As The Falcon Hath Her Bells: Taking Flight

Chapter Seven

Before Hermione knew it, the Leaving Feast had arrived.She had achieved top marks again, of course, and Professor McGonagall had informed her with pleasure last week that she was to be Head Girl for next year.Trevor Livingstone of Hufflepuff was Head Boy.

Another summer at home, enjoying all the quirks of the Muggle world again.She felt a twinge of sadness as she realized that with each passing year, she and the world she had known grew further and further apart.Her parents were happy for her, and glad that she was excelling, but she could see in their faces sometimes the sadness at her membership in a world they could never understand or be a part of.But she couldn't be their little girl forever--she had to find her own way, her own place.And if it was as a witch, so be it.

She studied the staff table as Dumbledore began making his end-of-the-year speech, hearing her name and Trevor's announced.Professor Sprout looked pleased to have a Hufflepuff as Head Boy; since they had lost Cedric Diggory, Hufflepuff had been a bit aimless.Livingstone could hopefully rally them again.

Snape was listening intently, she noticed.She thought back on the few months since his accident.He had returned to teaching, of course, and it was a bit of a relief to see that he was still his usual sarcastic, acerbic self.Had he become warm and fluffy, that would have had all of them uncomfortable beyond belief, and besides; that was a little too much to believe of Severus Snape.The only use he had for warmth was probably to heat the cauldrons for potions.

But there had been something different--he seemed too distracted for his harshness to have quite its usual sting.He even ignored some infractions entirely, and she had looked up at him more than once during class to find him with a faraway look in his eyes or scribbling furiously on a piece of parchment."Think ol' Snapers is in love?" Ron had mumbled after one of those days."Although that's a little too disgusting!"

It was probably the same thing that had Madame Pince muttering still about him in the library at all hours, reading up on everything from historical Animagi to the uses of zebra hair in potions.Still, if he had a pet project, more power to him, and his distracted self was certainly better than the bloody bastard he had been only weeks before his accident.

It seemed he had found purpose again; probably something to fight Voldemort.After all, Professor McGonagall had confirmed her suspicions that his use of illicit potions had been for research on behalf of the Ministry.That was probably to replace his use as a spy.With Potions research no longer an option, he had obviously turned to something new, though God knew what.He was brilliant, if more than a little of a nasty git, so he'd probably found something.She had to admire his determination, if nothing else.And his involvement against Voldemort made him the perfect man to work with to contribute her own efforts to the cause.

So she would spend her summer reading and planning ideas of what to work on for the Potions project with him.Five days ago, he had met with her again, told her abruptly that she had best not expect him to do the thinking for her and that she should come prepared to work."I do not want you wasting time: yours or mine," he had said crisply."I have better things to do than dodder around while you fumble for some half-witted, quick idea that will fail.I expect you to come this fall ready with your project well thought and written out, and you will work on it, pending my approval of your plan, of course.I will not do this for you just so your application to Lothlorien is prettified."

She actually appreciated that.It meant he was taking her intent to research seriously and not hoping that she'd forget over the summer.He wasn't going to coddle her: the real world wouldn't if she wanted to be a researcher either.There was also the hint that he thought her actually capable of his high standards, if he had accepted and was now giving her his expectations and being unwilling to accept less.It would be an interesting experience; that she was certain of.

* * * * *

Snape and Minerva McGonagall exchanged looks of exasperation at tiny Athol Flitwick grinning smugly at the other end of the table as Dumbledore awarded the House Cup to Ravenclaw.Gryffindor and Slytherin had been so close in the last month that of course rivalry had flared up, leading to points being detracted from both for various scuffles and hijinks, while of course Ravenclaw quietly excelled in academics as usual, winning themselves just enough points to take the lead.

Should have taken ten points from Padma Patil the other day, Snape thought with a grimace.Too busy thinking, though.Blast--get involved with something, ease up a little, and they run roughshod all over you.Still, he had the very acute satisfaction of his house having defeated Gryffindor in the Quidditch Cup.The years where those two houses went head-to-head for the Cup were always the fiercest and most anticipated games.And Minerva couldn't complain too much, as her house had the distinction of having the Head Girl for next year.

He was quite relieved, of course, that Dumbledore hadn't made Harry Potter the Head Boy.He liked and respected the old man, but his trying to make things go over gentle for Potter by giving him advantages and such got irksome.But Livingstone was a good choice, he thought with approval.

As the students filed out of the Great Hall for their dormitories, Flitwick sidled up to Snape, Sprout, and McGonagall."Looks as though the pool is mine this year!" he beamed.

Snape shrugged philosophically and handed over the twenty Galleons he had put on Slytherin.It was only a friendly, annual bet, after all.There was always next year, and with Aquila as Seeker for Slytherin, they could indeed win off of Quidditch points.Malfoy had quit the team in a fit of temper when he heard the celebration of Aquila's win, snapping that they could bloody well keep her in that case.Snape couldn't say he was too sorry for it.Lucius Malfoy, for all his faults, had been a much better Seeker than his son; Draco had little aptitude or inclination for it. That hobble taken off, Slytherin's chances of winning next year were quite good indeed.

Minerva sourly handed over fifty Galleons.She had made a large bet, counting on Gryffindor to win as they had since Potter's arrival, but for the year of the Tri-Wizard Cup, when there had been no House Cup.Sprout gave over her small bet of ten Galleons, and Flitwick gave them a large grin.It was amusing to see the little man so cheered, indeed.

He then rose and headed for his dungeons, relieved to have the students gone for the summer.As he could not leave Hogwarts over the summer due to the price on his head, he had all the time and resources needed to complete the task.After three months of hard study, he would be ready in two weeks, once the potion was finished.Being a Potions Master, of course he had chosen the route utilizing his subject.

He carefully peered at the potion simmering gently in the cauldron, delicate peacock-blue fumes wafting up from it.He gave the thing its daily addition of zebra hairs and phoenix ash and stirred.It was a good thing he was a Potions Master, because those ingredients in the quantity needed to be added daily for one lunar cycle would be nearly impossible to get by the general magical public.Hogwarts had probably the best stock of legal (and some restricted) Potions ingredients in the wizarding world--he had seen to that.Boomslang skin, horn of a bicorn--a few of the same basic ingredients as the Polyjuice Potion, but this was more concentrated and directed differently.

He had made certain his Transfiguration skills were still good and sharp, as that was the largest portion of the magic involved.Transfiguring a pincushion to a hedgehog allowed for a few errors, but Transfiguring one's own self didn't allow for even the slightest lapse in concentration or the flow of magic.

That was probably why those three bloody Gryffindors had taken so long about this: they were smart enough to know, hopefully, that this could get them killed if they hadn't prepared correctly and didn't have the skills.They probably hadn't used the potion, as they could hardly buy or steal enough of the ingredients needed.They had likely gone the slightly easier route with the Amorphous Charm.Snape figured it was best to play to his forte, even if the potion took longer--he was making sure of his readiness while he brewed it as well.The skills he certainly had.He just wanted to leave no detail unconsidered and left to chance, an unforgiving mistress if ever there was one.

He went into his office and withdrew a sheaf of notes from his bottom desk drawer.Sitting down, he began reading again, taking in every small detail.Two weeks--it was two weeks to the full moon.The transforming power of a full moon was well known to the world of magic.That would be the night that would prove to be either his salvation or his ruination.

Chapter Eight

Snape peered out the window he had created in his living quarters, having used magic to make the view that of above ground, rather than the subterranean view one would actually have seen from the dungeons.The pale, large June full moon had finally risen.He had spent much of the evening impatiently pacing the room and periodically checking out the window for it to be darkness.

He turned from the window.He strode over to the table, where he had placed the potion this afternoon after checking its color.Salazar Slytherin himself, who had first used this potion in the transformation, cautioned that it had to be the silvery coloration of the moon; else something had gone wrong in the brewing.Silver--should expect that from Salazar.

After all, if Godric Gryffindor had done the thing and written the tale, he'd have probably found some way to make it a bright sun-gold in his own vanity.Never mind that the light of the moon was far more magically powerful than that of the sun--Salazar knew that and had chosen the color of moonbeams as one for his house to carry.Godric probably had then chosen gold just to be perverse--the rivalry was intense even back to the two founders of Slytherin and Gryffindor.

It was yet soft, glowing silver, he was relieved to note.Picking up the goblet, he put in the final ingredient--a bit of chameleon skin.The potion bubbled briefly, then settled.Carefully, he sat down cross-legged on the rug on the floor.Safest this way the first time--didn't have to keep his mind on his balance during the process.After all, he needed to clear his mind of everything else but the process itself.

He looked at himself in the full-length mirror he had set up to be able to immediately gauge once he was done the success or failure.Pomfrey had done a good job, he noted again, considering that she had needed to repair most of his face and hands--skin, muscle, nerves, and the surfaces of the underlying bone.

Quite honestly, he had been so busy preparing for this since his accident that he had forgotten to make himself physically repellent.It didn't matter anyhow--his mission of keeping people at arms' length was quite well accomplished by sheer force of personality alone now.His reputation was well established as nasty, cold-hearted, and in general disagreeable.And he wasn't handsome to begin, anyhow, so it wasn't as though anyone would take notice.He shrugged.He was less concerned with this form than the one he would hopefully adopt anyhow.

"Cheers," he muttered dryly, "to all who have gone before."Raising the goblet, he drank down the potion in one swallow, feeling the coldness of it sliding down his throat and settling in his stomach.Almost immediately he began feeling a little light-headed.The potion lent certain malleability to one's very cells, as a "jump-start" (as a Muggle might have it), to the transformation.In this dangerous first attempt, a magical boost of a sort was used to lend ease to the change.After all, one had no idea to where they were headed, and direction and will were needed to overcome the body's determination to stay as was.The potion, or various other magical aids that had been used by others, softened that resolve.Subsequent times, of course, he'd have the form and the memory of the feeling, so it could be accomplished easily.

He settled his hands on his knees, closed his eyes, and cleared his mind of everything, letting go his conscious self.His heart rate slowed, and then stopped.The blood sat still in his veins; his muscles froze.His chest paused in the middle of an exhalation.It was in effect a living death, so that he could be safely reshaped without natural movement counteracting it.

He was aware of nothing but the furor within him as cells rearranged, grafted themselves to new places.You can't direct it; your own spirit guides the form, he had read.About all one could do was concentrate carefully on nudging their very cells towards where instinct told them to.It was hard to keep the concentration as he felt the itching prickle of his body slowly reshaping itself: new structures growing, old ones receding, all at once in a second and an eternity.He felt faintly queasy.

But if his thread of magic broke, if he lost his will, the transformation would be left unfinished.At best, he would be an eternal freak, stuck forever as half-man, half-beast.Considering many thought he was already that, he had decided that he was in no mood to prove them right.At worst, if he lost himself in the middle of shaping something vital, such as the heart, or blood vessels, the fragile thing would be destroyed in a blink of an eye as his functions returned, and he would be killed before he could even think to counter it.The weighty books and tomes he had studied had not been pretty about that; there had been hideous descriptions and pictures of dire failure.This was no skill attempted for teenager's fun and on a lark.

Finally, after what seemed hours, he knew deep within somehow that it was finished.He had done it!He carefully held the elation as all of his life functions resumed again, one by one.When finally his muscles unlocked and it was complete, he took a deep breath, and came out of the trance.He dared to open his eyes, not sure of what he might see.Had there been some mistake, would he be something totally useless?That had been the danger--there was no assurance that his form would be useful after so much work.

He had felt the vague sense of shrinking, he recalled.The piercing black eyes that looked at him out of his reflection were yet his own.The aquiline nose had changed to a hooked beak.Black hair had turned to black feathers, covering his new, sleek winged body.

He gave a small laugh of pleasure, hearing it come out as a faint squeak from a body not adapted for such a noise.Tosca will be pleased, he thought in amusement.He had turned into a black gyrfalcon.And here I was expecting a serpent.

Stepping unsteadily across the rug, tripping clumsily on feet not made for ground travel, he found his pocket watch.It had taken an hour, he realized in shock: an hour of nothing less than total focus.No wonder the failure rate was so high!

He was satisfied; there was no use rushing and overdoing himself in one night.He closed his eyes once more and envisioned his human form, slipping into his trance again, suspending animation.This transition was much easier, because he had a self he knew very well in mind.He felt the feathers recede, his body stretch and grow, and five minutes later, he lay on the rug, panting from the effort, limbs trembling with weakness.

It would take practice, and in time, he would be able to switch from one form to another rapidly.He had seen Minerva go from woman to cat in a blink of an eye.It would also take practice on controlling his emotions initially while in his falcon state.Strong emotion was sometimes enough to cause a reversion to the human form, often at the worst possible time.That risk would be somewhat reduced as he became comfortable with his new body, and it became a part of him.Still, there was much training to do before he would be ready to begin his mission.

For he intended to do nothing less than take up his former occupation.He would be Severus Snape, Animagus and spy.Dumbledore will be pleased when I bring him some information.He intended to reveal this to nobody but Dumbledore, after all.Nobody had known what he was doing--he had gotten an eclectic variety of books from Madame Pince, most totally unrelated so that no one had any idea what he was getting at for his project.He certainly had not gone to Minerva for help; she would have told him he was useful enough as is.A man of usefulness again, he thought with a tired smile as he trudged to bed, completely drained of energy.