Without Enchantment

For last year's words belong to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice.
But, as the passage now presents no hindrance
To the spirit unappeased and peregrine
Between two worlds become much like each other,
So I find words I never thought to speak
In streets I never thought I should revisit
When I left my body on a distant shore.

It wasn't quite a dungeon, but the basement laboratory, its stone walls painted a creamy white, made Snape feel at home. Sorting out what the equipment was for took him a frustrating quarter of an hour, and some of it remained a mystery, but he soon had a makeshift potion-making apparatus set up, and was ready to begin the search for ingredients.

Spider webs were to be found in abundance in the less frequently cleaned portions of Vorkosigan House's basement, and Mark emerged dusty and triumphant with a handful of them. Fenugreek seeds and liquorice were available from Ma Kosti's kitchen, and Pym displayed a surprisingly detailed knowledge of the weeds that infested an unused corner of the property, producing a few leaves of what was undeniably comfrey. Even the family cat, Zap, and her kittens were called into action, showing their talents by catching several mice from which Snape cut the livers, throwing the rest back to the deserving felines. He was about to send Mark out to the garden with a net after May beetles, if they even existed on Barrayar, but when Mark read the next line in Snape's hastily penned recipe, he dived for the desk in the corner instead, and turned on the comconsole (as Snape had learned to call the device). A moment later, he looked up.

"I thought so," he said proudly. "Do you think it has to be one hundred percent May beetle, Severus? Would a little cockroach and other things mixed in make too much of a difference?"

I have no idea, actually, thought Snape, wondering where Mark would get a partial May beetle. "I should think it would work."

"Good," said Mark, heading for the other side of the room. "Enrique won't miss one or two of them, I'm sure, especially," pulling the top off a large box, "these ones." He removed something from the box and returned to Snape, holding it out. It was an insect, certainly, though not one Snape had ever seen before. Looking closer, he could see that the brown back of the creature had a tiny design in silver on it. He looked at Mark questioningly. "Don't ask," Mark said. "Will it do?" Snape nodded, and Mark dumped the bug onto the lab bench.

Snape had just finished chopping the insect into small pieces and was adding it to the rest of his concoction when the Count, now dressed casually in old black trousers and a loose white shirt, sauntered into the laboratory. Snape hastily pushed the rest of the beetle bits in and stirred vigorously. The Count approached the lab bench, sniffed at the large beaker in which the potion was simmering, and coughed. "Smells dreadful," he said. "When will it be ready?"

"In twenty minutes," replied Snape, still stirring.

"Good," said the Count, "because I've just heard from Cordelia, and Simon's not doing so well." His voice shook slightly. "Are you sure this will work?"

Snape's head snapped up. A number of possible responses came to his mind: the polite and restrained To the best of my knowledge, it will; the more honest I can't be certain, with no guarantee on the ingredients; and the sarcastic and typical What do you take me for, the barman's understudy? What sprang to his lips, however, as unbidden as though he had still been under fast-penta, and with a confidence spurred by his questioner's authority, was, "You may be assured of that, sir."

The Count stared back, something between doubt and hope in his grey eyes; then he nodded abruptly. "I suppose," he said, "you would prefer not to make the delivery yourself."

Snape had not, in fact, thought that far ahead as yet; he now found an irresistible picture coming to his mind: himself by Illyan's bedside, those intense eyes opening before his, free of pain and looking at him with gratitude... He weighed this unlikely scenario against the far greater chance that he would be arrested the second he entered the hospital. "Yes," he said. "I am accustomed to not... playing the hero."

"Quite so," responded the Count, looking at him oddly. Snape suspected that accurate deductions on very little evidence came as easily to this man as to his son. "Well, then, Mark..."

"Me?"spluttered Mark. "Why me?"

"I'm afraid that protocol dictates I not leave the two of you alone together," said the Count mildly, "even with the Armsmen here; I can hardly set them to guard a scion of the House. And I believe that having you provide this service would be quite beneficial. For both you and Simon."

Mark gulped audibly. "Angel of deliverance," he said. "Right."

"I do suggest you dress for the occasion," said the Count, looking pointedly at Mark's dust-caked clothing. "Vorkosigan House uniform, perhaps; I don't think your usual black-on-black would be appropriate."

Snape, who had been feeling out of uniform himself all day (his dark Muggle clothing was now covered by one of Enrique's lab coats), smiled slightly in sympathy with Mark's discomfort. The younger Vorkosigan, lips tight, muttering, "I like black," turned on his heel and left the laboratory, leaving Snape and the Count alone together. There was a moment of awkward silence.

"I can't exactly thank you for doing this, Professor," the Count said finally, waving a hand at the lab bench, "since Simon's illness is in a sense your responsibility to begin with -- but I do appreciate your efforts."

The lack of a "thank you" seemed to exclude "don't mention it" as a response. Snape debated the possibility of finding a way to express his debt to Mark, his unexpected feelings of affinity with Illyan, even his growing sense of respect for the Count himself; in the end he made a gesture of dismissal and brought his attention back to the simmering potion. He stirred it, and turned the heat down slightly. The silence lengthened, but Snape did not at first find it uncomfortable, and the Count did not appear to either; he leaned against a wall, arms crossed over his chest, and waited with the air of a man in the trenches before the inevitable battle begins. His patience was, after a time, nearly unendurable to Snape. Pace, fidget, fret; do something... wasteful and pointless. He gave the potion a final and rather violent agitation, turned the heat off, and retrieved a flask from the storage shelves. When the potion had cooled somewhat, he decanted it into the flask, just in time for the reappearance of Mark, resplendent in a shorter version of the uniform his father had worn earlier, and still looking resentful.

Mark received the flask and instructions on its use from Snape, and left on his mission of mercy. The Count then asked Snape, in the manner of a headmaster "inviting" a student to his office, if he would care for a drink in the library when his work was complete, and Snape agreed. In fact, he had very little left to do: a few items to be washed and put away, not even worth doing by magic if that had been an option. He realised suddenly that he had done no magic at all, not counting potion-making, since leaving Diagon Alley that morning, and wondered if that was some kind of personal record.

Stripping off the borrowed lab coat, he made his way up the stairs and found the library again. The Count was seated in one of the armchairs; a decanter of wine and plates of fruit and cheese rested on the table where tea had been served earlier. "I've convinced Ma Kosti not to overwhelm us," he said, "at least until Cordelia and Mark return. With good news, I hope." Snape was not very hungry, but he did accept a glass of the wine, which, he was informed, hailed from the Count's own district, south of the capital. As far as he could tell, it was excellent.

After a few sips, he set the glass down on the table and sat back, taking a deep breath and steeling himself for the interrogation he anticipated: one far more pleasant in its surroundings than the afternoon's, but no less brutal and degrading. But the Count's first question was an unexpected one.

"How old are you?" he enquired in a thoughtful tone.

The query seemed oddly meaningless, a number of centuries having passed like water under the bridge Snape had inadvertently crossed today, but he gave it the literal response without much hesitation. "Forty-one."

"Ah," said the Count. "Where was I at that age, I wonder? Disappointing everyone I knew, most likely, including myself. Fighting for my honour, and beginning to feel exhausted by the effort. Leaving my youth firmly behind, and wondering when this vaunted wisdom of middle age was going to descend on me. I was, in some senses, a late bloomer. Not that I didn't have much to my credit already -- and debit, as well -- but I recall a feeling that this was it, that I would be remembered forever by the deeds I had accomplished up to that time, and by the names and titles used to address me at that moment, not all of them exactly complimentary."

Snape barked out a humourless laugh. "I find no honour in my name, and even the accomplishments I could be proud of are buried or twisted in others' sight. Very good, my lord Count."

"And that is a title," said the Count, "which I acquired only after the age at which I feared I would be frozen forever. Viceroy Admiral Count Aral Vorkosigan, leaving out several I've outgrown. Impressive, no? Please, call me Aral. The last thing you are is part of our Barrayaran hierarchy, of that I'm sure."

Snape nodded, but he felt a curious reluctance to use this man's given name; calling him "sir" or "my lord" was as natural as breathing in his presence, or being truthful. For much the same reason, he had always called Dumbledore "Headmaster" despite repeated invitations to do otherwise.

The Count spoke again. "I would like to hear more about this 'mission' of yours, what you feel you can tell me."

Practically nothing, in point of fact. "May I simply assure you that it has nothing whatsoever to do with Barrayar, the Imperium, or the Vorkosigans? I am here completely by accident." Well, possibly. Some accidents are more accidental than others. "I do appreciate your son's offer of asylum."

The Count's eyes widened. "I can't protect you to that extent, I hope you realise. Unless you are using the word in the sense of a mental institution, probably quite accurately in light of our current chaotic state. Cordelia would have a few words to offer on that topic, I'm sure. No," he smiled fondly, "probably just one word. Nonetheless -- I'm very glad Mark gave in to one of his impulses of generosity."

He did far better than I, when the circumstances were reversed. "Friends are something of a luxury in my line of work," Snape said, not feeling inclined toward reticence, "but if it were possible, I believe I would count Mark among them." And if I thought we would ever see each other again, after today.

The Count smiled. "I'm pleased. He's proven to be a surprisingly valuable gift, in my old age. Like a gem with many facets, some of which you hardly dare to see yourself reflected in. But others you could gaze at... for a long time." He snorted. "Not a good metaphor for a Vorkosigan to indulge in, perhaps. One of my ancestors bankrupted himself buying worthless gems. Better just to say that Mark is Mark, and not a gift I've been able to refuse." He nodded as though satisfied, took up a knife, and gave his attention to a cheese that resembled Stilton, although it undoubtedly had another name here.

The Count being momentarily distracted, Snape let himself give in to weariness, closing his eyes. Green stones the colour of the sea whirled in his mind, reflecting him like mirrors; the black ugly despair of his flickering image dulled the sheen of the stones' loveliness. He found that he would like to sit here for some time, turning over puzzle pieces and fitting the history of the Vorkosigans together; he thought he could listen to the Count talk for hours, and the Countess when she returned, and Mark, and Mark's mysterious brother, and any other family members or hangers-on who happened along. And then he could remain alone in the library, letting the fascinating and foreign content of a multitude of books fill his mind. He could subsume his identity into that of this house, this family; he could serve tea with Pym or tend the gardens or discover how to brew potions using strange red-brown plants. Anything, rather than look in those mirrors again.

He opened his eyes, and the mirrors were still there, but they were grey now, like the sea in a storm, and he could only face them by calling on great reserves of endurance. But he could face them. The Count's eyes scrutinising him, he felt the same sense of shifting and disorientation he had experienced earlier; it was clear from the countenance before him that he was being regarded with only academic interest, as though he were an historical point of comparison, or a subject in an experiment: or as though a detached god were looking through the vortex of a hurricane at the struggles of a small craft in the waters below, and might at any minute extend an impersonal hand in salvation. Or might not. Oddly enough, it was a peaceful sensation. Once, in an adolescent fit of self-pity, he had made an attempt to drown himself in the lake at Hogwarts; the subsequent rescue had been a lingering embarrassment to him, but before that, there had been a moment of complete tranquillity and single-mindedness, and some of this same feeling of disassociation with time and meaning, this release from inhibition and wariness. He carried so little weight here that he could take the chance to speak his mind freely; his words would only float away like sea-foam, to be lost in the incoming tide.

"I have never offered sanctuary to anyone," he said harshly, holding onto those grey eyes like a shipwrecked sailor clinging to a broken mast, "never provided a place of refuge, an anchor in a safe port, a well-guarded garrison. Unlike you," a very old family, "I do not possess a mansion staffed by liveried retainers, but that hardly makes a difference; my body should be bulwark enough. If that were allowed. Instead I find myself following my charges at a distance, like a shepherd who cannot approach his sheep because he has been transfigured into a dragon. Following, hiding from friends and enemies alike." He laughed, bitterly. "I may have been meant to be a follower rather than a leader -- I certainly have few of the qualities of captaincy -- but I wish at times that I could follow simply and honestly." I would follow you, I think, if it were possible, he thought at the grey eyes, as the mirrors broke into lacerating shards of reflection; he clung to them still.

"Leaders," said the Count, "are not born but made, often out of the raw materials of necessity. You may surprise yourself yet. And don't wish for simplicity. The most unexpected rewards come from walking the hardest paths." The lines around his eyes deepened with his smile, but the eyes were still the glass of mirrors, shattered and rebuilt, again and again. You can go on forever, if you have eyes like that, Snape thought.

"My path seems to be strewn with a great many boulders," he said aloud, in a reasonable approximation of his habitual mocking dryness. His error in using the not-very-Barrayaran dragon metaphor brought to mind another magical beast, and he could not help but speak of it. "There is a creature of legend in Russia called the Pogrebin," he began.

The Count interrupted him. "I had an ensign named Pogrebin in my first command. Dreadfully incompetent. I'm sorry; please continue."

"It disguises itself as a stone," Snape went on, "and waits to prey on passers-by, imbuing them with a sense of hopelessness, so that they collapse, and are eaten. I often feel I must at some point have picked one up from the road unawares, and put it in my pocket. Not a very hungry one, I suppose."

The Count nodded. "Ensign Pogrebin was rather like that, actually. Infectious incompetence, which of course tends to lead to hopelessness. At least on the part of commanding officers." He smiled knowingly. "No, I do know what you mean, believe me. When I was carrying that stone about in my pocket, though, I would have polished off that entire decanter of wine by now, not taken two sips and put the glass down. That's something you're spared."

Snape picked up his wine-glass, which was a beautiful creation, clear crystal swirled with red, a delicate golden-eyed snake coiled around the stem. He took a swallow in a sort of half-toast to the Count. "Not my particular vice," he said. The wine was delicious, like good earth and roses, but its promised oblivion was not what he desired.

The Count raised his own empty glass, the equivalent of Snape's in green with a sea creature adorning the stem, and twirled it absently between his fingers. His voice, when he spoke, was absolutely flat. "I wouldn't say trust was your vice either -- or your virtue -- but you do seem remarkably trusting of me, for a stranger."

A stranger in a strange land. Or not so strange. Snape had just taken another sip of wine; he spat it out, staining his trousers and the carpet, and cursed. "What was in it," he asked, the bitterness in his throat tainting his words, "besides a truth drug?" Anger at his own susceptibility vanquished any remaining self-restraint, and he lifted the wine-glass high to dash it to the floor, but froze when the Count raised a lazy hand in protest.

"Please don't break it," he said. "It's quite irreplaceable. The glass-blower who made these, two hundred years ago, died in a mysterious fire after suggesting that he might reveal his techniques to another glass-blower in an adjoining District. His secrets died with him. Jealousy and possessiveness are certainly among the most sterile of the vices the Barrayaran Vor have indulged themselves in, along with," a feral smile curling his lips, "paranoia. There was nothing in the wine but wine." He reached for the decanter and refilled his glass, raising it to Snape. "Apart from your lack of a drinking problem, Professor, I think you would make an excellent Barrayaran yourself, given time. And a haircut."

"Given time here," Snape said, putting his glass down on the table as carefully as he could with a shaking hand, "I could even make a start on the drinking problem. But time is just precisely what I do not have." Or perhaps I have centuries of it. Who knows?

"The shepherd must return to his flock, then," said the Count.

"To the vicinity of his flock, at least." Snape bowed his head and put a hand to his still-aching neck. "What would you think of a shepherd who was jealous and resentful of his sheep?"

"For being sheep? Or for not being dragons?" the Count asked.

Snape looked up, acknowledging the Count's point. "Perhaps for being unable to see through the dragon's hide," he replied grudgingly.

"For one thing, I'd say that the shepherd needs to be less concerned what his sheep think of him. And that perhaps the sheep could be left to stray a bit, for their own well-being."

"Not this particular sheep, I'm afraid," Snape said. Far too many wolves in the fold. And am I a wolf, or a dragon? He was beginning to feel a stranger in the land of metaphor, as well; now he was having odd mind-pictures of Harry Potter covered in white wool, with an uncharacteristically stupid expression on his face. There was a danger in examining words and images too closely, he had found. Some gave the user an inflated sense of his importance, and others cut far too close to the bone; the term Death Eater, for one, was disturbingly apt. I may not have swallowed oblivion more often than I have needed, but I have eaten death, both at banquets of decadence and in a daily medicinal dose. By now, I should have developed an immunity. The Potter-sheep in his head jumped over a fence, again and again, laughing at him in its woolly voice because he could not go to sleep.

"I wish I could let you be on your way," the Count was continuing, "but until we hear news about Simon, and see this matter cleared away, I'm afraid you will have to remain here."

I'm afraid neither of us has much choice about how long I remain, thought Snape, then responded aloud, "I appreciate your hospitality." And do thank the house-elves for me, his thoughts continued in Mark's voice; he suppressed a smile as he pictured Pym and Ma Kosti clothed in tea-towels, squealing. Vorkosigans is good and kind peoples. Although a demanding set of masters, I suspect.

Perhaps he should not have had any of that wine. If the Count sprouted a long white beard next, and donned robes scattered with stars and moons, he would know he was either drunk or insane: in the latter case, at least he would be already happily situated in the asylum.

"You are an intriguing guest," the Count -- still mercifully non-wizardlike -- replied. "Although your timing could have been better. We're all somewhat distracted at the moment, with the wedding approaching. Cordelia and I have been waiting for this week for many years, ever since we began to serve in loco parentis for Gregor, I suppose. He is very like another son to us, you know. In part because he is more bonded to our personal history than... well, Mark, certainly; and even Miles, in a way." He raised his now-empty glass to the light and peered through it. "An emperor has far less choice about his autonomy than common mortals, far less chance to be a straying lamb. We've tried to be good shepherds; I hope we haven't been dragons, too often. Difficult not to be, with a whole planet sitting sometimes recalcitrant in your custody, refusing to drink his milk like a good boy, refusing to take considered and sage advice from his elders, refusing to not be human." He smiled gently. "He's done very well."

In the groundcar, Snape had enquired casually of Mark about the identity of the couple he had seen on the lawn; he saw them again now in his mind, glowing in the sun, in a very public half-embrace. What a life it would be, to be so accustomed to the glare of scrutiny as to find a shaft of sunlight an appropriate place to express affection; and yet the gesture had been so real and unstudied he knew, somehow, that the Emperor and Empress-to-be were as private in the blaze of that sun as if they walked in the darkest forest. In the dazzle of that light, no one else would be visible, and no other moment would exist. Nevertheless, he felt for once that the isolation of his own shadow-life was a tolerable alternative to a life of pageant and parade.

"Now," said the Count, "if you'll excuse me, I must try to call Cordelia." He rose, gesturing Snape to remain seated; and, looking a little stiff and moving more like an old man than Snape had yet seen him, left the library.

Speaking of being over-trusting, thought Snape. I don't suppose, though, that I could just walk out of here... He rose and moved cat-like and silent to the doorway; peering through the antechamber, he could see a uniformed figure -- not Pym -- standing by the front doors. And I suspect the windows in here are alarmed. Where would I go, anyway?

Returning to his seat, he caught sight of the ancient herbal the Count had found for him earlier, resting on an end-table; he picked it up and carried it back to the armchair. The leather binding, embossed with the Vorkosigan maple leaf design he had seen on the House uniform, had an unusual feel to it. It reminded him of a book of Dark spells he had once seen in a Knockturn Alley shop, bound in unicorn hide and lettered with the unicorn's blood. This one was probably horsehide; he thought of the high boots that were part of the uniforms here, and another puzzle piece slipped into place. He ran his fingers over the stylised mountain peaks behind the maple leaf, and then opened the book.

The illustrations were hand-painted, alive with the finest detail; he felt that he could touch the plants and actually explore their texture, although in some cases he was not certain he wanted to. The sharp edges and rough wiry texture of some would repel curious fingers, and others gave him an itching feeling just looking at them. Nearly all tended toward dull shades of red and brown. He wished he knew their names, but the text of the book was of no immediate help to him; it was hand-lettered in the Cyrillic alphabet and was probably in Russian, a language of which he knew nothing, though he could sound out the characters. Even that ability was only a byproduct of his innate lust for knowledge, and had been picked up accidentally; like most wizards who did research in sources outside their native tongues, he relied on translation spells. Not an option now, alas.

Turning the brittle pages, he observed that both Earth and Barrayaran plants were pictured, in equal numbers, and that the herbal was more of a remedy book than a systematic classification: what appeared to be recipes covered some pages, and others included flora from the two planets in what seemed to be random association, although the text might show some sympathetic resemblances between them. There were also animals pictured on some pages, mostly Earth ones of a domestic nature, but a few exceptionally odd-looking bugs as well, which were obviously built to a different plan of creation.

Thoroughly fascinated now, he continued to peruse the book; apparently it was also a repository of stories and legends, for he now came on an illustration of what Muggles thought of as a witch -- stringy grey hair, hooked nose, blemished face -- who seemed to be flying through the air in a giant mortar, steering with a pestle. Appropriate enough for an herbal, Snape thought. He could read the picture's caption, with its simple, repeated sounds: Baba Yaga. She looked rather like his grandmother, actually.

Snape could not help but wonder about the history of this carefully-preserved flower. Specimen of a new variety diligently bred, or perhaps a mutation too strange to go unsaved? Souvenir of a visit to the Emperor's gardens? Legacy of a romantic encounter, kept to be revisited in some despairing hour? He had heard the young witches in his classes giggling over corsages presented by their escorts to the occasional Hogwarts dances, and had watched them cast spells over the half-faded flowers so that they would fade no further. Perhaps, if you felt the need for mementos, that was a safer course; but he thought he preferred this Muggle way, a futile grasp at eternity, yet not a denial of the inevitable processes of loss and decay which were a part of life. It was often too easy to wave a wand to save something, without considering the effect on the thing itself, and its effect on the rest of creation. Magic relied heavily on interdependence and synergy, but so did life; and magic had a far greater tendency to pervert the natural order when exercised irresponsibly.

So, he added caustically to himself, closing the book and thumping it onto the table, half a day without your wand and you become a self-righteous Muggle apologist. Get it back, and you'll be casting spells right and left, like a sailor on shore leave throwing money at tarts. Hypocrite. As if to flex his poorly-exercised magical muscles, he seized the arms of his chair, digging his fingers in like a hawk's talons, then threw himself onto his feet and strode across the room. Send - me - home, he whispered fiercely, over and over, in time with his urgent footsteps, trying to drown out the voice in the back of his head murmuring This could be home.

After pacing out some of his manic frustration, he slowed his steps, and was drawn to the fireplace in the centre of the outside wall, surrounded by elaborately carved rich-looking wood and lined with stone, but appearing relatively unused. With eyes and hands, he explored the iconography of the Vorkosigan family, more representational in the carving here than in the crest on the uniform and book, but still incorporating the maple leaf, the mountains, and horses everywhere: long pack-trains of them, and mounted warriors brandishing swords. He tried to picture himself on one of those horses, and failed. It could not be that different from riding a broom.

Glancing at the comconsole in the corner, then back at the fireplace, he wondered how strongly the Barrayarans fought to maintain tradition. They kill each other from a distance now, I expect.Tradition seemed a fragile thing in the Muggle world, as brittle as that rose shut up in an outdated book, without a history that anyone living could tell. The wizarding world clung to its habits and customs far more tenaciously; whether this represented faith or stagnation he was not entirely certain. Perhaps the things of the past were more valued when they were lost, and found again accidentally; not that that justified losing them in the first place. Looking down at the unignited fire, laid against some future need for archaism, or possibly even heat, he muttered, "Incendio, damn it," and curled his lip in irony as the wood stubbornly refused to burst into flame. He kicked the stones in a self-punishing and absurd gesture. Bloody useless git. You could use a match, you know.

A sound at the door whirled him around, his right hand barely restraining itself from reaching for a nonexistent wand, his face shifting in an instant from self-lacerating disgust to alarm, and then to a social blankness when he saw it was the Countess who had entered the room. He nodded to her, and she returned his greeting with a brief smile.

"Good evening, Professor," she said. "I do hope I'm not disturbing you?"