Chapter Three: “Droit devant soi on ne peut pas aller bien loin...”
July 21, 1993
And that was how I first met the little prince.
I am Responsible for My Rose by lilian_cho
Chapter three of twenty-seven
Spoilers: Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince chapter three, all Harry Potter books
Betas: rea_saint, tabigarasu and trixiegogobunny
Britpickers: bopeepsheep, guardianista and eofs at hp_britglish
Archive: please ask permission first
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Harcourt, Inc., Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
3
“Droit devant soi on ne peut pas aller bien loin...”
July 22, 1993
I learned more about the little prince from the changing light in his green eyes than from his answers-or lack of answers-to my questions. Asking him precise questions about where he came from was useless; he always answered them with irrelevancies. I had to exert my observation and discernment skills to piece together the story of his life from his random remarks.
“What are those things?” he asked, breaking my peaceful isolation.
I had emptied my pocket of the two portkeys inside.
Bitter at my stupidity for not recognizing the headmaster’s duplicity, I spat out:
“They’re not things. They are portkeys.”
“One took me here,” I scowled at the portkey shaped like three connected stars. Narrowing my eyes, I continued, “The other one … is supposed to take me back.”
The “return portkey” to Hogwarts is a sleeping dragon miniature. How so like the headmaster to pay proper respect to symbols even in deception.
“What! You came here by portkey?” he exclaimed, unperturbed by my ill humor.
“Yes!” I snapped, stowing the two portkeys back inside my pocket.
The boy suddenly howled in laughter. I examined him in cool irritation, thinking he had lost his mind in the high noon heat. After quieting down to snickers, the boy added:
“So you came here by portkey, too. What planet did you come from?”
Once again I questioned the wisdom in drinking my wormwood and nutmeg tea in the middle of the Sahara desert. The ritual of afternoon tea helped me retain my calm, but it seemed to have cost me my sanity. Why must I invent a boy who not only has the enemy’s face but also fancies himself an alien?
“So you,” I enunciated slowly, “came from another planet?”
He only shook his head absent-mindedly. “I was told that only mine can transport people across stars…” He clutched his fist inside his pocket. A haze veiled his green eyes. Settling down on the sand, he took out the owl drawing and sank into contemplation of his treasure.
As the sun finally conceded its throne in the apex of the sky, I calmly began the ritual of making my afternoon tea.
I poured some water from my flask into the earthenware kettle I had transfigured yesterday. With a spell, I started a fire on some thorn bushes in order to boil the water.
Next, I cast a Warming Charm to the earthenware teapot that I also transfigured yesterday. Using my silver tea scoop, I measured the exact wormwood and nutmeg needed for a good, strong cup of tea. This blend I then placed inside the teapot.
Once I was satisfied with the water temperature, I poured the boiling water into the teapot. I watched as the wormwood and nutmeg swirled and clouded the hissing water. I then gave the pot a gentle shake to allow the blend to settle.
Afterward, I poured the tea infusion with utmost carefulness into my bone china cup. Lifting my cup, I inhaled the pleasant aroma of hot tea. My perspiration immediately evaporated, leaving my body a whole lot cooler.
I decided that it was time to confront the boy, lest I lose what little sanity I had left. I had to ascertain whether he was the byproduct of my afternoon tea or a real living boy who had somehow escaped from St. Mungo’s.
“Where do you come from?” I demanded. “Where is this ‘planet’ of yours?”
He did not reply, still absorbed by the owl drawing. Annoyed, I transfigured three nearby stones into bread rolls for dinner. Without looking up, the boy reached for the roll closest to him. Raising my eyebrows at his lack of manners, I drawled: “I take it that the little prince is hungry?”
He only gave me an absent-minded smile and took a bite out of the roll. I waited for him to complain of the taste, but he quietly finished his roll. Puzzled, I bit into mine. Both rolls tasted of sand.
With a grudging respect toward the boy, I then asked him another question: “Where will you be taking the owl?”
That seemed to attract his attention. Although he still held the parchment in his hand, his gaze turned inward, as if in search of the home he had left behind.
“The good thing about her white feathers is that she will be like a beacon at night.”
Gritting my teeth at his flippant answer, I had to remind myself that this boy was not the enemy. He might be just another black-haired, bespectacled boy, onto whom I had projected the enemy’s face under some bizarre delusion. I would not put it past the headmaster to tamper not only with my wand but also with my visual perception.
I took a deep breath and resorted to bribery, “If you will just cooperate and answer my questions, I will also draw you a birdcage for her home.”
Instead of cheerfully cooperating, the boy’s blurred eyes sharpened. He turned and stared at me as if I were the St. Mungo’s escapee.
Furrowing his brows together, he seemed to conclude that I had no idea what I was talking about.
“A birdcage? Why would she need a birdcage?” he asked in all solemn seriousness.
Amazed at the boy’s propensity to turn all my questions around, I answered:
“If you don’t keep her in a birdcage, she will fly off somewhere and not return home.”
For the second time that day, the boy surprised me with his barked out laughter.
“Where can she fly off to?”
Bewildered at his sudden merriment, I held his green gaze and answered:
“Anywhere. Straight ahead of her.”
As quickly as it had lightened, his mood turned grave again. “Even if she does, it doesn’t matter. Everything is very small where I live.”
As if anticipating a question, he continued, “She will return home. Owls-birds-always return to their home.”
With a touch of sadness, he added, “Straight ahead, you can’t go very far…”
*******
Vocabulary: wormwood
Warming Charm is one of those prolific useful fanon Charms like Lubricus Drying Charm.
Author’s notes: Snape's tea rituals are based on my "Afternoon Tea," which shows Snape brewing his first afternoon tea in the middle of the Sahara Desert (Timeline: July 21, 1993). I wrote it in answer to tabigarasu's hot drinks challenge at 30minutemuse.
The next update is "Un Chapeau Blanc," the promised back-story on Mrs. Snape's descent into madness (for sinick). Chapter four will be posted the week after the back-story.
Please leave comments. Concrits are most welcome (e.g., “I think Harry and/or Snape is OoC because…”)
If you like this fanfic, please “friend” or “watch” this journal so I have an idea of the number of readers. Thank you!
Please check out toestablishties and help me out with some aspects of the story that I’m struggling with. My current #1 problem is Harry (and Snape’s) OoC-ness.
Special Mention:
tabigarasu for the hot drinks challenge at 30minutemuse.
bopeepsheep (insult), guardianista and eofs (etiquette)
magic_at_mungos (mug link), jediowl (breakfast cups), shezan (Orwell on tea), sollersuk (“wormwood and nutmeg”), atalantapendrag (“infusion” and “blend”), sinick (wormwood and nutmeg links).
Fanarts:
Two illustrations I would like for this chapter are:
1) Snape’s two portkeys
2) “I was told that only mine can transport people across stars…”
If you’re interested, please drop me a line here, at lilian_cho, or e-mail me: lilian_cho [AT] yahoo [DOT] com with the subject line “IMR4MR 3 fanart.” I will return the favor with HP drabbles or beta-ing/editing services.
Back-story Giveaways:
The first two commentors who answer correctly to any of the following questions can request a back-story to any character/relationship/situation in this fanfic.
1) What did Snape mean by: How so like the headmaster to pay proper respect to symbols even in deception.? (Notice the plural word "symbols")
(Betas and friends of toestablishties cannot answer Q#1 since the answer is in an f-locked post...)
opsat won a Remus (and chocolate) back-story for answering question #1 correctly. Again, yes, there will be Remus in this fanfic later on ;-)
2) What v. v. obscure allusion to a famous Shakespeare play is made in this sentence: “I was told that only mine can transport people across stars…”?
3) "A picture is worth a thousand words." How does this apply (at all) to this chapter? [Warning: Trick Question!] The answer is one sentence at most.
(Can you tell I'm running out of questions to ask? LOL. I'll post more clues every day if nobody can answer the questions.)
allara won a H-D back-story "Frost" for answering both Q#2 and Q#3 right. LOL. I should ask people to attempt one question at a time, to give others a chance.