Soul Searching

Soul Searching Soul Searching By Quillusion     Chapter 21     Voldemort's face contorts in fury and fear for the briefest of moments before he gains control of himself.   Or at least, gains what passes for control in him right now.   His face is twitching, his left eye occasionally drifting away from the point of focus. It's rather unnerving. Snape, however, seems not to mind so much. His expression is one of calm satisfaction.   "You," Voldemort says, and even the single syllable is slurred, the normally rich, cold voice sounding harsh and raspy as his vocal cords elude his mastery.   "Yes, me," Severus s. "s. "What on earth are you doing?"   "Your Mark went inactive," says Voldemort almost blankly. "You're supposed to be dead." He's staring hard at Severus as if trying to decide whether he is real or a ghost. I'm not sure which one would seem more of a threat to him right now; Circe knows the ghosts at Hogwarts seem harmless enough, Peeves the Poltergeist excepted.   Snape snorts in reply.   "You of all people should know just how little that really means."   Good for you, Severus, I think fiercely. Let him think you've come back from the dead to fight him.   Voldemort's mouth wrenches into what must be meant as a smile.   "Yes," he says sibilantly, and for a moment, he regains a shade of his former power.   Snape watches him carefully.   "So, I'll ask again. What is this rot you're stewing?"   The Dark Lord's smile turns secretive.   "Not telling," he says, and Snape's eyebrow quirks up. Voldemort's never taken such a childish tone with any Death Eater before. He sounds almost… petulant. &; Sn; Snape decides to take a calculated risk.   "Whyever not? You know perfectly well you couldn't so much as brew a wart- removing solution when you were in school. And your tea has always been execrable, which is why you always make Mrs. Parkinson make it when social occasions require it. What makes you think you can successfully complete a potion containing something as volatile as maidenhair?"   Ah, I think. I was right.   Voldemort is snickering now. Snape takes a subtle step backward, aware now that the dark wizard is most definitely unhinged. And a mad wizard is even more dangerous than an evil one.   "I can do anything I set my mind to," Voldemort answers then. His tone is defiant.   "Oh, clearly," says Snape dryly. "That must be why you've got hexflash all over you." He casts a disdainful glance down Voldemort's robes, and that's when I notice all the blackened spots that dot the expensive velvet. At the moment, Voldemort resembles no one so much as Neville Longbottom at the end of Potions class. Hexflash is what happens when magic is inappropriately channeled, or- in the case of potions- combined. Snape lets Voldemort scowl down at his own robes for a moment before saying,   "Allow me. I've had practice with this sort of trouble before." A wave of his hand- with his wand expertly concealed up the sleeve of his robe- restores the velvet to its previously spotless state.   And now we know for certain that the Nulli Magnificat is not working.   Yet.   Snape's face gives no indication of the relief he must feel at knowing this, and his reflexes do not dampen in the least- and it's a good thing. Voldemort is still miffed at having been shown up like a first year with a backfiring broomstick, and he petulantly fires a hex in Snape's direction.   The Potions master, however, vanishes into the roiling steam like the ghost Voldemort still believes him to be. The hex disintegrates in a shower of little bits of pink fuzzy marabou; it would seem that the Dark Lord's powers are growing less directed by the minute.   "Running away, are you?" bellows Voldemort to the void beyond the steam, his words falling from his lips in a grating tone. I bite my lip and smother thoughts of the Black Knight, my earlier dread still lightened by the giddy realization that the potion is not yet working.   "No, no, my dear Voldemort, not at all. I have no intention of running anywhere." The velvet voice is mocking now in its cultured urbanity, barbed words flickering brightly under the cloak of civil speech.   Snape has slipped round to Voldemort's back, using the massive quantities of steam and smoke pouring from the troubled cauldron as a screen to cover his movement. The Dark Lord spins to face him-   -and I realize why Snape has deliberately put himself into a position where he is completely trapped between Voldemort and the wall.   Thet oft of the crusaders are slowly making their way into the hall. Snape's movement has put their enemy's back to them, so that they may move undetected. Dumbledore is directing them one at a time, and they are fanning gradually out, using Praetereo to keep the mad wizard from seeing them as they cautiously take their positions.   Snape does his part by continuing to toy with Voldemort.   "Come now, old boy- what is this stuff? Oh, Circe's garters, what on earth is this?!" He lifts the mermaid swim bladder, his lip curling in what I know is falsified revulsion- he's trying madly to think of a way to keep this precious ingredient from going into the cauldron before he can sneak it away for his stores.   The fact that he is still thinking with a mind for his passion for potions is reassuring in a way no plainspoken words could ever have been. He wants to live.   My palms are sweating by now, and as I watch the figures slowly moving around the cavern- for Praetereo does not work on a crystal ball, or on anyone watching through one- I rub my hands absently against my thighs. I squirm around, finally sitting on my hands for a moment before I break free of my own confinement. Digging my fingers down into the sides of the cushion, into cool leather protected from the heat of the fire in the grate, I feel something.   Pulling it free, I see that it is a small filigreed locket on a chain. The locket is star-shaped, and its clasp is bent badly enough to keep me from opening it. It's the perfect fidget, and I am consoled considerably by the simple comfort of spinning it between two fingers, causing it to rotate erratically on the axis of two of its points, the chain gliding with cool sinuousness across my skin. I begin to turn it rhythmically, my eyes drawn once more to the battle forming in stages before me.   Voldemort is standing over the cauldron now, spitting some sort of irate answer at Snape. He doesn't seem to have appreciated Snape's suggestion, whatever it was, and he is now angrily throwing things into the hot murk of the pewter vessel's interior. Snape's mouth tightens at this, and I know he's worried about something setting off a very powerful reaction- which would be as disastrous for everyone in the cavern as the full Nulli Magnificat, for physical rather than magical reasons.   Snape had given us a lecture on the subject of careless potions manipulation in our seventh year. I can still remember it as if it were yesterday…   "Powerful potions, when done incorrectly, have been known to kill the brewer with the force of the unintended reaction. Thus it stands to reason that potions whose mechanisms are still unelucidated are at greater risk of going bad than ones which are fully understood. It is folly of the highest magnitude to attempt to alter a potion whose workings have not been thoroughly explained. Mr. Weasley, I suggest you stop trying to pass notes to Mr. Potter or you will lose more than the five points I am now taking from Gryffindor.   "There are potions whose effectiveness is known in spite of a complete lack of knowledge of their mechanisms, and several of these are in widespread use. I expect you to know which are the commonly used Unclassified potions- for that is what they are collectively called in Potions references that catalog potions based on their mechanism of action."   He had pinned me with a glance then; certainly I was one of the few students in the class who would ever attempt to modify a potion for my own purposes. I think about it now, and shudder at the risk Voldemort is taking. No one knows where magic comes from; exactly how anyone found a way to destroy it completely is still a mystery, and we have no idea how the potion works at all. Merlin only knows what sort of havoc could be wreaked by an error in something so mysterious. Snape is plainly thinking exactly this as he watches the Dark Lord's manic shredding and tossing.   Lord Voldemort is studying Snape's face with some semblance of his former shrewdness, his eyes gleaming wetly with malevolence. As if recognizing the source of his former Potions brewer's unease, he begins flinging things into the cauldron with wild abandon.   "Don't like this, do you?" he cackles as he flings the contents of a small vial into the steam. The strong yellow hue of bergamot drifts up in vivid clouds. "Makes you nervous, doesn't it? You were always a cringing sort, Snape. 'Do it this way. Don't do it that way.' You never understood that a powerful wizard makes magic obey his rules- not the other way round. Never realized that what makes magic work is a fluid thing, and that works that lie beyond the powers of a lesser wizard will work for me!"   "This potion isn't going to do what you think it will," Snape says flatly. "Not with what you've just added. Bergamot negates the effect of the bicorn horn. And there's no way to know what it will do to the-"   He stops when it's obvious that his audience is beyond listening. A fistful of maidenhair plops into the forming potion with a glutinous sound, and Snape flinches slightly. Sure enough, the cauldron belches loudly as a large volume of… something… chooses that moment to leave the liquid state and vaporizes en masse, splattering Voldemort still more.   He doesn't even notice. His frenzy has kept him from seeing anything beyond the steam rising from his cauldron, including the stealthy shadows moving in the distance. He has his wand out now, and is advancing on Snape.   The younger wizard doesn't back away, knowing that if he lets Voldemort turn around, he might spot the miniature army moving in from the cavern's mouth, and a moment later Voldemort's wand is placed against his chest. I can't hear what the serpentine mouth is whispering to Snape, but it can't be pleasant. A moment later, he has dug powerful clawed hands into the Potions master's arm.   "Ah," he says, sounding the most sane he's sounded yet. "Not a ghost." His lips flatten in a grotesque smile, and Snape does lean back a bit at that. In that instant, I find myself hoping that poor Severus has never had to bear the brunt of that particular sort of interest from this creature.   Voldemort is speaking again. "I had wondered why you'd care about what I was brewing, Severus. Ghosts have nothing to fear from my little project, after all." He laughs, a light little inane chuckle that is all the more frightening for its incongruity.   "It's a pity there won't be time to ask how you got away- although I suspect I already know the answer, anyhow, my charming young turncoat. And I would take professional interest in learning how you erased the Mark. That was supposed to be permanent, you know, my boy. It always was- until now." There is a dangerous note of irritation in his voice when he says this.   "At least I know my loyal Death Eaters had a good time with you before you took your leave." His smile is malicious this time, but it falters as he recalls the suspicions now resting on his 'loyal' followers.   "Of course, I don't know whether they had anything to do with this;" he gestures to his weakened body, and it is at this moment that I see the great sheets of skin falling off of him, like a shedding snake, drifting like grotesque snow to the ground and the surface of the potion in the cauldron. "It might just as easily have been you, somehow." He frowns, the expression puckering his forehead and separating a fresh sheet of skin from the flesh there, which flutters down to stick to the front of his robe. He ignores it, and the reptilian gaze narrows redly.   "Either way, I've still got a use for you, my former Potions brewer. My former Death Eater. My formal loyal minion!" He shrieks this last, hands twisting in Snape's robes with mad rage.   Before Snape can formulate a reply to the twisted remarks, the Dark wizard has dragged him forward, to the very edge of the cauldron. The Potions master's eyes flick out to gaze beyond the steam for a moment, and he relaxes an infinitesimal amount. Everyone must have gotten into their places, because he is wearing the look of a man who knows that whatever sacrifice he is about to make is worth it. My heart cracks at the sight, and it's all I can do to make myself watch.   The steam blankets everything now, and the crystal brings me closer- just enough closer to hear Voldemort's words through the muffling whiteness.   "I've always been so amused to see you do this to your students," Lord Voldemort purrs as he draws a ladle up from someplace on the table beyond. Dipping it into the truly revolting mixture in the vessel below- which, judging from the color, the visible fumes, and the look on Snape's face, is almost certainly poisonous- he whispers,   "Drink."   It happens so quickly that I hardly have time to process what Voldemort has just said before it's irrelevant. It's like spontaneous combustion, the instantaneous conversion of a kettleful of green goo into green vapor. An ear-piercing clap of thunder fills the cavern, deafening us all for a few seconds, and then the cauldron just liquefies, contracting violently with the force of an exploding star. Its contents shoot skyward, sluicing along the carved stone ceiling in a lime rainbow, filling the air with fumes I need no nose to detect.   Then the rain of cooling potion begins- faint at first, then steady. Droplets fall, then gobbets of gelatinous mess. They drop, hissing, onto Voldemort's Bunsen burner and the now-liquid remains of the melted cauldron. There is no one still close enough to the cauldron's remnants to be struck by the stuff, as the explosion was directed upward rather than outward. Both Snape and Voldemort had time to jump back, and so Voldemort is unharmed- though he's' still struggling to wrest the red velvet robes off of his head so that he can see. Sad as this is, I'm grateful. Any circumstances causing his death would have nearly guaranteed Snape's death as well.   Which draws my eyes to the calm, collected form of the man whose life has been spent dodging exploding cauldrons. He's standing there, arms crossed over his chest, and he doesn't even look as though he's broken a sweat. But he does look pleased- in fact, he looks downright smug.   I've never seen Severus Snape smile with such utter satisfaction, even when Gryffindor last lost to Slytherin on the Quidditch field. But why is he just standing there? What on earth could be more important than finishing off Voldemort?   And then I see what he's seeing, and I know exactly what he's doing.   He's paying back a debt.   Pewter and potion are running in hundreds of tiny little rivulets everywhere, and as I follow the Potions master's line of sight, I find my eyes resting on a pair of shoes in the middle of the growing puddle. Raising my gaze, I find myself looking into the utterly stupefied face of Neville Longbottom, whose Praetereo charm appears to have been blown off along with his eyebrows. He is standing not three feet from where the cauldron had rested on the Bunsen burner, and he is, in fact, covered with bits of slime that are apparently as harmless as Jell-O.   Understanding dawns in a heartbeat. That's what Snape ran back to tell Dumbledore. That's why he's so smug. He knew that, if it came down to needing to nullify that potion, no one could do a better job of destroying it than Neville Longbottom, even without ever touching the cauldron.   Burning stars, he's a one-man chemical weapons defense squad.   Professor Snape's words are spoken as calmly as if they were standing in his classroom, and the satisfaction on his face is audible in his voice.   "Mr. Longbottom, yours is truly a magical gift- and we have seen proof of it today. You may melt a cauldron an hour for the rest of your life, and you will never hear another word of criticism from me on the matter." He nods to the young man, who cannot stop gawking, and then turns to face the Dark Lord.   The time has come. The rest of the wizards are now visible, wands out, faces determined. Dumbledore, Harry, Ron, Minerva, Sirius, Remus, and Severus form a tight circle around Voldemort. It takes him another few seconds to scrabble the rest of his robes into place and get to his feet; he is weak enough now that the velvet robes are too heavy for his frame.   "Come to gloat, have you, Albus? Come to beard the lion in his den when he's too weak to fight you properly? You're cowards, the lot of you!"   "No, Tom, just practical," says Albus tiredly. "You don't play by the rules. You make your own up- and now, so have we. No, it isn't fair- but as you've said yourself so many times, life isn't fair." He sighs sadly before he goes on.   "It wasn't fair when you killed my family." He turns to look at Sirius, whose voice is steady when he speaks.   "It wasn't fair when Wormtail framed me for the crimes he committed in your name."   Harry speaks next, his voice cool despite the rage in his eyes. "It wasn't fair when you killed my parents."   Ron's face is as red as his hair. "It wasn't fair when you used my sister and tried to kill her."   Minerva: "It wasn't fair when you killed Cedric Diggory to get to Harry."   Remus's tone is hard when he speaks; I've never heard him sound like this before. "And it certainly wasn't fair when you tortured hundreds and thousands of Muggles and wizards alike for your sport, your whim, and your wretched plans."   Severus is last, his voice as hard and cold as ice. "I wouldn't even know where to start, the list of injustices you have wrought against me and mine is so long. But it won't get any longer- I can promise you that." He is no longer smiling.   Neville's voice breaks in from beyond the circle, and he shoulders his way in, pointing his wand at Voldemort when he has a clear view.   "And it wasn't fair, what you did to my parents!"   Snape shoots him an approving glance, but Neville sees nothing- his mind is focused on a quiet hospital room far away, where his mother and father never see the sunrise that shines outside their window each morning.   And it's not fair what you did to Bertha Jorkins, and that little old man, and to the family of Muggles at the Quidditch World Cup, not fair what you did to poor Professor Quirrel, not fair that you tried so many times to kill Harry, and it's not fair what you did to me with that damn Basilisk, and it's not fair what you did to Moaning Myrtle and Nearly Headless Nick and Mrs. Norris and Colin Creevey and Penelope Clearwater, and it's not fair what you've done all along to Severus- My garbled litany of inner grief spills forth, and suddenly I want more than anything in the world to be there, with them, aiming my wand at the black pit where Voldemort's heart should be, cursing him with everything I can think of, sending him to the sort of oblivion that lies beyond black holes. My hands are clenched so tight on the locket that I think I can feel blood trickling between my fingers. I force myself to let it go, turning it again, twisting it in my anxiety.   Albus steps forward slightly, speaking once more.   "And now, it will be unfair when all of us work together to destroy you at your weakest. But that's just how the world is."   That's when the world suddenly swirls out of existence for a long moment, and a great wind blows through my mind and my bones and I wake with sudden startlement in near-darkness, my hands hurting and my breath long since gone. My arms are held immobile with red-hot needles of pain; something is clamping my upper arms in a tight grip. I struggle to adjust my vision, blinking rapidly-   I've never seen such horrid red eyes. They almost seem to glow in the slitlike sockets, harsh above a thin lipless mouth.   That mouth stretches in a brittle parody of a smile, and the foul stench of breath that washes over me nearly makes me faint. And that's when I realize….   This is real.   This is Lord Voldemort.       A/N: The Black Knight is, of course, from Monty Python's classic film Holy Grail, the real title of which is on the video cover downstairs, which is too far to go right now to double-check the whole thing. But you all know what it is. Praetereo is Latin for 'to ignore'. I have never taken formal Latin and only know what is in the Mass or my medical books, so forgive my lack of grammal cal correctness. Corrections accepted with the same eagerness I use to accept all other knowledge! Thanks so much to everyone who has reviewed- especially those of you who have checked back and kept reviewing as we go! I really appreciate the feedback, and knowing what you like makes it easier for me to write more of it! I've gone to check out lots of the pieces written by folks who've left reviews, and I've sent you some reviews of my own- it's always so much fun to get reviews from folks whose writing appeals to me. J   To the reviewer who noted that Hermione alternately thinks of our hero as Severus and Snape: You're quite right in your observation. She thinks of him as Severus in private moments, but thinks of him as Snape when he's doing public things. There's still a discrepancy in her view of the two men, and that's part of what she likes- he's Snape to everyone but her. She tends to think of him as Snape when he's not doing anything to tug on her heartstrings.