Soul Searching

Soul Searching Soul Searching by Quillusion Chapter 4   Classes are thankfully at their lowest level of activity right now. I have Arithmancy followed by Advanced Runic Studies in the morning, and the afternoon is double Potions with Slytherin- as always.   Dumbledore must be a sociologist in disguise, to constantly assign us to the same class year after year. He must want to learn all there is to know about petty adolescent power struggles, hate, angst, and general unpleasantness in the ranks. I know better than to second-guess Dumbledore, but I can't help thinking he has ulterior motives. I don't, however, feel up to contemplating what they might be.   I slide into my desk in Potions class, pleasantly surprised to hear that today we will be discussing wand augmentation. This is good news, as it is the wand work in the potion I am secretly brewing that unnerves me the most. Ron sends me a significant glance, which I meet with placid composure. He shoots me a glance with wider eyes, and I arch a single eyebrow in an affectation of nonchalance. Ron's a brave fellow, clever when he puts forth some effort, and he's loyal and selfless in a lot of ways- but he isn't cut out for subterfuge. He catches my meaning after a second, and immediately returns to scribbling notes.   Snape is at the front of the classroom, as always, leaning on the ancient clerk's desk that serves as a podium in his classes. His soft, hypnotic voice draws us all in- no matter what we think of him personally, he is a very compelling speaker- and I feel as if the knowledge I need is slowly seeping into my brain, like one of the Potion Master's potions steg ing into the bloodstream to serve its purpose.   "The use of wands in potion-making in general is controversial, but there are some potions for which it is unquestionably required. No course in Potions would be complete without at least some mention of the subject, and as impending graduation will soon bless me with your removal from this school and my class forever , I suddenly feel that I could handle anything. Even trying to teach you this most difficult and subtle form of potions-brewing." He pauses to study the class with a jaundiced eye. "I am well aware that most of lacklack either the interest or the intelligence to proceed much further than you already have in this particular field, but I would suggest paying attention anyway. The consequences of incorrect wand use around a cauldron are rather... entertaining." His smile is not pleasant.   I manage to get all the way through the lecture without letting my mind stray to last night's adventure, but as we are collecting ingredients for the potion to be brewed for the second half of class, I can't keep the thought away any more. Snape has asked one half of each lab pair to come to the storeroom door for their ingredients, as the potion requires sawgrass- which is sharp to handle without gloves- and he does not trust anyone to hand it out while walking through the classroom. I am last in line, for our table is farthest from the storeroom door.   The student in front of me is at the front of the line when the apothecary's jar of sawgrass is emptied. Snape's mouth twitches with what might be the closest he comes to public amusement, and he reaches up onto a rack at the back of the top shelf. My eyes are trained on his smooth, fair hands as one of them braces him against the shelf, the other deftly plucks a tall corked test tube out of the rack. Snape is too sensible to break the seal on a large jar, when a small one will do; I am not surprised.   But seeing his grip on the smooth column of glass reminds me of the last time I saw him cradle something in his hand that way, and my cheeks flush more than a little. How ridiculous of me- and how perverse. I am grateful that the heat fades from my face before I am standing in front of him, my own test tube held up for the long, sharp grass blade.   He starts a little when he sees me, and I am hard-pressed to keep my dutiful Gryffindor mask in place when he, too, flushes a little. He says nothing, merely gives me two of the foot- long blades of grass by lifting them with a pair of bayonet forceps and sliding their wide bases down to wedge in the bottom of the test tube in my hand.   It is not until I sit down that I realize just what it is about that action that caught in his memory and brought the color to his face. I am not the only one whose mind is in the gutter today. How odd that we should each be imagining a test tube as a substitute for some part of the opposite sex.   There's a Freudian theory there somewhere, but I haven't the patience, or the steadiness of nerve, to contemplate it at the moment.   Somehow I manage to brew the potion, and when the class is ready, Snape catches everyone's attention with a phrase no one has heard him use before.   "Wands, please, ladies and gentlemen."   It takes a second for everyone to remember that they were, in fact, told to bring wands to this particular class. We produce our wands, intensely curious as to what will happen next, and turn our faces toward our teacher.   He is still standing in his usual manner, arms crossed over his chest, robes furled like the wings of a bat. No sign of a wand.   "There is a trick to the use of wands in potion-making," he says quietly, "that differs slightly from what is done in Transfiguration or Charms. Flitwick has taught you the swish-flick manoeuvre which he favors; Lockhart-" here his voice grows scornful- "has more than sufficiently demonstrated how not to hold a wand when dueling." He does not smile when the class laughs a little; his is not a teaching style that encourages humor.   "It is important to remember that, when using the wand in the course of potion-making, your 'wand arm' is to be used to add ingredients. This ensures the appropriate activation of the magical properties of the ingredients. Your wand, therefore," he said, "must be held ready in the other hand, and switched into your wand hand as soon as you need it. There are some potions whose production requires stirring of the potion with the wand-arm at the time of incantation, in which case you must use your wand with your non-wand arm. It can be awkward, but cultivating the ability to use your wand with your non-dominant arm can be valuable- and in some cases, life-saving." There is a flash of something in his face, and I am suddenly certain that Severus Snape knows how to hex with his left and right hands equally.   He's ambihextrous, I think to myself, and smother a giggle.   "Last but not least, do keep in mind that some potions will require a pair of hands to add ingredients, and a pair of hands to do the wand work. This is particularly true of the most difficult and powerful potions, and is largely due to the requirement for the magical activation of the ingredients as well as the strength of wand-arm magic to create the incantation around the cauldron."   Am I imagining it, or is Snape looking at me, now?   I'm not. He's pinning me with a scrutinizing look; it isn't antagonizing or accusatory, but rather... suggestive? It's as if he knows what I'm getting out of this lesson, and he's telling me- I must hthisthis wrong. Telling me to make sure I do it right?   I can't have it wrong. As we start to use wands and ingredients together, Snape moves through the class, as silent and malevolent as ever, but markedly restrained. He has no harsh words for Harry or Ron today, and barely even looks at Neville. His only comment, besides the necessary correction of mistakes in progress, is to me.   He pauses at my side as I move my wand through the intricate pattern prescribed in the textbook, and surprises me by stopping my hand. The whole class stares as he removes my wand from my grip and refits it, nestling the butt of the wand into the palm side of my fingers and angling it downward, more as one would use a pencil than a piece of chalk- but more in the palm than a pencil. I fleetingly remember John Williams: a conductor holds a baton much as Snape is showing me how to hold my wand.   "It works better this way," he said. "The cauldron is below you- if you hold it the other way, half the magic leaks to the ceiling. Miss Granger-"   And here his voice drops. "There are some ingredients too precious to be wasted on an 'attempt' at something you do not know how to properly do."   My eyes snap to his, and I can see that he knows about the soul. I don't know how- perhaps I made a mistake on wardwards, or perhaps he has some sort of alarm rigged to the bottles of questionable or valuable ingredients in the store room. Whatever the reason, he knows what I've taken.   And the only conclusion I can draw from his attitude- as unthinkable as this is- is that he does not disapprove.   I don't know why I care, but I do. Perhaps it is merely because I am suddenly, knee-weakeningly relieved that I might not have to do this alone. I begin to think that Snape is offering his assistance to me, though I'm not sure why; after what I saw last nigI haI have the niggling fear that he may be planning on using what he knows to proposition me, or blackmail me into a most inappropriate relationship.   But none of that matters at the moment, because Molly Weasley will die if she does not get this potion- and that is worth any price.   Snape moves on through the classroom, and the moment is gone. I mechanically finish the rest of the assignment, relieved to see that it worked, and then Neville makes a huge mess by knocking our cauldron over.   I sigh, resigned to mopping up the mess- Snape never lets us use our wands to clean up our mistakes- and start for the broom closet where the mop and bucket live.   Snape, however, stops me.   "Miss Granger."   "Yes, Professor?" I say, turning to face him.   "Let Mr. Longbottom clean up his own mess for once." There is bite in his voice, but it is not aimed at me, so I let it roll off my back. I return to my seat, and am shocked when Snape comes over and takes Neville's wand off the tabletop. He hands it to the boy and snaps,   "Let's see if you can clean this up using magical means. At this point I'm willing to take any sort of proof whatsoever that you aren't a squib, Mr. Longbottom. Your parents would be glad to know- on whatever level they are able to know things- that you have even a modicum of their talent, I'm sure."   Neville blanches, but obediently takes the wand from Snape and points it at the mess. His hands and voice tremble, and I discreetly crossfingfingers behind my back. If he messes this up, Snape will most li nev never let him use a wand again without a snide remark.   "Solutio," he says, and the mess immediately dissolves and congeals in mid air, clinging to itself. Neville scurries across the room to the sink, dragging the hovering mess with him, and manages- barely- to get it all into the sink, though not without a small tidal wave of goo washing back up along the sides and onto the backsplash.   "Thank you, Mr. Longbottom," says Snape drily, and waves him out the door. A quick flick of his own wand sets the rest of the mess to rights, and he sighs.   Then he turns to me.   "I believe you have been caught red-handed," he says quietly.   I look at my hands, and frown.   "It's a Muggle expression, girl, but it's not what you think." He smiles- not his usual nasty smile, but something closer to what I saw last night. He takes out his wand and mutters a soft word over my hands, and they glow blue, like ultraviolet light on a white tee shirt.   "Well... red-handed is perhaps a shade inaccurate." His words are wry.   I am mute with horror. He will certainly have me expelled...   "I would like to discuss this with you this evening, Miss Granger. I trust we can handle this as a matter between adults?"   I start, and he must realize how that came out, because he frowns and shakes his head. "Idiot girl, I'm trying to avoid having to tell the Headmaster that the Head Girl has committed theft. I ward the more valuable things in the storeroom against just such occasions; the spell marks the thief, as you have seen, unless they know how to counteract the charm. One word was all I needed to find out who had touched the bottle. " His expression is unreadable as he studies me over his crossed arms. His voice is calculating when he says,   "You, Miss Granger, happen to have taken possibly the most priceless item in the lot. Selective of you."   I start to stammer out some sort of reply, and he holds his hand up.   "I am well aware that a Gryffindor would only stoop to such Slytherin tactics-" here his lip twists in irony- "for a good cause. Given what you have taken, it must be a very good cause indeed in your mind. I can only assume you are using it in potion form, as there are hardly any other forms in which it can be used, save Divination- and I expect the entire school knows what you think of that." His derisive tone as he says "Divination" suggests to me that I am not the only detractor Sybil Trelawney has.   "Consequently, I am offering to hear what your cause is. If I agree that it is indeed worthy of the price someone had to pay for what you stole, I will help you complete the potion, as I doubt you will be able to do it alone- and I will not see this stuff wasted." He frowns a little more at me. "I trust you were not planning on conscripting Weasley or Potter to assist?"   I shake my head, dumb with shock, and he goes on.   "If I do not agree, I will ask for what you stole to be returned, and you will serve a detention with me every night for a week- unannounced to the world, out of concern for your credibility as Head Girl. Do you agree to the bargain?"   I am shocked. When I heard him say that this would be a matter between adults, I really thought he would ask for something a bit more illicit. But I can't turn down this opportunity to have someone of Snape's skill and expertise help me finish the potion that is Molly's only chance at living. So I nod.   He jerks his head in return, and turns to his desk to grade papers. "Until tonight at eight o'clock," he says, and I take my books and flee.   Why am I disappointed that he didn't want more from me than that for which he has asked? A/N: Fasten your seatbelts.