Needfire

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

seeker of truth

follow no path
all paths lead where

truth is here

-- e.e.cummings


Chapter 2 - Ritual Cleansing


Severus Snape. Potions Master. Legilimens. Professor. Death Eater. Greasy git. Great bat. Bastard. Spy. Soldier.

All words for the same entity. Names for the body, the accomplishments, the skills. Not names for his soul.

He had no name for his soul. He was not certain he had a soul. But he was in search of it. And to that end, he had fasted for an entire week, drinking only bitter herbal tisanes to help in the cleansing, the emptying, of his flesh.

He had spent the night in the Potions Dungeon, the closest thing he knew to a sacred place in this Castle. Sacred only to him; no one else cared to spend much time there unless they were forced to.

He had cleared a space in the geographic center of the room, sending aside the heavy lab tables and stools and ingredient cupboards. He had carefully cleaned the floor of his sacred space, using abrasives on the granite, swabbing with moist white cloths until the dark floor shone.

Instead of sleeping, on the stroke of midnight he carefully positioned himself according to the compass points, on his belly, on the cold floor, naked: head to the East, arms outstretched with palms down to North and South, legs close together, feet to the West. His head rested at an awkward angle, the point of his chin on the floor so that he was looking forward, into the flame of his fat white candle, the only light in the room. It was large to burn through the remaining hours of the night. After he had saluted the points of the compass, he drew himself into a seated position, legs crossed vaguely half-lotus, as much as his resisting body would permit.

It was cold and dry, as always in the Dungeon. His meager body heat made the barest of inroads against the chill of the stone floor. He was hungry. And later, he became thirsty. His muscles ached from holding one position. His head was splitting. His body cramped more than once, and eventually, the full-body cramping became acute, became expected, became welcome, became warmth.

Much later, after the hours spent contemplating the leaf-shaped flame of his candle, he felt freer, lighter, hollow.

Ready to be filled.

By what, he was unsure. There had been no teacher, no guide, for many years, and so he was searching, learning, striving alone. Filled by a waiting soul, perhaps.

~*~

A little more than an hour before dawn, Snape got stiffly to his feet and stretched slowly, waiting for his muscles to relinquish their aches, at least enough for him to bathe and clothe himself. It would be quite some time before he was comfortable again. When he could move without grimacing in pain, he stepped towards a shallow bowl he had set on one of the lab tables. Next to the bowl were a number of items necessary to his ritual, and his druid\'s clothing: a folded length of cloth, a pair of leather sandals, a robe, a rope, and a druid\'s cloak made of fine mesh and row upon row of palest, smallest, down-feathers.

Snape unstoppered an earthenware flask, glazed outside to retain the liquid inside, and poured a gill of sacred oak water into the bowl.

Hands, my works. He dipped both of his long hands into the bowl, one at a time. He allowed them to drip back into the bowl for many moments. Cleansed.

Head, my thoughts. Cupping a small amount of the water, he poured it over the top of his head. Small rivulets drained down his face and neck. Cleansed.

Heart, my will. Another small cupping, poured over his chest. Cleansed.

Mouth, my words. Snape drank the water remaining in the bowl; it was never to be wasted, nor poured uselessly on fallow soil. It tasted of stone and earth and a certain greenness, astringent with tannin. Cleansed.

He lifted the long white lambs\' wool cloth in his hands. Passing one end between his legs and drawing it up snugly to his body, he began the carefully prescribed wrapping, folding and tucking of the loincloth around his lean hips, a fabric origami. It was never to be secured in place by anything other than itself. Clothed.

Snape bound the sandals to his feet, wrapping their long bleached thongs up his legs to just below his knees, and securing with the same careful twisting knots as the loincloth. Clothed.

He dressed in the white woolen robe, belting it with the rope, secured with the same twisting knot. Clothed.

And last, Snape swung the feathered cape over his shoulders, waiting for it to settle like the almost-live thing it was. It still had wings of a sort. It warmed him weightlessly. It had belonged to his mentor, Angharad, and had come to Snape by obscure routes when the old woman died. He spared a moment to examine again the fine mesh, and the thousands of buff sparrow, owl and cuckoo feathers that were interwoven there. Prey sparrow, predator owl, and prankster cuckoo. Clothed.

He lifted his small golden sickle to his mouth and kissed it, held it to his forehead, eyes closed for a moment, then held it to his heart. He hung it on his rope belt by its thong and wooden netsuke*, carved in the image of an acorn of oak. Prepared.

He threaded a smaller cloth through the rope, next to the sickle. Prepared.

Though it galled him to do it, Snape covered his whiteness with the blackness of his Hogwarts teaching robe. It would not do to draw attention to himself in white.

Snape left the dungeons, exiting a little-used Castle door to avoid detection, and headed for the edge of the Forbidden Forest, to a certain oak tree he had selected weeks ago, one that was perfect for his purpose and near his ultimate destination, the Standing Stones. His aquiline face lifted to the sky; in the vestiges of the night, a faint sprinkling of stars remained, like salt on dark velvet. The moon was setting slowly in the west, sitting fatly on the horizon. He had chosen this day carefully to have the presence of both sun and moon in the sky at dawn.

At his first opportunity, once his path had taken him out of the general view of the Castle windows, Snape removed his teaching robes and carried them in a bundle over his arm. It felt good, it felt clean, to be out in the frosty pre-dawn chill in his Druid\'s clothing. The breeze blew away any trace of the Dungeon funk from the feathered cloak and white woolen robe. His feet were cold, but then, his feet had been cold all night; this was not particularly different, except for the soaking dew at the hem of the white robe and in the footbeds of his sandals.

The great oak was nearly two miles southeast of the Castle. It would have been so much simpler to mount a broom and coast quickly those few miles, but his mentor had taught him differently. By the time he reached the oak, he was beginning to limber. The walk had done his abused muscles good, filling them with warm blood, stretching them. Snape looked up to see the dark clumps of mistletoe high in the tree, where it fed on the oak sap and bore its poisonous white berries and fleshy leaves. He unfolded his teaching robe and spread it fully on the ground. Then, he followed with the feathered cloak, carefully laid upon the teaching robes to protect it from the frosty dew. And finally he removed the belt and white robe. He needed to be free to climb, to reach the mistletoe.

It would have been so much simpler to summon down a clump of the parasitic plant, but his mentor had clearly taught him differently. Looping the rope around his waist now, Snape noticed the rasp of its fibers against the tender skin of his belly. He threaded the netsuke and thong through the belt, so that the sickle would be ready to hand when the time came to reap the mistletoe. The smaller white cloth he tucked there as well. Snape moved to the oak, pressed a benison to the rough bark with a pass of his long pale fingers, and began to climb.

It took some time to reach the clump, but as he neared it, he sought a secure foothold and a place to lean his body; he would need both hands for the next task. His long arms reached with the sickle and carefully cut away the clump. He made a pouch of the smaller square of white cloth, and tucked the clump inside. The sickle was returned to his belt; the four corners of the pouch he placed between his teeth for safekeeping as he returned to the ground.

Snape garbed himself again, and folded his black teaching robe; he carried it over his arm. In one of its deep pockets were the dried leaves of sweet bay and fragrant splinters of cedar that he would burn with the mistletoe at dawn. He set his face to the east, and began walking quickly. The sky was greying now, blushing towards apricot; all but a few persistent and bright stars had gone, and he must be at the Circle near dawn. It wasn\'t far to walk. The feathered cloak lifted behind him, though it clung enough to warm his shoulders. It wanted to fly, but it must billow instead.

Snape was just barely in time, with the sun peeping above the horizon but not yet shafting its rays towards the Stones. He removed the incense bay and cedar from the pocket of his teaching robe and left the robe behind. He set foot on the avenue of standing stones that led east to the Circle itself. Breathing quickly, he strode towards the Circle. As he walked, he heard the cuckoo\'s low, soft call heralding his arrival: Snape, the Shining One, had come, here at last to celebrate the sunrise and the moonset. Sparrows accompanied him, flitting from stone to stone along the avenue, chirping as sparrows will. In the last of the night, a ghostly barn owl swept silently above him, banked sharply to the north at the edge of the Circle, and was gone. With its passing, the sparrows silenced.

A red dawn was beginning. The moon was almost down; just the thinnest edge of her silver remained.

Snape entered the Circle. Though he knew there were thirteen Stones in the Circle, local legend still stated that no one had ever accurately counted the Stones. While one\'s back was turned, they moved. At night, legend said they went down to the stream to drink. If one were to find a Stone slaking its thirst, one might be granted the heart\'s dearest wish. The Stones danced at the full moon, and sang at the new. At such times, one could feel the rushing of power, leaping from stone to stone to stone, creating a ring of energy so strong that someone within the Circle could not pass through until the energy subsided.

Snape knew the Stones did none of these things, not any longer. He wanted to restore the fullness of their power, renew the energy that should flow along the stone avenue and concentrate in the Circle itself. Then, perhaps, the legends would be true again, the Druids would have power again, and Snape...well, then Snape would teach a new kind of student. But without a guide and mentor, he had to feel his way, discover for himself what was to be done. It was difficult, and something was still not right in his method of celebration. The Needfire would not come when he called for it. He wondered what was missing. It was the reason for the elaborate purification, purge, and meditation he had undergone this past week. Something within himself was not right; he was impure, that was why the ritual failed each time.

He approached the altar stone, the square one, used in many ages past for burned offerings. These days, the only traces of offerings were the scorch marks remaining from his own equinoctial celebrations or other special days, or, as there was this morning, trash left behind by the vile picnicking Hogsmeaders. Snape growled and wandlessly swept the Circle of all the scraps his black eyes could see, and piled them outside in a heap, to be incinerated after his ritual. Damned irreverence, that\'s what it was. They had not been taught the respect due a holy place. He would ward this place again before he left. His last wards had worn thin, that was why there was so much debris. He would make the desecrators sting and cry for their trespass, catch them like flies in his own stony little web.

As he stooped to place his offerings on the stone, ahead of him to the east there was the quarter of a red eye--the sun, rising. Long, dark shadows leaped into life around him, shooting past him across the flat place where the Stones stood. The Stones were powerful, bloody with the dawn\'s virgin light; symbols of the phallus, brutally and clearly masculine in their intent and jut. If only they were awake, he thought longingly.

Snape turned to face the west, and the moon, slipping out of sight now. That last rim of silver crimsoned, then vanished. He bowed his head and spoke quietly. \"Arianrhod, sweet rest.\"

Back to the east then, to usher in the dawn.

\"Bel,\" he spoke, baritone throbbing with strength. \"Welcome.\" He laid the white cloth with the mistletoe on the altar and aligned its corners precisely with the compass. He was not sure the alignment was necessary, but it felt right to him. He placed the sweet bay and cedar on the cloth as well.

He straightened, removing the sickle from his belt. He set its inner curve to the pad of his thumb, and drew it across his skin, scoring, drawing blood.

\"East, into the bright Light.\" A single drop of blood into the mistletoe.

\"West, into the soft Night.\" Another drop.

\"South, into the warm Spark.\" A third.

\"North, into the chill Dark.\" And the last.

Snape put his thumb to his mouth to lick away any further blood; it would not do to taint the offering, and his own life force should not be wasted or dripped uselessly on fallow soil.

He took a wide stance, lifted his head to the sky, and called for the Needfire. Every other time he had resorted to using his magic to burn the offering, but he always tried the call first.

This time was no different, even after the fasting, the pain, the night spent on the chill floor of his Dungeon. He had not varied from what he remembered of the ceremony from years past with his mentor, other than his cleansing. Something was still not right.

He bowed his head, miserably disappointed, and lit the offering with his magic. \"Incendio. \"

When he looked down at the stone, thin trails of smoke were rising. The cuckoo called, once and sharply.

Severus Snape fell to his knees. He felt the strengthening rays of the sun shafting through him. His body felt clear, like glass, but he knew the void that was Snape would not be filled, not this day.

When the last of the offering had burned to ash and blown away in the rising morning breeze from the south, Snape left the circle the way he had come. He paused in the avenue long enough to ward the Circle afresh, a stinging hex to cause discomfort and pressure and make the visitor disinclined to linger. He incinerated the pile of trash he had swept from the Circle. Then he dressed himself in his teaching robes and began the trek back to Hogwarts.

Druid Snape was shaken.

He was exhausted.

He was hungry, and he had a lab to put back in place before the first class at nine.

~~@~~@~~
A/N: This is not your mother\'s Wiccan ritual, this is Druid Snape\'s own, created especially for him. Thank you in advance for not flaming to correct us. :-)

Netsuke: Japanese. A tiny, exquisitely elaborate carving used with a cord as a toggle to secure an article through the obi, or kimono sash.

You can visit here for a general idea of what Hogwarts\' stone circle might look like (hint: it\'s not Stonehenge): http://www.scotland-info.co.uk/c-nish.htm

You can visit here for a general idea of what Snape\'s sickle looks like, though the handle of his sickle is considerably shorter, to allow it to be slung at a belt.
http://gardenshoponline.com/prune/noborigamasickle.html

Sources: The Golden Bough -- Sir James Frazer
Mysterious Britain -- Janet and Colin Bord
Complete Poems 1913 -- 1962 -- e.e. cummings