Iridescent Snow

Author's Notes: I usually put these at the end, but I feel that I need to give the shout-outs in the beginning so people will pay attention! Thank you to Snarkyroxy and La Syren for betaing this story. Also, I'm so grateful to Talesofsnape for this gorgeous new banner. And finally, thank you Ferporcel, Annietalbot, and Machshefa for their input at various points in this chapter and for holding my hand when writing it became hard...

Chapter Ten: Degrees of Freedom

She sat in the hard, uncomfortable chair, watching him with detached fascination and feeling her own blood run cold in her veins. He could deduct points if it pleased him... it was of little consequence to her.

Snape appeared to have slipped on a placid mask of dispassion, but she had spent enough time observing him that she could tell by the dark fire burning in his eyes that he was seething. He continued to leave his wand sitting upon the desk, out of spite, she figured. She turned her gaze to the Pensieve. He could take his lordly arrogance to hell; she could play this game of brinksmanship as long as he needed.

In any case, she had no intention of spending the rest of the evening dancing around his clearly unresolved personal conflicts. She opened her school bag and pulled out the worn parchment bearing all the Arithmantic calculations again. As Snape watched impassively, she smoothed it out upon his desk and then took out another piece of parchment, also filled with ciphering, though this one was crisp and new. She spread them next to each other, then pointed to the second parchment, on which she had painstakingly reworked all the equations from the beginning. "I was hoping we could try again, with the Pensieve Base, sir. I scoured through all the literature I could find on it, but I haven't managed to figure out why it acted so strangely. That's to be expected, I suppose, with experimental potions. But I figured, maybe we could try once more, with a different formulation, just to put to rest any doubts."

Snape raised an eyebrow quizzically before snatching up the parchment and scanning its contents.

"It's Arithmancy, and one wouldn't expect more than one answer, but I looked at all the old calculations and thought there probably could be more than one solution because of--"

"Degrees of freedom," he said curtly, cutting her off. He thrust the calculations back. "You've made an insightful choice by reinstating the adder scales. Ingredients originating from adders are known to be more stable. I suggest adding the scales before asphodel, however. The reason the protocol suggests differently is because students are better at gauging the potion color when the asphodel is used first; adder scales have more potency as a launching ingredient for a potion, though, and you have enough ability to handle them thusly."

Hermione sat back in her chair with a start. Professor Snape's approbation came as a surprise. She had been steeling herself against anger, mockery, and scorn. Her wits in short supply, she managed to say, "Thank you, sir."

He merely cast a cold look at her before turning away. "We will proceed as we did in our last session. You know where to procure the ingredients. Brew the potion without incident, and then we will observe its effects."

Sighing, she made her way to the cabinet where the adder scales were kept and gathered the prescribed quantity. Damn the infernal man. How had he managed, in the blink of an eye, to turn the situation so fully upon its head? His mannerisms were as changeable as the perilously shifting staircases in the dormitory tower.

With flair borne of irritation, she quickly dumped the adder scales into a cauldron and began work on the asphodel roots. After some minutes of what she hoped was dignified silence from herself, she looked up, only to find that Snape was no longer present in the Potions classroom. Rather than sitting at his desk and reading, he had retreated through the door connecting his classroom with his private quarters. Hermione frowned. She knew that she should have taken this departure from routine as an affirmation of her own competence, but instead, she found herself infusing a surge of discontent energy into her cutting, slicing so hard that the dried roots bounced up from the table with each fall of her knife.

He emerged sometime later, after she had already set the potion over the flame to brew. She was perched atop one the lab benches and was distractedly browsing through her Transfiguration readings for next week. Upon hearing his entrance, she jumped to her feet and shut the text, fixing her attention on him. Her breath hitched when she noted that he had shed his familiar teaching robes, granting a view of a broad shoulder as he turned to close the door. His waistcoat was black, the only color she'd ever observed him wear, but the sight of it uncovered was discordantly intimate, and Hermione barely prevented her mouth from dropping open in bewilderment.

"All is well, Miss Granger?" he asked briskly as he made his way to his desk.

"Yes, I am waiting for it to boil," she answered in a rush.

"You will notify me when it is done," he said. Then he gathered a stack of parchments from his desk, and without another word, returned to his chambers.

Hermione kneaded her forehead, frustrated. The potion was starting to boil now, and she mentally filed away her discomfiture for further inspection at a later time. She could not risk any disruptions to her concentration whilst she was in the midst of counting her stirs. She merely wished... Merlin, the man simply needed to keep all his clothes on, she thought with a stab of annoyance.

The potion finished, she resolutely tamped down upon her injured pride, walked to Snape's door and knocked. The man was behaving civilly, against all expectations, yet it was his very civility that was infuriating. Promptly, the door opened. "It's done," she informed him tersely.

Snape evaluated her critically. "I see you have managed," he said before sweeping past her. Even without those robes, he succeeded somehow to give the impression of billowing, Hermione thought with disgust as she followed him to his desk.

They settled themselves on opposite sides of the Pensieve, and Snape picked up his wand. "Unfortunately, we will need to avail ourselves of a Pensieve from among Albus' considerable collection, since this one is still harboring your memory. I am sure he would not mind in the least," he finished with a faint sneer.

"Sounds reasonable to me," agreed Hermione, matching Snape's frosty courtesy.

He waved his wand, and the required second Pensieve was conjured. With a silent flick of his wrist, he deferred to her, signaling her to proceed.

Hermione commenced replicating the sequence of actions from their first experiment, carefully ladling the modified potion into the Pensieve and waiting for it to be absorbed. At the next step, when she was required to furnish a memory, she chose one of innocuous origin, a recollection of last week's Herbology lecture. This time around, she took great care to avoid sharing a memory that held even remote personal significance. No need to hand him ammunition, she thought darkly.

The effects of the altered Pensieve Base were instantly apparent the moment the silver threads of memory touched the dark, polished surface of the stone bowl. Instead of settling into the normal calm sheen, the liquid frothed and boiled violently, slipping and sliding along the sides of the Pensieve. She watched, gripped by suspense, waiting for the memory to evaporate altogether, but it did not; it continued to bubble soundlessly. In her mind, a picture of what should follow was slowly forming, the next step in their inquiry inevitably revealing itself.

With a slight shiver, she leaned forward, closer to the Pensieve. At the same time Snape pressed his two bandaged hands upon the table and angled his tall form nearer. Startled, she looked up at him. He, too, was keenly watching the simmering silver surface, contemplating it with an analytical intensity. Hermione immediately recognized the blaze in his eyes as a mirror of her own anticipation.

"We can enter the memory," she stated, rather than asked. Her voice was thick, suppressed excitement causing control of her senses to grow tenuous.

Snape nodded, though he held up one hand in forestallment. "Sense, Granger, put it to good employ. This is no time for Gryffindor intrepidness," he said cuttingly. He studied anew the strange consistency of the memory, eying it sharply, his wordless command for restraint still present. Hermione was acutely aware of his palm just barely making contact with her arm as his hand blocked her access to the Pensieve.

"You are, I trust, familiar with Occlusion?"

Hermione hesitated, then reluctantly bowed her head in assent.

Snape regarded her with faint amusement. "No need for timidity. Like as not, you made it your business to master it when it became clear that Potter was incapable?"

She had read enough about Occlusion, of course, and had even tried it in fits and spurts when curiosity struck her. And indeed, she had grown very curious about it when Harry was struggling to learn it. Knowing about Harry's awful lessons with the professor in their fifth year, and she wasn't exactly eager to be subject to them herself. "Master wouldn't be the right word," she muttered.

He smirked, and with a touch of hauteur, replied, "An elementary knowledge would be quite sufficient, Miss Granger."

"Well, isn't that a relief." She had meant to ask a question, but it had come out with more bite than she'd intended. She waited for the point deductions that would surely follow--and basked in the pleasure of not caring.

There was no indication that he had heard her. "Occlude when you enter the Pensieve," he said intently, bending lower over the table to meet her gaze.

She flinched at the unexpected proximity but held her silence. Merlin, she was acting the model dimwit, being buffeted every which way by Snape's behavior.

"There is no telling what effects the potion could have on one's mind. I will accompany you into the memory, as I do not trust you to be well-enough equipped to handle every eventuality." Snape's tone did not invite debate.

Not that she was inclined to put up a fight, anyway. She was anxious to find out what had happened to the potion. "All right," she quickly agreed.

The real challenge lay in getting through the session... with him.

They faced each other, the Pensieve between them. Hermione schooled her mind for Occlusion, feeling her eyebrows knit together in an effort to focus. In contrast, Snape, quite at ease, observed her without expression, his Occlusion, she guessed, requiring very little thought.

"Granger."

Her eyes opened at the sound of her name--she hadn't noticed that they had closed. Snape's flint black gaze was upon her, piercing her with rough, unapologetic heat. Without blinking, she endured the onslaught, thrilled by the dripping uncertainty which hung between them. The connection held strong, and then there was a subtle sifting in her mind, like water trickling through sand, that was over before she knew it had occurred; Snape's attention had already moved elsewhere by the time Hermione realized that she had been Legilimized.

"The Occlusion is adequate," Snape pronounced.

A heavy hush descended over the already quiet Potions classroom. An unspoken consensus passed between them. With a last sideways glance at Snape, Hermione dipped her head into the Pensieve.

The scene, blurry at first, gradually fell into place around her, the memory unfurling in wavy, shimmering sheets. Her seventh year classmates were gathered in the Herbology greenhouse for their lecture. Her present-day self watched from the corner of the room as Professor Sprout demonstrated the proper way to pot snapdragons to the class. To her left, Hermione was aware of the shadowy figure of Snape.

"Now mind you, they are not called 'snapdragons' for nothing!" Sprout was saying.

Well, I should think not! thought Hermione to herself. Their snapping action is enough to land anyone at St. Mungo's! But they are harvested as a valuable medicinal ingredient.

She knew that next to her, Snape was watching her closely. A disturbing black apparition within her own memory, he tracked even the slightest twitch of her finger with an eagle's acuity. She tried not to be distracted by his sullen presence.

So what was different about this memory?

"Of course they aren't called that for nothing! Longbottom's grandmother probably promised to feed him to the bloody things if he misbehaved..." Malfoy whispered to Goyle.

Her counterpart in the memory threw the Slytherin a glare.

Worthless, bullying shites! she thought vehemently.

In her peripheral vision, she saw Snape start. Without warning, his fingers closed around her wrist in a painful grip, and he yanked her out of the memory. The scene quickly melted away as she was forcibly removed from the Pensieve.

She collapsed into a chair, shaken, her head still spinning. She rubbed her tender wrist and looked up at Snape in confusion. "What was that for?" she asked angrily.

"Do not act persecuted," he replied in a hard tone. "You have not the slightest idea what has just occurred, do you? You have created singularly potent Dark magic."

"Dark magic? It was just a memory! In fact, I was still trying to figure out the difference between that memory and regular memories when you hauled me away."

"The difference, Miss Granger, was that you have managed to concoct a Pensieve Base which not only hosts memories, but also thoughts."

Hermione shook her head slightly, trying to make sense out of Snape's words. Thoughts? "You mean, my thoughts. You could hear what I was thinking," she mused, finally stringing together the facts. "Yes, I suppose I was remembering what my exact thoughts at any given moment were--but they seemed to me just like normal thoughts, the kind which occur in one's head."

"You wouldn't have been able to tell the difference. Had I not been present, I suspect you would never have made the distinction." Snape's voice had grown thoughtful, the contempt that had carried his words faded. He continued, "It must have been the adder scales."

"The very reason they are in the protocol for Pensieve Base to begin with--adder scales are associated with memory. And the Arithmantic alterations must have induced this layering effect," Hermione postulated, following Snape's lead. She braced an elbow against the bench top, her chin coming to rest in her hand. "This is Dark magic, then? It's true that a Dark spell need not inflict death, injury, or pain. Reading minds could be Dark, too," she observed contemplatively.

"Yes, more precisely, invasion of minds is Dark."

"Legilimency, then..."

"Quite right, Granger, Legilimency is Dark," Snape answered, eyebrows lifting in sardonic challenge.

She folded her lips. "Well, supposing this potion is Dark. What led you to characterize it as singularly potent?"

"If one were to cast Legilimens, one would not be able to read a mind. The mind is not a book." Snape paused, looked deliberately at Hermione, and sneered. "I elucidated this concept to an uncomprehending Potter once. Perhaps it will be lost upon you, also."

Hermione crossed her arms. "You would not even have begun the explanation if you truly thought so."

Snape made no reply, silently acknowledging her riposte. Coolly dusting invisible lint from his shirt, he continued, "In Legilimency, one captures only imprints of thoughts, open-ended fragments that may or may not be meaningless, depending on the skill of the Legilimens. And even that much is considered by the magical community to be Dark. Now, as we have it, there is a potion which not only strips all objectivity from a memory, but also lets one bear witness to the exact thoughts of another. It supersedes Priori Incantatem, or Veritaserum, or even forcible memory extraction."

"This kind of magic isn't necessarily harmful, though," Hermione insisted. "Professor Dumbledore, for example, he's an Legilimens. Besides, I think this potion could prove very useful for figuring out what happened to Neville."

"Only a naïve Gryffindor such as yourself could propose such a thoughtless idea," said Snape repressively. "Is it your constant wish to meddle in the affairs of others? Do not confuse the headmaster's Light credentials with the choices that he has made regarding his magic. Magic is dark, Granger, not wizards. Any and all are free to use whatever spells they wish, but until you have attained the mastery and experience of the headmaster, I would not advise you to do so. Longbottom is above your reach."

The anger that Hermione had carried into the room in the beginning of the evening, the unfocused resentment that she felt toward the professor, seemingly forgotten in the shared thrill of a joint discovery, burst back into existence again. He was, by nature, cruel and belittling, and in the excitement of investigating the new potion, she had almost forgiven him.

Silence was wedged awkwardly between them.

Finally, Hermione said brittlely, "So that was the proof of concept. Can I go on with the real potion, Water of Styx, sir?"

Snape's voice was wintry: "You may."

888

Severus wearily pinched the bridge of his nose and studied the sullen-faced student sitting before him. His head was threatening to split from the intolerable hour he had spent with Granger, yet here was the younger Malfoy, somehow landed upon his stoop again. Curfew had long come and gone, and Severus had begun preparations for slumber when the urgent pounding on his door had begun.

The boy appeared pale and drawn, and Severus detected a faint line of perspiration dotting his hairline. Suddenly, his exhaustion was pushed far from his mind.

"Mr. Malfoy, to what do I owe the pleasure?" he inquired silkily.

"I--I'm sorry for coming this late, sir. I thought about waiting till tomorrow but decided that this was ah--urgent enough to disturb you." The shaky words came pouring out of the typically articulate boy. He fumbled around the inside of his robe and pulled out a sheet of parchment. "On my pillow tonight," Draco explained.

Severus drew his wand. "For the love of Merlin, boy, tell me you were not stupid enough to--"

"I checked!" Draco managed to protest in whinging tones, in spite of his obviously rattled state. "I'm not a complete dolt, Professor. Of course I looked for curses first before I picked it up."

"You know nothing of what to look for," Severus muttered distractedly as he levitated the parchment onto his desk and started a series of detection spells. "I will thank you next time to await proper assistance, especially given the recent trouble you've attracted."

The parchment appeared to be clean, and he finally took it in hand and scanned the contents. With sinking heart, he read the lone sentence scrawled in elaborate, barely-legible script. It was as he had thought. "You've been threatened," he said grimly, tossing the parchment down upon his desk again.

Draco's face fell. "I gathered as much, though I couldn't make heads or tails out of it. It's some sort of code, isn't it? Three nights in seclusion with a king."

"It is word play. Three knights, the variety one finds on horseback. Your elusive enemy is undoubtedly congratulating himself on his own cleverness."

"I still don't get it."

"Under the right circumstances, three knights and a king are sufficient to force checkmate during a game of chess," Severus explained. He puzzled over the note, picking it up again and crushing the parchment between his fingers, trying to decide if there was anything suspect to the texture.

"So I'm to be checkmated? In three nights?" Draco choked out.

Severus was aware of the need to tread lightly. He was still uncertain of where the boy's loyalty lay--if indeed he had any loyalties at all. He shook his head. "It is difficult to say." He reread the sentence, then sighed. "There is more to it than that. Our friend is rather more... creative than I am prepared to be right now. I will require some time to examine this."

Draco visibly deflated at his words, the tint of hopelessness spreading throughout his eyes unmissed by Severus, who scrutinized him watchfully. "I see. Well, thanks for your time, Professor. I'm assuming that he's not after my blood tonight, as that would just be abhorrently lacking in subtleness, not to mention spoil all his fun and games," the Slytherin said lightly, dry levity, the currency of all Malfoys, taking over. "So I think I'll be off to bed now."

Severus was not fooled. One wave of his wand was all it took to slam the office door back into place and bar Draco's exit. The boy turned slowly to face him again, expression guarded.

"Sit, Draco." Severus felt himself parody the headmaster as he gestured invitingly to his student. He considered with interest this latest scion of pureblooded inbreeding. Though fate and choice had dictated the overlapping orbits of Lucius and himself, he had never had much patience for Malfoy hubris. Over the years, he had watched with gritted teeth as Lucius had cleared the way--money efficaciously won the loyalty of the dull and greedy--for the ascendance of his precious son within Slytherin House. Reared from the cradle with every expectation to inherit a rich and powerful dynasty, Draco was instead now living the hounded existence of the hunted, with a price on his head.

He chose his words carefully. As one in his position, even a slight misstep would be fraught with danger. "Why do you simply stand by and allow yourself to be persecuted? Have you evaluated the loyalties of those who surround you?"

"Yes," the boy spat. "There are plenty of people around here whom I distrust, starting with Dumbledore! The old man is so biased that he leans when he walks--I'm not convinced at all that he cares a whit about finding out who is after me, and in fact, I don't see him taking out the mourning garb if I did get offed by whoever this lunatic is. I mean, for Merlin's sake, Longbottom? You've got to put a stop to it, Severus, he hates Slytherins, he hates us!" he shouted, lapsing into the more familiar address from his childhood days, forbidden to him since his entrance into Hogwarts.

"Get a hold of yourself!" Severus snapped, cutting off the boy's hysterics.

Draco blinked. "Sir."

He knew this outburst was a sign of the boy's psychological deterioration, inevitable under the circumstances for a young man who had never known a day's hardship. "Longbottom is linked to the incident that night, whether you like it or not!" Severus said unyieldingly. "And believe me when I say this, Draco, it is emphatically not in the headmaster's best interests to feed you to the wolves. He has a considerably more flexible moral compass than you might believe, and he is a formidable strategist, which is, at present, more than I can say for you."

Draco sat, fists clenching and unclenching in his lap, and Severus read the indecision and anguish which passed in turns over his visage. There was more the boy wished to confide, Severus realized, but Draco did not trust him. He would not force the issue; it was for the best, since Severus did not want to compromise his position with the Dark Lord.

With his wand, he prodded the note toward Draco. "If things are not as you like them, then seek out the right people and effect the right events so that you can make them as you like. Do not simply paint a target on yourself and wait for your enemies to find you."

He made no response, nor did Severus expect him to. Within the ranks of Slytherin, the most crucial ideas were often not the ones said aloud, but rather found in the silence of unspoken intimation. Draco would simply have put to use the cunning and instinct which had landed him in his House. Severus hoped that it would be enough.

888

By the time Draco had left Severus' quarters, the night was already well underway. Though sleep, long denied him, was on his mind, Severus only made it as far as entering his bedchamber before his body steered itself automatically to the chair rather than the bed. He settled into it, then stared blankly at his ceiling. The day had been taxing. He drew in a breath--he grasped at mental straws, finding his ability to process had ground to a halt--and slowly, he released his breath again. Impulsively, he debated--

Before the thought had fully a formed, a flash of movement appeared out of the corner of his eye. Startled out of his reverie, Severus bolted up and blindly jammed a wand at the disturbance, which promptly emitted a squeak of fear. Cursing, Severus followed his wandtip to where the house-elf, Winky, cowered tearfully at his feet.

Disgustedly, Severus stowed his wand again and demanded, "Who gave you leave to appear here?"

"Master Professor Snape is wantses Winky to be here, sir!" she answered in the grating high pitch which afflicted all her kind.

"I asked for no such thing!"

"Begging pardon, sir, Winky is not meaning to be intrusive! But sir calls Winky to be bringing him foods. Perhaps sir is not using house-elfs in a long time and forgots how," the creature stammered, bowing excessively.

"Food," Severus repeated unnecessarily. He cleared his throat. "It was just a thought. It was not even a completely finished thought." He tried not to dwell upon the fact that he was currently in the midst of quarreling with a house-elf.

"If Master Professor Snape is hungry a lot when he thinks about foods, then Winky always comes. Sir needs foods!" Winky insisted mulishly.

"Fine," he growled. "Bring me something. Anything. Something to induce mental function would be appreciated," he finished with a scoff.

"Yes!" the abominable thing gushed. "Winky is bringing sir that right away!" She backed away from him deferentially before disappearing with a snap.

Minutes later, Severus found himself barricaded into his armchair by an elf service cart piled high with pastries, cheeses, and spreads, as well as an assortment of herbal teas. Carbohydrates and proteins. Food that induces mental function. Half-hearted irritation flared as he slowly reached for a peach scone, all the while reminding himself to never again tread on the wrong side of a house-elf's literal comprehension of the world. As sustenance started to flow into his body to replenish admittedly depleted stores, Severus realized with dismay that he had indeed not eaten since his breakfast that morning in the Great Hall. It was little wonder that the menace of an elf had shown up.

He found no pleasure in his daily meals, particularly when surrounded by the insipid conversation of his colleagues. He did not, however favor skipping meals, for the simple reason that he still remembered far too well the leaner and more impoverished times in his life when meals had been a coveted luxury.

Severus closed his eyes. There was no question as to what had caused him to eschew food and drink.

Even thinking about her now produced a certain tightening in his stomach which chased away any more desire for food, reminiscent of the twisting in his gut which had failed to cease all day as he thought about their impending research session.

He had no earthly idea what his expectations had been, exactly. He just knew that there had been one moment of madness when he had been on the verge of giving in to rogue and foolhardy desire. Her egregiously juvenile behavior had shoved him back into reality.

He had achieved his goal, he thought bitterly, though never to lesser satisfaction. He had forced normalcy upon them both, keeping his temper in check and cloaking the restless stirrings inside him. He had risen above baser urges and trained his mind to the task of teaching. Never had he doubted that he would succeed in checking his own impulses. It was merely that the effort was so unduly challenging. Even after he had deliberately chosen to remove himself from her presence, retiring to his quarters while she was brewing the potion, he was still plagued by disquiet. It made little difference whether she was within sight or not; it took all his strength to maintain the appropriate veneer of disdain, to remain resolutely unmoved.

He thought back to how they had ended the evening. Severus had watched her arrange books, notes, and quill inside her school bag with neurotic precision. Her calm exit had been a triumph of self-comportment, but acrimony had spilled off her with every step. The classroom door then shut behind her, in what he had thought was an absurdly soft manner--it would have been infinitely more satisfying had she slammed it, he'd decided. At least then, he would have had no need to match her exemplary conduct and could have indulged his wish to smash his entire store of potions ingredients. As it was, he had warded his classroom and returned to his quarters.

The whole affair left a rather unpleasant aftertaste. And as Severus sat, contemplating the fingers of glowing flame which stretched and shrank within his fireplace, he realized with a sense of desolation that many more nights such as this lay ahead.

Author's Notes:

For once I have nothing swotty to say about the chapter title :-D. And all my thanks occurred at the top. *points up. But here's the usual stuff:

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