The Lies You Tell Yourself

Disclaimer: (In the spirit of Crimson Starlight)

Kim: *completely out of it, drooling over elves and wizard*

Elladan & Elrohir: *gaping at wizard*

Snape: *glaring at elves* Madam?

Shana: *looks up from scattered paperwork* Huh? You talkin' to me?

Snape: Yes.

Shana: So, what do you want?

Snape: Why are they *points* here?

Shana: Well, you Disapparated, and I needed some raven-haired hotness for the disclaimer. That and they totally destroyed Serenity's kitchen… again.

Snape: I see.

Shana: *suspicious* Do you?

Snape: *glaring*

'Dan: Should we…
'Ro: …just go?

Kim: Bwahbwahbwah…

Shana: *eye roll* Oh, good Lord! The plot, Shaluinn and all associated with her belong to me. All else belong to the genius of JK Rowling and JRR Tolkien. *to elves and Snape* Why can't you all just get along???

Chapter 13: Practice, Practice, Practice

The feeling was incredible, indescribable. Severus soared high into the clouds, dipping and turning and gliding, following the air currents where they took him. Occasionally he would flap his wings, keeping his altered form aloft. The world below seemed but a surreal dream, everything so far away.

He felt… free.

Flying as a bird was wholly unlike broom flying. Severus had been a Chaser for Slytherin while he was a student at Hogwarts. He had never lost his love of soaring through the ether. But his position as a spy gave him little opportunity to indulge in such things. He had been afforded precious few chances to move about in his Animagus form once he'd achieved the transformation.

Banishing all conscious thought from his mind, he allowed his latent animal instincts to rise to the fore, guiding his actions. Not a care in the world, he performed feats of flight only a bird could achieve or appreciate. Gliding low over a Muggle neighborhood, he suddenly spotted something that had him giving in to an impulse born of his understated, sadistic sense of humor.

He turned, dropping toward the ground in a tight spiral. He very nearly overshot the perch he had been aiming for, beating his wings wildly to brake his forward momentum. Even then, he had to dance about the branch he'd meant to land on so he wouldn't flip over it. Finally righting himself, he sat on his perch in a tree overlooking a Muggle backyard.

A malicious glint shined in the ebony avian's eyes as he took in the sight of a man cleaning a set of tall, clear, sliding-glass doors leading out to a large yard. Near the doors in question was a chaise lounge with a paperback book resting on it. As he watched, the man completed his labors and stepped outside.

I can't believe I'm doing this…

Snape saw his chance and leapt off his branch, gliding around to the front of the edifice. There he found exactly what he'd been looking for: a push-button doorbell. Bursting with malevolent intent, he swooped to the door, and while beating his wings wildly, managed to hit the button in question. He swiftly turned and flew to the back, waiting while the unknowing Muggle man made his way back into the house and towards the front.

Angling his descent so he landed on the sliding-glass door handle at a certain angle and with enough force to send it gliding shut, the disguised Potions master closed the crystal-clear door. With a squawk, he beat a retreat back to his previous perch, so he might observe the fruits of his labors unimpeded. It didn't take long for the visibly irritated man to reappear, striding straight for the now closed portal to his backyard. Having been distracted just enough, the man walked right into the clear glass door, knocking himself to the ground, utterly senseless.

Snape just about fell off his branch, he was laughing so hard, his raven body emitting sounds very much akin to human laughter. Yes, it was a dirty trick. Yes, it was undeniably juvenile. Yes, the last time he'd done something like that had been over thirty years prior in his childhood. Yes, such behavior should have been totally beneath him. But damn had that been fun!

It was utterly exhilarating, being able to move about with total freedom. He could go virtually anywhere undetected. Hence his reasoning for going to all the trouble he had. His spying abilities had increased a hundredfold with this new skill. But spying was the last thing on Severus' mind at the moment. Instead he relished, he reveled in the alien, revitalizing feeling of letting go.

Taking flight again, he let wind and whim lead him on.

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If Shaluinn had been annoyed before, she was livid now. What the hell was all that about? Gooseflesh had risen on her skin along with a strange and eerie sense of déjà vu. The redhead attempted to quell her rising unease with anger. Man in black? Molten fire and emeralds? Firenze must be smoking some damn fine crack to bust out that shit.

The woman had an overwhelming desire to destroy something, to do some serious damage. Destiny my lily-white ass. The anger and frustration she was feeling began feeding back into itself, and with no outlet immediately available, amplifying.

Slamming her fist into a wall crossed her mind for a split second before being discarded. I have enough problems without doing serious damage to myself. The sconces she passed as she strode down the corridor flashed momentarily, the flames leaping high, before subsiding.

Still every bit as lost as she'd been before encountering Firenze, the American kept walking, trying to move in as much of a straight line as possible. Finally, luckily, she found what she had been searching for: an exit. A tentative plan had formed in her mind as she realized she had not emptied her pockets the previous day.

Stepping outside through what she discovered was a side entrance, the woman found herself on a slope leading down toward the lake and the meadow bordering it. The bright sunlight that had nearly blinded her earlier had given way to a rather gloomy, murky overcast. The dismal cloud cover that was indicative of Scottish weather did nothing to help her mood, merely reinforcing it. Shaluinn could see a grey haze off in the distance, heralding the imminent arrival of a drizzling rain.

Fuck inclement weather!

Knowing how much it would make her back and knees ache, the redhead fought back the urge to release her pent-up anger by running. She wasn't attired in appropriate footwear or a properly supportive bra to prevent bounce.

Long strides brought her to the grassy, flattened out area bordering the lake. Decision made, she moved to one end of the meadow, rifling through her pockets. Finding a level spot, she stopped and stooped, placing a familiar object in the grass. A flex of her right wrist to retrieve her wand, a swish and flick and softly murmured incantation, and the familiar form of her target bale mounted on its stand rose out of the grass. Callaway walked around the back of the bale to get at the oversized, vinyl pouch and cylindrical tube that hung from the frame.

From the tube, she retrieved a large target sheet. Concentric circles emanated out from the center, changing from gold, to red, to blue, and finally to black around the outside. Reaching up, she pulled four large, spiral-topped stick-pins out of the sides of the bale. She centered the target sheet on the synthetic round, wrapping the edges around the sides and securing them with the pins. Stepping back, she made sure it looked right and moved behind the frame again, this time retrieving a huge, round, measuring-tape reel and a small metal hook.

Shaluinn returned to the front of the target, bending down to embed the hook in the ground. She pulled on the measuring reel, securing the metal loop on the end through the hook in the ground. Righting herself, she walked backwards in a straight line, mentally ticking them off as she passed 30 meters, 50 meters, 60 meters, and finally 70 meters. She took one more half-step back, before sliding a button on the reel forward, holding it at that mark. Setting the reel on the ground, she dragged the heel of her left foot along the soft ground next to the 70-meter mark, making an improvised shooting line.

The American found her ire slowly receding in the wake of the very familiar routine of setting up for practice. It was still there, but at a more manageable level. At least now, she wasn't likely to snap a roundhouse kick into the face of the next person to talk to her. She still had roiling emotions to quench, but those feelings had found an outlet. She dropped several more items into the grass, this time using her left hand to return them to normal size.

Retrieving her hair elastic from a pocket, she doffed her coat, pulling her hair back into a ponytail and then a loose loop. Visor and quiver on, she turned the scope lying on its side. Righting the piece of equipment, she extended the tripod's legs and swiveled the scope to face the target. She put her face to the eyepiece, adjusting the lens until she could see the target clearly, the circle filling the scope's field of view. She adjusted a couple of knobs to keep it in place and stooped to retrieve her bow.

Bow-stand unhooked and secured on the back of her belt, she stepped up to the left side of the scope. She took a second to untangle the bright strings hanging from the bow's stabilizer, knowing she would need her "wind indicators" and the small flag topping her target to gauge the direction and strength of the Scottish breeze. Situating herself so all she'd need to do was lean forward between shots to check each arrow's location, the redhead pulled a target arrow from her quiver and nocked it.

Remembering the scope wasn't dialed-in, and needing to factor in the light breeze, she stooped slightly, resting the bow's lower limb against her thigh as she reached across with her right hand to turn the knob that adjusted the bow-scope's height. She'd put a clean piece of tape along the height markings so it would be ready for her to make new sight markings. Satisfied she had the sight adjusted as best she could without having taken a shot, she retrieved her release aid, clipped it to the D-loop, and lifted the bow, drawing smoothly.

Right eye to the magnifying "peep" set into the bow string, she focused through it to the bow-sight and beyond to the gold rings of the target, her peripheral vision gauging the "wind indicators." The dot on the sight circled the center of the gold as she took a deep breath and let it out. At the bottom of her exhale, the dot settled into the center of the gold. With a sharp flex of her shoulder, she popped the release.

With a light thunk, the arrow impacted the bale. Shaluinn bent and looked through her scope, locating the protruding fletches on the target, to the right and below center, in the blue ring. DAMN! She fiddled with the sight knobs, adjusting for the arrow's apparent path. Drawing again, she focused on the center gold, controlling her breathing. At the bottom of her breathing cycle, she popped another shot.

Looking through the scope again, she found the arrow had gone high and left of center this time, still in the blue ring. Again adjusting the sight, she took another shot. This one was low, but centered, on the edge of the red.

Callaway paused for a moment, closing her eyes as she centered herself, trying to channel her returning ire into productive energy. The last thing she needed to do was lose it and set the school grounds afire. She concentrated on regulating her breathing, taking long, slow, even breaths. Every bit as important as weather factors, her breathing was key to getting off a clean shot.

Adjusting the vertical on the sight, she let off another arrow and was gratified to find it dead center on the X. Pulling a pencil from her quiver pocket, she marked the spot on her sight tape, before proceeding to empty her quiver of target arrows.

Just as she was preparing to release her last arrow, the wind suddenly kicked up from the left. In a split-second attempt to save the shot, she yanked hard as she popped the release, her bow-arm pulling sharply up and to the left. She overbalanced with the forced release, her left foot leaving the ground as she balanced on the right.

There was no other way to describe the shot, but ugly. VERY ugly. It had been too late to either hold or let down on the string, so she'd overcompensated on the release, trying to force the arrow back into the gold. Looking through her scope, she found the fletches right on the line between the red and gold, high and right. She hadn't yanked hard enough.

Again annoyed, she pulled out the bow-stand and set the bow in the grass, before walking down to the target to retrieve her arrows. They were embedded deeply in the round, requiring her to use a rubber arrow-puller to get them out. The woman put one booted foot against the bale to brace it as she yanked. All the projectiles removed, Shaluinn began cleaning the white residue left on the shafts by the bale, as she returned to the 70-meter mark.

Before picking her bow up again, she made sure to lube up the arrow tips, so she would have less difficulty pulling them. Arrows stowed, she lifted her bow and repeated the process of nocking, shooting and checking the arrows, now having to contend with steadily increasing light, but changeable winds.

The American found her anger and frustration abating as she immersed herself in the familiar exercise, losing awareness of everything around her, other than the weather conditions. She shot quiver-full after quiver-full of arrows at 70 meters, 60 meters, 50 meters, and finally 30 meters. At 30 meters, she had to change the target sheet to one bearing three smaller, ringed targets, more appropriate for the closer distance.

All her energy and concentration focused on her shooting, she didn't register the various spectators who stopped and watched her for a time before continuing on to their respective destinations.

Hagrid watched the redhead for a spell, wondering idly if she had ever shot a crossbow.

Professor Sprout stood with Madam Hooch for a while, exchanging comments about the American's obvious skill, and the fact that their presence had gone completely unnoticed. When it became clear that the new professor would continue her exercise for some indeterminate time, the two witches parted company; Sprout heading to her greenhouses, and Hooch mounting the broom she had brought with her, kicking off into the air.

The spiky-haired witch continued to observe the American, unanswered question after unanswered question rolling through her mind. Taking in the approach of a tall, grizzled, gangly male with lamp-like eyes, she decided to continue her perusal from a less conspicuous vantage point. She swept up and away through the beginnings of a light drizzle. From the shadow of a castle turret, the hawk-eyed woman watched the approach of Filch from the direction of the Forbidden Forest. She shuddered involuntarily as the man threw an unmistakable sneer toward the redhead before continuing on to the castle.

Hooch cast an Impervious Charm on herself as the rain steadily increased, wondering why the American didn't cease her practice and go in out of the weather, or at least cast her own Impervious. Her vantage point obscuring her view, and her attention otherwise occupied, the Flying instructor missed the tall, black-clad, hook-nosed figure that stood in the shadows, studying the redhead intently.

Shaluinn was so completely focused on her exercise she failed to register the ominous black figure scrutinizing her like a predator assessing its prey. She was getting steadily more sodden, her clothing adhering to her skin with the weight of the rain. Any masking effect her attire had held was lost, as the clinging fabric revealed the curved lines of her ribs and her jutting hips, her recent weight-loss obvious to a knowledgeable eye.

It was by sheer force of will that she had been able to continue shooting her bow like normal. Realistically, the draw-weight should have exceeded her body's ability at this point, the disease eating at her diminishing her physical ability. This one thing, she refused to give up. She'd stop shooting her bow when she was dead, not before. Obsession did not begin to cover the passion she felt for the sport and her weapon of choice.

The idea of casting an Impervious Charm did not even cross the American's mind. She had become so accustomed to doing everything like a Muggle that the concept of staying warm and dry via magic didn't enter into consideration. So it was with dripping hair, shaking limbs, soaked to the skin and chilled to the core, that she finally decided she'd had enough for the day. The wind and rain had quenched whatever fire remained of her irrational anger, and she realized she still had a lot to do in her rooms before the Headmistress arrived.

When it became clear Callaway intended to return inside, Hooch turned her broom and soared off toward the Quidditch pitch, and the errand that had originally brought her outside.

The ominous black figure remained hidden in his vantage point, watching the strange woman collect and shrink her equipment. He silently made good his escape before she began making her way toward the castle proper.

TBC…

A/N: Anyone who's seen the recent Windex commercial involving the ravens, a sliding glass door, a doorbell and the typical stupid human will recognize where I got the idea for Severus' "prank." I hope I made it at least half as funny as the commercial.

Competitive archers will paste a piece of scotch tape over the vertical sight scale on their bow. Before a competition, there is a practice day when the archers will take practice shots, making marks on this "sight tape" for each distance they will be shooting. So when the competition starts, they twist the sight dial to the appropriate mark for the distance and (weather notwithstanding) they can be reasonably sure the arrow will go where, or close to where they want it. Minor adjustments are often made each round after the first arrow of the group is shot to compensate for any wind, rain, etc that may affect the arrow's flight.

The heavier the draw-weight on a bow, the flatter the arrow's trajectory, the lesser the arc angle the archer has to compensate for. I shoot a 59/60lb compound bow (which is the maximum allowable for target archery) so my trajectory angle is relatively flat.