Iridescent Snow

Chapter Seven: The Madness of Neville Longbottom

It was not a good day to be a recovering patient in the Hogwarts hospital wing. Hermione sat in her bed, books littered around her. Outside, rain poured in miserable torrents, and not even the castle's magically enhanced lighting could hide the fact that the sky was menacingly dark. The ceaseless sound of water rushing over the castle overhangs carried through the infirmary windows, its splashes and gurgles punctuating the silence.

She was due to be released at dinner time. Thank Merlin, she thought. She didn't know if she could stand another day of this cooped-up quiet, her wand gone from her, with only Harry and Ron's occasional visits to break the monotony. Oh, and Malfoy. That was the worst part. For days, they had occupied the same hospital room but had pointedly refused to speak to each other. Hermione was fairly certain that saving a person's life entitled one to nodding pleasantries, at the very least, not to mention an expression of thanks; she and Malfoy had instead staked out opposite ends of the hospital wing like warring tribes, and though the place wasn't large, they managed to completely ignore each other, carrying on as if the other did not exist. When Malfoy wasn't sulking in his bed or whinging to Madam Pomfrey, he held court with his Slytherin cronies. They ignored her too, of course, if they saw her at all, though Pansy Parkinson had very delicately wrinkled her nose when she walked by. Hermione had given up trying to eavesdrop on their conversations. There hadn't seemed like much to listen to anyway--all they ever did was snicker or swear.

There still remained a torturously long half-day before all of it would be over. In the meantime, there were books to be read. Hermione squinted, trying to decipher her Potions text. She could not, for the life of her, figure out what had gone wrong with the modified Pensieve Base she had brewed for Professor Snape.

Snape.

Her head lifted from her book at the thought of her Potions professor. His name rolled around in her brain with an intimate frequency now. When had he changed from being the teacher who ridiculed her for sport to the man who sat by her sickbed? He had said she could come back...and it had filled her with unexplainable gratitude. She shook her head slightly, as if to purge her wandering mind, and returned to her studies.

Her original Arithmantic calculations were spread before her, the frayed edges of the parchment weighed down by various books. After inspecting them in the obsessive manner afforded only to people with limitless amounts of spare time, she had not been able to find a mistake. Now she wondered whether she had been brewing the whole blasted potion incorrectly to begin with. She didn't see how that was possible, since she could make Pensieve Base with her eyes closed, but it was worth checking, at least. She started to flip a page which had become stuck due to the humidity. Without a wand, all she could do was mutter, and running her fingers across the pages irately, she managed to turn them after they gave way with a ripping noise.

"Pensieve Base is a Class B potion that is used to prime Pensieves before they are filled with a memory. The potion can be brewed and stocked--"

Thump.

Hermione frowned at the intrusive sound which interrupted her reading, coming from Malfoy's side of the room, but without looking up, continued scanning the text.

"--before use. When one desires to use a Pensieve, one must first ladle the Pensieve Base into the apparatus and wait for the potion to be completely absorbed. Depending on the preferences of the user, Pensieve Base can be--"

Whoosh.

She looked up, irritation flaring, and was confronted by the sight of Malfoy waving his wand, stacking his books into an elaborate and precariously balanced tower.

After a moment of uncomprehending glaring, she sighed and rolled over, deliberately putting Malfoy and his antics behind her.

"--tailored for clarity of audio versus visual aspects of the memory. To gain in one is to sacrifice in the other; in general, brews are optimized to create a balance between the two, though specialized formulations are used by witches and wizards who work in fields that demand high-fidelity recall of either sound or sight."

Hermione chewed on the end of her quill. Everything written so far about Pensieve Base was exactly as she remembered it when she had read these passages the first time for Professor Snape's class. There was nothing in here about--

Wham!

Furious at being disturbed yet again, Hermione turned around in the bed, hissing under her breath, "What the hell?"

Malfoy's books were now in a pile on the floor and he was starting to levitate them, apparently intent on repeating the whole performance once more. Hermione would rather be hexed than continue to endure this racket.

She swung her bare feet over the edge of the bed and marched purposefully to Malfoy's side of the room. "For Merlin's sake, Malfoy, what's your problem?" she demanded.

He inspected her with supreme distaste, as if she were a stray animal that had landed on his doorstep. She bristled.

"What's it to you, Granger? Mind your own damn business," he returned venomously. He still appeared wan, and his face had a tight, pinched look about it which contrasted with the liquid silver of his eyes.

"Unlike you," Hermione replied through clenched teeth, "I'm endeavoring not to let my brain rot to pieces while stuck in this place. I can't read if your books are falling to the ground every two seconds!"

"What, are your pets, Potty and the Weasel, not paying you enough visits to satisfy your lusty appetites?" he sneered, his gaze openly leering.

"You miserable coward! How dare you, after I've--"

"You've what?" Malfoy interrupted. "Come to gloat, have you, Granger? So you think I'm twined around your little finger now because you saved my hide?" His voice dripped with bitterness.

He spoke facing slightly to the side, as if he could not stand to even look at her, but now he turned fully, and Hermione was struck by the seething hatred in his eyes. "Well, let me tell you something," he continued, his voice dropping low. "You can go to hell! I would rather have been reduced to a bloody pulp by my own magic than be touched by the likes of you."

"Duly noted," Hermione returned frigidly.

She turned abruptly and walked away, disgusted, but her bile spent. She expected that Malfoy would continue to grate against her nerves for the remainder of the afternoon, but after she had settled back in and chanced a look in his direction, she saw that he was now sitting silently on his bed, head bowed low. As a flash of lightning bleached the room briefly in brilliant blue and threw jagged shadows across the walls, Hermione saw that the bitterness and sullenness were gone from his face. In their stead was only the expression of one deeply and profoundly lost.

888

Hermione stood on the steps of Hagrid's house and pulled hard on the massive wooden door, barely managing to close it behind her. It latched with an angry groan, and she wiped her brow, relieved. The sounds of Fang chewing and slurping in satisfaction could be heard coming from the inside, as the dog devoured his dinner. She had volunteered to look in on Hagrid's faithful pet while the man was away, despite the dog's frightfully large size and its overabundance of drool. After being held in captivity in the hospital wing for three days, she was glad for an excuse to roam the school grounds.

As she started to make her way back, she drew in a deep breath, enjoying the crisp air of the approaching dusk. In the distance, the slanted rays of the setting sun bounced off the stone exterior of the castle, making it appear as bright as a jewel. The afternoon's storm had passed, leaving the damp grass smelling fresh and feeling soft underfoot. Hermione slowed, savoring her surroundings.

Her drifting gaze was arrested by the sight of a figure clad in black, cresting the hill and coming towards her. The person moved with confident ease, effortlessly sidestepping the myriad tree roots and fallen branches that riddled the rocky pathway. Hermione knew who it was without needing to see his face. She stopped and waited, her eyes fixed on him, as he got closer and closer.

"Let off your leash, finally, Granger?" he said by way of greeting. A small, covered basket hung from his arm. His usually flattened mat of black hair had been remolded by the breeze, some of it falling loosely about his chin.

"Yes, Professor, just this afternoon, as a matter of fact," she replied, a little shakily. Was he about to take points for her unsanctioned outdoor wandering? He was close enough that she had to look up at him. He is so very tall, Hermione thought irrelevantly. Surrounded by the vast expanse of trees, boulders, and sky, she felt even smaller.

He did not respond, but instead, peered at her with an unreadable expression. Hermione could only stare mutely back. Their eyes met, his dark flint searing against her honeyed brown. The air between them shifted subtly, as if someone had drawn a finger lightly over the still surface of water.

It lasted both an eternity and a heartbeat.

Hermione blinked, her lips parting slightly in surprise. She could hear the roar of rushing blood in her ears.

Snape drew back, a shadow falling across his already oblique gaze, the only reflection in him of her own startlement. "Return to the castle," he reproved softly, without rancor. Then he calmly took a step around her and made for the Forbidden Forest, his only parting gesture a perfunctory inclination of his head.

Hermione stood rooted in place, watching the back of him disappear into the cover of the dense trees. Without knowing what came over her, she broke into a run, tripping over the pebbles and twigs, following him. He had already gone a considerable distance, and her breath was heaving by the time she caught up with him again.

"Wait, Professor!" she called out, wheezing.

She felt a little hysterical, but she had stopped caring the moment she had taken off after him.

He turned, a livid scowl twisting his features. "Did you not hear me the first time, or are you now deaf as well as daft? Are you seeking to bring further ruin upon your health, you imbecilic child?"

Yet, even in all the jumbled confusion of running and shouting, Hermione realized that the vitriol issuing forth from his mouth was in direct opposition to the hand that had darted out when she had reached him, grasping her by the arm, steadying her.

"I am perfectly fine," she said impatiently. "It is not curfew yet," she pointed out. She wasn't certain why she had decided to come after him--she only knew that she must now attempt to stall, at all costs, being summarily hauled back to the castle, no doubt after a thousand-point deduction from Gryffindor. She frantically evaluated the possibilities in her head before stating, "If...if it is moonstone you're laying out for the night, can I come with you? I've always been, ah, curious about it, since it's quite a potent potions ingredient."

His head angled at her unlikely story, and his eyes gleamed in the shady darkness. He quickly unhanded her, throwing her back a step in the process, then continued walking into the forest. "Do not wander off on your own," he said without looking back, resigned displeasure evident in his voice.

He walked at a brisk clip, but Hermione stubbornly hurried along, keeping him in sight. She was sure the professor wasn't intending to do anything with moonstones, but she didn't care. She felt giddy and unhinged. Strange bird calls sounded overhead, accompanied by the scampering of hidden creatures. The Forbidden Forest was usually a place she steered clear of, for she had had more than her share of near-death catastrophes here, and she suspected that the beings inhabiting this gloomy realm remembered her all too well. The thought that she might be in danger briefly crossed her mind, but it was quickly extinguished in a surge of rash courage.

They stopped at a clearing, where an unusual amount of sunlight pierced through the foliage, causing the ground to take on the mottled pattern of leafy shadows. The moldering remains of felled trees lay everywhere--the centaurs' doing, Hermione presumed. Snape was focused very intently at a spot in the center of the clearing, and she followed his gaze, wondering what was so absorbing about a patch of overgrown weeds.

"Oenothera Biennis," Snape murmured, quietly.

Then she saw them, too. They were tall stalks, growing against a tree trunk, and so she had mistaken them for common forest vines. At the crown of each plant was a splash of delicate, yellow blooms. The petals were just beginning to open.

"Evening primrose," Hermione breathed.

He nodded. "They will open tonight."

Their voices were hushed, neither wanting to agitate the forest life.

"But here?" Hermione whispered, frowning.

"Sprout's doing. They are not native to this area, but they do well enough in any dry, undisturbed patch of soil." He looked at her wryly now. "As usual, Granger, you were correct in your assumptions; I was indeed coming to the forest to earn my keep as a Potions master." He gestured to the basket he carried. "I am sure you do not require an explanation of the plant's worth in medicinal potions."

Hermione shook her head. "And they must be harvested on the night they are to bloom?"

"Correct." He set the basket down and approached the plants, bending down to inspect them under the waning light of evening. "If you wish to make yourself useful, you may furnish us with a bit of light," he said, a touch haughtily.

Hermione shrugged and quickly produced a bluebell flame from the end of her wand. She studied the bobbing light which was now dancing on the forest floor. With a twitch of her wand, she had the flames split into three and hovering about them like cheerful fairies. Satisfied, she went to join Snape, who was now carefully plucking the blooms from their stems and depositing them in the basket.

His fingers were lithe and his motions economical. He looked up, briefly inspected her handiwork, then raised his eyebrows. "Pleased to have your wand back?"

"Yes," she said simply. She reached out and stroked one of the flowers. It felt velvety in texture. More of them were starting to unveil themselves now that the night was falling. They emitted a pleasing aroma, unimposing and sweet.

"They are beautiful," she said with reverence. "Odd things they are, blooming only in the night."

"The moths prefer them," Snape said noncommittally.

She noticed that he was no longer occupied by the primrose. Without warning, his wand circled about his head elegantly, and her three flames erupted into fireballs, landing on the shrubbery and burning harmlessly, consuming nothing as they glowed.

Hermione was the one now who glanced archly at her professor. "Ah," she commented. "Very...Biblical."

Snape curled a lip. "Far be it for me to be compared with the gods." He paused, then added, "It is better this way, you must admit. How am I to finish the task at hand with those interfering bobs of yours?"

She felt a smirk tug at her mouth. "If you believe those were ostentatious..." She aimed her wand carefully at Snape's burning bushes, and the flames instantly transformed before their eyes into fiery creatures. A snake, a lion, a badger, and a raven prowled around them.

Snape appraised them. "Poetic. And Albus wondered that you were capable of a mere messenger Patronus," he scoffed.

"Pretty, aren't they?" she said, managing to keep a straight face. She felt lightheaded---probably from her still-mending magical core.

"Without doubt," he said sourly. This time, he did not bother with taking out his wand. His eyes still fixed upon her, he whispered indistinctly, and her blazing creations froze into ice.

Hermione turned and gaped, unabashedly impressed.

"Don't know that one?" Snape asked waspishly.

"No," she said faintly, touching the glimmering surface of the ice in admiration. "How?" she couldn't stop herself from inquiring. "Fire to ice bridges three intermediary transfigurative states, and wandlessly, too?"

"One of the headmaster's old favorites, I believe. Not a transfiguration, Granger."

She heard the unspoken note of challenge and cocked her head, working her way through the puzzle.

"Ah. I suppose it helped that it rained this afternoon? You banished my fire and summoned the ice. There's plenty of water sitting around..."

"You did at least succeed in not losing your mind whilst in the hospital wing," was all Snape said.

She grinned crookedly at the grudging compliment. "And the wandless aspect?"

This time, he did smile, though it looked a little tight-lipped and repressed. "Ah, that would be experience, Granger," he said loftily.

"Right," she said, tossing her head.

They were silent now, standing facing one another. The primrose lay forgotten at their feet. They regarded each other, their eyes meeting again, and Hermione thought that he might dismiss her, as he had before. But he didn't--he only scrutinized her with an expression that was uncertain and questioning, the dark pools that were his eyes swirling with currents which Hermione did not understand.

The light from the day had almost gone, the sky now streaked with amethyst and red. A breeze shook the trees, chilly now from the nightfall. She shivered, though she was sure she wasn't cold.

"You have not your robe," he said softly, chiding.

"I...was not planning on needing it."

Wordlessly, his hands went to the clasp of his own ubiquitous black robe, and he slipped out of it and had it wrapped around her in one fluid movement.

Hermione stood transfixed, not daring to breathe. The robe felt warm and carried an unfamiliar but soothing scent, vaguely herbal and intensely...masculine. The thick material pooled at her feet, having been tailored for a much taller wearer. Dazedly, she realized it had never occurred to her that beneath the trademark billowing robes must have stood a man with quite a substantial frame; here he was before her now, the garment gone, well-muscled beneath the plain black shirt and slacks.

The sound of loud flapping wings drew both their attentions to a disturbance in the treetops, the source invisible to Hermione.

"Thestrals," Snape said, following some unseen trajectory.

"I--I cannot see them," Hermione murmured, her voice breaking slightly. "Even after...you know."

He turned to her, the strange, tentative look in his eyes again. He absently picked out one last primrose from its stalk, and taking her hand, he placed the single yellow bloom in her palm and slowly closed her hand around it, saying, "It is much better this way, Granger."

888

Severus walked through the castle corridors, performing the last round of the night. He kept watch for the usual miscreants--hormonal teenagers out of their Houses, lost First Years, the occasional n'er do-gooder. He felt distracted today, however. He had almost missed Zabini and Bulstrode lurking behind a suit of armor. He was not going to delude himself by believing he did not know why he was preoccupied. He was more concerned because he felt...indifferent. Even...relieved.

"It is enough," he whispered to himself.

He had given up pretending that she did not affect him. True, Granger picked up spells quickly, and perhaps was even worthy of dueling him, if her general repertoire was as impressive as her illumination spells. But she was also part of some larger cosmic mystery, he decided, for which men such as him were not destined to have knowledge. Tonight, he had already strayed far beyond what was permissible. He would accept that the experience was not altogether unpleasant. But there could simply be no possibility of repeating it.

He fingered his robe, now back upon his own shoulders. His sensitive brewer's nose detected a trace of gardenias, however faint, that he had come to associate with her presence.

He had tried to rid himself of her when he had found her standing outside on the grounds, but she had followed him like a lost crup--and he had let her. She had gotten him to indulge in wand work, the likes of which he hadn't done in years. Could she be considered beautiful? He did not know. How could he know? He only knew that she had curls that cascaded about her face, begging for a man to run his fingers through them, that she had eyes that shone like stars when she looked at him, and that she possessed a guileless brilliance that he feared every day would be marred by her simmering plans for vengeance. And now, she had worn his cloak. It was out of his hands; he could only hope that she would quickly forget the incident, or perhaps that, still recovering from her injury, she was even less lucid than he was.

It is enough.

"Professor Snape!"

He whirled around, towards the source of the voice. It could not be her again. He looked down the far end of the corridor towards the staircase and narrowed his eyes, straightening up in alertness.

It was indeed Granger, but she was not alone. She was flanked by Potter and Weasley, and between the three of them, they were levitating another student, the identity of whom he could not be certain from the distance. They were making an appalling commotion, bumping into one another as they clumsily descended the stairs.

He quickly went to them. Looking down at their immobilized fellow, he was confounded by what he saw. "Longbottom? What is the meaning of this?" he thundered.

"Sir, we brought him down as soon as we could!" Granger said hurriedly. "We need to get him to the hospital wing!"

"And your Head of House?"

"Well, Professor McGonagall stayed behind, because, um, Neville was a bit destructive and he hurt many of our Housemates and scared most of the First Years to death," Potter answered, looking at Severus apprehensively. "We aren't out here on purpose!"

Severus disregarded Potter's last bit of incoherent rambling and tried to picture Longbottom terrorizing Gryffindor Tower. He imagined there was far more to the story than this, but he took one look at Longbottom's Petrified form and said curtly, "Come."

He extracted his own wand, divesting the students of their burden. As they proceeded to the hospital wing, he asked, "What exactly was the nature of Mr. Longbottom's behavior?"

"He'd been acting kind of off for the past couple of days," Weasley said. "Kind of quiet, reclusive. We just thought he had a bit on his mind, or that he was just being Neville. But then tonight, he totally lost it! Went barking mad...sir," the boy explained with his typical eloquence.

"It was dreadful! He staggered about, turning over furniture, hitting students. He was unresponsive to anything that we said to him. He said things himself, but none of it was comprehensible! We fire-called Professor McGonagall as soon as we could get a body-bind on him..." Granger reported fretfully. "Oh, I do hope he's all right! What do you suppose is wrong with him, Professor?"

He knew better than to make eye contact, lest his treacherous heart betray him again. Instead, he continued walking, the floating Longbottom leading the way. Without turning, he replied, "I doubt I would be the one to tell you, Miss Granger. I am certain any number of calamities could have befallen one such as Longbottom."

They were all mercifully silent after that.

When they reached the hospital wing, Poppy met them at the door. "I just received word from Minerva!" she said, ushering them to a bed. "Put him down, quickly! I need to see to him before she sends down the others. Oh, Severus, hello, you seem to be in here quite frequently these days."

He released Longbottom from the Mobilicorpus and dropped him upon the bed, not bothering to respond to Poppy's chattering.

They all stood around the still Petrified Longbottom, the three Gryffindors fidgeting anxiously. Poppy bustled her way to the foot of the bed, pointed her wand at the boy, and incanted, "Finite!"

Immediately, Longbottom's features unfroze, and he lunged from the bed, wild-eyed and thrashing. Without thinking, Severus swept an arm out to push Granger further from the bed, managing to drag Potter and Weasley along, too. "Back!" he hissed.

"Nee-Dukes! Nee-Dukes!"

Longbottom seemed to speak, though as Granger had alluded to earlier, nothing he said could be construed as coherent. They all watched in revolted fascination as the boy gibbered and drooled, moaning and convulsing. Poppy had placed magical restraints upon his feet and hands and he bounced about within the confines of the bed helplessly.

Poppy was measuring out a dosage of calming draught for the boy and was preparing to administer it.

"Nee-Dukes!"

Severus slanted his head toward Longbottom, listening more intently. He held up his hand, forestalling Poppy. "Just a moment," he said tensely.

"Nee-Dukes!"

Nee-Dukes? It wasn't any spell or word he knew, but the boy was determined to say this and nothing else.

Weasley suddenly gasped, then elbowed his way forward. "Nee-dukes! Honeydukes! Is he saying Honeydukes, as in the sweets shop?"

Granger and Potter looked at each other, then at Weasley, before recognition dawned upon their faces, too.

"Honeydukes? Yes, we had a Hogsmeade trip a few days ago! Could he have ingested something harmful there?" Granger speculated.

Poppy, running diagnostic spells, shook her head distractedly. "No, nothing out of the ordinary in his blood...in fact, I don't even detect any magic on him that isn't his own!"

Longbottom continued to twist about, his eyes now following all of their movements in paranoid fashion.

A new idea occurred to Severus. He examined the immediate area and found the object he sought, Longbottom's wand, sitting on the nightstand. "Prior Incantato!"

A ghostly image of a sleeping Draco Malfoy burst from the end of Longbottom's wand. The spell form of Draco jerked awake, his eyes wide open but unseeing. A guttural scream was ripped from inside him, which echoed loudly within the walls of the hospital wing.

Astonishment initially prevented Severus from moving a muscle. Then, drawn out of his shock by the sound of Draco's continued screams, he waved his wand and ended the spell with a harsh, "Deletrius!"

None spoke after the screams faded. Even Longbottom had quieted, now merely rocking back and forth silently. Severus looked up, only to collide with the sight of Granger's horror-filled eyes, the grimness of this reality gripping her above all others.

He tore his gaze from her, seeking Poppy. "Send for the headmaster," he said with forced calm. "Also, Draco Malfoy."

888

Author's Notes:

Evening primrose is quite a lovely plant. I adore the fact that it opens at night rather than during the day. I did do some research on it--I took some extra liberties with its habitat in order to make it work for this story...but not too much : )

For anyone with a Livejournal, I'd love to friend you! Mine is listed in my profile. Also, I am on Twitter as labrt2004

And as always, many thanks go out to my betas, Natalie (LaSyren) and Snarkyroxy!

Reviews are very much appreciated!