Blood Aflame

Blood Aflame

Love potions were forbidden in the Hogwarts curriculum. The potential for abuse and mischief was deemed far too great for this knowledge to pass into youthful, irresponsible hands. The Potions Master himself had always observed this prohibition most strictly. So it was with much grinning and throwing of elbows that his Advanced Potions class surveyed their day's assignment, an ancient Teutonic potion, Feueriges Blut. Most of his students suppressed scandalized giggles as they haltingly translated the name into "Ardent Blood"; it must be a love potion to be named so, with a list of ingredients more wanton than any could remember having seen before, damiana and eryngo and Lady's Bedstraw, just for starters ... They simpered and tittered and laughed up their sleeves, casting roguish glances at each other, the dungeon air heavy with innuendo and adolescent desire.

She alone did not indulge in giggling or banter, but closely scrutinized the instructions on the board before turning to lay out her ingredients with exaggerated care. From his desk he covertly marked the intensity with which she worked, diligence which contrasted sharply with her classmates' unapologetic buffoonery. Little Witch, he thought, frowning slightly; she was gifted enough, and dedicated, easily the prize not just of her own year, but of several generations of students. His frown deepened as he recalled how she had very nearly perished the previous year, all her potential almost squandered in a dirty office in the Ministry of Magic. Her loss would be one the Order could not afford, even if he was the only one who had yet perceived it.

As the class period progressed, he paced among his students, supervising their labors. Half-witted infants, he thought as he watched them, jostling and guffawing as they spilled powdered damiana onto their clothing, mutilated their eryngo roots, and slopped the precious and volatile Tollkirschenektar about their cauldrons with careless, irreverent hands. He fumed with increasing bitterness as he wandered aisle after aisle, examining their work; were these imbeciles their only hope of the future in the war to come? If so, defeat was not only inevitable, but laughably imminent. Each cauldron he sniffed gave off odors ranging from the moderately discordant to the downright foul, every smoldering concoction showed the wrong color, if any color at all could be discerned, none of these useless cretins could be bothered to take the time, or the care ... He ground his teeth violently and was stalking back to his desk when he caught, alone among the myriad odors in the dungeon, a single fresh note, rosy and ripe like the scent of apples. His head snapped around, his nostrils dilating, seeking the source, until his eyes came to rest on her head, her tawny mane confined in an offhanded knot, bent over her cauldron in which she was nursing a glimmering ruby potion.

He drew closer and peered over her shoulder. Her fingers moved delicately, precisely, respectful of their work and of the treasures under her hands. Spicy vapors steamed from the cauldron, bringing color to her cheeks and gently stirring the few escaped curls about her brow. In the shimmering surface of the potion, he could see her face, its pout of concentration giving way to wide-eyed surprise at seeing his reflection next to hers.

She straightened to face him so abruptly that he was forced to step back to avoid being struck. Her dark eyes on his were suspicious, reproving and slightly superior, How dare you question me, they seemed to say, as she tossed her head and turned away from him, bending again to her work.

How dare I, indeed, we shall see, Little Witch. No doubt she already envisioned herself as a warrior of the Order, flinging light into the corners of the universe with the power of her righteousness. If her performance at the Department of Mysteries was any indication, she could not hope to prevail against the Dark Wizards, in battle or elsewhere. Well, he was too a Dark Wizard yet, never mind that his allegiance had changed, and he would have her appreciate how much she had to learn from him still. He swept back to his desk and seated himself behind it, steeling himself to receive and evaluate the pathetic offerings of his flock.

And he was not disappointed. One by one, the students brought him the deficient products of their halfhearted efforts. Most of them he was able to toss contemptuously aside after the barest of visual examinations. One or two he deigned to uncork and sniff, only to discard them as well, doling out withering glances and scornful judgments aplenty. Subdued but unrepentant, his students fled his displeasure, until at last only she was left, standing before his desk, holding her flask out to him.

He took it from her, fastidiously avoiding any touch of his fingers on hers, examining it closely. Knowing he would find no defects, he nevertheless made a display of holding her flask to the light, twisting it this way and that, evaluating hue, opacity, and viscosity, seeking in vain any sign of sediment or contaminants. Shimmers of gold threaded their way through the crimson translucence of her potion, a promise of the perfection within.

He uncorked her flask and wafted it under his nose. The lush orchard scent enveloped him as before, seductive as wine, the scent of fertility and love. His eyes fluttered closed as he indulged himself again, breathing deeply. When at last he lowered the flask and met her triumphant gaze, he took care to soften his own eyes so that they would appear just slightly wistful.

"Exquisite." He allowed a hint of languor to creep into his voice. "Have you selected your test subject?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but his display had put her off her guard and she was only mildly suspicious. "We're going to test it?"

"The efficacy of this particular potion can only be judged by monitoring the responses of a human subject. I had hoped that at least one or two of your classmates would have volunteered to stay despite their - inadequacy ..." He spoke slowly, pitching his voice low and smooth, again contemplating her flask as if enthralled.

Disarmed, emboldened by his praise, she glanced down and to the right, considering. "If you're sure I've done it right, Professor ..."

"Doubtless you have."

"Then drink it yourself, go on." Her tone was light yet challenging, her lips curved upward and her eyes mischievous. She clearly expected him to refuse, clearly had much to learn about dealing with Dark Wizards; as she was now, she would be fodder for their legions. She had lived all her life in sunlight, which illuminates the way but also blinds the warrior. To properly battle those who dwell in darkness, one must be trained to see without light.

Time for your first lesson, Little Witch.

Under her startled eyes he swung her flask with a flourish to his lips, draining it in painfully large gulps that made his eyes water. He held the last mouthful for several seconds, seeking flaws and finding none, the taste as voluptuous as the scent, utterly perfect. He sucked his tongue avidly, feeling it burn as the potion began to take effect.

"Flawless. Full marks once you successfully brew the antidote."

She recovered quickly, assuming her earlier coquettish manner. "Perhaps I shall choose not to give you the antidote," she teased him, playful and wheedling.

He widened his eyes in pretended shock. "Then perhaps you would be a murderess. Das Gift des feueriges Blutes is invariably fatal within twenty-four hours."

She went silent, not comprehending. Then with a gasp and an oath, she turned to the board, scanning the list of ingredients, and he saw her thinking, damiana, combined with Tollkirschenektar, which is, is, essence of belladonna, oh God ... feueriges, "ardent", yes, but also "fiery" ...das Gift, "the poison" ...

She whirled on him, dismayed and terrified, her face ashen. "Why didn't you tell me!" she shrieked at him. "Why did you do it?"

Nothing in the Dark is ever as it seems.

He could not resist twisting the knife. "Surely, you knew? I though that you, of all my students, would recognize ..." He allowed his voice to trail off in a sigh of affected regret and disappointment, and smirked inwardly at her mounting alarm. To torment her further, he raised the emptied flask again to his lips, to pluck the last glowing, treacherous droplet from the rim with the tip of his tongue, savoring its luscious fire, the taste of damnation itself. Exquisite, indeed.

She lunged across the desk and, slapping hard, sent the flask flying from his hand. Glass shattered against the dungeon wall as he tauntingly licked his lips, now incarnadined to the color of blood. The poison had already begun to burn in his belly. Soon his system would fully metabolize the toxins, allowing the venom to circulate through every tissue of his body. In ten minutes' time, he would be in agony, his very blood aflame.

"You must have an antidote!" Her voice rang high, echoing off the dungeon walls, edged with panic.

You are sufficient unto yourself.

"I have none. I must impose upon you to make it for me. But let me warn you that the antidote formula is exceptionally sensitive to the most miniscule errors in quantity or timing. A moment's inattention on your part, and," he heaved another rueful sigh, "I will die." He could hardly keep from laughing. He was enjoying himself immensely.

"Make it yourself!" she shrilled at him, her face angry but her hands imploring, clutching one another.

"I cannot. As you see," he held his hands, stiffened and pale, out to her, "I am already unable."

Uncertain of his meaning, she reached a tentative hand towards his own, only to snatch it back as she felt the heat blazing from it, fire blooming beneath his snowy skin. He permitted himself a tiny, vulturine smile, which to his satisfaction distressed her even more. "Help me! You can't -"

Trust in your abilities, even in the midst of chaos and fear.

"Your histrionics are as yet unnecessary. You have a full twenty-four hours. The formula and ingredients are in my office. Are you so inept as to be incapable of brewing the antidote given such a generous time allowance?" His vision watered and dimmed as the fire reached his eyes, rimming them in blood.

Tears shone in her eyes as well; her mouth twisted in a rictus of fear. "I am going to the Headmaster!"

You alone are worthy.

"I trust not. It would avail you nothing. I will be cured in either case, and you would only be admitting to guilt of either gullibility or malice, whichever tale you choose to spin for him." Spasms rippled in his throat as he felt his vitals ignite; in another minute he would be unable to speak.

She staggered, maddened and despairing, dragging her hair back from her face with clawed hands. "Why are you doing this to me?" she wailed.

For you, only for you.

Her hysterics were growing tiresome, and his time was running short. He would have to make her understand, and soon. With the last of his voice, he answered her gravely, dropping all pretense as he rasped, "Cease your foolishness and open your eyes. I have just paid you the compliment supreme."

And so he had. He had chosen her, above all others, to walk beside him in the Dark, to walk the path to wisdom in the moonless night, the forest path that leads to the cottage of the witch with the somber brown eyes and the beautiful, poisoned apple proffered in her outstretched hand.

She did not appear to be in the correct frame of mind to appreciate the depth of his flattery. Quite the contrary; his words seemed to enrage her. She stepped in close to him, her fist held high, ready to strike. At that moment, a spasm of pain seized him, jerking him upright only to drop him heavily across his desk. He lay helpless, convulsing, groans dredged painfully from his narrow chest as he slid off the desk to land hard on the bare stone floor.

Waste not your mercy on the enemy.

He lay sprawled on his side, defenseless and abject, his limbs thrashing involuntarily as her potion took full effect. For several long minutes he heard nothing but his own tormented wheezing, and wondered if she had gone. Then he heard her calm, deliberate footfalls, felt the hem of her robes brush his chin as she came around the desk to stand before him, her foot extended to kick him, none too gently, onto his back. He felt her kneel carelessly astride him, settling her full weight across his hips and forcing from him an anguished yowl. Deliciously cool hands cupped his burning face, swept upward to twine kittenishly in his hair, as she brought her mouth to his ear and whispered with deadly sweetness -

"I hate you for this, Severus."

Do what is necessary, and you cannot fail.

Her hands twisted violently as she snatched a double handful of ebony hair at the crown and heaved him, head and shoulders, off the ground toward her. Fresh pain screamed down his spine as she spat into his face, "I need the password for your office."

Joy and triumph surged in his heart; oh, how well he had chosen.

"Hhhhh ... " His face worked as he tried to force the word through pain-wearied muscles over which he no longer had any control. Displeased by his tortured efforts, she shook him roughly, as she would a disobedient puppy. Inarticulate sobs burst from his mouth as he lifted his hand, almost paralyzed by agony, clumsily dropping it against her knee, "Hhhhh ... Heh ..."

"'Hermione'?" she laughed, disbelieving and charmed at last, as he let his hand fall and closed his now sightless eyes in assent. She slackened her grip on his hair, winding her arms around him to hold him close to her breast as if comforting him. With her finger she traced the tears on his cheek, then pressed her face to his so that he could feel her breathe into his open, gasping mouth -

"I shall return with your antidote ... in twenty-three hours."

She released him abruptly, letting him fall backward, his head cracking unheeded against the stone as she rose to leave.

A fine beginning, my Little Witch.

He heard her collect her books, heard her unhurried steps as she crossed the floor and left the dungeon, sealing the door behind her. Then he was alone, stricken and senseless but for her fire burning through muscle, gut and bone, every cell in his body jerking in tortured paroxysms, rendering him immobile and helpless as if encased in glass. Had he the strength, he would have laughed aloud, lying as if dead in the sealed tomb of his dungeon, contentedly awaiting her return.