn't know. Little evidence of any adult presence could be spotted, and so he assumed they'd relegated themselves to the kitchen or the rooms of the top floor. Granger sat in the study, so engrossed in the books before her, she didn't notice Severus pause at the door, his dark eyes sweeping over the space. He continued on.
It hadn't been his intention to search for Potter. He didn't know what he meant by coming here, only that Slytherin's final, lingering word stirred Severus into motion like a rock thrown into a nest of snakes, and he wanted nothing more than to get away from the bastard, at least for a few hours. Checking on Potter seemed the appropriate response. It came over him like a compulsion once inside the house, that he simply had to see if the girl was well, that she was in Grimmauld Place among her strange little family, and not in a cell on a rock in the middle of the North Sea.
After Severus first rose from the Dark Lord's tender mercies, Albus had assured him Potter was "well"—as "well as could be expected." The last decade or so of his life had taught Severus that "well" had many shades to it, a kaleidoscope of colors kept tight under one universal blanket. Severus himself was well; he did not mention the ache in his joints, the fiery burn of the marks still healing on his back, or the numbness in his extremities as his heart had yet to be fully repaired. He had another two week regiment of potions to take before that would happen, and the stairs would stop taking the breath out of him. Still, when Dumbledore or McGonagall asked, he was "well."
Potter was not well.
He found her in the attic, looking through the grisly collection hoarded by the Blacks in their long, miserable years. She'd lost weight, and even in the unsteady, flickering light cast from the candle in her hand, the dark circles below her eyes made themselves readily apparent. Dust from the rubbish coated her Muggle trousers and jumper, rendering her one step away from becoming a relic herself.
The absurd notion of the girl fading to nothing right before his eyes lit an inexplicable panic in Severus's chest, and he snapped, "Potter!"
She slammed her head into a rafter.
"Bloody fucking—ow! What are you on about?!" the girl complained as she clasped a hand to her crown. He almost felt sorry for scaring her shiftless. Almost.
"Come downstairs," he ordered, adding, "For practice," after a moment of thought.
"The Ministry has my wand."
The look he gave her could have debased a lesser man.
"You told me I'm not supposed to use that one."
"Come downstairs."
He could hear the girl muttering darkly under her breath, but he thought it better than the silence, the malingering in dark corners with that wretched snake at her heels. Even now it came out from behind her, hissing, and Potter gave it instructions as she licked her thumb and put out the candle.
The back door to Black's hovel screamed on its untended hinges as Severus stepped into the garden, eyes sweeping over the expanded space. A bit of time and effort on the behalf of the residents had thinned the weeds and cleaned the fountain's thick skin of algae, though much of the garden remained under the shadow of the large, sprawling oak tree. Dead, decaying autumn leaves lingered in the pale grass.
"How're we supposed to practice out here?" Potter complained as she followed him, making sure to shut the snake inside. "Merlin, Livius—." She trailed off in a frazzled stream of Parseltongue.
Severus checked and firmed the wards surrounding the garden, especially the ones disguising the view from the outside. Potter joined him, managing to wriggle her second wand out from under the cuff of her trousers. Severus crouched and picked up a stick, turning it over in his hand. He pointed his wand at it. "Sylva Ferro."
The stick changed in his hand, becoming a short, roughly hewn sword.
"Moderantum." He tapped the blade, then his open left hand. The sword wobbled, then raised to float above his left shoulder.
"Oi, what's that?" Potter asked.
"Exactly what it looks like."
"But why? What for? I thought we were practicing?"
Severus didn't roll his eyes, though it was a near thing. He lifted his left hand, then held his index and middle fingers together, thumb up, latter fingers folded like a priest giving a benediction. The sword followed the motion of his fingertips until he relaxed his hand.
Potter crouched with him, picking up a stick of her own. "How do you do it?"
"The incantation is Sylva Ferro, with emphasis on the former. The iron rune, lateral, drawn backward is the wand movement."
It took Potter two tries to get the incantation just right, making a sword roughly the length of her forearm, if crooked and less than coherent in design. Really, it resembled a lumpy branch more than a dull blade. Severus explained the puppeteer spell, which she managed just fine in a single go—though she immediately swung the her fingers in a loop and whacked the pair of them over the heads.
"For fuck's sake, Potter!"
"Blimey—sorry! I didn't realize—."
"You didn't realize the spell to control a weapon would control the weapon? Dunce."
Her sword came quite close to clipping Severus in the face, so he sent a small Depulso at the girl, shoving her back several feet. Potter grunted as the spell hit her in the middle and nearly sent her toppling.
"Right, sorry." She made a show of holding hold her hand loose, and the sword remained passive above her left shoulder. "What's the point of this, though? It's wicked—but what's the point of it in a fight? It's faster to hex someone then get in a sword fight."
Severus scoffed as he stood, covering a wince as the skin of his back pulled. "In a true conflict, magical kind often misjudges the effectiveness of having a physical object they can utilize against enemies. Godric Gryffindor was a wizard, was he not? And yet he is reported to have utilized weapons and shields on many occasions."
Potter only appeared to be half-listening, testing how the sword spun with the motions of her fingers. Smirking, Severus fired a jinx at her—and Potter blocked it with a quick Protego, but that didn't catch the pebble Severus had secreted into his other palm. He lobbed it over the shield, and it bounced off her forehead.
"Ow!"
"Now, imagine if you had something with which you could quickly divert an incoming projectile while shielding from a second assault. You could block a projectile—or a spell you otherwise could not divert."
"Right, right, I got it…."
They continued in this fashion for some time, Severus lost in thought as he volleyed simple spells and whatever bits of yard debris he could Summon into his open hand. The more she practiced, the faster Potter reacted, managing to only catch herself on the blunt sword four or five times before she found a better rhythm. Then, she started sending hexes in Severus' direction, and his ruminations and worries over Slytherin fizzled.
The summer sun poured upon them, reflecting from the surface of the fountain. The heat sank through the dark fabric covering his shoulders, and Severus could admit it was almost pleasant—the weather, the exertion, forgetting the world was falling to pieces just outside the door. Merlin forbid, it was almost fun.
Severus flicked his wand, then twisted his wrist, stepping into the motion to quickly layer his spell casting. She blocked the first spell, the second, but the third knocked the sword out of the air, and Severus tossed another pebble. He expected it to hit her, but then—.
"Lumos Solem!"
His fist closed in his robes, and he jerked the long sleeve in front of his eyes, sparing them the sudden vivid, burst of light.
Plunk!
The stone sunk in the fountain. Severus lowered his arm, ready to reflect another jinx back at Potter—but the girl had vanished. The conjured sword laid in the weeds.
A crow perched in the oak tree. It picked its way carefully along the branch, staring at Severus.
He tipped his wand up, scoffing. "Homorphus."
The crow's answering squawk turned into a strangled yelp when Potter reappeared—and the branch bowed wildly, slipping from under her weight. Severus lurched forward, half-stumbling over the fountain's edge, cold water sloshing over his knees as he reached out before the girl plummeted head-first into the stone basin. He caught her behind the knees and back, nearly tipping the both of them over in the process.
Potter stared up at him, stunned, her wand still in hand. The silver bangle shone about her wrist. "Hang about—that's not fair. How'd you know it was me?"
The water sloshed inside his boots, and Severus waded to the edge. "There isn't a single bird that would tolerate the spell-fire and remain so still in the tree."
Potter scowled as he dropped her feet onto solid ground, then pulled himself out of the water, sloshing it over the grass and flagstones. Severus grunted as he sat on the fountain's stone edge, jabbing his wand toward a trouser leg to start drying it.
Potter sat as well, avoiding his wet robes. As Severus worked, the girl studied the wand in her hand—Lily's wand—cataloging all the minor imperfections, the grooves and slight spots of fading from where he mother's fingers had worn away the stain. She played with the Ministry's monitoring bangle, her expression flat, the slight flush in her cheeks fading away.
"Professor?"
"What is it?"
"D'you think all this will be worth it?" she asked, letting go of the bangle. "Will any of this matter?"
Severus didn't answer immediately. "Do you believe I would waste my time if I didn't think this would 'matter'?"
"I don't know."
He finished with his boots, though he'd need to change his socks when he returned to the castle. He stared at his own reflection in the puddle that had formed beneath him; a dark silhouette against a bright, featureless sky. His back ached, something having opened again.
Many times in his life, Severus had stopped and questioned the value of continuing, in fighting and spying and dragging his worthless hide out of bed in the morning—or off the floor, sore and bleeding. He questioned the waiting, the untold nervousness and neuroses, the same feeling Potter must be experiencing knowing her freedom hung by a thin thread.
"The only meaningless pursuit in life, Miss Potter," he intoned, looking toward the house. "Is surrender. It invalidates all that came before it and makes a mockery of your effort."
She gave no comment on his pronouncement. After a minute of quiet contemplation, watching the final, fading ripples in the fountain, she stood up and retrieved the Transfigured sword. She Charmed it to again float at her shoulder, and Severus shoved himself back to his feet. Potter turned to face him, determined.
"Again."
A/N: What Severus said early on in the chapter is paraphrased from a Kennedy quote: "Every man, woman and child lives under a nuclear sword of Damocles, hanging by the slenderest of threads, capable of being cut at any moment by accident or miscalculation or by madness."