As The Falcon Hath Her Bells: Taking Flight

Chapter Three

The next day, after Arithmancy, Hermione lugged her schoolbag back to Gryffindor Tower, dropping with relief the pile of books and scrolls for Monday's homework.Professor Vector was beginning to involve them in increasingly complex ideas, as by sixth year she knew for certain that her students were serious about the subject and not just taking it because their friends had, their parents insisted, or some other such reason.

Hermione was pleased at that: she wanted to learn everything she could while here at Hogwarts.There were those, like Malfoy, who wanted to deny her as a witch because of her Muggle blood, so she worked doubly hard and let her marks speak for her as to her magical ability.A pity Ron and Harry didn't understand that: Ron was content to skate by, and Harry, while quite obviously powerful didn't develop his ability half as much as he could have.

Then again, he was honing his abilities in the more useful areas, like Defense Against the Dark Arts.He was tacitly expected to defeat the Dark Lord again: a heavy burden to have upon your shoulders, when you were a sixteen-year-old boy.She couldn't begrudge him a little slacking off in things like Divination, in that case.Then again, I'd never blame him for being lazy in Divination, she thought with a roll of her eyes.

Quietly she slipped out of the dormitory, and moved past a group of giggling first years on the way to Transfiguration in the hall."Did you see how she changed into a cat last class?" one asked in awe."Was that great or what?"

"Don't get ideas, Frank," a girl replied."She says it takes you years and a lot of work to do that.Now come on, we'll be late, and it's pencils to worms today--she said it's important for exams!"

Hermione nodded to herself at that.She wondered how many Animagi there truly were out there: they knew from records that there were seven properly registered and all in this century: McGonagall, a group of three Slytherin Aurors in the '20s, a rabbit-Animagus in the '40's, and another two in the first decade of the century.

She also knew of at least four unregistered Animagi from Hogwarts in the '70's: Sirius Black, Peter Pettigrew, James Potter, and Rita Skeeter.That certainly indicated to her that the actual number of Animagi existing was much higher than seven individuals.She had spoken of Animagism to Professor McGonagall, wanting to possibly acquire the skill.McGonagall had counseled her to think why she wanted to take such a dangerous risk, and that she had best have good reason.

It was a consuming task, and a powerful risk.That was why it had taken James Potter and his friends so long to do it: they had needed to gain the necessary power and the thorough research before they would even attempt such a thing.They also had the reason: for their friend, Remus Lupin.She had yet to think of a good, useful reason to become an Animagus.McGonagall assured Hermione that she probably had the power, but there was no point trying something with a very high and painful failure rate for no cause.

She sighed thoughtfully.Her seventh year was coming up, and she wanted to do something profound, something difficult, something to really convince those who mocked her that she was once and for all truly a witch.McGonagall had offered to have the search for Animagism be a senior project of sorts, which would certainly boost her application to Lothlorien University, so long as Hermione could justify what good it would do.She was still thinking how an animal form could benefit the world at large.Perhaps a research project on Arithmancy would be more beneficial.

Right now, though, she was headed for the Slytherin dungeons.She knew Professor Snape was in his office hours right now, so she wanted to stop by and see what she could perhaps decipher of his motives in cheering her up last night.It was so out of character that it yet bothered her.The Snape she thought she knew would have been more likely to award Draco points for the deflating of her pride, she thought viciously.

She stood in front of the iron-banded oak door to the dungeons, sighed, and opened it.She slipped inside and headed for Snape's office.He wasn't in, which was odd.He was supposed to be available to students during this time: she thought how he must grind his teeth at that!

She finally found him in the laboratory, intent upon a cauldron in front of him, carefully snipping iridescent, shimmering red reptilian scales into small pieces with a strong shears.Dragon scales! her mind immediately told her.They were so tough as to need particular ways of cutting. We used Hebridian Black scales last term in the Apparition Potion, but red ones?A Chinese Fireball?

"What are you making, sir?" she blurted before she could help herself, her natural curiosity overtaking her."Are those Chinese Fireball scales?That would be an Firebomb Potion, right?"

"Correct, Miss Granger," Snape said, barely looking up, "if I were using Chinese Fireball scales, which I am not.Fireball scales are a duller red and are more of an arrowhead shape, which you should know.I am also not using mermaid hair, which is a necessary component of the Firebomb Potion."

"So what is--"

He continued as though he had never heard her."You of course know better than to disturb me while I am at my work, a point that I have made since your first year to all you lackwits.Five points from Gryffindor."That was typical Snape: to icily put her in her place and find some excuse to take points from Gryffindor.

She gave a small sigh."Yes, sir."

"You needn't worry about your Potions exam, if that's what you're after," he said with a mocking curl of his lip, indicating a stack of papers at the end of the desk, positively covered with nearly gleeful red marks."A ninety-eight, Miss Granger.You only missed the use of Grindylow bone powder also being used as a buffer to the acid of the Chimaera venom in the Solventus Potion.Your high mark is still quite secure, unless your precious Potter convinces you of the value of mischief rather than studying.I might add that he received a seventy-two," he said with a smirk.

"He hasn't swayed me in six years, nor really tried," Hermione replied quite crisply, somehow stung."I only came to say thank you."

"Whatever for?"Carefully he dropped the pieces of dragon scale into the concoction, turning it to a vibrant royal purple and stirring it in a clockwise direction eight times before turning to her again."Your thanks for what?" he repeated calmly.

"For--what you said last night."He looked momentarily stunned.

"Please, Miss Granger," he then went on, giving her a harsh look, "do not construe my words as some gesture of affection.I merely felt bad about my misconception of your situation and wished to rectify it.I may be a black-hearted bastard, as you are all fond of saying, but I try to rectify my mistakes."His lips pressed together tightly at that, perhaps at some memory, and she saw him almost unconsciously rub his left forearm.

She knew he wore Voldemort's Dark Mark there--had known since the end of fourth year when Harry had told her."Oh?" she countered swiftly."What about the time that Malfoy gave me those monstrous teeth?You did nothing to punish him that time, nor rectify what you said!"

"Miss Granger--" he hesitated."It's none of your business," he said stiffly."I am sorry.Now, if your thanks are done, will you please leave me to my work?"

She turned and went to go.She turned back at the door to ask if perhaps they were Welsh Red scales, to see him sitting at his desk, body tense, his head in his hands.Something within her told her not to disturb him, and she left, softly closing the door behind her.

* * * * *

Snape kept his teeth firmly gritted, waiting until Hermione Granger left earshot, then rolled up his sleeve, seeing the angry red of the Dark Mark slowly burning to black.He was being called, and Voldemort knew, as he had known for the past two years, that Severus Snape would not be amongst those answering the summons.That didn't stop his former master from playing with him, letting the Mark burn as long as possible, then suddenly withdrawing the summons.

That was Voldemort's way.If Snape was driven insane now, Voldemort couldn't continue to punish him for his betrayal.So long as he took him only to the brink of madness, he could toy with Snape like a cat with a crippled bird for years to come.And too, he must know what sort of mental torture it was to have to stay always in this damn drafty castle, aimless, useless.That was far more effective than twenty bouts of Crucio.He would break Snape's spirit; had been trying for the past two years.Cunning was Voldemort's forte…he knew Snape would not mind death.He would have willingly embraced it as a merciful release of the misery that was his life.It was far more effective to keep him alive but strip him of all meaning, all purpose.That was Snape's worst horror: if people had no use for him, he was nothing.He had nobody to keep him merely for himself.

Grimly, he headed for the Potions cabinet, whimpering softly from the pain, spreading throughout his body now like a malicious cancer.Carefully he withdrew the strongest Salicyclic Potion he possessed, and drank it in one swallow, ignoring the bitter aftertaste.The pain receded to a dull throb; occasionally still shooting sharp jolts of white-hot pain along his nerves.This was the best there was when he was summoned.He had learned to live with the ache for a few hours or days until Voldemort decided it was to his satisfaction to release him until the next bout.

He turned back to the Draig Galon potion and swore violently.It had turned from the rich purple that indicated a success to a sickly sludge brown after he had blended in the Strengthening element and left it to simmer.Another failure, he thought angrily.Ministry won't be happy about this.Already there were mutters from the Ministry that if Snape didn't produce something soon, they would stop him from wasting valuable ingredients on folly and rescind his licensure for restricted research.It wasn't because he was producing nothing viable: the Ministry had their own researchers hard at work, and failing as well.It was because he was Snape, and the Ministry had been looking for an excuse to let the ax fall ever since he had confessed to being a Death Eater and Albus Dumbledore saved him from Azkaban.

Tosca swooped in the window, dropping a scroll by his hand and heading for her perch, claws on a small rodent of some sort that she had caught.He read it wearily.Yes, Cornelius Fudge wanted an update on the potion that had required use of his Ministry's precious stocks of Welsh Red dragon scales, heartstring, and Jabberwocky wing.He sat down to make reply, thinking that there had to be something better he could do against Voldemort than explain himself to bureaucrats.

Chapter Four

Snape was feverishly at work again two weeks later, attempting to mix the Draig Galon with a combination of the dark Russian wizard Rasputin's Mesmer Potion, and Merlin's Nobilius Potion.The Nobilius Potion stipulated only those with good and pure intent could gain the ability to accomplish a nearly impossible task, such as the boy-king Arthur pulling the sword from the stone. It would cancel out the dangerous dark side effects of the hypnotizing Mesmer, leaving perhaps a potion that could, with good intent, cast an enhanced image of Draig Galon's invulnerability to the Death Eaters and waver their willingness to attack.Cripple an enemy within his own mind and you have him, far more than if you merely wound him.Snape grimaced, unconsciously rubbing the Dark Mark as he thought that.That was Voldemort's game.Two can play at it.

By now, of course, he was dabbling far into forbidden potions in desperation, and the Ministry was effectively ready to cancel his research if he didn't produce something.To have a man dealing with all the powers of Hell itself, stoppered in a bottle, was too big a risk for no gain.He was worried that the Nobilius and the Mesmer might completely cancel each other out, mind manipulation generally being an evil intent, leaving him with no more than a simple Draig Galon that any Potions Master could brew.

Hermione Granger was suddenly standing there in front of him."Sir?"

"Miss Granger, I believe I told you not to disturb me at my work!Fifteen points from--"

"Professor, Potions started fifteen minutes ago, and we--well, I--was wondering if class was canceled, and if you were all right?"She looked at him hopefully, brown eyes guileless.

"Go back and tell them that class has been canceled," he said shortly.Dealing with the lackwits and teaching them the Merriment Potion was far less important than this potion that might save their hides when they were out in the world and fighting Voldemort."Well?" he said impatiently, when he saw her still standing in fascination.

"Yes, sir.But are you all right?"She looked at him, obviously worried.He knew he had lost weight from his already slender frame over the past two weeks, and that his normally cantankerous personality had taken a turn for the even more vicious.Everything had him jumping, and he was even taking points from Slytherin for the most minor infractions.Couldn't sleep, couldn't eat: not with the dark cloud of the Ministry ready to chop his only reason for existence unless he justified himself, and soon.And too, Voldemort had kept the Dark Mark burning for all of four days last week.He was a wreck.He knew it.

The concern hurt.Child, don't care for me--never.It'll only hurt you.He thought how she had looked at him after he had found her crying in the alcove, as though he had just handed her the world.That was dangerous.He had to keep her away.

"I'm quite fine," he said shortly."Is that all?"With her typical Gryffindor nosiness, she turned to look at his project.Can't Gryffindors let anything alone? he thought.

"Nobilius and M--Mesmer?" she stammered, looking at the ingredients he had laid out on the worktable."But sir, Mesmer is highly illegal!"

"Brilliant, Miss Granger," he snapped."However, in circumstances like these, one does not scruple too much over legality--I tend to doubt that Voldemort would halt at you saying, 'Excuse me, sir, but don't you know that the curse you used to kill that wizard was illegal?'" he mimicked."Go back to your work and leave me to mine!"She left in haste, almost slamming the door behind her.

He viciously chopped Saguaro cactus for the Mesmer, throwing it in the cauldron with less than his usual caution.Her tone at his use of Mesmer--it was the disapproval he always heard from people.Oh, back with the Dark Arts, Severus?Tsk, tsk--always knew you couldn't be trusted!Once tainted, never clean.The folly of his youth had left him forever marked: why was he bothering to chase the chance to redeem himself?He never could; they would never let him.He would always be an outsider: he always had been, set apart for various reasons.

Almost twenty years, he thought angrily, almost twenty years with nary a blemish and still it's 'Severus Snape, Death Eater'.What a fool I was.He didn't know if he was a fool for joining the Death Eaters, a fool for leaving and hoping he could earn forgiveness, or a fool for still hoping he could come clean again after seventeen years of fruitless trying.

He reached for the jar of powdered basilisk fang for the Mesmer, not even noticing that he instead picked up the powdered lion's claw for Nobilius.His normally meticulous organization had been shot to hell these past weeks as he frantically worked.Two pinches of the powder into the purple potion, and he automatically went to pick up the spoon to stir.

It was with horror he noticed the potion turning to a vibrant blood red, bubbling violently, rather than the emerald it should have become.Stupidly he grabbed the jar and saw what he had put in, and had only time to think, Lion's claw when added to Welsh Red scale without the counteraction of the basilisk fang means it's going to--

The solution swelled abruptly.He finished the thought, --explode.It did just that, as he felt the searing pain of the potion on his bare hands and face, felt it eating through his robes and burning the skin underneath.He had just enough time to think, Well, the Dark Mark doesn't compare to this… before he mercifully blacked out.

* * * * *

Hermione went and told the Potions class that they had the day off, amidst cheers and a general rush for the door.She stood in the empty classroom for a moment, thinking about how Snape had looked: like a man on the edge.He was normally snappish and sarcastic, but he'd start at anything now.Every class actually lived in fear of him since Valentine's Day.They weren't sure he wouldn't feed them some sort of poison in class in punishment for an infraction.That was how serious the situation was.

She had also noticed that he couldn't hide the trembling of his hands while he worked.Had the Ministry authorized him to use Mesmer?They must have.From his comments, he was likely working on potions for the fight against Voldemort.

Now that would be a wonderful senior project!To actually contribute something to the war, to not let Harry be the only teenager the wizarding world thought could do anything against the Dark Lord!She grinned at the thought.Better than an Arithmancy project, indeed, and with a very good reason.I'd just have to get Snape to agree with it.

That would be the difficult part.With how he was these days, she wasn't sure he'd be sane come fall, let alone agreeable to let a "nosy Gryffindor" work with him on secret potions.Still, perhaps, if she started small…offering to help prepare ingredients and such?He obviously needed help; that was for certain.Of what sort? she thought in a bit of amusement.He knew she had a genuine interest in Potions, though, and she certainly wasn't doing this to be close to him!

Well, perhaps she'd go ask if he'd like a little basic help in fetching ingredients, cleaning things, and the like.It was somewhat denigrating that she imply the very idea of that being all she was capable of, but if it got her foot in the door to helping fight Voldemort, a little bruised ego she could handle.

After all, if she helped Snape create a truly helpful potion, it would certainly prove she was no mere Muggle upstart to anyone who would oppose her.She resolved to talk to Professor McGonagall later that day, after she spoke to Snape, and tell her Head of House her idea for research.She could almost hear that soft Edinburgh burr saying in surprise, "Potions?Well, that would be of use, if you can get Professor Snape to agree. All the luck in the world, Miss Granger…you'll need it."

Still, Snape and McGonagall had a friendly rivalry, and she could have sworn Snape had actually teased McGonagall a few times when he thought nobody was looking.Although with the match for the Quidditch Cup next week (Gryffindor versus Slytherin, naturally), both wanted that victory.Gryffindor had won the House Cup again last year, and she could tell Snape was tired of losing.McGonagall would likely approve of her desire and way to help the cause, though.

She headed back for the laboratory, humming softly to herself.Perhaps a potion to counteract one of the Unforgivables?Is that possible?

Ten steps from the laboratory door, she literally felt the walls shake with a violent explosion within.She raced the last few steps, flinging the door open, hollering,"Professor!"The laboratory was dripping with a bright red, sulfur-smelling potion.She stepped carefully into the room, inadvertently putting her feet right into a puddle of the stuff, hearing it hiss against the sole of her shoes as they began to melt.

Oh my God, oh my God, was her only thought as she saw the crumpled form in tatters of black robes lying half-under the table.He didn't move, made no sound.Was he unconscious?Was he…dead?

Turning on her heel, she positively sprinted for the hospital wing, losing her way more than once on a moving staircase, but finally arriving.Catching herself in the doorway, she gasped out from burning lungs, "Madame Pomfrey!"The mediwitch looked up at her, and her eyebrows shot up.

"Miss Granger--are you all right?"Professor Dumbledore was there as well, having the wrist he had sprained yesterday examined for thoroughness of healing.

She tried to catch her breath, finally managing, "Snape--dungeons--explosion.He's hurt…"

Madame Pomfrey grabbed her medic's bag and her wand, as well as the tin of Floo powder, and in a blink of an eye had transported down to the dungeon laboratory.Professor Dumbledore was behind her in a twinkling.

Hermione stood there, feeling lightheaded and nauseous from her efforts.She collapsed into a chair.Three minutes later, Pomfrey and Dumbledore reappeared from the fireplace, each bearing an end of a stretcher, upon which was Professor Snape.She instinctively moved to get up.Pomfrey shook her head grimly and said, "Child, it's not pretty.Leave it to us."

"Will he live?" she was barely aware of her lips forming the words.

Dumbledore gave her a look full of sympathy."Most likely.Not very long has elapsed since it happened."

"I--when he wakes up, please tell him I hope he gets well soon," she said hesitatingly.After all, it was only courtesy to tell anyone to get well soon, and she felt badly for him.Injured while working to fight Voldemort, in an indirect sort of way.

"I'll do that," Pomfrey nodded, drawing a curtain around the cot where Snape now lay.Professor Dumbledore reached into his pocket and handed her a small bag of Honeyduke's Chocolate Drops.

"Have a few--they'll help," he said quietly."Thank you, Miss Granger."With that, he turned back to where Madame Pomfrey was already hard at work upon Professor Snape.She turned and left, but slowly.

* * * * *

Tell him I hope he gets well soon.He drifted through the pain-filled darkness, barely hearing.Had he been able to, though, he might have smiled and wept for joy at the kind words, given freely.Nobody had ever said as such before…

"Severus?" It was Madame Pomfrey now that he dimly heard."I'm going to give you a potion now, so you'll sleep.There's quite a bit I need to repair, and I can do it just fine if you're still…"

I know what a Dreamless Sleep Potion does, he thought testily.Who's the Potions Master here, anyhow?But he willingly lay still while she injected the potion, not wanting to risk him choking in trying to drink it, and gratefully let blissfully painless unconsciousness claim him again.