rakina (rakina) wrote in snape_potter, @ 2009-02-15 18:04:00 |
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Current mood: | relieved |
FIC: Tapestry, by Rakina, PG, chapter 5/?
Title: Tapestry, A Journey in Eight Stages
Author: Rakina
Rating: PG for now, possibly rising to R or NC17 later.
Pairing: Severus Snape/Harry Potter
Summary: Harry only has one thing from his parents: a blanket. But his mum and dad were magical, and so it turns out to be no ordinary blanket, after all.
Beta: A very big thank you to my regular, wonderful beta and remover of my foot from my mouth, Hel Bee.
Disclaimer: I am not making any money from the characters which belong to JK Rowling. No disrespect intended. I do, however, lay claim to the plot and original characters.
Note: Sorry for the delay in posting, everyone. Feedback is wonderful, however short and sweet!
Previous chapters here
Chapter 5: And The Threat From Within
It was the end of June and Harry's group were at one of their last DAD lessons for the year. Harry was determined not to dwell on his odd fears about Professor Quirrell and tried to cocentrate on the lesson instead. The class was reviewing the work they'd done throughout the year, summing up the basic facts about the Dark creatures that threatened wizard-kind. It worked to distract Harry, until Professor Quirrell set the class to looking back through Defence Against the Darkness: Preliminary Studies, while he sat at the front of the class sorting through papers. Harry thought those papers could well be their school reports.
Harry flicked idly through the chapters, reading odd snippets of text and looking, for about the hundredth time, at the illustrations. They were pretty graphic: old wood-cut images of werewolves hunting humans, sometimes even eating them; drawings of vampires, sometimes flying through the air in human or bat form; giants as tall as trees, but muscled, broad and brutish; and there were many varying images from different cultures and times showing the appearance of the Dark creatures that beset them – it was odd, Harry thought, that these images varied so much. Were they all supposed to show the same creatures? And if so, why the variations? Did vampires and werewolves take on different forms in different parts of the world? And had those forms changed over the intervening centuries? Harry could see Hermione writing notes at a feverish rate; no doubt the inconsistencies had occurred to her too.
"Mr P-P-Potter."
Harry looked up with a start to see his professor standing beside him. Quirrell must have moved really quickly; Harry was sure he was up at the front of the class only moments before. And he'd moved without a sound; nor had the man's distinctive smell alerted Harry to his presence, though Harry certainly noticed it now. "Yes, Professor?"
"I would l-like you to h-help me with something after cl-class," Professor Quirrell said, smiling down at him.
Harry had no reason for it, but he felt the familiar icy finger of fear tracing a line down his spine. It was stupid, for the professor was always pleasant to him and encouraged him in his work. "Oh, er-"
"Come to my office this evening at eight o'clock, Mr P-Potter."
Quirrell's order had been remarkably firm and Harry had no choice but to assent. "Er – yes, sir."
Liam nudged him in the ribs. "Jammy sod; bet you'll get extra marks. He's always been keen on you; but then, you are good at Defence."
Harry shrugged. "I think it's because I'm Harry Potter. He seems to have got a thing about it; keeps mentioning it in class."
"Well, you are unique," Sidney whispered from the other side of Harry. "And he only goes on about it when we're discussing werewolves."
Harry rolled his eyes at Sid, then turned back to watch the professor walking along the aisle back to his desk. However understandable it was to keep talking about his escape as a baby, it made him uncomfortable. Lately, this whole class had made him feel uncomfortable, and now he had to see the professor after class too. Thank Merlin it was nearly the end of term! Only one more DAD lesson to go...
The end of year reports were being compiled for the Hogwarts students by all their professors, and as a result these final sessions before term ended were mostly self-directed, the students either doing revision or reading in advance for next year's topic. Harry liked it best when they heard about what they'd be learning next year, and Hermione was almost deliriously happy, longing for the day they received their book list for the next year. "I'm going straight to Flourish and Blotts," she gushed. "I can't wait to get started on next year's Charms! Just think how many spells we'll learn."
Harry smiled at her and shook his head; he thought Hermione would be top of their year and would willingly bet she'd do better than any of the Ravenclaws. Some of the Slytherins were pretty good too, including the annoying Draco Malfoy, the snobbish boy whose father was some kind of lord. The Slytherins were in the lead for the House Cup again, and try as they might the Gryffindors struggled to get enough points to keep up with them. Gryffindor bravery was an admirable trait, but it didn't often gain house points. The Slytherins knew just how to manipulate the teachers by giving them what they wanted – brown-nosing, Sid called it – and the Ravenclaws earned points just by being so damned clever. Harry suspected Hermione had won most of Gryffindor's points single-handedly; certainly she'd earned nearly all of the first years' contribution. Maybe Professor Quirrell would award points tonight for whatever he wanted Harry's help with.
Harry was nervous at dinner time, knowing he had to go to the DAD office later on. He'd tried to cheer himself up with the thought of earning house points, but the dread of the visit was making him feel a bit sick. He'd be alone with the professor who'd been following him around, and Harry thought he'd find out why this evening. Try as he might, he couldn't imagine it was anything good. The man's obsession with Harry Potter was creepy; the man himself was creepy, with his stammer and his smell and his turban. Harry knew he shouldn't feel bad about the stammer, because Professor Quirrell couldn't help it, but along with everything else about the man it just made him feel on edge.
"What's up, mate?" Fred Weasley asked from the other side of the Gryffindor table. "Don't you like treacle tart?"
"Course he does," George said. "Everyone likes treacle tart, and I reckon Harry could eat a whole one to himself, judging by how many slices he had last time."
They laughed, and Harry tried to laugh with them, but couldn't manage it. Liam looked closely at him then, concerned. He hadn't noticed Harry's preoccupation at first as he'd been attacking his own pudding with enthusiasm. Treacle tart was a favourite with nearly everyone, and the custard was divine. It came in jugs and you could help yourself to as much of the golden, creamy liquid as you liked. The jugs never seemed to run out of custard, which Harry realised was magic; magic of the very best sort.
"Hey, what's up?" Liam asked.
"I feel a bit sick," Harry said, putting down his dessert spoon and pushing his plate away. "Perhaps I ate too much."
"You hardly ate anything," Liam said. "You only ate half your steak and kidney pie."
Harry frowned; he hadn't realised people noticed what he was doing that closely. "I'm a bit nervous, really," he admitted quietly to Liam.
Sid, seated on Harry's left, heard him too. "It's Professor Quirrell, isn't it?" Harry nodded. "He is a bit odd," Sid agreed. "I'd be nervous going on my own too. I think he's creepy."
Harry felt a huge surge of relief. He wasn't the only one who found the Defence professor creepy! Although that was a scary thought, it also felt good to know he wasn't imagining things.
"Look, if you're worried, we'll come with you," Liam offered.
"I don't think he'd think much of that," Harry said doubtfully.
"We could wait outside," Sid said.
Harry felt bad for his friends as he thought of them hanging around outside the DAD office; he had no idea how long Professor Quirrell would keep him. For that matter, he had no idea what he was supposed to be helping with, and he knew himself well enough to know that he wanted to find out. "No, you might have to hang around for ages. I don't know how long he'll keep me."
"It can't be that long," Liam said. "There's only an hour until curfew."
Harry felt cheered by that. "Yeah, I need to be back in Gryffindor Tower by nine, so he can't keep me long." He pulled his plate back in front of him and started to eat some of his treacle tart. He really loved treacle tart.
Harry's newly found confidence evaporated as he made his way through Hogwarts' corridors to the Defence Against the Darkness rooms. The rooms were on the second floor, and it wasn't that they were any different from the rest of the castle; the disquiet he felt was entirely self-created. Harry only knew that, as he approached Professor Quirrell's office door, he was feeling jittery again. Gathering his courage, he took a shaky breath, raised his hand and knocked.
Nothing happened for a few moments; it was totally quiet in the corridor and there was no sound from the other side of the door. Harry began to hope that Professor Quirrell wasn't there; that he'd changed his mind or just done whatever it was by himself. But then, with a creak of complaining hinges, the door opened. Harry looked up at the man in front of him: Professor Quirrell seemed to loom in the doorway, a strange shape silhouetted against the light from the room, his head disproportionately large due to the turban.
"H-Harry; I'm so glad you're h-here. No p-point you coming into my room though; I n-need your help in the d-dungeons."
"In the dungeons?" Harry was surprised. The dungeons were the realm of Slytherin and the Potions rooms; Professor Quirrell had never been down there as far as Harry knew. His rooms were up here. On the other hand, Harry thought Professor Quirrell was a Slytherin, because he'd sat in the Slytherin stand at Quidditch matches. That would mean he'd be familiar with the subterranean part of the castle. The dungeons extended right under the castle and even beyond, reaching out under the lake, and it was there the Slytherin students lived. It was quite scary to think of; Harry wondered if those lower levels ever got flooded. Hermione would know, of course; she was always quoting Hogwarts' history to him.
"Y-yes, dear boy. Th-there is a problem down there with some kind of creature, and as D-defence is my r-realm of expertise, I have b-been asked to h-help."
"And you want me to help you?" Harry was surprised again; surely some of the older students would be much more useful than him, a mere first year. He'd learned a lot this year, true enough, but they must know much more.
"Y-yes. Y-you are rather sp-special, Potter. I th-think you c-can be more help than anyone e-else."
Harry felt really worried now. There was some kind of creature down there in the dark areas under the castle, and his professor wanted him to help get rid of it. "I-I really don't think-"
"Come, come, dear boy. I will be with you; you will be fine. Come along." And the professor gripped Harry's shoulder, turned him around and pushed him along, locking his office behind him with a wave of his wand.
Professor Quirrell led Harry to the stairs and down to the ground level; from there they headed to the entrance to the dungeons. At first it was all quite familiar to Harry: the steps leading down underground, the corridors well lit with their torches that burned all the time, never needing replacing. They passed the Potions classroom, the storerooms beyond, and the Potions professor's office, heading further along the corridor. Harry thought they must be well under the lake, but then they took a right turn and he reckoned they must be heading back under the castle again. Soon they turned left and right repeatedly though, and Harry began to get confused about direction, and soon it hardly mattered because they were heading down again, down stairs that led deeper under the earth and were so dimly lit Harry had to concentrate on not missing a step on the way down.
The air began to feel damp down here, and with it came the musty smell of damp stone. It really felt like being in a Muggle castle now; one that had been open to the elements for years. Harry shivered in the cooler air and began to wish he'd brought his cloak. "Where are we going, sir?" he called as he trotted along behind his professor. Quirrell took much longer strides and Harry had his work cut out to keep up.
"Just a little farther," Quirrell replied. His voice sounded distant as he spoke from in front of Harry, facing forward. "You will be most helpful, P-Potter; yes, I have every confidence in you."
For his part, Harry had very little confidence in his professor at the moment, and equally little about whether he'd be able to help with this nebulous thing they were heading towards. "What's down here?" he asked, his voice rising in pitch with his increasing anxiety.
Quirrell did not answer, but moments later he halted by a large, wooden door. "In here. You will soon see." Professor Quirrell took out a huge iron key from his robes. He held it in his left hand while he cast a spell with his wand. Harry didn't hear any words, but the key began to glow with a faint, luminous green light in the darkness of the corridor. To Harry, it didn't look like Professor Quirrell was using a very nice type of magic.
The key slid into the lock, but the professor did not turn it. Instead he seemed to be muttering to himself, but he must have been casting some kind of spell again, even though he'd already put back his wand into his robes. The keyhole began to glow the same sickly green as the key and a shaft of light shot from it, shining around the key's handle and showing up a design that was wrought into the metal at the end, which Harry hadn't been able to make out before. It looked like a monogram – a big letter O with a W inside. Harry frowned, trying to work out what it might mean, but the professor was turning the key now, and Harry heard the tumbling sound of metal clicking inside the lock and, with a push on the handle, the door began to open.
Harry peered around his professor to see what was inside this mysterious room with the odd lock, but he couldn't see through the gloom. Professor Quirrell then raised his wand and said clearly: "Illumino."
Torches in the brackets around the walls came to life, leaving Harry free to see the room. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but this was a let-down. Was this really where the creature was hiding? What could be happening in here? It looked like an ordinary dungeon room with stone walls and floor, empty save for a few old chairs off to one side, covered in dust and obviously unused. "Why was this room closed up with that special lock?" he wondered aloud.
"Come in, Potter, and we shall see," Quirrell said, moving ahead into the centre of the room in five long strides.
Harry followed more slowly, still half-expecting something to jump out at him, but the shadows were few now and there could surely be nothing of any size or ferocity in here. But Harry jumped as, with a slam, the heavy old door shut behind him. He looked back fearfully, unsure what he'd see, but the sound of tumblers falling and the sight of the lock glowing blood-red answered his fears – the door was locked behind him.
"You asked about the special lock," Quirrell said, causing Harry to look back at his professor, who was standing a couple of paces in front of him, looking down at Harry with a strange smile on his face. Harry noticed that the professor was no longer stammering. "This key," Quirrell said, holding it up so Harry could see it clearly, "is indeed very special. It belongs to a noble group of people... noble, but not very... active. I, however, have taken it upon myself to act for them. I have others to help me, but it is my own initiative that has brought me here to Hogwarts, to teach children of the evils of the Dark creatures that surround them. Yes, all year I have taught about things I know a very great deal about; all year I have played my part, the stuttering, nervous Professor Quirrell."
Quirrell paused, licking his lips, the tip of his unusually red tongue tracing the shape of his mouth.
"What group of people is that?" Harry was getting pretty worried now. Professor Quirrell did not look entirely sane to him, and was certainly not a good person to be locked into a forgotten dungeon room with, even if there was no lurking threat in here after all. Harry was beginning to suspect there was not, that there never had been, and that the professor had lured him here. In here, Quirrell was the threat, but Harry had no idea why this was happening. It seemed wise to keep the professor talking; maybe Liam and Sid would alert Professor McGonagall that Harry was missing. Well, they wouldn't think that, but they might tell her that he was late back from his meeting with a professor. Harry could only hope that McGonagall would check on why the Defence professor was keeping one of her youngest students out after curfew.
Quirrell began to pace, and Harry could only stand back and watch him. With every moment that passed he became more and more convinced that he needed to get out of here - quickly. He needed that key. Quirrell was still holding it in his left hand, waving it in agitation as he ranted.
"Defence Against the Darkness," Quirrell sneered, his tone bitter. "As if there is any defence! As if there ever could be a defence! And as if they need a defence in the first place! If they were not so evil themselves, Potter, if they did not kill every werewolf and vampire they came across, regardless of age or sex, then maybe they would not need a defence!"
"Pl-please sir, may I see the design on it?"
Quirrell stopped pacing and whirled to look at Harry. "Design? On the key... yes, yes, I suppose you may as well know who will be your downfall."
Harry reached out a trembling hand and took the key from Professor Quirrell. By now he was convinced the teacher was insane. He didn't like the way things were going. His downfall?
The key was made of iron and was just as heavy as it looked to be. It was hard to see the design on its finial, but now he knew it was there Harry could just make out the circle with the capital W inside. If he could distract Quirrell, maybe he could run to the door and get free. Of course, the man was bigger than him and could probably run a lot faster, he had such long legs; but Harry was quick, he'd done well in his flying lessons and Professor Hooch had often sent them on cross-country runs to get them fit enough to learn to play Quidditch. Harry had always been among the first finishers, even though he was small. "What does the O. W. mean?"
Quirrell gave a dry chuckle. His tongue came out and moistened his mouth again; he seemed to be perpetually dry. "Why, it can mean many things, Potter. Many things. The circle is the moon, or it can be. And the W is a pair of sharp fangs... ah, but no, that is not really true," he chuckled again at Harry's thunderstruck expression. "Does it bother you, Potter, that you hold in your hand a key embossed with symbols that denote werewolves and vampires?"
"It-it means something else; I think you're making fun of me, sir. O.W. stands for something. Doesn't it?"
"My, you're an arrogant little beast, aren't you?" Quirrell started walking in circles around Harry again, and Harry breathed a bit easier when the man wasn't just standing looking down at him. "You think you're so superior; so much better than the Dark creatures you shut out from your world. And you, especially, who are immune to such creatures. You who could not be killed by a rampaging werewolf, because there is something special about little Harry Potter, isn't there?"
Harry had taken a couple of steps towards the door, but it was in vain because Quirrell turned again, his eyes seeming to burn into Harry's. "This key is special, Potter, because with the right incantation it can open all locks. The monogram on its ancient finial stands for the Order of Werewolves, you ignorant boy! They are a noble group, as I said, and centuries old, with a noble history of representing both the werewolves and later, the vampires throughout the world, not just in Britain. But in Britain, where this noble Order began, their efforts are in vain, because wizards here are intent on nothing but their total destruction. And you, Harry Potter, are their symbol – their great hope."
Harry needed to keep the man talking, so he waved the key in front of the man's face, trying to keep his attention. "How did you get it? Did you steal it from them?"
Quirrell's eyes were pinning Harry in place; their reddish glow seemed eerie, entirely inhuman. Harry wanted to run, but there was nowhere to run to; he had no hope of opening the door quickly, and he wasn't sure if the key would do it without the incantation anyway. Harry was sure the professor had used magic along with the key.
"From them?" Quirrell asked quietly, sounding thoughtful now. He did a strange thing then: he lifted his arms and began to unwrap the scarf from his neck – the purple scarf which was the end of his turban. As he unwrapped the cloth from around his neck, revealing porcelain-white skin that had surely seen no sun, Harry got wafts of the garlicky smell he'd noticed throughout the year; the smell seemed to come from the cloth of the turban, rather than from the man himself.
Harry couldn't move, he was mesmerised as the man unwrapped swathe after swathe of purple cotton; no wonder he'd looked so odd with his head artificially enlarged by the eccentric headgear. "From them, oh no," Quirrell mused, sounding really thoughtful and emphasising the 'them' again. His eerie eyes were still on Harry even as his hands continued to unwind the turban. And when it came to an end, when the cloth was completely in his hands and then thrown on the floor at his feet, Harry saw that Professor Quirrell had sandy hair, cut very short. His face contorted, and he spoke again. "Oh no, dear boy, not from them – from us!"
Before Harry could react, the man leapt at him, gripping him in a bear hug, almost doubling himself over to reach the level of the small boy's face and putting his own face alongside Harry's. Harry got a waft of a far more unpleasant smell than the garlic, which was largely dispersed by now. Quirrell's breath smelled like rotten meat, or perhaps it was the smell of a crypt too long closed... Harry gagged, wanting to be sick, but he soon forgot it with the fresh horror of the man poking out his tongue – that blood-red tongue – and licking the side of Harry's face. Harry tried to move, but Quirrell's hands held his face still, so he swivelled his eyes sideways to look into the man's face... and wished he hadn't.
Professor Quirrell was smiling maniacally; and his teeth – his perfect, white teeth showed up in such contrast to the redness of his lips and of his tongue and the inside of mouth – were just so wrong. His teeth were human, except, shockingly, for four at the side. Those four canines were elongated and sharp, bizarrely reminding Harry of a sabre-toothed tiger. Harry would have screamed if he'd had the ability to do so, but his mind was whirling, seeking a way out of danger, and would not spare the time to let him scream.
"I told them they were fools," Quirrell whispered softly, almost lovingly, into Harry's ear, his rank breath chilling the saliva on Harry's cheek. "It is not possible, that immunity that they speak of, Potter. No wizard – and especially not a boy, and such an ordinary, unremarkable boy as you – could be immune to the Darkness... to the attack of the werewolf, to the bite of the vampire."
With a final swipe of his tongue over his teeth, Quirrell lunged, and Harry, finding the ability to move from somewhere, squirmed desperately in his grasp. Quirrell's fangs grazed the side of his neck, and Harry instantly felt blood running down and into his shirt, but somehow they had failed to pierce him. Harry heard a hiss of displeasure from the vampire, or maybe it was a reaction to the sight of his blood, but Harry didn't care what it meant, he just had to stop the vampire biting him somehow.
Harry reached up and tried to grab Quirrell's hair, but it was too short to hold onto. In desperation, he reached lower and gripped the vampire around the neck firmly, squeezing to hold on tight and trying to pull Quirrell's head away from his neck.
There was a scream from the vampire, which Harry thought was rage at being thwarted in his attempt to suck Harry's lifeblood from his body. It was a horrible noise – a kind of hissing screech that went on and on. And on... Harry gripped onto the neck tighter; it seemed to have got smaller, or maybe he'd loosened his grip, but he was sure he hadn't, that he'd been squeezing with all his might. Yes, he was holding on for dear life, but the neck beneath his fingers, under his palms, was not letting him hold on because it was crumbling away, turning first to dry flesh like ancient leather, and then crumbling beneath his increasingly frantic grip. Harry didn't understand why his grip should do this to the vampire, it was as if his hands contained sunlight to make them deadly to vampires, but that was a stupid idea.
Quirrell's scream ended in a gurgle, and to Harry's horror the man's head wobbled on the remains of his neck before toppling sideways and rolling off onto the floor, where it shattered like a broken cup, disgorging a foul mixture of semi-liquid brains, blood and a mud-like substance. Harry staggered back, pushing against what remained of the vampire's body, a dead weight curled around him. It fell back, disintegrating, until the robes which lay pooled on the floor contained little more than a mess of shattered bone, blood and the same mud-like substance that had come from the head. The smell was indescribable, worse by far even than the vampire's putrid breath. Harry staggered away, fell to his knees, retched, and passed out.
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