Augury & Ardor

Vignettes, Part II


“Look, Mum, look!” Sepharus called, his voice thick with laughter.


Hermione glanced up from her book, an anticipatory smile on her face. Instead of laughing, however, she gasped.


Twenty yards away from the blanket on which she sat, her son stood, one foot planted in the grass and the other on Harry’s neck. Sepharus’ wand was a threatening point to his extended arm, ending inches from Harry’s face.


At the look of horror on his mother’s face, Sepharus released a long, delighted laugh. “Lightning, supine, at my feet,” he recited, eyes opening dramatically. He turned his wild countenance on Harry and shouted maniacally, “Do you surrender, Potter?”


Harry let out a girlish squeal, covered his face as if overwhelmed by fear and nodded his head. Turning back to his mother, Sepharus struggled to keep his expression one of crazed bloodlust, but instead sputtered laughter as he finished, “The stag accepts his sound defeat.”


Severus walked out of their summer cottage, glanced at the tableau before him and remarked in a dry voice, “Congratulations, Sepharus; I’ve wanted to hex him for years.”


At his side, Ginny rolled her eyes at his ongoing charade of disliking her husband. It had been years since animosity had colored their relationship. “Come on, girls,” Ginny urged, gesturing impatiently at the line of children tumbling out of the Snape cottage.


The eldest Potter girl, at eight, herded the twin five-year-olds ahead of her while holding the hand of the three year old. Ginny reached out to Severus and retrieved the baby, shooting him an apologetic smile when she noticed the spit up on the shoulder of his coat.


“Thank Aunt Hermione and Uncle Severus for a lovely picnic,” Ginny prompted.


The redheaded gaggle raised a choir of soprano voices in goodbyes just as Cerridwen slipped out of the cottage.


She was only slightly taller than the eldest Potter girl, Maggie, but spindlier and longer of leg. She moved with a surprising, silent grace, almost seeming to glide as she wound through the group. Sidling up to Maggie, she pressed a small jar into her hand.


“For your freckles,” she whispered. A ghost of a smile hovered on her lips at Maggie’s pleased gasp. Fixing her friend with a sharp gaze, she added, “Remember -- in return, I want that fire opal you found when you were on holiday.”


“If this works,” Maggie answered, her excitement temporarily tamped down at the reminder of the bargain they’d struck.


The black haired girl lifted one dark eyebrow, her lips curling in perfect imitation of her father’s. “Of course it will work,” she replied coolly, “but I’ll wait until you’re satisfied with the results before collecting payment.”


“What do you want with the opal, anyway?” Maggie asked. “It’s not as if it’s set. You can’t wear it.”


“Wear it,” Cerridwen snorted in derision, “why would I want to wear it? I want to grind it down to powder.”


Maggie’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Why would you take something so beautiful and destroy it?”


“Cerridwen,” Hermione called, holding a hand out to her daughter. “There you are! You missed a lovely picnic on a beautiful day.”


The girl’s pale, serious face and dark brown eyes softened under her mother’s gaze. With a hissing whisper of, “It’s a valuable potion component and it’s for a birthday present so keep it to yourself,” she glided over to the blanket where her mother sat. “I wasn’t hungry,” she explained. Eyes closed in pleasure, she leaned in to her mother’s stroking caress of her hair.


“Just like your father’s,” Hermione clucked, although her tone sounded indulgent rather than dismayed. “Have you tried the shampoo I made him?”


“It smells of rosemary,” she answered, wrinkling her nose.


“Yes, well, that’s one of its main components,” Hermione said, pressing a kiss to her daughter’s head. “Remember our talk on rosemary?”


“Yes, Mum.” The girl leaned her head against her mother’s shoulder and watched as her brother gave the twins a ride on his shoulders. “It acts as an astringent.”


“And . . . ?” Hermione prompted.


“An antibiotic, an expectorant . . .”


“As well as a carminative,” Hermione prompted, grinning when her daughter giggled a little. Tipping Cerridwen’s chin back, she searched her face. “Do you know what I want for my birthday? The sound of your and your father’s laughs tied up with ribbon so I can carry them in my pocket. They’re both as rare as a Crumple-horned Snorkack sighting.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


The hallways were full as classes changed, but Cerridwen wasn’t once jostled. Sidestepping elbows and shoulders, she glided down the hallway, her books held protectively to her chest.


“Was it just me or did anyone else have a hard time concentrating?” A tall, handsome seventh year grinned, setting his Advanced Potions book to spinning on the tip of his finger with a flick of his wand. “Potions is my favorite class. I especially like when Professor Snape forgets to fasten the top button on her robes and she leans over your cauldron . . .” The boy groaned as if being tortured. “She helped me clarify some gillyweed paste today when I pretended I wasn’t sure how, and her tit was rubbing against my shoulder for a full thirty seconds. I swear I almost came in my britches. I’m sporting a tent in my trousers still. . .”


“Who do you have next?” an auburn-haired boy asked, clearly amused. “Best go have a wank if it’s Professor McGonagall or looking at her prune face may collapse that tent forever.”


“I’ve got Defense Against the Dark Arts,” the first boy answered in disgust. “Just thinking about that creepy git is like ice to the balls.” He caught his Potions book in mid spin and grimaced. “How she can sleep with that man every night?”


“Maybe she Obliviates herself in the morning,” another friend offered on a chuckle.


“Snape is a disgusting bastard,” the first boy spat, clearly working himself up. “I feel sorry for her.”


“Yeah,” the auburn-haired friend laughed, “bet you’d like to comfort her, eh?”


“I hear she’s begged to be released from the marriage for years, but that greasy son of a Dementor found some ancient wizarding law that makes it impossible for her to get free,” the first boy muttered, swept up in a fantasy that involved him rescuing a grateful Professor Snape from her hateful husband. “I’ll bet she cries herself to sleep every night.” Realizing his voice had come out soft and caring, he puffed up his chest and added, “If she were mine, I’d make her cry, but it’d be ‘Oh, yes, Charles! More!’.”


Cerridwen, jaw clenched and brown eyes snapping, hooked her foot around the boy’s ankle and yanked, unable to stand it any longer. He went down with a squawk of surprise, books and papers flying out in every direction. All traffic in the hallway ground to a quick and complete halt as he pushed to his feet and wiped dust from his robes. He and the younger witch squared off.


The boy stared into Cerridwen’s pale, furious face, clearly gobsmacked at her audacity. “Are you insane you stupid, little girl?”


“I’m neither insane nor stupid,” Cerridwen replied coolly, pulling her wand from her robes. “Now, you’ll take back what you said about my parents or I’ll hex you all the way to the Hospital Wing.”


The boy studied the black-haired witch with a startled look. He’d known the Professors Snape had a third year son –great kid and a natural Quidditch player – but he hadn’t known they had a girl. Giving her a quick once-over, he released a snort of laughter, “You’ve got more courage than sense, challenging a seventh year.”


“Take back what you said,” she repeated, pointing her wand at him.


“The part where I called your greasy father a git or a disgusting, spying snake?” he sneered, smiling at the encouraging laughter from the crowd.


“Cerridwen!” Her father’s voice cut through the excited chatter in the hallway like a knife, leaving nothing but silence in its wake. It also halted the hex Cerridwen was in the midst of casting and, to her chagrin, the magic she’d begun to develop fizzled out and dissipated.


“Mr. Brannock,” Professor Snape snapped, his eyes sliding from his daughter’s to gaze at the boy with cool derision. “Fifteen points from Gryffindor for littering the hall with that rubbish you call schoolwork. Clean it up immediately and proceed to my classroom. If you’re late, you’ll not only have another ten inches added to your essay on The Physiology of Dementors, you’ll suffer a very unpleasant detention, cleaning out the grindylow tank without benefit of a wand.”


Lifting one eyebrow, he surveyed the rest of the crowd, which was still standing about staring. “Gryffindor is not the only house from which I enjoy revoking points. Get to class!” He laid a restraining hand on Cerridwen’s shoulder as the rest of the children scurried off. Once they were alone, he turned her toward him.


“Bat-Bogey Hex?” he asked.


She flushed slightly. “I was too angry to think of anything else.”


“It has its merits,” he replied with a shrug before studying her face and releasing a sigh. “You’re going to have to inure yourself to it, Cerridwen. You’re only in the first term of your first year and already you’re allowing them to bait you. Have you forgotten our talk?”


To his surprise and delight, she threw her arms around his waist, hugging him fiercely. “They all hate you and you’re not anything like they say!” she said in a muffled rush against his chest. “I’ve spent weeks listening to people whisper the most hideous things about you and ignored it, but I can’t anymore.”


Her display of affection was nothing compared to the shock at hearing tears in her voice. It seemed his little viper wasn’t as cold-blooded as she made out. Although the move from their dungeon rooms to Slytherin House was an inconsequential distance, she was feeling the separation more keenly than Sepharus ever had when he’d made the move to Gryffindor’s tower. Gently, he stroked a hand over her lank, black hair, his mouth curling at the familiar feel of its consistency.


“You not only can, you will,” he replied firmly. When she lifted her dark eyes to his, they not only swam with unshed tears, but outrage. Raising his eyebrows to forestall her argument, he continued, “What good are a thousand hexes if they never change opinion? Why waste energy on a futile endeavor?”


“To shut their mouths,” she replied coldly.


“For how long?” He saw slow realization enter her eyes and the cold anger that followed. She tried to step back, but Severus held her fast, cupping her cheek in his hand. “Your mother is right when she says you and I are alike.” A look of profound surprise mixed with reluctant pleasure swept her face before she shuttered her expression.


“Unlike me, however, you have a choice to make Hogwarts more than merely a place to obtain knowledge. If you don’t insulate yourself from others, you’ll make friends here who will last your lifetime. It’s not just your Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny who’ve been your mother’s friends since her school days. All the people your mother has to visit during holidays – the Longbottoms, the Finch-Fletchley’s, the Jordans, the Thomas’ – they are contacts she made here, starting from her first year.”


“But Mum didn’t have the entire school saying revolting things about her parents,” Cerridwen muttered.


“A portion of the students reviled her for being a Mudblood --” He nodded at Cerridwen’s sharp gasp. “Yes, a nasty slur she had to endure for years. Having Muggle parents certainly didn’t make her time here easier . . .” He studied his daughter’s thin features, hoping he was reaching her. “Despite that and her reputation as a bossy Know-it-All, your mother had a group of friends to support her. And why? Because she persevered despite meeting prejudice and meanness of spirit from some students – because she didn’t rebuff everyone, she ultimately found people who were worthy of her trust.”


“Even in your house – even in Slytherin -- there are those who dislike you,” Cerridwen stressed, voicing her frustrations.


“I’m not surprised,” he replied with a sardonic smile. “There are many families whose children are in our house who secretly had ties to Voldemort. To them, I’m a traitor.”


“It’s easiest to ignore them,” Cerridwen breathed out in disgust, “it’s the ones who insist on believing you were loyal to him despite what Professor Dumbledore and Uncle Harry say . . .”


“Those who are determined to think the worst of me are those who so little deserve your attention. There are a few attending, however, who will ignore rumor and form their own judgment. Frank Longbottom, for example, would benefit from your friendship; he’s as pathetically inept at Defense Against the Dark Arts as his father was at Potions.”


“He’s odd,” Cerridwen answered, but a small smile skirted her lips. “He mumbles to himself a lot and thinks the Ministry is allowing the illegal trapping of Kneazles in Scotland for black market slippers.”


“I wouldn’t put anything past the Ministry, these days,” Severus replied. He curled his lip as if the air in the hall had turned noxious. “Since Voldemort’s fall, it’s riddled with corruption and as full of dark witches and wizards as a Death Eater’s convention.” He shook his head as if to dislodge those thoughts and fixed her with his steady black gaze. “Longbottom may be odd, but I’d wager he won’t judge you based on your parentage. No friend is going to be perfect. Look at Maggie Potter; the two of you squabble as often as not, but you still enjoy her company.”


“It isn’t just you they talk about.” Cerridwen frowned, dropping her eyes. “The boys are always on about Mum.”


Her father was silent so long she finally lifted her eyes to look at him. His face was unreadable but his eyes glittered in a way that made her shiver. When he spoke, his voice was even. “Your mother grows lovelier every year. I’d be surprised if hormonal schoolboys didn’t ‘go on about her’.”


When Cerridwen opened her mouth to speak, he answered as if reading her mind. “Refrain from repeating what you’ve heard. I know what they say. Your mother needn’t prove her love for us to anyone but us. Public displays for the benefit of others will not be forthcoming, if that’s what you were hoping for.” Once again, he ignored her intake of breath and spoke before she could. “Even if I were amenable to catering to gossiping cretins, it would solve nothing. It would be rumored I had her under spells or dosed with potions. People believe what they wish to believe despite evidence otherwise.”


Gazing down the length of his long nose, he fixed her with his black eyes. “Sepharus is his mother’s son – a Gryffindor through and through -- but you, little viper, are my daughter. You’ll suffer these slings and darts while acting as though they’re beneath your notice. Make use of your intelligence and razor wit to verbally filet them, find ways, large or small, to make them rue their flapping tongues, but do not openly hex anyone. Act, in short, as a true Slytherin acts: not cowing to anyone, but retaining your dignity while using cunning, stealth, perseverance, ambition and intelligence in your battle with them.”


“Yes, Father,” Cerridwen answered obediently.


Before releasing her, he gave her one long, probing look. “You know that I’m proud of you, I hope.”


She flushed, unable to hide her pleasure, but merely nodded.


“Not only that, but I also adore you, little viper,” he said, fighting back a smile when she hugged him again with a fierceness that spoke volumes. “Now, hurry to class before you have points docked from Slytherin.”


He watched her hurry off, her black robes swirling around her, and allowed himself a moment to regain his composure before turning to sweep off in the opposite direction. A smile curled his lips as he anticipated teaching the class awaiting him. It would suit his mood to make Charles Brannock squirm.


A second year straggler cowered against the wall as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor bore down on him, his eyes like black ice and a cruel smile curling his lips. The boy released a trembling sigh and scurried off in relief when Professor Snape passed him by in a rush of black robes and cold air. “Five points from Ravenclaw for scuttling about the hallways like a rat when you should be in class,” the professor’s voice floated back to him and he jerked as if pinched before hurrying to put more distance between himself and Hogwarts’ most intimidating teacher.


Two weeks later, Severus watched as his seventh-year Defense Against the Dark Arts class took their seats. He raised an eyebrow as Charles Brannock quickly took his seat and bowed his head over his book. The boy’s face was flushed bright red, making the spots on his forehead stand out white in stark relief.


“Mr. Brannock,” he called, once the classroom had settled. “Come stand before the class and recite, alphabetically, the list of dark creatures we’ve been studying, cataloguing their genus, country of origin and diet.”


When the boy walked toward him, Severus did nothing to hide his smirk. It had taken two weeks, but Cerridwen had wrought her revenge. Spelled out on the boy’s forehead in virulent spots was the word “perv” in capital letters.


“Advertising, are you?” he asked in derision. “How . . .charming. Chin up, Brannock, so the class can hear you. Perfect. Begin.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


“What’s the world coming to when a Slytherin’s allowed in the Gryffindor common room?” Two girls passed the small group seated around the fire and cast scathing looks in that direction.


“What sort of way is that to act?” a swarthy boy called after them, turning his eyes and smile back on the Slytherin girl seated across from him. “I’m for a bit of House ambassadorship, myself. What say you and I work a special truce between Slytherin and Gryffindor over a few butterbeers at Honeydukes this weekend?”


“Go on, Dmitre,” Sepharus laughed, clouting the boy’s shoulder. “Quit teasing my sister.”


“I’m far from teasing,” Dmitre replied, grinning as the ebony-haired witch across from him flushed. “Your sister is thoroughly fascinating.”


Sepharus glanced over at Cerridwen, took note of the pink in her cheeks and wondered if his friend realized he was moments away from being hexed. “Nevertheless, my sister is only fourth year and we’re seventh.”


“No, you’re seventh,” Dmitre reminded him. “The rest of us mental midgets weren’t offered accelerated courses last year and will graduate on schedule – next year.” He flashed his white teeth at Cerridwen again. “There’s a drink in my homeland called ouzo. You remind me of this liqueur, Calliope. It tastes of anise . . . like black licorice, but not so sweet. It’s strong and unless enjoyed slowly, makes a man as weak as a lamb.”


“My name isn’t Calliope.” Cerridwen’s voice was like a cold blast of icy air between them.


Instead of being chastened, Dmitre smiled wider. “Calliope is the Greek form of your Welsh name – a name that translates loosely to ‘beautiful one’. In both languages, she represents inspiration. In Greece, she’s merely a Muse, whereas in Wales she’s a goddess. I tend to think the Welsh were more enlightened in this instance . . .”


Cerridwen seethed with anger, sure she was being mocked. She’d matured over the past few years, however, and had learned to reign in her temper and hide her emotions behind a cool façade. Ignoring her brother’s buffoon of a friend, she turned her temper on her brother. “Haven’t you finished yet?”


“Nearly. Why such a rush?” Sepharus asked, still frowning a bit over his friend’s odd behavior.


“Because an accounting of what took place is important,” Cerridwen snapped, her voice tart.


“There have been dozens of books written on the subject. The years before Voldemort was finally killed have been thoroughly covered for posterity.”


“Yes.” The word was an impatient hiss. “But none with first hand accountings from so many key players in his defeat. Do you think Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall, Uncle Harry and especially Mum and Father would have spoken to anyone else on the subject? Plus, in the end, you were the reason he died, Seph. People will stand in line to buy this book.”


“I’m not interested in money . . .”


“Obviously,” Cerridwen replied, rolling her eyes. “The titles of the articles you’ve had published are testimony to that: ‘Sociological Implications Illustrated in Pureblood Mania: Why Voldemort Rose to Power’ and ‘Statistical Anomalies in Prophecies When Related to Both Advanced Arithmancy and Divination’.” She mimed a delicate shiver. “Enthralling.” Raising an eyebrow, she concluded, “If you’re an academic.” Leaning forward, she fixed her brother with a glittering gaze. “You have a talent, Seph. When you write, people pay attention. You sway popular opinion.”


“It’s true. You’re disgustingly charming in person, but your writing is remarkably persuasive. The man is part Veela; everyone says so,” Dmitre interjected, only to hold up an apologetic hand and fall silent at Cerridwen’s dark look.


“Cerri,” Sepharus began, unconsciously using his nickname for her as he deliberated his words, “this isn’t about trying to change public opinion of Dad, is it?” He searched her eyes. “Because you know how he feels about that.”


“It’s not about that,” she argued. “It’s about the Ministry, its towering ego, the abuse of power and how they facilitated Voldemort’s rise. Voldemort was tidily disposed of, but the Ministry is a walking corpse, stinking up Wizarding England. All it would take is one powerful dark wizard and enough exiled Death Eaters to support him -- or her -- and we’d be in serious trouble. You heard what Aunt Ginny and Uncle Harry say about the state the Ministry is in and how they’re swimming against a dark tide. Think what changes your book might incite.”


Despite her impassioned speech, Sepharus continued to study her skeptically. With a sharp exhale, she rose from her chair and sat beside him on the sofa. “Would it hurt if, in the process, you exonerated Father?” she asked softly, resting her hand on his. “Yes, dozens of books have been written, but in every one, the author’s opinion of him has colored the story and kept him a shadowy, ambiguous figure. Damn it, Seph! I don’t know about you, but I’m sick to death of hearing him disparaged.”


“You won’t rest until this is done, will you?” Sepharus asked, smiling fondly at his sister.


“If I could write the stupid thing myself, I would. My effort would hardly earn an Acceptable in History of Magic, however, whereas yours will dazzle anyone who reads it.” Cerridwen’s pale features softened as his hand turned to clasp hers. “Please, Seph. This is important. Not just to me regarding Father, but also in shaking people up and holding a lantern up to the darkness that’s infiltrated the Ministry. Perhaps your words might sway people enough to make a change.”


“It’s all but done. I promise to have it edited and ready for submission by Christmas,” Sepharus promised, smiling at her pleased look.


“Speaking of Christmas,” Dmitre segued smoothly, “I, like you and your brother, will be at Hogwarts for the holiday. Did you know that the tradition of kissing under mistletoe began in Greece? A young woman standing under it can’t refused to be kissed you realize . . . ”


“Inform your friend I don’t suffer fools kindly,” Cerridwen said to her brother before rising to her feet, “and that he’ll find his tongue hexed to the roof his mouth if he doesn’t stop flapping it at me.”


As she swirled from the room in a cloud of black fabric, Dimitre watched her go with a pleased smile on his face. Then, he closed his eyes, tilted his head back and inhaled deeply. “Almonds and ginger,” he sighed before spinning to grin at Sepharus. “I think I’m in love with your sister.”


“She’s not joking, you know. She’ll hex you if you don’t stop teasing her.”


“Teasing?” the swarthy boy exclaimed. “I couldn’t be more serious. Where have you been hiding her?”


Unsure how to deal with this new development, Sepharus merely frowned and answered truthfully. “I haven’t been hiding anything. She’s a Slytherin, in case you haven’t noticed, and lives in the dungeons. She spends her free time dabbling with Potions down there or searching for potions components on the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest.”


“You allow her to go near the Forbidden Forest?” Dmitre’s voice was full of censure. “It’s dangerous and she’s delicate . . .”


Sepharus glanced over at Frank Longbottom, who’d been sitting there silently since the beginning, and smirked. “Do you hear that? She’s delicate.” Rather than laughing, Frank looked far from amused. “C’mon, Frank; you’re her best friend, you have to admit that’s funn--” He watched in surprise as Frank shot to his feet and stormed out the portrait of the Fat Lady to disappear. “What’s wrong with everyone tonight?”


While his friend waxed poetic about his sister’s raven hair and ruby lips, Sepharus sat shaking his head. Then, finally tiring of the Greek boy’s rhapsodizing, he went up to the dormitory, pulled out the manuscript Cerridwen was pushing him to complete and began making revisions.