Chapter 3 of A Bittersweet Potion : The First Drink (Snape's POV)
"I know what I'm doing. How can they?"
White powder drifts onto the cauldron's placid surface, and... nothing happens. Nothing.
I have become a squib.
Never mind that squibs are born, not made. Why else would I have ruined a potion that should be well within the grasp of an average fourth-year? I must be the first of a new breed - one of The Dark Lord's experiments. The thought has occurred to me before.
"Bloody. Hell."
The cauldron upends over a sink, too forcefully, spattering the wall behind it with muddy, magically impotent droplets. Rather than sending my workbench after it, I concentrate on eliminating those droplets, one by one, with a series of well-aimed desiccative curses.
The problem now is not that I have run out of horseradish (who runs out of horseradish?). I have an abundance of neem bark ash, as one potion out of a thousand requires it. I have two jars of assorted cat whiskers. What I do not have is green dulcamara berries. The Apothecary is open around the clock, with various grinning peons happy to sell me everything but green dulcamara berries, despite the fact that I ordered them two months ago. Apparently, there is some sort of trade embargo between Wizarding Britain and Canada. One of said peons had the nerve to suggest that I Apparate there and pick them myself- as if I haven't enough to do, between Albus, the Malfoys, the whinging brats of students and, oh yes, Poppy's constant demands for brand-name knock-offs, without poking through the Canadian shrubbery. With my luck, I'd probably stumble upon a buried "friend".
I slam the door behind me. The corridors aren't quite dark enough yet. Damn these windows - summer evenings - the rotation of the earth, for that matter. Who the hell puts windows in a dungeon?
A couple of misplaced Gryffindors, faces lichen-pale, scuttle out of my path. Even their terror provides no consolation as I unlock the door to my quarters and notice immediately that my sofa is still finely coated in cat hair. These house-elves are determined to break into my laboratory ("Please, Professor Snape, sir, Whippy promises not to destroy anything!") but can't be bothered with basic housework.
I find myself craving brandy, which is odd, because I've always loathed it. There is an understandable lack of appeal in the idea of driving my hangover up and down the aisles of that classroom, but still... Even at the nadir of '81, I have never been so distracted as to spoil a basic potion.
I want a drink. Several. Now.
Karkaroff's decanter of Christmas vodka regards me hopefully from behind an assortment of outdated distillation equipment. I've never had the nerve to try it. After a moment of reflection, I decide that I still haven't the nerve and opt for the absinthe, since I, at least, am accredited, however undeservedly. The bottle is kept in another cabinet, hemmed in by a crowd of glasses that I also rarely have cause to use, and it glimmers at me out of the darkness like Potter's - like Lily's - like, well, something green. I have so far resisted changing its colour, for fear of contaminating the louche effect. Why must absinthe be green? Why is chlorophyll green? Why, by all that's unholy, must my House colours be green and silver? Why isn't my hair silver yet (although if heredity is any indication, it will probably turn leaden grey)? As Sinistra has tactfully pointed out, I don't look anything close to thirty seven.
I avoid mirrors and darkened windows but can scarcely avoid bottles; my reflection, a boggart's ghost, wavers in the too-smooth surface. Its eyes are black holes. If I meet them, I'll never find my way home again - a superstition that's haunted me since adolescence. It wouldn't be so horrifying if my hair would only turn grey. Then maybe I could believe that this heavy-lidded and mask-pale face ("Not of my family", as Mother often said), belongs, after all, to an older man - that only time dogs my steps these days.
Not of her family- no, indeed. Nor of my father's family. It's not a face to be borne by anyone quite living, and so rumours started before I began to grow into my nose.
The absinthe spoon belonged to one of my more tolerable uncles. It has no negative associations. Nor does the spell Frigeo, or the sound of ice water trickling slowly, hypnotically, over a lump of sugar. Watching the opalescent cloud uncoil, I decide to have only one glass. It's a rather strong potion, after all, brewed months before I began my present transformation into Neville Longbottom.
"Need my wits about me," I mutter, carrying it over to my desk, which is strewn with stomach-turning second year compositions.
Belt up, Severus, a voice barks out of the recesses of my memory. You sound like a puling six year old. Another uncle, now mouldering in Azkaban - or its potter's fields (pun grimly intended). What small child 'needs his wits about him'? Although I seem to remember-
Damn his eyes, he cannot be speaking to me now!
It's almost funny. I wouldn't have thought I had any nerves left, or that they could possibly be awakened by something so inconsequential. Voldemort suspects me. What is one failed potion compared to that?
I find I've almost drained the glass. Absinthe is meant to be savoured, I've heard. Wizards meeting in velvet-draped rooms, discussing their personal epiphanies... bunch of pretentious wankers, it's worse than Muggle New Age. I set the glass down and stare balefully at Poppy's list of demands. Pepperup Potion, check. Pomfrey's Porphyry Stone Painkiller, check (and if it's her potion, why isn't she brewing it up?). I've yet to make that Bonesetting Potion, which she pours into empty Skele-gro bottles, as her patients flatly refuse to take it otherwise. What a bunch of jellyfish they all are. The original version contained quicklime as well, and mine works twice as rapidly. Imagine precious Harry Potter bedridden for sixteen hours. Not a word of thanks did I get for that one, either.
"The Cat's Meow" Salve for Shingles. Oh, Merlin- I can hear her voice already.
"Where's my Cat's Meow Salve, Severus?"
"Kindly don't call it that while standing at the top of the Astronomy Tower with a Sonorus charm on, Poppy. Have you forgotten the stuff's technically illegal?"
"You promised to have it ready today. I've a batch of first year Hufflepuffs with crippling neuralgia." A leer forms under her phantasmal nurse's cap. "Well, well, Severus. Have you become a squib?"
"It is not Cat's Meow Salve," I growl into her imagined face. "Call it by its proper name. And I am not a squib."
Not another word out of Poppy - or my uncles, for that matter.
I summon a roll of parchment (unnecessarily, as the supply shelf is all of twenty inches away) and begin writing out an invoice. It occurs to me that my penmanship has grown spidery. What would this reveal to the average reader - poor, ingenuous Poppy, for example? What would it reveal to Lucius, who has never studied handwriting analysis - or anything else, to my knowledge - and yet by age nineteen had worked his way through the ranks to Voldemort's left hand?
Lucius isn't here, either.
Draco, like the other Slytherins, knows to knock if he needs anything; last time, it was a disagreement with Zabini over House hierarchy. He's never commented on the fact that my tea tastes like a decoction. I hope and pray that this politesse is due to Narcissa's influence...
But Lucius isn't here.
He hasn't been here for months. He has left me alone. Perhaps he has left his son alone, if such a thing is possible. Quicklime, I write, conscious of the absinthe's effect on my vision. It is a chrysolite-backed mirror, bringing everything into welcome focus, and suddenly I believe that I may have been of help to the boy after all. Two days ago, he smiled, for the first time since Christmas. That sneer he uses to vex the Gryffindors is no more a real smile than is the sneer I use to vex Gryffindors. This was a real smile. I wonder whether I'm the only one who has ever seen it.
The evening light has faded, shrouding all of Hogwarts in comfortable darkness. It belongs neither to Albus, enmeshed as he is with orthodox symbology, nor to Voldemort, whose eyesight is actually quite poor. Even the fact that my only decent article of furniture is still covered in cat hair seems briefly unimportant. I finish the invoice and tuck it into an inside pocket, feeling rather smug. If Poppy doesn't want to manage her dispensary honestly, she can bloody well buy her own, bloody expensive brand name potions. It is not Skele-gro. It is Snape's Quicklime Bonesetting Potion. Let students and faculty alike tremble in fear at the thought of what I give them. I know what I'm doing. How can they?
I close the door and reset my wards. It's only half past nine. The corridor is dead still.
No-one can see me. No-one will ever see me. I have Potter's number, after all these years. A breath, a footfall, a wisp of shadow... Wearing that invisibility cloak gave me a certain insight into its disadvantages.
Some of us don't need one, after all.
Chapter 4 of A Bittersweet Potion : Cat's Whiskers
"Why are you still here?"
I can't stop worrying about why Snape took my whiskers. To use in a potion, probably, which can't be good. I try not to think about cemeteries, cauldrons and blood - and Ron and Hermione aren't making my day any easier. They won't shut up with questions. What does it feel like to change? What other creatures were you? Where did you go? What did you do? I avoid the questions - give vague answers - birds - insects - didn't do much - want to practice more. I wish I'd sworn Hermione to secrecy, instead of just asking her not to mention me in her essay. I make them both promise not to let this go any further.
All morning in Potions, I find myself staring at Snape. He glares right back, and I can't help but look away. Why do I feel so... so pathetic? I need to get those whiskers back before he does something horrible with them!
I fidget all through Care of Magical Creatures and Charms. At dinner, I find myself looking away from Snape's cold eyes. I half-listen to Ron and Hermione talking. I don't need to talk my way out of spending time with them after dinner; they practically push me away. Go, be something! Hermione wants a report from me tomorrow. Yes, Professor Granger!
~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~
The dungeon corridor is empty. I expected to encounter Snape in the halls on my way down here, and now I don't know how I'm going to get into his quarters. I stare at the door. I don't know the password, and even if I did, I couldn't speak it as a cat. If I knocked, would he answer?
I try, but my foot pads make it nearly inaudible. I try scratching at the door.
After a few seconds, it opens.
I dash in and leap up on the desk, skidding on loose papers. I look around the desk in a panic. Quills... letters... iron scorpion... sealing wax... knife... It's not here! My heart pounds furiously. I don't know what to do. I look at him, open my mouth, but can't say a word. He's still standing in front of the door, staring at me with those cold, dark eyes.
"I used them in a potion," he said, sounding unexpectedly weary, "Go away." He gestures towards the open door.
I crouch down and hiss. I can feel my legs trembling. He did use my whiskers in a potion!
He tilts his head to the side with a curious look, and then raises his wand, pointing it at me. Not wanting to be petrified again, I scramble off the desk, kicking papers up into the air and knocking objects to the ground. Fur puffing out, I back under the desk and step in a cold puddle. Glancing down, I see a shattered inkwell in a pool of black ink.
I hear his footsteps approaching and turn around to face his shoes. I look up. He's leaning over the desk, wand aimed at me. He sees the spilt ink and glares at me with an expression of dawning anger. I edge back into a leg of the desk, feeling trapped, and stare back at him, trying not to look away. Oddly, a more neutral expression comes over his face. He lowers his wand, stands up and walks around to the other side of the desk. I cautiously turn to watch him undoing his cuffs, looking away from the desk, away from me.
"Observe," he says with exaggerated patience, "I am leaving the room. Now may we have an ending to this little melodrama?" He leaves, going into another room.
After a few seconds, I begin to relax. He doesn't seem to be coming back. I wonder what kind of potion he was making that needed a boy's whiskers - my whiskers.
Wait. Boys don't have whiskers.
And he doesn't know who I am! I'm thinking too much like a human; it has me behaving strangely. Boy whiskers! If a cat could laugh out loud, I would...
Snape peeks around the door jamb, sees me and disappears back into the room. I'm surprised. Why would Snape be nervous of a cat? I'm not only feeling calmer than I was just a few minutes ago, but curious as well. I crawl out from under the desk. The door to the hallway is still open, but rather than leave, I climb into the chair and then back onto the desk. I sit down and start to lick the bitter ink off my foot.
After several minutes, Snape finally walks back into the room wearing his long grey nightshirt, a green dressing gown and slippers. I look right at him.
"Meeow!"
He stops and frowns at me. "Why are you still here?"
I continue cleaning my foot, pretending to ignore him. He strides up to the desk and gives me a light shove- more of a hint than anything. I turn and lean my head into one of his hands. It's like being petted. I am surprised that it feels nice, since this is Snape's hand - Snape's.
After a second, he pulls his hand away. Then he grabs me and carries me under his arm, like a sack of potatoes, out into the hall - straight toward the Slytherin common room! I panic. I hiss and meow and claw at his arm. He stops, stares at the door to the common room, then looks back at me. I'm still squirming, trying to get free.
In a deadly thoughtful voice he says, "I see," and bends down to put me on the ground. As soon as my feet touch the cold stone floor, I run.
Chapter 5 of A Bittersweet Potion : Think of the Possibilities
"You never know. Malfoy might be terrified of ladybirds."
I'm barely awake and fumbling with putting on my tie, when Hermione appears, a good fifteen minutes earlier than usual, to meet Ron and me for breakfast. She's bubbling with questions, wanting to know what creature I was last night and what I did. I mumble incoherently, pulling my jumper over my head. Ron joins in (when did he become a morning person?) He wants to know all about my 'great adventures'.
"I've been wandering the halls and eating moths. Happy?" I look down, realise my jumper is on backwards, sigh and start trying to manoeuvre it around the right way.
"I thought you did this to interact with people," says Hermione.
"Why would Harry have a problem interacting with people?"
"Oh, don't be stupid, Ron!"
They start squabbling. I ignore them and put on my shoes, and then my robes, by which time Hermione has stomped off in a huff. Ron's still putting on his shoes, so I sit and wait for him. He asks, again, what I've been.
"Just a ladybird and a cat."
"That's all? If I were this Arsesulksnailskin-"
"Osulc-dhnelgenzin." I interrupt, and he makes a face at me. "They're particular."
"Are they listening right now?"
"I doubt it."
"Then I don't give a toss... Anyway, if I were an extra-sodding-special Animagus, I'd have been fifty different things by now." We take our books and walk to breakfast behind the main crowd of Gryffindors, hoping Hermione has cooled down by now.
"You get caught up in being a... ladybird," I say, wondering why I'm hiding from him the fact that I've mostly been a cat.
"Ladybirds eat moths?" he asks in disbelief.
"I was a massive ladybird," I joke.
"You weren't!" he says assuredly. After a pause he looks a bit uncertain. "You were?"
"No!" I'm surprised he even thought I might be serious. "Ladybirds eat... some other kind of insect. I ate moths when I was a cat."
We enter the Great Hall, under a peaceful, pale blue sky. The Gryffindor table is already full. Judging by the twin's flailing arms, there's some spirited Quidditch discussion going on at the far end, despite the fact that we're out of the running. Hermione sees us and waves. She's saved us two seats.
"And that's it?!" says Ron, taking the seat closest to Hermione. "Think of the possibilities, Harry! You could kick the stuffing out of Mrs. Norris." He leans in to whisper conspiratorially, "You could maul Malfoy..."
"Ron!" snaps Hermione. Ron rolls his eyes and dumps a load of cornflakes into his bowl.
I glance over to Malfoy, who is avidly talking with a group of other Slytherins. As usual, they're hanging on his every word, most of which are probably nasty. "You never know," I say, "Malfoy might be terrified of ladybirds."
For the rest of the morning, Ron is obsessed with thinking up elaborate pranks for me to play on Malfoy, in forms ranging from rats on up to dragons. I insist that I won't- I don't want to be mean or anything, even if it is Malfoy- but Ron's disappointment and my own curiosity start to wear on me. Maybe something small... nothing that would cause anyone any harm… really, just to practice being a cat in different situations. On my own, I think up something simple- at dinner I will show up in my cat form, jump onto the table in front of Malfoy, and hiss at him before running off.
Not wanting to find myself in an argument with Hermione about how I was using my Gift, I decide to do some research on my own. I spend my study period after History in the library, determined to find out what kind of potion Snape could have been making. The first books I find are on healing magic- a whole stack of them, from old and musty to polished and new, but they all contain pretty much the same information. Cat whiskers are an ingredient in mild sleeping aids for small children, ointments for neuralgia and shingles and used to cure balance disorders. Could Snape have been making a potion for Pomfrey's stores?
In a skinny little book called Creature Gifts, I find a potion called Erkling Night Vision, but Snape already sees too well at night... Then, surprised to find a Quidditch book listed as a cat whisker reference, I start reading about a flight aid called Catbird, which was popular in the fifties with professional Quidditch players. Hmm. Was Snape mixing up a cheat to help his house win? Reading on, I find that Catbird was outlawed in '56, when Ingrid "Ironbroom" Sowter died of an overdose. Not even Snape would be that desperate... would he? He always looks so bored during Quidditch matches, and besides, they're winning this year anyway...
I, however am desperate, and pick up the last book in the stack, a tattered copy of the Kwikspell course, describing various telepathy "potions". Um... no.
I sigh and toss the book aside. There are no listings for the Restricted Section, so it seems that the medical potions are the most likely, and I think I can live with that. He still shouldn't have taken my whiskers- but at least I am fairly certain they couldn't have been to rebody yet another Dark Lord.
Chapter 6 of A Bittersweet Potion : Commotion in the Great Hall
"Is this your cat?"
This is my first time out as a cat in daylight. It's much more difficult this time- instead of hundreds of students more or less my size, there are twice that many enormous legs to dodge. I slink along the walls as much as I possibly can to avoid being carelessly kicked or stepped on.
By the time I get to the Great Hall, it's already crowded. I have to weave my way through those legs again to get safely under the tables. Occasionally, someone pokes their head under the table to see what brushed past them, or to toss me food. There are legs everywhere. They won't hold still. I can barely see more than a few feet ahead of me. Every time someone grabs at me or tosses something, I jump and turn around. I can't remember what direction I'm facing. What table am I under? What am I doing? I scramble around legs, over feet, until I'm in an open space- then realise that I'm in plain view and dash under the nearest table. I need to get out of here. I carefully walk along under yet another table, stepping carefully around people's feet and legs, until I come to a set which smells strangely familiar. Snape!
I poke my head out from under the table and look up. He appears to be deep in thought, absent-mindedly swirling his glass of water. Navigating through the corridors and the Great Hall has tired me out; if I can get Snape's attention, he'll probably carry me out of here.
I reach up and tap his knee with my paw. He glances down, then looks away, ignoring me. I pat his knee again. He nudges me away with his leg. Maybe I should just try to make my way back on my own... I glance back at the room, through that nauseating, torrential sea of legs, and decide to try to get Snape's attention just one more time.
I jump up, front paws landing on his knees, and poke my head out from under the hem of tablecloth. He shoves me back down and scoots his chair back suddenly, its legs screeching loudly on the flagstones.
"Anything the matter, Severus?" I hear Flitwick ask with amusement.
Snape hisses back, "Someone let a cat into the Hall!"
"Dear me, how perfectly dreadful," Flitwick says, not a bit perturbed.
I jump up into Snape's lap again. He freezes for a moment, looking as if someone just dumped a cauldron of bundimun solution in his lap, and then wrestles me back under the table. Flitwick leans back in his chair, chortling. Beside him, Sinistra peers over eagerly and asks what the commotion is about. "Nothing!" Snape snaps as I try to claw my way back into his lap. He tries pushing me away again, and I meow. Flitwick shrieks with laughter. Sinistra sounds delighted to ask, "Is that a cat I hear?" A murmur runs through the Great Hall- I imagine everyone's attention must be on us. I wish I had fought my way through the Hall on my own instead of trying to get carried out. Snape growls, his face now a deep shade of red. One hand fastens, hard, on my scruff. I scream and hiss as he hauls me out from under the table. Flitwick and Sinistra are still giggling helplessly.
Snape strides over to the Gryffindor table and plops me down on it, still restrained. "Whose cat is this?" He says in his most dangerous voice. The Gryffindors shrink back. Some of them are still struggling not to laugh along with the teachers.
"Weasley? Granger? - Longbottom?"
"No, sir! No!" Neville squeaks.
"Where is Potter?" spits Snape, his eyes darting around the table. He'd just love to pin this on me, wouldn't he? I squirm futilely under his grip.
"Library, sir!" Ron says smartly.
Someone far down the table lets out a snort of laughter. Snape's eyes widen and he turns on them. "Five points from Gryffindor!"
He hauls me to the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables, but no one dares laugh, much less claim me as their pet. My ears are twitching, trying to catch the whispers from all corners of the hall. He hesitates briefly, clutches me tighter, and strides over to the Slytherin table. There's a moment of silence before Malfoy speaks up. "Sir, you can't think-"
I hiss at Malfoy and he glares back. I swat at him. He recoils and stares at me, eyes narrowing- then looks up to meet the gaze of his head of house. Inexplicably, his face goes pale.
"See me after dinner, Malfoy," Snape says quietly. He turns on his heel and carries me away.
As we pass the Gryffindor table, I hear Ron whispering to Hermione, "That was excellent!"
Snape glares at him but doesn't stop walking, "Two more points from Gryffindor," he says.
"Damn."
"And one for language, Weasley," Snape says as we exit the Hall.
Chapter 7 of A Bittersweet Potion : Thirteen Dark Curses
"I have no idea what to do with you."
Snape tears through the halls, clutching me tightly- to his quarters, through the bedroom and into the bathroom, where he dumps me on the cold stone floor and then leaves, locking the door behind him. I try pushing the door, but it won't budge. I try sticking my front paws under the door to pull it open with no luck at all. Frantically I scratch as the door, even though I know that won't work either. How do I get out of here?
I pace along the cabinet lined wall, getting a whiff of different fragrances as I pass each door- cinnamon, tobacco, sandalwood, lily-of-the-valley... each stronger and more overwhelming than the last. I can hear Snape's muffled voice in the other room - Cessacantio- The acoustics in his quarters seem to become clearer, his footsteps echoing. - Tacuitacitum- And everything sounds oddly muffled, yet at the same time amplified. He must have reset the wards on his room- but why? I jump onto the cluttered counter over the cabinets, careful not to knock over any bottles, and press my ear up against the wall.
"You wanted to see me?" That is unmistakably Malfoy's voice, but I didn't hear him knock or come in.
There is the light squeaking of springs- they must have sat down on chairs or the sofa. Then, several seconds of uncomfortable silence.
"How much have you learned?"
"How much have I...?" Malfoy sounds taken aback. "I don't understand."
"Don't you?" Snape says coolly.
There is another pause. Then, cautiously, Malfoy asks, "Have you been talking to my father?"
"Did you really think I wouldn't know what you've been doing?"
There is a calculated pause before Malfoy responds, his voice subdued. "I rather hoped you would, but... When I'm more proficient, Father promised to introduce me to the... to his circle. I don't think he wants anyone to know just yet... Please don't tell, Sev- er, Professor!" he adds, winsomely, "It could be our secret."
That Malfoy charm is so deliberate, so fake, it makes me sick. Who does he think he's fooling? Snape has to see through it.
Snape clears his throat.
"That's a 'yes', isn't it?" Malfoy says with surprising confidence.
After several seconds of silence, Snape finally, quietly, says, "Tell me."
Malfoy starts chattering away, full of enthusiasm, sounding younger than he really is. "Over Christmas, Father started me on thirteen curses- nice odd number, don't you think? Although the Inconcinnus is really just a hex." He laughs. "I tried it on Goyle. You should have seen him! He nearly tumbled out a window."
"Consider yourself fortunate that he did not," Snape says forbiddingly.
"Father would have taken care of it… Then Poena Rideus. I'm not so fond of that one."
"Why not?"
"Laughter? Please."
"It is, in fact, quite painful."
"Really? Hmm," Draco says, a little too thoughtfully, and then there's an awkward silence; Snape must have given him one of his patented glares. "…And, uh, Cohaerocorium, Evelolinguus, Suffocus, Percutioculus and Quassios. I'm rather good at Quassios. Took out a wood pigeon on the fly- every bone, crushed."
"You've managed Quassosium, then."
Malfoy sounds delighted. "You're having me on! No, of course you aren't... So, that's six I've mastered. I'm working on Delaborviscus now. It seems to be a lot like Quassios, but involving the mucous membranes-"
I can see Malfoy casting 'painful laughter' on someone... but crushing bones, torturing animals, and something 'involving the mucous membranes'…- these are Dark Curses! I never heard of any of these before; now I'm hearing about it in Snape's bathroom, of all places, and the odd blend of cinnamon, tobacco, lily-of-the-valley and countless other potion ingredients in here are giving me a dizzying headache.
Snape cuts him off. "What other- assignments- has he given you?" His voice sounds rather flat.
"Deleovestigium-"
"Hm. That is useful," Snape comments, clearly implying that the other spells are not.
"Really? What does it do?"
There is silence again. Quietly, dangerously, Snape says, "Do you mean to tell me that your father has put you to these Curses without explaining their effects?"
"No, I... he... " Malfoy stammers, "There wasn't time."
"Then he should have waited!"
I hear Malfoy leap to his feet. "I didn't want to wait!"
"Sit down, Draco." Suddenly, Snape sounds rather tired. No sound of movement. "Sit down."
Malfoy takes his seat again. After a few seconds of silence, he continues miserably, "He went over the incantations with me. I've been careful."
There is a long, weighty silence before Snape, apparently, changes the subject. "Deleovestigium is classified as Dark Magic largely because the Ministry finds it... inconvenient. It will erase your foot and fingerprints."
Malfoy perks up a bit. "Brill- uh. Useful."
...
Astra_Black