Soul Searching

Soul Searching Soul Searching By Quillusion   Chapter 20   It takes me seven minutes to make it from the gates of Hogwarts to Snape's office. That's a long time, given what might have started to happen once they Disapparated at Voldemort's fortress. My hands shake as I fumble for the key under my robes, and it's eight minutes since they left before I get the crystal ball out, handling it carefully for fear of dropping it and shattering all chances of seeing what happens. I know very well that I may see horrible things in the scrying glass- but I can't NOT watch.   I carry the crystal ball over to the fireplace and set it down on the small end table beside the chair in which he sits to read essays. The ball's base is cd oud out of some odd material, the identity of which is a mystery to me. It's warm like ivory, only it's a rust red color with odd chips of gold in it. I set it down with a muffled thud and center the crystal on it. It's a good crystal, I think to myself as I settle in the chair and pull the table up over my legs. It's clear, with no inclusions, and there's no distorting haze of yellow like the crystals in Trelawney's tower. Trust Severus Snape to have the best of everything- even the things he despises.   Remembering the note, I place my hand over the crystal and say,   "Fruit bat."   The crystal immediately fills with fog, and I frown. Will my 'clouded inner eye' prevent me from using Snape's crystal? He said he didn't believe Divination was any good, and that he wasn't much good at it himself, though. Will it matter?   I have a sudden flash of memory. A film, from long ago in my childhood: The Wizard of Oz. Wic Wicked Witch of the West had a ball like this, only larger. Silly as I know it to be to think the movie did anything realistically, I also know that there is more awareness of the wizarding world in Muggle society than most wizards realize. I think hard. How did she use the ball? I can see her, green hand extended toward the ball, screeching,   "Show me the girl!"   Aha.   Holding my hand over the ball again, I whisper,   "Show me my friends at Voldemort's fortress."   The smoke in the glass swirls violently as if stirred by an unseen hand, and when it vanishes an instant later, I can see the dark, craggy shape of a cliff rising from the sea. The crystal zooms in, like a lens on a camera, and I see the large crowd of wizards and witches advancing on the crumbling ruins of a castle at the cliff's peak. Closer it goes, and a moment later, I feel as though I am among my friends, walking up the crunching spine of the crag's tail, and tasting the salt wind. I can hear as clearly as if I were really there.   My perspective through the glass is the same as it would have been if I were there. Everyone looks the right height, everything feels real to me, and it seems that the most startling thing is that no one speaks to me- for I am not really there. I pull the crystal closer and try not to fog its surface with my breathing. Within moments, I am sucked into the scene as if watching a Muggle television.   The point group has entered the castle already- that muc pla plain. There are shouts coming from the castle now, though they are quickly muffled; then George Weasley pokes his head out from a crumbling window and waves at us.   I mean, at them. Damn, it's hard to keep this straight.   A moment later, Fred is jogging back down the path toward the rest of the group, his expression one of mingled puzzlement and amusement. He finds Dumbledore in the crowd, and what he has to say is surprising to everyone.   "There's no one in there," he says. "I mean, no one that we've seen. No sentries, no nothing- but there are enough wards to give Hogwarts a run for its money. Bill says he's never seen anything like it in modern times."   Mention of Bill Weasley- crack curse breaker for Gringott's Wizarding Bank, and member of the point team- gives everyone a breath of relief, including me. If anyone can get past Voldemort's wards, it's Bill. Last year he won a special recognition from Gringott's for circumventing the fabled Money Pit on Oak Island in Nova Scotia; the task had involved breaking the hexes on the pit and retrieving a considerable sum of money as well as recovering precious magical artifacts from it, one of which is rumored to be Excalibur, the sword given to King Arthur by the Lady of the Lake. No one knows if that's true or not- and Bill isn't saying- but it's the sort of idea that's comforting now.   Dumbledore seems to be thinking along these lines. "I trust your brother is working on the wards?" he asks, and Fred nods. "Excellent. I suggest we stay well out of his way. If he needs anything, he has but to ask."   Fred nods and trots back up to the fortress, and Dumbledore turns to pass the message back through the ranks.   Snape is studying the fortress above them with a slight frown on his face. Albus watches him for a moment before speaking.   "Is something troubling you?" he asks calmly, and Severus shakes his head absently.   "Not troubling me, no. I'm just a little surprised. He's sent all the Death Eaters away. That's… a first, I think. He's usually got a few sycophants around- Malfoy and Pettigrew, at least." He thinks hard fomomemoment, then takes in a sharp breath-   "He must think he's been betrayed." Long pause then, his eyes widening slightly. "I hadn't thought of it that way before- there wasn't time to consider. But he thinks I'm dead, and if he doesn't suspect I had anything to do with his weakness- if he doesn't think the strengthening potions are inherently weak, or that my death has weakened them somehow- then he may believe he's been betrayed by another Death Eater. So of course he doesn't want any of them around- he doesn't know who he can trust!" He lets out a little laugh, and shakes his head.   "He's probably vain enough not to want to be seen in a weak state, either- and that's not even counting the difficulty he might have controlling some of his followers if they thought he lacked the power to cast Unforgivables on them. No- it's no surprise at all that he's sent them away. That could be a blessing."   Severus turns to look at the sea, then back at the fortress. "Although he's not fool enough to think his reputation alone will protect him if his magical powers are weakened to the same degree as his physical body. There must be something in place to guard him. Warn Bill to tread cautiously- once through the wards, there may be something nasty waiting for them. Although I suppose he's used to that, as well."   Dumbledore sends a young wizard whose name I do not know up to the fort to pass on the information, and then the assembled wizards and witches cautiously sit to wait, with several sentries posted to alert them of any changes in the situation. Now that it's plain there will be a short wait, my mind slows down enough to notice Ron staring at Snape. I can't figure out why he's staring with such a strange expression, until I remember the kiss I gave Severus before they used the Portkeys.   Ah. Yes. No doubt Ron was a little squicked.   But it's not revulsion I see in my friend's face. No, it's something else altogether. If pressed to give it a name, I'd have to call it… dawning understanding?   Dare I hope my fri wil will see what I see when they look at Severus?   I look at Harry, seated on the ground beside Ron, but the Boy Who Lived is focused on his task, eyes fixed on his laced fingers, mind clearly elsewhere. His face betrays nothing, and unless Ron decides to ask Harry what he thinks about my kissing Snape- while sitting ten feet from Snape himself- I won't learn anything more by watching him. Ron isn't that careless, so I don't hold out much hope. I'm just glad Ron isn't making retching noises aloud to Harry; there was a time when he might have done just that.   Things are quiet for several minutes, and it occurs to me as I sit in Severus's office that I could easily have the crystal take me to watch Bill Weasley at work- this is something I've never gotten to see before, and I'm curious.   "Show me Bill Weasley," I say, and with a faint shimmer of the image in the glass, the crystal shifts to show me a view of the inside of the keep.   That's when I realize that only the front part of the castle is still standing on the edge of the cliff. The rest of it has dropped to the bottom of a sinkhole that must have formed when tides eroded the base of the cliff away. There is a ten-foot expanse of what must once have been entry hallway, and then… nothing. A sheer drop about thirty feet to the bottom of the sinkhole- or at least, the top of the castle. I can see the old weathered roof slates glinting in the gloomy noon-light of a typical day in this part of Scotland. A quick glance across the roof shows me that the far side of the cliff is still intact- meaning that no one from the sea can see the castle.   Bill Weasley is standing at the edge of the sinkhole, hands resting on his hips, wand dangling between his fingers as he considers. He's wearing jeans and a Muggle windbreaker rather than robes; for reasons I've never quite examined, Bill looks more at home in Muggle clothing than wizarding robes.   "The entrance to that tunnel is warded separately," he says slowly. "Most of these other wards will not affect us." He's looking around the castle's entrance as if seeing hundreds of things, whereas I see nothing. It must be something that comes with practice. I follow his line of vision and see the faint track in the scree that leads down toward a dark gaping hole in the roof. It looks like someone has formed a footpath down to the structures below and tunneledoughough debris to reach what must be intact living spaces beneath the roof. "I don't think we ought to disturb the Muggle-repelling charms; they're older than Voldemort anyway, and they'll probably be handy. We'll leave the silencing spells and the anti-apparition wards. That just leaves the passage wards on the tunnel mouth, the air, and the space."   He kneels down then to scoop up a handful of the fine gravel, whispering faint words over it, rolling it in his palm like so many precious jewels. When he stands again, wand in hand, his face is set with concentration, and the handful of gravel has taken on a blue cast.   Bill holds his wand arm out, wand extended, and gently feels the space at the head of the trail down into the sinkhole. He does this for several long moments, eyes closed, and then he opens his eyes with a sure expression.   "Here," he says with confidence, and then he tosses the handful of gravel into the air- And it sticks. Characters are outlined in midair, a mass of tangled brushstrokes in a language I've never seen, outlined like letters traced in glue and dusted with glitter. They glow faintly in the grey light, incongruously delicate in this craggy wreck of a castle. Bill studies the symbols for a long moment, frowning faintly.   "There are very old wards here alongh thh the new ones," he says then, and carefully lifts his wand to begin erasing some of the wording. The gravel falls away from the glyphs as he touches them, and soon I see only the familiar Phoenician characters of the alphabet I learned when I was four. Clearly, there are wards here cast in languages whose written form I cannot identify. Several sets, given how long Bill took to eliminate symbols a bit at a time until only two sets remain- an old, faded set whose age is apparent in the broken look of its characters, and a new one whose thin-lined characters are slashed, jagged and hurried. These wards were cast in haste, and with little care. Even I can see that, though I never knew till now that the incantations are inscribed in invisible magic on the spaces they protect. The ancient set of wards is in much better shape, for it was cast with care and attention. They alone are what seems to be keeping us out of the tunnel, rather than any magic of Voldemort's conjuring.   It's a long incantation, and the crystal's resolution isn't quite enough to let me make it all out- but Bill is miles ahead of me. His wand and lips are moving too fast for me to follow, and one after another the glowing letters fall to dust again, blowing faintly against the legs of Bill's jeans with an almost inaudible hissing noise. Within three minutes, the wards are broken, and the dark mouth of the tunnel below lies unguarded before them. A few carefully tossed rocks verify this, and Bill cautiously advances down the path to the tunnel's mouth.   "Looks all right," he says after several long minutes' inspection. "Those wards were hastily put up- no effort at all was made to integrate them with the old ones. If that had been done, it would have taken a lot longer." He thinks for a moment. "Even for a short- term base, it seems to me that a wizard as powerful as Voldemort would have done a more thorough job on these sorts of wards. These, I think, were thrown up at the last moment. That might say something about his condition. Or it might say something about what we'll find waiting for us down that path." He doesn't look worried by this; he looks more like he's looking forward to the challenge.   Applause breaks out among the members of the point and guard teams when Bill climbs back up and announces that the way is clear, and Fred jogs back down the hill to give the good news to the waiting tactical team.   Bill Weasley is, as Harry once noted, cool.   It is only a matter of moments before the rest of the team is in the entrance of the keep, and Dumbledore is shaking Bill's hand. Even Severus looks pleased, although he has not lost the air of tension that has hung about him since this mission began. He hovers in the background, waiting until the rest of the group has assembled behind him.   Ron is still staring at Snape in amazement. Severus turns to pin him with a glance, the faint frown reappearing to form that small line between his eyebrows.   "What?" he asks irritably, and Ron backpedals speechlessly, hands held up in a gesture of supplication.   A moment later, they start down the steep path to the tunnel, wands softly lit and held out before them at the ready. As each face disappears into the twilight of the tunnel mouth, I can see determination replace nervousness. It's time to stop thinking and start doing. Harry's face is tight with concentration, and Ron's is pink with anger; he's worked himself up for certain. Dumbledore's expression as he led the way had been fierce- this is no dotty old Headmaster.   Snape's expression is closed, cold, an exact replica of his classroom persona. It's effective; he could be feeling elation, fury, or intense amusement and no one would be the wiser just for a glimpse of him. Fury might, however, win the overall impression, given the lines his hard past has carved into his features.   Everyone's in the tunnel now. It's dark in there, and I squint at the crystal for any glimpse of what they see, but I can't make anything out. I hear Ron's voice in the dark, at once muffled and magnified by the tunnel- "Oof!"   "Sorry," mutters Harry, and I laugh despite the gravity of the situation. How many times have I heard those sounds under the invisibility cloak as we snuck about the school on our midnight business?   Dumbledore and Bill are in the front of the group, and it is only a matter of a few minutes before they emerge into a massive underground cavern. It is rather poorly lit by torches fastened to the wall at twenty foot intervals, and the gloom overhead gives the lie to the knowledge that sunlight- or what passes for sunlight in this cloudy country- is only a few dozen feet above the assembled crowd. The air is still and musty, and everyone crowds together in an instinctive bid for security.   "This way," says Bill, moving toward the far side of the cavern. I can see the faintest ruffle of wind stir in his hair, and I know he must be following the breeze. Heaven knows this isn't the first- or even the thousandth- time Bill Weasley has puzzled his way into catacombs and secret chambers. Lucky he's along, actually.   No one sees it coming, and it's all the more horrific for the suddenness of the attack. A dreadful screaming gurgle erupts from the shadows at the cavern's edge, and a moment later a huge hairy thing with more than its fair share of legs scuttles forward and takes a massive swing at Ron.   Ron's brain, fortunately, is hardwired to retreat instantly at any sign of a creature with more than four appendages, and he leaps nimbly backward, knocking Neville over in his attempt to avoid the blow. He manages to do so, for the most part, but his arm is caught by the massive creature's club foot and there is a faint crunching noise. Ron's strangled cry of pain is muffled by the next horrid noise from the creature's mouth, as well as my own scream of distress- and then Charlie Weasley is standing in front of his brother, wand raised.   "Mother of Merlin!" breathes Sirius, his face contorted with horror as he quickly helps Ron up with a hand to his good arm. A quickly applied analgesic spell and a hastily applied sling patch Ron up enough to go on, and meanwhile the rest of the group spreads out to confront the beast.   "What the hell is that thing?" mutters Arthur Weasley. It's hard to see the beast, cloaked as it is in shadow, but it's hairy, and vicious, and it seems to have an extra leg.   "Quintaped," says Lupin shortly as he dodges another heavy blow. "Native to the Isle of Drear, not far from here. Probably imported as a guardian."   "How do you kill it?" asks Harry as he eyes the furry thing.   "Not sure," replies Lupin, who then promptly casts Stupefy on it.   No response.   "Well, that's out, then," says Lupin. "Maybe its fur is too thick to penetrate."   "Weren't these things human once?" asks Snape as he fires a jet of sparks to keep the Quintaped from coming too close to them.   "Yes," says Lupin. "But they won't let themselves be Transfigured back. They must like the extra leg."   "Well, at least they can keep their Scotch in hand while they run around," says Sirius flatly.   "Oooooooooooooooh!!"   The entire group turns for a brief second to see what the sudden exclamation is all about.   Hagrid, the last person on the team to emerge from the tunnel, is standing at the tunnel mouth, staring at the Quintaped with stars in his eyes.   "Oh, for Circe's sake," mutters Harry. "He's going to want to keep it for a pet."   "A Quintaped! Rare beast, that 'un. Fine specimen, I'd say- would yeh mind if I got a closer look, Professor Dumbleldore? I've always wanted to see one."   Albus casts an amused look at the groundskeeper even as he adds his jet of sparks to Severus's.   "By all means, Rubeus," he says calmly. "Try not to get killed. These things eat people."   Hagrid looks mildly affronted. "Now where'd yeh get that idea? Seems t'me he's a pretty friendly sort. Here, fella! Whoa, big boy!"   Even Minerva is overcome with snorts of laughter at this. But Hagrid ignores them, creeping closer to the massive hairy beast, his hand held out in supplication.   The Quintaped clearly wants nothing to do with Hagrid, but the half-giant is blocking its access to the rest of the group- with whom it clearly wants to have a great deal to do. Snorting and shrieking, the red-furred creature scuttles back and forth like a crab, its wide mouth opening and closing in agitation.   Hagrid moves closer, and the Quintaped retreats a bit. The group edges closer to the other side of the cavern, working its way to the relative security of the cavern wall under cover of Hagrid's massive bulk. The beast's noises are now full of high-pitched confusion and frustration, which Hagrid takes as friendly overtures.   He is temporarily disabused of the notion when the Quintaped lashes out with one clubbed foot, catching Hagrid across the leg and causing the gamekeeper to grunt with pain.   "Oh, frisky fella, are we? Well! It's good t'see yeh've kept yer spirits up down here in the dark! Your sort don' like underground places, do yeh, McBoon?"   At this last, the Quintaped pauses a bit, studying Hagrid with a puzzled look before reacting to confusion with anger and swinging again.   This time, however, Hagrid is quicker than his opponent.   "Oh, no, yeh don'," he says, smiling with enjoyment as he dodges the blow. The folds of his moleskin coat flare out as he moves with a nimbleness one would never expect in a creature so large as Hagrid.   The soft clatter almost goes unnoticed beneath the thumping scrabble of the Quintaped's clubbed feet and the sound of sand crunching on stone beneath Hagrid's boots. But Hagrid has good hearing, and his eyebrows raise up as he looks at the floor.   "Whoops," he says quietly. "That was me flask. Best find it or I'll be wantin' it later and no good wishin' for it." He stoops over a bit, and peers at the floor.   "Ooh, Hagrid!" I exclaim in frustration as the Quintaped dodges briefly around him to take a swipe at Minerva. She counters with a stream of water from her wand, which angers the Quintaped but successfully drives it back beyond Hagrid.   But Hagrid has his flask now, and he takes a quick nip as he studies the Quintaped shrewdly.   "Well now, beastie," he says thoughtfully. "Yer a Scottish creature as I recall. Wonder if you like good whiskey?" He squints down the opening of his flask, as if judging the amount, and then pours a bit into a puddle on the ground, backing away carefully.   The Quintaped seems even more agitated at the scent of the Scotch. It scurries back and forth with a high keening noise, its breath coming in panting snorts. Its eyes are fastened on the amber puddle, and it seems to gather itself in a fearful bundle before launching itself at the Scotch.   The puddle is licked dry in less than fifteen seconds, and then the Quintaped is following Hagrid like a stray dog, its every glance and now-lolling tongue begging for more.   "Yep," says Hagrid with a sigh of contentment. "Scottish beastie, all right." He pours another generous serving of Scotch out, and within a few minutes, the Hairy McBoon is hiccoughing faintly as it nods to sleep on the chamber floor. Apparently, fond as Quintapeds are of good Scotch, they don't drink much. A quietly whispered spell from McGonagall and Lupin secures it comfortably where it cannot harm anyone, and Albus smiles fondly at the gamekeeper.   I can't help joining in. The trick with any beast, as Hagrid had once told Harry, Ron, and me, is to know 'how to ca'am him.'   The gamekeeper is staring down at the Quintaped with adoration, and Harry and Ron clap him on the back as they pass him on their way to the far side of the cavern. Lupin and Snape come a hair closer to study the beast, Lupin kneeling down to examine the teeth. Snape stands in complete silence next to Hagrid, and after a moment, the Potions master looks over at Hagrid's flask.   The half-giant smiles somewhere in his bushy beard, and offers the flask to Snape. Without hesitation, Severus takes the proffered flask and takes a sip, swallowing convulsively and sucking in a deep breath when he's done.   "No wonder that thing passed out," he says, his normally smooth voice hoarse. "That stuff could peel Manticore skin. Remind me never to get into a drinking competition with you, Hagrid." He hands the flask back to Hagrid, but there is a smile on his face to answer the half-giant's, and he too claps Hagrid on the shoulder as he turns to follow the rest of the group into the tunnel opening they can now see on the far end of the cavern.   Harry and Ron are walking shoulder to shoulder as they enter the tunnel, and I hear them talking in low voices.   "What else d'you think we'll see?" Ron is asking Harry. He shifts his arm in the sling a bit, apparently free of pain but still unnerved by the suddenness of the Quintaped's attack. The fact that it looks a lot like a spider- when you're in the dark anyway- has most likely not helped matters.   "I don't know," replies the Boy Who Lived. "I hope it's not like when we went after the Philosopher's Stone, though. There were seven trials, not counting Voldemort himself, and they were put together by people with a sense of fair play. I'd hate to think of what Voldemort would put up if he had the time, and the strength."   Ron shivers in the dank confines of the tunnel as his imagination suggests horror after horror. "Yeah," he agrees somberly. "Personally, I'm hoping he's too run down by whatever Snape gave him to bother with too many more things."   Sirius, walking just ahead of them, turns to glance at them briefly.   "I hope so too, Ron," he says. "But I'm not going to believe it till this is all behind us. I don't think we can afford to be too cavalier."   "I know," my two friends say together, sounding older than their combined years.   I've never heard them this serious before, and given the grave conversations we've had over the years and between harrowing brushes with death at the Dark Lord's hands, that's saying something.   Severus and Dumbledore are at the head of the line of wizards, and I hear them conferring quietly as they approach the mouth of this tunnel. They stop before they turn the last bend; there is lamplight flickering on the wall ahead, and the silence gives no indication of what might await them. Finally, Snape steps cautiously away from the group and moves around the bend, wand drawn and held ready but out of sight at his side.   A quiet whisper sends the crystal's viewpoint with him as he goes, and thus there are two pairs of eyes to widen in shock at the sight that lies before them.   The lamplight flickering on the walls is not from the end of the tunnel.   It's from the lamp sitting at the feet of a man, lying on the rough-hewn stone floor, and barely breathing, from what I can see.   Snape moves forward as silently as a shadow, and with a softly muttered spell, determines that the man is still alive. Smart of him not to touch the fellow; his robes and the metal mask at his side proclaim him to be one of Severus's former compatriots, whatever the state of his health may be.   "Orvis," says Severus softly, kneeling at the still form's side, and I realize he's trying to rouse the man.   Orvis MacBurran? I wonder to myself as Snape works. Must be. How many Death Eaters can there be with a name like Orvis? Snape had hinted that the fellow's sympathies might lie with the side of good in this conflict, and I am glad that Snape has been the one to find him.   The Death Eater is stirring faintly, and he cracks open blood-crusted eyes to look up at Snape.   When he focuses on Severus's face, he freezes and goes shock white.   "Ohhhh," he says, the sound a faint exclamation of horror hissing through his lips. "Merlin's pipecleaners. I'm dead, aren't I? Why else would I be seeing you?"   Severus laughs a little. "I'm only the Angel of Death to my students," he says gently. "Are you hurt?"   "Why aren't you dead, then, Severus?" asks Orvis, not about to be sidetracked. He still doesn't look certain that Snape isn't a ghost.   "I'm a lot like a cockroach," says Snape flatly. "Too stubborn to die when it's convenient for those who find me troublesome. Come now, what happened to you, Orvis? You're bloodied to a pulp and your nose hasn't been that size since before you found the shrinking spell in your fifth year." A long pause, then, "And I don't think I've ever seen you without your eyebrows before. Interesting look."   I've never heard Snape engage in light banter before, and somehow it's all the more incongruous that he should be doing it now with a fellow Death Eater. Something tells me, though, that this particular Death Eater goes back with Snape a long way and in more depth than most of the others.   Orvis is laughing, thought it's a bit of a gurgling noise. That can't be good, a suspicion which is confirmed when he coughs up a bit of blood. Snape studies his friend with a frown.   "You've got internal injuries," he says calmly. "You need a mediwitch. If you'll tell me what's going on, I'll get you to St. Mungo's where they can patch you up. I think you need more help than Madam Pomfrey can give in the infirmary, though I don't doubt she'd try."   "Oh, she'd be pleased to see me, she would," says Orvis glumly.   "Shut up and talk," says Snape irritably, only to shake his head in annoyance at his contradiction.   Orvis, however, seems to have been steadied by it. He gurgles a bit more, and nods in acquiescence.   "To use a Muggle phrase- and wouldn't the Dark Lord be furious to hear me do it- Voldemort's gone apeshit," he says, and pauses for breath.   "He was positively delighted to send you off as he did last night. Made a great show of making an example of you after you were gone. But then, around midnight, he started to have trouble with the hand on his wand arm. It twitched, then it got weak. Within an hour it was both hands. By this morning, he was having trouble speaking, and his vision was blurry.   "At first he thought it was the potion being weak, as he'd accused when you were here. Then he thought it was losing its effectiveness because you were dead- he told us he could no longer feel your Mark, and it was shortly after that that the twitching started."   I think back- yes, by the time we had the potion made and had gotten Severus to drink it, about six hours had elapsed since Snape had 'dosed' Voldemort.   "Then, as his vision and hearing began to fade, and as his voice deteriorated, he got paranoid on us. Started accusing us of poisoning him, of tampering with his potions somehow- as if any of us ever understood the things you did." He snorts a little, and Severus smiles tightly in encouragement.   "He seemed afraid of us, yet afraid to let us out of his sight. And then he started throwing curses. His magic is still devilishly powerful- that's not part of his physical body, as you know- but he's got precious little control. It's all venom and no aim, and when he started in on us, we had little chance to dodge. Anyone who he suspected for even a moment got hit with something nasty, until he began to lose control of himself. Then whatever he cast would go wild, and would hit someone other than the intended victim. It was awful."   Severus looks rather pale when he hears this, but he nods in understanding. "Go on."   "I was hit twice with Cruciatus, and then I was hit by a chair that he threw. The leg caught me hard in the side- I don't know what it did, but it was a pointy leg and I'm that afraid to look at it."   Severus glances at his friend's back and side, and even I can see the blood on the ground. As Orvis coughs again, I begin to understand where the chair leg went. He needs to get to St. Mungo's soon.   "He's killed at least six of us, and wounded another four. I know Lucius is in rough shape, and Draco was unconscious last I saw him. I ran this way, hoping to get out- but I know I won't make it past that damn Quintaped in this shape. So I lay down here- and if I die here, oh well. At least I won't die lying at that bastard's feet, like you did." He ns hns here. "Pardon me. Like I thought you did."   "No offense taken," says Severus shortly. "I take it that the Dark Lord is still raging?"   "I would assume so," says Orvis. "The last thing I heard him say was 'Get out, all of you! Get out of my sight!' And we all ran. He's down in the throne room, as always, but I wouldn't go down there now. I don't think he'll be happy to see you, even if he's given into temptation and started brewing a potion he doesn't really understand to try to get even with fate."   Snape stares at him, eyes wide with shock. "He's what?" he asks sharply.   "You heard me, potions-boy," says Orvis with a wet chuckle. "He's brewing the Nulli Magnificat."   "Holy Mother of God," says Severus in a ghost of a whisper.   I didn't even know he knew that phrase.   "I thought he didn't have the entire recipe."   Orvis smiles. "You say that as if you believe anything the mon eve ever said to us."   "Bloody hell, Orvis, this is serious!" Severus snaps, and then he stands and reaches down to lever his friend up to a standing position.   "Oh, really?" Orvis deadpans. "Look, Severus, if you can get me out of here, I'll owe you my life."   Snape studies him for a moment. "I'll take you up on that," he says slowly, "if you'll let me give your life to someone far more capable of taking good care of it than I."   And with that, he helps Orvis MacBurran around the tunnel bend to where Albus Dumbledore is waiting for him with a smile on his weathered face.   It is Hagrid who accepts the duty of accompanying MacBurran back up the tunnel to where he can Apparate to St. Mungo's with the injured man and deliver him to the care of professionals. Everyone else prepares to go on, in some ways relieved to know the score and in others dismayed at how the other team looks.   Personally, I'm terrified. I took a few minutes, while they were all talking, to run over to Snape's bookshelf and pull out an old, flaking volume titled Forbidden Formulas, where I suspect I'll find a description of the potion in question.   I'm not wrong. And Snape is right to be horrified; the Nulli Magnificat was invented by the Romanized Celts in ancient times to punish wizarding crimes. Its formula was tightly guarded, as it was recognized as a devastating weapon fit for use in only the gravest of circumstances. The Nulli Magnificat permanently eradicates magic in all wizards and witches who touch it. If Voldermort manages to dose the approaching wizards with its completed form, they will all become helpless Muggles in his grasp.   And knowing him, he won't stop there.   Why be the most powerful wizard in the world, when you can be the only wizard in the world?   I frown as I scan the list of ingredients and the preparation instructions. His weakened body wouldn't prevent him from brewing the potion, if he knows how to do it properly and has the rare ingredients- one of which is the swim bladder of a 100-year-old virgin mermaid. That one could prove elusive. There are only a few simple incantations involved. Granted, his control is off- but I don't know how far off. Or whether its accuracy is impeded only by great emotion. And if he can get it to work, it will appeal to his ego to retain his position as most powerful wizard even in his weakened state, by completely taking away everyone else's ability to do magic.   'Leveling the playing field,' my eye. This is emptying the playing field.   This potion is the wizarding equivalent of a nuclear missile. And while Voldemort might unwittingly destroy himself in the process as well- for he is just as susceptible as everyone else is- I don't think it's worth sacrificing all of the wizarding world to do it.   They've got to stop him.   They just have to.   The soft rustle of wizard's robes plays in my ears like fall leaves whispering to the ground in the wind, and I clench my fists with frustration as I watch them slowly approach the tunnel mouth. Softly muttered shielding spells are put in place to try to repel the droplets of the potion in case it is already completed- but there isn't all that much use in doing so; one needs physical non-magical barriers to really remain separate from the stuff. It is a completely forbidden potion because it devours magic in any form, whether they be wards, wizards, or wandwork. The fact that a few of its ingredients are hard to come by has been some protection for a while- but no longer.   How ironic that Voldemort has chosen as his final weapon a potion against which commonly available Muggle protective gear would be the only effective defense.   The crusadeauseause in the shadows, now allowing Snape to move forward alone. His wand is still out, still concealed in the folds of his black robes. He moves easily, with the grace and confidence of a man well-rested, and I cannot help but admire that. He pauses for one glance behind him at Albus and Harry and Ron, standing in the fore of the remaining group.   Just when I think he's going to step out into the cavern, though, he pauses. He thinks for a moment, his expression frozen with concentration, and his eyes suddenly light up with inspiration. Grinning broadly, he jogs back for a brief moment to whisper in Albus's ear. The Headmaster nods and smiles brightly then, and clasps Snape's arm for a moment. If I didn't know better, I'd think the two of them wanted to laugh at something.   And then, with a tight smile and nod, Severus turns and goes. Time to test the waters with something the prey will never think to expect. I know full well that he's also made them promise to leave if the potion is finished, to leave without taking the time to rescue him and to go warn the rest of the wizarding world.   I see the light of twenty torches fall upon Snape's head, gilding the strands with red and gold, and the sudden brightness is dazzling despite the shadows in the corners of the room. It is a large cavern with an ornately carved ceiling, and there is an equally ornately carved throne at the far end. Severus is standing on a carpet of emerald green which runs up to the throne. Its smooth surface is darkly stained with what must be blood, and there are several crumpled forms lying on the ground along the walls of the cavern.   Snape's nostrils flare, and I follow his line of sight. There, sitting on a conjured flame just like the ones in the Potions dungeon, is a large standard size eighteen cauldron, filled nearly to the brim and bubbling thickly. Snape's eyes narrow for a second, and I can see a barely suppressed flicker of anxiety in them.   Then a figure moves, indistinct in the steam from the cauldron and the smoke from its carelessly- kindled fire.   Voldemort.   Snape's mouth thins as he sees Voldemort tossing in a handful of something; from this distance, I can't be sure, but I think it might be maidenhair. Getting a grip on himself, he suddenly slips into what I think of as Potions Master Mode, and glides noiselessly across the cavern toward the cauldron. As he goes, he raises his wand and cautiously casts a spell to protect himself from the fumes, futile as the gesture may be. Before anything elsepenspens, he needs to know if that potion is completed yet. And there's only one real way to find out.   I have to hand it to him- he does have a flair for the dramatic. Never, ever underestimate the audacity of a Slytherin bent on revenge.   Voldemort never sees him coming. Snape appears as if out of thin air, the billowing black of his robed form materializing from a swirling cloud of steam. In less than a heartbeat he is facing Voldemort over the cauldron, his eyes glittering with satisfaction.   "Boo."     A/N: The Wizard of Oz is, of course, a book by L. Frank Baum. I leave the question of its deeper meaning to you. It's also a film by MGM, and that is the source of the scene recalled by Hermione in the… er… scene in this chapter. The Quintaped is the creation of Ms. Rowling, and a further description of its history can be found in the book Fantastic Beasts & Where to Find Them, 2001 edition, by Newt Scamander. Whether or not it truly likes Scotch is up for debate, as I've never personally met one and Mr. Scamander does not comment on its drinking habits. However, it has been my observation that few people in my very Celtic family do not like Scotch (at least, good Scotch). Although it must be acknowledged that one or two of them are bit overfond, in my estimation. At any rate, I think it reasonable to assume that a good McBoon would be no less fond of a little nip. After all, it's not like it's had much good stuff to which it could compare Hagrid's idea of 'good Scotch'. Severus's reaction to Hagrid's whiskey is inspired by a moment in the film The Great Escape, starring Steve McQueen: "Smooth!" (said in a rasp of a voice by someone more accustomed to good Scotch than to the bite of raw American moonshine.) It's a line we use often in our house. The Nulli Magnificat potion is my creation. What a nasty thing; I'm glad it's just a story and I don't have to feel as bad about inventing it as I would if I had invented something so destructive in the real world. I know it sounds pretty horrific, but Hiroshima and Nagasaki looked pretty horrific to me, too. And hey- it's Voldy. One could hardly expect less, hmm?