Soul Searching

Soul Searching Soul Searching By Quillusion   Chapter 9   I’ve never thought two weeks could make such a change in one’s perspective, but I have just proven myself wrong. Things are different.   The contents of that book have given me more to think about than the last year of my education at Hogwarts. I read it cover to cover that first night back, and have read it three times since.   The Author achieved hisl adl admirably, and I am surprised no one else has done with the information what I am hoping to do now. If it works, I could probably retire on the proceeds, should I pursue commercial applications.   You see, F. M. Scraulisk, the author of that book, has given me more than adequate proof that there is something to use besides the powdered essence of a stolen soul in the Cleve Potion, and possibly in others. If I never knew the soul could be extracted like so much caffeine from tea, then I certainly never guessed that it’s rechargeable.   But it is, and that’s what I’m going to try to do to replace the crystallized soul in the potion recipe. The most exciting part for me is that it looks like I’ll need the monoliths of the henge I can see from my window to make it work. The process of soul donation will need a source of power to draw the soul out and the strength to channel it where it is needed. The hengpearpears, now that I look at it this way, to be ideally designed for such a purpose, as it is positioned to draw on celestial energy as well as focus it- and it’s a two-way instrument, possessing the capacity to draw and focus the energy of a source within its circle. Rather like a prehistoric satellite dish, I think with a smile. I’ve never seen a use for the monoliths in any of my reading that makes use of this particular aspect of the stones’ configuration; usually they are used for making measurements and occasionally as an additional source of celestial information for arithmancic purs. As. A few numerologists have used them as well, and one or two of my colleagues at SCAI are working on using the henge as an adjunct to other, less precise methods of Divination.   The first realization that I might need to use the henge sent me, predictably, straight to the SCAI library for books. And I found them in spades. It seems that others have, in the distant past, considered the use of the henge for energy conduction, but have not had anything specific in mind upon which to test it; well of course not, they were reluctant to cross fields in their explorations. What use could an arithmancer have for channeling terrestrial energy? They looked to the stars for answers when standing on Salisbury plain.   I, however, am looking to Ron Weasley. Or will be, if this goes well. This idea dates back several centuries but appears to have fallen out of favor since the Muggle invention of electricity, which appears to have taken the place of sentient sources of energy in many of the experimental methods used back then. There is no record of whether that worked, but given the continued classification of the Cleve Potion as Dark, I am almost certain it didn’t. Still, I find a lot of information on how this would theoretically be done, and even one record of a successful transfer of energy fa via vigorous but untrained man to a fatigued but highly skilled fighter in the British Army in 1916. I snort; clearly the Ministry was collaborating with the Muggle government back then. They must have been irritated by the mess in Europe.   Within a week, my notes on the subject are extensive and almost what one could call comprehensive, and remarkably clear on what must be done. So much for my idea that no one else has tried this; well, I suppose they haven’t tried exactly this. At any rate, I’ve worked out the equations pertaining to the timing of the henge’s use for this purpose. It will require a willing donor of soul (the soul can recover fairly quickly, with the donor returning to full strength within a week or two, faster if it’s a full moon), good timing, and an amenable planet somewhere within the scope of the henge’s range. Oh, and the potion or incantation you’re trying to make with the soul. The henge’s job is merely to use celestial energy to extract soul energy from the subject, sitting on the small altar-like rock in the henge, and feed it to the potion, sitting at the foot of the Heel Stone outside the circle. The arrangement of rocks should admirably conduct the stuff without any loss of potency. I hope.   Gnawing my lip thoughtfully, I realize that I’m nervous about this. It’s a good idea, I know it is, but it’s also a little more than off the beaten path. It’s blending two branches of magic, which while seemingly obvious, isn’t all that commonly done; wizards do seem to have a preoccupation with purity that I find rather annoying from time to time.   Inspired by a sudden thought, I hop to my feet and put the book, my notes, and a fresh sheaf of parchment into a bag. Within a few minutes I have Apparated to the front gates of Hogwarts to find Professor Sinistra. She will give me an open-minded opinion of the matter, as well as constructive criticism. It is with a sour expression that I realize I never once thought of asking anyone at Salisbury; there’s no one there who will talk, let alone listen.   Professor Sinistra is in the Astronomy classroom, as expected; her last class for the day is over, and she is settling to grade papers. She looks positively thrilled at the idea of putting that task off, however, and gestures me to a seat beside her desk. She listens quite attentively to my theory.   "Well? I ask breathlessly when I’m done. "What do you think?"   She considers for a long time before she answers. "Controversial," she says then, but smiles. "But brilliant. Exactly what I’ve always expected from you. If this works, Severus will be delighted."   "Why?" I ask, curious.   "Why not?" she counters. "This would open up so many more potions to use, exploration, and experimentation. And it would pull so many others out of the classification of Dark magic. I know you’ve also shown an interest in Potions; it would be well worth your time to talk to Professor Snape about this once you’ve worked it out. Given his remarkable assets in that vein, the two of you could really knock the Potions world’s socks off, to borrow a Muggle expression."   It surprises me that I hadn’t thought of asking Snape’s opinion as well, especially given that I’ve already experienced some of what Professor Sinistra is suggesting. I nod, and proceed to scribble a few notes as she offers suggestions for the improvement of my theoretical process. I am delighted; no one in Amesbury seems either this interested or this mentally flexible, and I realize with a small start of guilt that I am looking forward to leaving SCAI, even though I’ve only been there for a few short months. I would far rather be back at Hogwarts.   Nearly an hour and a half goes by before I notice the time, and Sinistra laughs. "Join us for dinner," she suggests, and I accept with pleasure. The Hogwarts kitchens provide marvelous food, and I have to cook for myself at Salisbury. I’d be nuts to decline.   As a guest, I am no longer seated at my spot at the Gryffindor table. That’s odd, but what’s odder is the fact that I am seated at the staff table. Dumbledore comes to greet me, his eyes twinkling.   "Professor Sinistra says we are to expect something interesting from you in the near future, Miss Granger," he says with a smile. "Perhaps it will land you here at the staff table on a more permanent basis."   I feel my mouth drop open with wonder, and realize that- as usual- Dumbledore has laid his index finger neatly on the crux of the issue. More than anything, I want to be a Hogwarts teacher- or at least, I want to be anything that would let me come back here.   But what to do? Or teach?   Oh, never mind. It’s dinnertime, and I have a long time to think about my future plans. I sit in the chair that the Headmaster pulls out for me, and gratefully sip a glass of pumpkin juice.   The chair to my left is drawn back quietly, and an instant later, a much-longed-for voice murmurs,   "Good evening, Miss Granger. I had not realized you were back at Hogwarts."   I have been seated at the place to the right of Severus Snape’s usual seat, and I can’t help but think- looking at Dumbledore- that it was done deliberately.   Thank heaven for small favors.   I smile up at the Potions teacher, drinking in the sight of him. "Yes," I reply. "I had some questions for Professor Sinistra. I would also love to ask them of you, if you have the time; your classes were still running when I arrived, and I lost track of time in the Astronomy classroom, or I would have come to see you before now."   Exactly why I feel the need to apologize for not having come to him first is beyond me, but it must have been the right thing to say, because his expression is mild.   "Most of us forego the stars in favor of a watch, Miss Granger," he teases gently, and for the first time I realize that that’s exactly what it is: teasing. No acidic bite in his words, no harsh meanings buried in them. Just… friendly teasing.   With the sudden change in perspective, I really see him in a heartbeat, and it dawns on me that he looks far more pale, worried, and tired than usual. In that setting, the lack of vitriol has more the appearance of lack of energy, or- worse- resignation.   "Are you well, Professor?" I ask, and he slowly shakes his head.   "Not really," he says quietly. "You know how it is."   I do know. Voldemort.   "Unforgiva?" I?" I ask lightly, and he nods once, almost imperceptibly.   "How often?"   "Just about weekly," he says, as if reluctant to think about it. "I last went two nights ago. I can almost feel my hands again. He’ll call me again about one day after I’ve recovered. I think he knows who- what- I really am, and I don’t think I can do this much longer." One hand flicks to indicate his tall frame, and with horror, I understand that ‘this’ is not answering the Dark Lord’s compulsory summons145;145;this’ is living.   "Is there nothing anyone can do?" I ask, and he laughs once, harshly.   "No," he replies. "I can’t not answer the summons- if I don’t answer, the mark becomes more and more painful until it overrides my mental processes and forces me to Apparate, whether I want to or not. And the longer it takes me, the longer he spends providing reasons not to wait so long next time."   His mouth is a grim line, and my heart aches for him. In so much pain, and unable to tell anyone why- except for Albus Dumbledore, the greatest living wizard, and Hermione Granger, the least of all creatures in the magical world. And neither of us can stop what is happening before our very eyes: Voldemort is killing Severus Snape by inches.   Alarmed, I shoot a glance at Dumbledore. He is looking at us with a piercing expression, and when he meets my gaze, he seems to be telling me something I don’t quite understand. His eyes flick to the bookbag at my feet, and I feel a sudden, almost painful flash of insight.   The Cleve Potion is supposed to remove lingering effects of curses and those that reactivate after a time.   Curses like the Starling Countercurse… and the Dark Mark.   Oh, Hermione. You foolish girl. How could you not think of this?   "If I might claim a little of your time after dinner, Severus, I think that what I have to say might interest you a bit." I know I will have to go slowly with the idea; he is so conditioned to think that the mark is permanent and that it will eventually be the agent of his death- and that he deserves that death- that he might not accept the idea at all. I decide to start off with the basic theory as applied to increase production of the Cleve Potion, and if it works, then I can broach the subject later.   If there is a later. I resolve to work fast.   Snape is, in fact, impressed by my idea- a fact which is the more rewarding for the combination of his lack of praise during my school career, and his considerably greater appreciation of the Potions forces in operation in this case. He is almost excited, and my quill flies as quickly now as it did on Professor Sinistra’s desk. Snape is full of ideas and suggestions, and I write as fast as I can, cursing myself for forgetting the charmed quill that I made to take dictation from his voice in class. For a long time there is only the sound of his voice and the scritch of my quill, loud in the relative quiet of his quarters. He had led me here after dinner, frankly admitting that the idea of an evening in his office, after a day like he’d had today, made him nauseated. I, for one, am grateful; these chairs are far more comfortable than those in the Potions classroom or his office, and the desk is made for writing, not brewing Potions. It makes it far easier to write quickly.   At last I’ve got it all down, and as we lapse into exhausted silence, I lay the quill down and look up at him. He looks a little better, and I know that the diversion of the evening has done him some good. He’s too lonely by half, I think, and with a start realize that I could easily do something about that. I have the perfect reason, in the form of this project, to drag him out of his solitude on a regular basis, and beyond that, I have our previous agreement to meet again for lunch. I could kick myself for not realizing how important such small things can be to a man like Snape. Which is not to say that he will overcome his self-imposed isolation to get what he might need in the way of human interaction. For all I know, he will snap my head off at the very idea. My hesitance is not feigned when I frame my next question.   "Do you suppose you could help me when the time comes to test this?" I wave my hand at the pages of parchment before us. "I know Ron and Ginny would be willing to volunteer as the soul source- there’s no indication of any danger to them if this doesn’t work- and I can work the incantations on the henge. But someone will need to finish the potion, and as we’ve already established, I am not that skilled." I pause. "I can see that you’re exhausted, and I wouldn’t ask, except I think that the energy from the soul we extract will provide that last burst of energy that you had to provide the last time." Another pause. "To be honest, I think that you gave some of your own soul to the potion that night, in much the way that we’re going to try to do now. I wonder how you managed to do it."   Snape watches me, considering. "I think you’re right," he says slowly. "No one has ever worked out exactly what the function is of the incantation I used during the last step, but it always works. It’s supposed to provide the energy required for the last reaction, which has a very high activation energy. Circe knows I felt wiped out for three days afterward. That must have had something to do with it."   "I wonder can that charm be used on a third party?" I muse, and he shakes his head. " Not without rewording it considerably. And you have to be powerful to do it to yourself, let alone someone else. That would limit who could make it work."   I know he is a very powerful wizard, but to hear him admit as much- with no trace of arrogance or vanity- makes me worry for him even more.   Severus is quiet for a moment, and then sighs. "I will help you," he says.   I put my hand over his, thanking him silently. I hope you’re helping yourself in the process.   Suddenly, thanking him silently isn’t enough. I know he will brush off words, so I decide to thank him in a way I doubt anyone else has done, at least in a while. Standing, I move to a position behind his chair, settling my hands on his shoulders as I did the night we made the Cleve Potion. He starts, and I soothe him with my touch. He seems to relax more than a few notches, only to tense up again when I start a light massage.   "Severus," I chide gently. "You’re obviously in pain, and I know potions can do only so much for those tortured muscles of yours. Let someone take care of you for a change, won’t you? I think you’ll enjoy it."   He does relax then, wordlessly giving in to my ministrations. I do a thorough job, delighting in the sensation of the Potions master limp with enjoyment under my hands. He groans softly as I find a sore spot and work it out with my thumb, and when my fingers slide through his hair to caress and massage the muscles of his neck, he gasps out loud.   "Oh, yes, right there," he whispers harshly, and I comply, satisfied beyond all expectation at his acceptance of my caring. He arches into the massage like a cat, all restraint gone, and shifts in his chair to make it easier for me.   He does not resist when I lead him from the chair to his bed, and when I have him stretched out before me, I cannot stop a small "mmm" of appreciation. He doesn’t seem to hear me, which is just as well- I’m not sure how I would explain it. My hands splay out over his back now, and the warmth of his skin through his clothes makes me want to strip him naked to do this properly, with oil and candles and soft music, but I know the spell will be broken-metaphorically speaking- if I stop now. I settle for doing my level best to relieve his discomfort.   To my surprise, he sits up a little bit and fights to pull off the black robes he favors for teaching. My mind, blank for a second, reflects that he may prefer black for its excellent stain-disguising qualities. He skins out of his coat as well, and then there is nothing left between our skins but a white linen shirt. He winds the robe and coat around his forearm with an impatient circle of his arm, then tosses them aside. He stretches out again on his stomach, and I can almost feel him quiver with anticipation.   My fingertips move over the contours of his back leisurely, caressing and smoothing, and I smile to myself. Daringly, I murmur, "I don’t suppose I could convince you to lose another layer? It would make this easier."   He stills. Every line of his body suggests reluctance, but there is something in my coaxing that he can’t seem to resist. He half-turns to look at me, then thinks better of it. He shrugs his shirt over his head and throws it to the floor, seemingly afraid to see my face.   I can’t let his reluctance go unsoothed. "Nice," I say simply, letting my hands glide at last over skin I’ve never seen before. Pale and smooth, but crossed with what I cannot mistake for anything but what they are: scars. He’s had a rough life, it would seem; there are fine lines across most of his back.   And then I begin in earnest. I know I’m good at massages; I took a class one summer at the local hospital’s physical therapy department. It seemed like a good way to earn summer money, and I had, in fact, made a good bit of cash giving five minute massages at the pub near my parents’ office in London. Lunchtime for the 9 to 5 worker seems to have become the modern equivalent of a spiritual quest for peace, and a five minute massage appears to fit squarely into most people’s idea of peace.   Severus Snape, for once in his life, seems to have a great deal in common with the average Muggle worker. He groans with delight as my fingers dig gently into knotted sinews, his head falling to rest on his crossed forearms. He doesn’t say another word, his only sounds being soft cries and small grunts as he reacts to the pressures I apply. I’ve never heard him make these sounds, not even that night in the wardrobe; I never knew he could seem this vulnerable.   It’s glorious, and sexy as hell in a way I’ve never noticed before. It’s sexy to think of taking care of a strong man- not because he has become weak, but simply because he needs it on an emotional level. It’s alluring to think that he might take something more from my touch than just relief of pain.   I hope he’ll let me help him. Because I think I just might have the key to end this horrid cycle of pain.   I continue my massage, noticing with professional pleasure that he has quieted. Unless I miss my guess, he’s getting drowsy. I lighten my touch accordingly, letting my fingers gentle from professional massage to rather more personal caress- something I have never let myself do before- and after ten minutes have passed, he is asleep. Now I feel like preening: this man has a reputation for insomnia, and even I know it; to have lulled him thusly is no small accomplishment.   Although, if things have been as bad lately as I think they have been, I may not have reason to boast. He may be too exhausted to stay up without the added stimulus of pain.   Feeling my heart crack a little, I carefully draw the quilt up to cover him. I softly murmur a charm to remove his shoes, and another to douse the light. To scribble a quick note- Eleven thirty sharp on Saturday, the same as last time- is the work of only a moment. I leave it on his bedside table where he will find it, and carefully fish his wand out of his robes, settling the robes and coat neatly across the back of a chair. The wand I set on top of my note. I turn for one last look at his face, relaxed and unguarded in sleep; it is unlikely that anyone but Dumbledore has seen this man sleep in recent years.   He looks younger this way, less angry. The line between his brows is lessened, his mouth is fuller without the tension tightening it. One lock of dark hair feathers across his cheek, which has a faint hue of color as his body settles into the usual warm furnace-like state of sleep.   I simply cannot resist. Stealthily moving closer, I bend over to press a gentle kiss to his cheek. He stirs slightly, exhaling with what sounds like pleasure, and I withdraw, tiptoeing silently to the door, where I turn to look at him one last time before I take my leave.   Then, for the second time in my life, I stand in the shadows of his room, and hear my name fall from his lips in a soft, longing sigh.   bledbledore is waiting for me when I descend the last of the stairs to the main hall of the castle; he knows I must leave the gates before I can Apparate back to Salisbury. It’s odd to see him waiting for me; usually it is I- or more accurately, Harry, Ron, and I- who seek him out.   The Headmaster greets me with a hug, smiling at my flushed appearance.   "I see you have learned more skills than those taught here at Hogwarts," he says, and I feel flustered for no good reason.   "I’ve learned a great deal at Salisbury," I say, trying not to sound guarded.   "And elsewhere, it would seem." His eyes twinkle, and he adds, "Useful skill, that one. Severus has rarely had cause to believe that touch can cause anything but pain. I’m glad at least one person has shown him differently."   I stare at him, agog. "Do you know everything that goes on in this pile of stone?" I ask faintly.   "Not everything," he says modestly. "I don’t pry into personal matters. But I do make it a point to know the general goings- on. And I pay particular attention to Severus, who has not shown the best judgment when it comes to his own limits. I’ve had to take him to Poppy on more than one occasion, when he thought he could take care of himself after one of Voldemort’s little get-togethers." The Headmaster sighs, thankfully not watching my face as I panic at the thought that he may know exactly when I took the soul from Snape’s storeroom, and what I saw afterward. But if he does know, then there is no disapproval in his expression or voice when he speaks next.   "Severus has told me the details of the Cleve Potion which you, Mr. Weasley, and Professor Snape prepared for Mrs. Weasley. He felt it was necessary, given the use of one particular ingredient; he feels most strongly that this particular potion might be useful in the immediate future. His frustration over the Dark ingredients is palpable, and I think it has made his burden harder to bear. I would not be at all surprised to hear that he has considered committing suicide to produce enough soul to produce significant quantities of the potion. Thankfully, he has promised me not to do so, and he is a man of his word." He draws a long breath before going on.   "I know you and Professor Sinistra talked for a good long while this evening, Miss Granger. She gave me the briefest outline of your talk, as she thought your work may be useful to the greater cause. I know you also talked to Professor Snape about the same idea. While I am nowhere as well versed in Arithmancy and Astronomy as you are, I have a feeling that you may well be on to something. I think you caught my meaning at dinner, my dear; it would be wise to pursue this theory of yours swiftly. We may well have need of it before too much longer." His expression is sad for a moment, and I realize that while his words suggest he is referring to the coming war, he is thinking specifically of Severus.   "I see your point," I say soberly. "I will keep you posted on any developments, as well as Professors Snape and Sinistra. I will be owling Professor Vector as well, as she will not be back from her holiday for another two weeks." I pause. "Professor Snape has consented to help me with this project, as I lack the degree of control and power required for part of the process. I suspect he would not accept any help this potion might offer him, unless I could get him to accept it on the spur of the moment. I hope that having him there will make the difference."   Dumbledore smiles down at me, gently this time, with such an air of faith that I am at once reassured and shaken.   "Good night, Miss Granger. And sleep well tonight. I am sure you will not be the only one who does." Then he is gone, I don’t know where. Clearly, the Hogwarts staff still have some secrets, even from alumni.   I trot down to the gates, my notes stuffed into my bag, and snort with amusement as I consult my watch. It is one o’clock in the morning, and I know for a fact that I will be the freshest news in Salisbury for the rest of the quarter.   Well, I think to myself wickedly, at least if anyone asks, I can tell them with all honesty that I was running my hands over the gloriously naked body of a man.   Even if that doesn’t quite mean what I wish it did.   A/N: Many thanks to all who have reviewed and commented on the story- I appreciate it all! Thanks also to The White Knight for dinner at P.F. Chang’s and plot discussion, as well as being a very understanding and flexible beta with a great capacity for suspension of disbelief. For those of you who have read The Gift Horse, somehow, this Severus also needed a backrub. Amazing how different backrubs can be, isn’t it?