A Cloud Before the Moon

Chapter 48

The next evening was clear and very cold. Shortly before midnight, in the middle of a large snow-dusted field on the outskirts of the Malfoy estate, huddled a small cluster of men, their faces partially lit by the glow of a bonfire. Murmurs of conversation and occasional laughter drifted across the otherwise-barren heath, but died away at the approach of a tall slender man draped in a heavy black cloak. Without saying a word, he stepped before Lucius Malfoy and nodded curtly, his face unsmiling. Malfoy returned an equally brusque acknowledgment.

Uffington stepped forward, clearly in a hurry to start the proceedings and get out of the cold. "Gentlemen, please take your places." Malfoy and FitzGerald both followed him. "You are both familiar with Carruther's Modified Rules for Outdoor Combat? Forbidden Curses are not permitted; nor is the Expelliarmus Spell. You may injure your opponent, but you may not intentionally kill him. The duel ends when one contestant is disarmed and his wand is out of arm's reach, or of course, if only one is left alive, in the event of an unfortunate and unintentional accident."

Both men nodded in assent and Uffington moved out of the way. Malfoy handed his cloak to Goyle and took his position. FitzGerald took his position as well, removed his cloak and tossed it into the air. It disappeared from sight. The two men stood, back to back and walked ten paces, to Uffington's count. They turned and faced one another, wands drawn and ready.

They bowed brusquely again to one another. Malfoy's cold pale eyes fixed themselves menacingly on FitzGerald's, but his rival's mournful basset-hound eyes did not flinch in the least. Uffington announced the commencement of the duel.

"Orba conflagratia!"

"Rete urtica!"

There was no slow, gracious start to this duel. Large flaming spheres came hurtling at Malfoy, who dodged this way and that to avoid them. FitzGerald was enveloped in a snare of stinging nettles. He pulled out his wand-arm - tearing a long burning slash from his elbow to his wrist - and blasted the brittle vines to smithereens. For his part, Malfoy sustained a blistering burn on the back of his left hand.

Curses, spells and hexes flew back and forth at a furious pace. The frigid weather was quickly forgotten as the gathering warmed to the excitement of the confrontation.

"Vertebra tortuga! "

"Confundum vertigus!"

"Quasi asphyxia!"

"Formiga titillandum!"

"Maelstrom agutis!"

"Trepidandum mortalis!"

To the delight of their audience, the two men viciously assailed one another with a fearsome arsenal of plagues, blights, infestations, ailments and unusual ballistics. They chased one another back and forth, across and around the field, leaving an accumulation of footprints in the powdered snow, dotted here and there with dark crimson blots that spread in delicate blooms on the snow until they were trampled underfoot. After nearly half and hour, both men appeared to be quite exhausted, but of the two, FitzGerald seemed to be holding up a bit better. Malfoy was panting and leaned forward, hand on his knees, looking somewhat unsteady. As FitzGerald raised his wand yet again, his eyes focused on Malfoy, he did not notice one of the onlookers lift his wand. "Crucio!" shouted MacNair.

FitzGerald gasped as a convulsion of pain wracked his body . His wand fell from his hand, but he desperately grasped for it and, in visible agony, pointed his wand at Malfoy. "Aqua torrentialis frigitum!" A flood of ice-cold water poured down on Malfoy's head, and he screamed. His wand flew from his hand and was borne away on the current of water streaming across the field. Malfoy lay sprawled indecorously on the ground , dripping wet and shivering, as the other men ran over. Someone went to retrieve Malfoy's wand while someone else did a drying spell and wrapped Malfoy in his cloak. Finally, MacNair deigned to reverse the cruciatus curse he had inflicted on FitzGerald, and Malfoy turned to him with full fury.

"Did you think I needed your assistance? Idiot! I am quite capable of fighting my own battles, MacNair!"

While Malfoy continued to rail at MacNair, the undeclared winner of the confrontation stood up, pulled his cloak out of the air and disapparated. When he reapparated, he sank down in a chair by the fire and downed a shot of brandy to warm his bones. He was exhausted and aching, but exultant. It was too good to be true! By virtue of an extremely odd set of circumstances, he had been given the opportunity to best Malfoy - for the first time in his life. And the timing was perfect, too - as he rested his chin on the tips of his fingers, he could feel his features sharpen into their accustomed angularity.

All in all, Severus Snape was in a marvelously cheerful mood. Despite his aching muscles, despite his exhaustion, he felt wide awake. Excited. And, aroused. In his unaccustomed euphoric state, an agreeable solution to the latter condition came to mind.