How I Spent My Spring Holidays, By Prof. Severus Snape

Chapter Five: Playing to My Strengths

"Mopsy - this Mopsy, you mentioned -" I began to ask. (I must confess that my normally mellifluous baritone had somehow taken on the resonance of a panicked squeak.) "What exactly is she?"

Ravenclaw floated up to the roof, which enabled the very short ghost to look down her nose at me. "I already told you," she sniffed. "She's a Welsh Green."

As though to offer confirmation, another narrow plume of smoke and flame shot out of the blackness. "The poor dearie's yawning," Ravenclaw said indulgently. "Mummy's coming, Mopsy-wopsy," the ghost called as she drifted out of the cavern and into the dark tunnel.

A Welsh Green. A dragon. True, not the most ferocious of dragons, but hardly the sort of beast that one would wish to meet in a cave no larger than the average sitting room. A wizard would need to be foolish (to the point of insanity) to encounter any dragon without drawing a wand. And a wand was one very vital commodity which I, at that point in time, lacked.

I backed away from the corridor, towards the entrance of the cave, and considered my options. If I opened the portal to the outside world I would be face to face with Harry Potter. In all likelihood, Potter would be just as keen to kill me as any dragon would; I had, after all, murdered his mentor and friend before his very eyes. But Potter might also have noble ideas about bringing me to justice instead, which could buy me a little time. Potter would also be (I hoped) less inclined to kill me by the exceptionally merciless method of burning me to a crisp, ripping me apart with his teeth and eating me. I could not expect as much consideration from a Welsh Green.

I had almost made up my mind to leave the cave and the word "Bollocks" had nearly formed on my lips, when the message in scarlet ink caught my eye. It had been written on the wall just next to the exit. Why had I not noticed it before?

The ink had formed blotches in several places where it soaked into the porous rock, giving it the uneven appearance of a message written in blood. But I knew the handwriting well - nearly as well as my own. When I was eleven years old, the exact same thin, slanting hand had signed a letter confirming my place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Later letters, in the same hand, had offered me employment and congratulated me on my promotion to House Master. I even had a fateful letter somewhere in my writing desk at Spinner's End (in that same handwriting) informing me that, after nearly fifteen years of careful deliberation, the author had decided to grant me the Defence Against the Dark Arts professorship, and hoped I would live long enough to thank him for the job. For all the letters I had kept in that handwriting, there were dozens more that I had destroyed - letters proposing secret assignations, conveying dangerous intelligence, making desperate pleas for help and dire threats of retribution should no help be offered. In short, I knew the handwriting so well that I was absolutely certain only one wizard could have written the message on the wall.

The only problem was, the wizard who wrote the message could not have visited Ravenclaw's tomb that afternoon. He was dead - at my own hand- and had been so for over eight months.

With matchless disbelief I read the message:

Severus,

I hardly need to remind you that while a dragon's hide is impervious to most unfriendly spells, the beast's eyes are vulnerable. You will possibly only have one chance to defend yourself - aim carefully and select your spell wisely. I strongly suggest that you play to your strengths.

I am, yours most sincerely,

A.D.

P.S. If you have been so foolish (to the point of insanity) as to enter this tomb without a wand, you could do worse that to recall my last words to you.

P.P.S. If, by dint of extraordinary luck and swift wandwork, you manage to leave this cave alive, I expect you to bring what you have taken (I firmly believe it is the last of the six) and then look me up in my favourite lane. If you do not, my bitter disappointment could very well manifest itself in a manner that you will not like.

A low rumbling and an almost melodious roar (typical of the Welsh Green species) sounding from deep within the bowels of Lizard Hill reminded me that my time was short. It was hardly the way I expected to die: pondering a dead man's cryptic counsel on dragon handling. Play to your strengths... my last words to you...bring what you have taken...the last of the six... What did it all mean?

"Here we are, wide awake now," Ravenclaw said cheerily as she wafted back into view. Heavy footfalls followed her.

I needed to defend myself immediately. Desperately, I charged back towards the venerable witch's skeleton and tried to wrest the long, white wand from the brittle finger bones. I was nearly thrown off my feet by a powerful spell.

"Now, that was very silly," Ravenclaw said, before clicking her tongue on the roof of her mouth reprovingly. "You didn't think I'd let them bury me without a Thief's Curse or two, did you?" She made a coaxing noise towards the tunnel, and the pounding steps of the dragon resumed. "I'd keep my hands to myself now if I were you, young man," Ravenclaw warned. "The effects of the curse worsen if you try to touch my wand more than once."

How could I counteract the curse? Normally such spells had an inbuilt means of avoiding them, a simple action or password - a trigger - that would allow those entitled to hold the cursed objects to do so. Skilled curse-breakers could also dismantle most Thief's Curses, but it was a matter of careful practice and painstaking (often painful) trial and error. Although I have as much expertise as even the most experienced curse-breaker, I did not have time to undo the curse by conventional means; I needed to discover the trigger.

The writing on the wall mocked me. You could do worse than recall my last words to you. He (normally so loquacious) had only spoken three words to me at our last meeting.

"Severus..."

"Severus, please..."

In a blazing flash of recognition, I lunged at the wand and snatched it up, shouting, "PLEASE!"

The wand stayed in my hand as the tiny knuckle bones rolled onto the floor and broke. The curse was counteracted. I would have smiled at my own brilliance (or perhaps even taken a short moment to be grateful for the advice written in scarlet ink) save for one significant thing. An emerald, pointed snout was protruding from the tunnel, sniffing warily. It was soon followed by the massive profile of a reptile's head, with one bright yellow eye staring unblinkingly at me.

I was at close range. I was armed. This was my chance to attack the beast, but a chance that I had to use wisely.

I pointed the slender shard of unicorn horn at the dragon, my hand steady, my mind resolved.

"Nooooo!" wailed the ghost, so loudly that the dragon started and shot flames from its flared nostrils. "Don't hurt her! Don't - not again - Noooo! That cruel boy abused her so, and Mopsy did nothing at all to the black-haired fiend!"

"Stupefy!" I cried. My aim was true, but the spectre's abominable ululation had distracted me so much that it weakened my purpose. The dragon blinked groggily, but it was not Stunned.

"Don't harm her! She's my friend - all these years, my companion -" the ghost pleaded again. "You've got what you came for - more than the other boy got - why can't you just go?"

The animal's eyes opened wide once more and this time it appeared angrier. My mind raced, thinking of spells that would assist me. Play to your strengths the message on the rockface had advised. What were my strengths? They were almost too numerous to be a useful guide to my actions. I am a superb Legilimens, an Occlumens without parallel, a masterly brewer of all potions, a gifted and spirited dueller, well versed in arithmancy and astronomy and the study of runes, not to mention a dab hand at crossword puzzles. So many strengths, so little time to choose the right one.

Curses, I thought. If there was anything that I could do better than other wizards, even when I was a small child, it was perform curses. Before I started school I knew more curses than half the students in seventh year. However, I needed to choose a curse that was strong, unforgivably strong, and which served my purpose.

The Cruciatus Curse would not help me. If anything, it would make the dragon belch out even more fire and smoke, and my death from burns and asphyxiation would surely follow. The Killing Curse would be more effective in removing me from mortal peril, but casting that curse was not a feat that I attempt lightly. Obviously, I have killed. More than once. But the Killing Curse exhausts me, shreds my nerves and sends a long, dismal pall over my very soul that stays with me long after my enemies are peacefully pushing up the daisies. If given a choice, I prefer to refrain from using the Killing Curse. Alas, when one is in the Dark Lord's service, one is not often given such a choice.

Of all the Unforgiveable Curses, the Imperius Curse was the one which I chose. "Imperio!" I commanded, shooting my spell directly into the animal's eye. Non-verbally I added, "Be still!" The yellow orb clouded over. Its great head dropped onto the floor of the cave and Mopsy the Welsh Green lay there, silent and completely docile.

The sudden quiet enabled me to hear muffled noises coming from outside the cave. Potter, Weasley and Granger were still standing on the other side of the entrance. As Ravenclaw's ghost fussed over her dragon, I went back to the hidden portal and pushed my ear against the stone wall.

"You can't say that's not Snape now," Potter was saying loudly. "We all saw him. And we have to get in there - he'll take the Horcrux back to Voldemort!"

"I know that, Harry," Granger's voice replied wearily. "But these aren't just ancient runes, they're really ancient runes. Some of the symbols are so obscure, that what little I've made out makes no sense at all. The third line's all about making a start at the start and some such nonsense -"

Weasley interrupted her, "Speaking of starts, those cars have started coming up the hill again."

"Never mind the police cars," Potter snapped, "we need to get into that cave."

"Yeah, well," Weasley argued, "if those cars get here before Hermione finishes her runes homework, you'll be arrested, mate. I don't think the mums at the theatre were overly impressed with the way you pushed all their kids over, or hit them with chairs -"

"Ron, I'm trying to think," Granger complained.

"I'm just saying that I think Harry should Disapparate now."

"I'm not going anywhere," Potter shot back stubbornly. "I'm going to get that Horcrux, and I'm going to get Snape. I swear, this time I'll kill him!"

I gazed at the slim, ivory-coloured wand I was holding. I have served the Dark Lord, (albeit with varying degrees of fealty), for all my adult life. It was not until Albus Dumbledore took me into his confidence nearly two years ago that I knew of the existence of Lord Voldemort's Horcruxes. My master was, understandably, secretive about such things. If he had ever entrusted his treasures to his followers, he almost certainly had never explained how valuable those relics were. And some Horcruxes he had entrusted to no one. The Peverell ring had remained hidden in a location that the Dark Lord believed only he could find again. It appeared that Ravenclaw's wand had been permitted to stay just where it always had lain for the same reason. Why attempt to hide something again when its original hiding place remained undisturbed for over eight hundred years?

Ravenclaw's ghost had thrown herself over the snout of the dragon and was sobbing pitifully. "What have you done?" she asked. "She can't move."

"She will now," I drawled. Directing my wand once more into the dragon's eyes, I said, "Imperio. Take me out of this cave."

The dragon waited, quiet as a lamb, until I climbed onto its enormous, scaly, back. My knees clenched on either side of its spine and I pressed my whole body close to its cold hide as the animal part ran, part slithered down a long, low tunnel leading half-way down the hillside. We burst into the light and the dragon flapped its mighty wings, soaring into the air and circling Lizard Hill. Down below I could see a cordon of Please Men cars around the yellow and red convertible. Several Muggles in uniform were questioning the three Gryffindors. High above me, the pilot of the Muggle hellychopper must have been so surprised to spot me that it began a rapid, barely controlled dive.

I decided it would be prudent to leave the scene at once. Into the dragon's vast, leathery ear I whispered, "You will fly me to Kings Road, Cleethorpes."

Dipping one wing, the beast turned north. Soon Shropshire was far behind me.

TO BE CONTINUED...