Jan. 9th, 2010

[info]exsequeverus

Severus Snape: Topic: Technology

Arthur,

Accept my thanks in the matter of that trifling affair we had discussed previously. I have tested the paper trail on the records and say, in the best traditions of Mr. Stout, satisfactory. I trust you will thus find your kind question about the effects of easy proximity to a library with a fiction section answered, but I maintain that if you attempt to 'shove LeCarre down my throat' you will find out where it sticks more easily; the morality play of a well-written mystery is a thousand times more soothing to the feelings of a      cousin.

There's another favor I must ask of you, with emphasis on the unique trust I place on your personal and professional integrity and valuation of tranquility (including domestic), and not merely because it comes under your purview. Having determined that none is yet in place, I wish to place a patent with the Ministry, as I have with IAMB, on a topical delivery method for potions without making it in any way public. Can you slip it through on my behalf? When you've assessed the appended specifications, I think you will understand why I wish both a highly exclusive and long-lasting patent and for it to be undertaken in the utmost secrecy, even from the most golden of eyries.

You'll understand what I mean by this, I know, and not take it amiss: I really have some scruples about placing this design in Ministry records at all. If I've thought of it, however, younger innovative minds with more exposure to Muggle toys surely will in time (naming no names), and far better that they should be forced to come to you or to me for dissuasion and/or stringent limitations than to blithely commercialize or martialize this particular piece of technomancy. I'd like to ask you not to inform even the locksmith, as his position is always a delicate one for a man of integrity, but if you feel you must then please do so with all due precautions.

As ever, this paper is coated with a topical memory enhancer and will self-destruct when blue armadillos dance or something of that nature.
V. Clayborn


Once he realized the usual projectiles were contained with a gelatin casing, everything became simple, and the machine itself isn't electric and won't get him into trouble with the muggle police. )

Oct. 1st, 2009

[info]exsequeverus

Severus Snape: Other: Safe as Houses

"...And stop clapping your hands or I will reach right across this fire and clap them in irons," Severus bellows across the floo line. That's always annoyed him about house elves, and having his face in the flames does nothing for his temper, either. More moderately, he continues, "Better. Now, you understand that you would have to receive clothes from Professor Sprout? I will provide her with the equipment you'll wear in the lab and while doing--well, we'll get to that in a moment--in any case, I will provide the uniform and equipment that you'll wear here, but you'll receive it from her hands. Understood? Good.

"Now, there's another matter: I don't currently have a house to bring you to, so--so help me if you start blubbing again I will tell Filch he is not to allow you to clean one single damned thing for a week are you finished thank you. Now, until I do have a house, there is the possibility of your staying with a friend of mine and doing his cleaning as well as helping me in the brewery in exchange for your lodging. I expect I shall also require your assistance in the magics and other arrangements for the residence once I've acquired one. No clapping, I said! I must tell you straightaway that the gentleman in question is a muggle, and that you will be required to cover yourself appropriately by human standards while assisting both him and me, just as you've done while working in the dungeons before. If the equipment you receive from Professor Sprout becomes unrepairable, you will replace it with your own hands. And you will not be allowed alcohol unless you arrange for time away from your duties in advance. Can you manage that? Good. Here's a portkey," he tosses one into the fire, "which will bring you to the gentleman's home; he wishes to meet with you before any final decisions are made. I'll owl Filch with the time. You are expected to stay sober and be a model of utility for the remainder of your time at the school, do you understand? And for Salazar's sake don't gloat to the other elves about having an individual position; it's showy and excessive and in any case they're happy where they are and won't envy you. And remember that the story for everyone who doesn't already know is that I'm dead and your employer will be my cousin and apprentice Mr. Clayborn; Professor Sprout has all his details and so does Professor Flitwick if you don't like to bother her. I have your compliance? Good. Await the owl, then."

He turns the floo off with a sigh. Minerva's right about how much trouble Winky is likely to be, of course, but if he was going to refuse responsibilities thrust on him with the argument that they'd be an unreasonable bother, he should never have accepted the Headship of the House of brutalized children and spoiled brats, and there's Sirius's cat to think about, too, and Rodolphus (although in a less adoptive capacity, of course). And as much as he hates to admit it, the success of his little brewery is making her spare room a more and more crowded stillroom; he's going to have to either restrict his orders or move. It's something he's been struggling with for weeks, but he'll just have to give his inner Slughorn a strengthening potion to help it stand up to his rather more established inner hermit and arrange for weekly teas, or something of that sort.

He sits himself right on the sofa's godawful throw (still with some satisfaction) with a collection of real estate magazines spread out conspicuously on the table, and waits for Minerva to walk in. A shop with a warehouse behind and rooms up top, that's the thing; nothing fancy. It doesn't matter how sparse the rooms are as long as they're there; there are spells for that, and if he can't take care of them himself Clayborn can hire wizarding contractors.

Sep. 20th, 2009

[info]exsequeverus

Severus Snape: Event: Rhyme

When he sees the paper that morning, Severus snarls wordlessly to himself, state of mind throwing itself back several years in an instant, and leaves a note for Q asking him to take care of the day's brewing (except for the copper cauldron, which he should just throw a stasis spell on). Twice is coincidence? Sod that. He's still not going to write the 'all afire to be on campaign' note that he's been dying to for weeks, or call in the cavalry, but it is time to do something else. Just because no one's been actually killed yet means... enough to matter, but not to reassure; it's early days of a very familiar pattern.

Some of the spells, he'd learned from Moody, once they'd resolved their differences.* )

At four o'clock, utterly drained from so many nearly permanent spells, letting the small presence-concealers and deceptions melting away slowly as he's nearly too tired to banish them, he presses Holmes's doorbell. Here's hoping that Albus isn't off having tea in a shop somewhere and can remind him of protections he's missed, that Holmes isn't and can tell him where people who need more protection than he's been able to lay on today live. Not having said a word to anyone all day, when the door is opened, he's not quite too weary to be startled by what comes out of his mouth.

* This had involved a two-hour duel, evenings on end of grading and reading through the Albus And Alastor Knitting And Comedy hour, an ambush on an attempted ambush (wherein Alastor got petrified and his wand stolen and sent up to Albus but not hurt, which Moody found persuasive, although not convincing), and a really dreadful pun involving cocaine and hallucinatory alligators, which had gone on for nearly ten minutes before someone failed to keep an entirely straight face. The final blow had been when Moody, during his recovery period from Crouch's box, had been cajoled by one of Severus's all-time favorite pupils into flying a kite outside, and then taught her a few charms to stop other students stealing her books and shoes. Severus had sent him an obviously-hexed card which, when the hex was disabled, manifested a bottle of really good lubrication for Moody's false leg, and Moody had smacked him so hard upside the back of the head on the way to the Great Hall the next day that he'd thought it was Hagrid. And that was that.

Jul. 23rd, 2009

[info]exsequeverus

Severus Snape: Topic: Mail; Event: Ghosts

The usual disaster area of journals, yearly catalogues, parcels of ingredients, and work orders comes, today, with a grubby, much-handled, once cream-white envelope that makes Severus want to burn it away, starting with the stupid, ornate seal and ending at the hands of the senders, using just the ice-hot daggers from his eyes which he keeps especially to shoot at people. Who deserve it. Like whoever sent him an official envelope. Even the people who can't transfigure one should know how to make an ordinary one from paper and glue, and have access to both. It is to snarl, yea, and possibly bite heads off in the return post if they bleeding well manage to deserve a reply.

Because why would he (that is to say, Veris P. Braendon-Clayborn) be getting letters from Hogwarts? He was home-schooled. He has no connections there except for Slughorn, through his late cousin Severus, who had made Slughorn promise to use the official Slytherin stationary on all harmless outgoing mail, that people might begin to dread it less again (best not to ask when this promise was required of him, mind), and the occasional owl from Poppy--again, on the infirmary's stationary--ordering potions. Neither of them would send such fingerprinted mail, and the occasional idle note from Filius or Pomona is, at his request, on unmarked paper, in unaffiliated envelopes.

So, clearly someone needs to die. It's obvious. One or two someones. )

"I'm still considering, you lantern-eyed, infinitesimally elephantine piece of irritatingly obsequious misery," he snarls at the first letter in frustration. Although it's tempting to put it up on the wall for a dartboard, he leaves it out for Minerva to see. The two questions it raises do rather invite her input, and this is as good an excuse to bring them up as any. Not to mention potentially finding out out whether she knew the elves all call her Mistress Queen (Mrs. Norris not qualifying for the title, having been long since spayed).

"What a cozy little triumvirate of house-elves, Snivvy!"

His face doesn't twitch a single muscle, but there's nothing he can do about the color going out of it. He was never going to have to hear that loud, jovial, smirk of a voice again. Black--Sirius--had shown him that he wouldn't. There are not expletives foul enough. He will not turn.

Jul. 9th, 2009

[info]exsequeverus

Severus Snape: Topic: T-shirts

Expecting all his mail to be owl post, he nearly trips on the package left on the stoop. Only nearly, though, because he's not that rusty.

Once he's taken it inside, away from prying eyes, and determined that it's not going to blow up, or leak acids or horrible potions all over him, or grow jaws and bite his hands off, or shoot spikes, or lay on a curse, hex, or jinx, or make him a happy person (bleargh), or make him turn funny colors or grow extra body parts or take necessary ones away or do odd things to his voice or nails or IN ANY WAY make him sorrier than he expects to be, given that he has a panicky Quin with a Beetles shirt still calming down in his lab, that he's opening it (really, he thinks, there's got to be a shortcut), he cautiously opens the flat bundle (doing it all over again after removing the string and then the paper, because either of these could contain an antidetection spell or potion).

After a long, purse-lipped moment, he sighs, and sourly grouses, "Oh, very funny." As he checks it again for all of the above (hey, the tissue paper could also have been a concealment), he ponders the eternal conundrum: transfigure it into a lab coat, or use it as a night shirt? The thought of wearing it where anyone might actually see it, of course, never so much as crosses his mind.

Much.

Mar. 2nd, 2009

[info]exsequeverus

Severus Snape: Topic: Secrets

Eight Things Severus Snape Has Learned This Week

1. Having one's own voice back is a decided advantage in persuading Margate to let one apparate out for the day; with a voice that sounds like one's spent one's life sucking coffin-nails, a person had best not attempt to leave for more than a few hours, and certainly not two days in a row.

2. The potioneer's association's clerks lead sad, pathetic lives. )

Jan. 17th, 2009

[info]exsequeverus

Severus Snape: Intro (also Topic: Poetry)

On one of the benches overlooking the beach, black-clad arm fallen and long, white fingers brushing the sand, a man lies comatose. Gaunt, framed by nearly eighteenth-century clothes and sea-salted black hair, his face would look twenties-young (and his style the gothic of an over-meticulous modern histrionic) if it weren’t so haggardly drawn, the shadows under the eyes so deep and dark. It’s a striking incongruity, although, when he first appeared, he looked a seventy with little strange about it. The forbidding, heavy-clothed, over-buttoned outfit hangs on him rather, although it isn’t cut for a heavy man.

He has a nearly foot-long piece of pale wood holstered to one thigh--smoothly carved, well-worn, and just slightly rosy, with a few remaining flecks of walnut-stain lingering in its few deep groves--and a collection of intriguing little textured vials to the other. A few men with more respect for value and their own curiosity than dignity or possession have, since his unceremonious appearance on the bench, tried to handle or even make off with one or the other. All ran away quickly in pain and astonishment, clutching hideously blistered hands. One tried gloves, to no avail, and one paused to land a retributive backhanded blow.

The only relief of blackness on him are the odd and varied stains on his bony hands, and the spectacularly attractive mess of blood, bruised swelling, and bone-white cravat at his throat. He looks like a vampire victim, were the vampire diseased and the body stirred to a froth of outraged rejection. From the twin wounds, rather large to have been from a human mouth, emerge a slow, exhausted trickle of almost clear fluid. His skin is cold, his heart beats, perhaps, once a minute, and his breath, while regular and continuous, is so slowly even as to be invisible too all but the most interested observer. Peeking from under the cravat is the edge of a note, its handwriting crabbed, annoyed, and painstakingly legible.

To_you_who_have_chosen_to_concern_yourself )

And, upside down at the bottom of the paper, in a quite different hand, less irritated than morose,

“Riddle
Though in theory I’m always behind you,
Your shadow, to prop and remind you,
And you may, as you roam,
Wish to make me your home,
Do not dwell on me much: I may blind you.”


And, folded into a hidden pocket, just showing since the departure of the disgruntled tough, is a sheet of heavy paper, so full of linen fiber as to feel nearly cloth, much and madly scribbled on.


“Leave me alone,” he says. “Sod off, I’m dead,” he says. “Reports of my demise have been grievously understated,” he says. “Of course I’m sure, stop wittering,” he snaps. Unreliable bratstard. Wait till he realizes he started waking up on his birthday =.=

October 2010

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