THE IMPROPER USE AND OVERUSE OF ADVERBS
We're starting a new feature where we'll be posting about different elements of writing a few times per month, give or take. We're starting this feature with a post on adverbs.
Roy Peter Clark, author of Writing Tools: 50 Essential Strategies For Every Writer and writing teacher, tells us adverbiage (the excessive use of adverbs) reflects the style of an immature writer.
An adverb is a word that either changes the reader's understanding of a verb (She smiled sadly) or intensifies a verb (The explosion completely leveled the building).
Most adverbs are unnecessary. As a writer, you do not need to use adverbs to reiterate obvious information. For example, take the sentence He clenched his fist tightly, advancing on his enemy. The adverb of tightly is unnecessary, for is there any other way to make a true fist than tightly? We already know a fist is tight. No need to reiterate that fact. In the example The explosion completely leveled the building, completely is unnecessary because leveled indicates total destruction. It's like being slightly pregnant: either one is pregnant or they're not! There is no in between. Leveled is total destruction. Clenched is tightness. There is no need for intensifying adverbs for such straightforward words.
Consider the following examples from Writing Tools: 50 Essential Strategies For Every Writer:
The cheerleader gyrated wildly before the screaming fans.
The accident totally severed the boy's arm.
The spy peered furtively through the bushes.
Compare these sentences when the adverbs are removed. In each case, Roy Peter Clark writes, the deletion shortens the sentence, sharpens the point, and creates elbow room for the verb.
The cheerleader gyrated before the screaming fans.
The accident severed the boy's arm.
The spy peered through the bushes.
Weak verb-adverb combinations can and should be revised with stronger verbs: "He ran quickly towards the goal" can become "He charged down the field, locked onto the goal". "She came down the stairs effortlessly" can become "She glided downstairs".
Try to avoid redundancy through adverbs: completely finished; absolutely determined; invigoratingly stimulated; rudely interrupted; carefully considered; crept timidly; whispered quietly; laughed happily; fretted anxiously.
Do try using adverbs to change a verb's meaning to the reader. For example, laughed mirthlessly. Mirthlessly contradicts the inherent meaning of laughed as an expression of happiness; it changes the expected meaning of laughed for the reader. Laughed mirthlessly is an example of a good verb-adverb combination. Some other examples include cried happily; hid openly; mourned lightly; forgave grudgingly; screamed silently.
I want to give an honorable mention to adjectives while we're on the subject of improper and over use of certain types of words. Many adjectives are also unnecessary, especially ones that are redundant: brownish dirt; yellow daffodils; blue sky; lacy spiderwebs; precipitous cliff. The previous examples are from On Writing Well by William Zinsser, a great book on writing. Watch those adjectives, too! ETA: khalulu makes a fine point about redundant adjectives. She pointed out that "blue sky" in some areas may be highly unusual, so in that regard not redundant. In a place where the weather is consistently overcast, to see the blue sky is an exciting and maybe unusual occurrence.
Next is a passage from my very first fan fic called Muggle Studies, written back in 2004. As you will see, as an amateur writer I overused adverbs like whoa. The first original, unedited, passage contains 67 adverbs! After editing the passage with my 2011 eye, I whittled my adverbs down to 3 (with one being questionable still!)
As a reader, compare and contrast the two versions. What are your thoughts about the adverb-infused version versus the sparser one?
The basic information for the passage is that it is a scene between an OFC, daughter to Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange, who was born in Azkaban, and Professor Snape. There is a rather abrupt change in POV at the beginning, another testament to my amateur writing skills. But POV is a whole 'nother post!
BEFORE
As Draco exited Snape's office his mind was preoccupied by thoughts of Pansy and the intriguing prospect of having her as a house guest at Malfoy Manor, thus did not see anyone in front of him; when he slammed roughly into someone he was quite startled by the contact, and the sound of the person's rucksack hitting the floor, spilling its contents.
"Lestrange!" he snapped, rolling his eyes. "Watch where you're going!"
Astrid pulled back, throwing him an offended look. "Watch it yourself, Malfoy! You ought to keep your head level while you're walking --- you were looking up at the ceiling." She knelt and began re-packing her bag. Draco shook his head slightly, but followed suit. Kneeling beside her, he began collecting the parchments and quills which had fallen to the corridor floor. Silently they cleaned up Astrid's belongings; Draco politely extended a hand to help her back up.
"Well, sorry about that," he said, glancing her over quickly. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," she said, a touch put out, brushing at her robes. She jerked her head toward Snape's office door. "Is he in?"
Draco nodded. "And not in too bad of a mood either. I'd go in if I were you, before that changes."
She proceeded toward the door slowly. "See you, Malfoy."
"Lestrange." He was already heading down the corridor, smoothing his hair away from his eyes. Astrid knocked and pushed open the door when Snape's voice bade her come in.
"Hello, Professor Snape," she said, sighting him at his desk.
Snape looked up. "Miss Lestrange," he acknowledged, rising. He gestured to the chair Draco had just vacated. Astrid shut the door behind her and crossed his office; sitting timidly, she gave him a wan smile.
He once again placed his peacock quill aside and steepled his fingers. "Are you well?"
"Yes. Thank you. I was just wondering . . ." She wasn't quite sure how to voice what she needed. "I have a date," she blurted out abruptly.
Snape cringed inwardly. Dear God, he thought. Will the continued horrors of their adolescent needs be forever endless? "I expect this is good news to you?" he enquired neutrally, after a moment.
Her large eyes were unreadable. "I expect it should be, yes."
"May I ask with whom you plan to socialise?"
She hesitated slightly. "C.R. Waldvogel asked me to Hogsmeade, sir." A deep flush was overtaking her face.
Bloody fabulous. Snape remembered his recent conversation with Alastor Moody. There are, in fact, students whom I monitor extremely closely for Dark Arts proclivities he had said to the ex-Auror. Astrid Lestrange is not one of them . . . Snape sighed. But C.R. Waldvogel surely is. He braced himself before continuing. "And your opinion on the matter?"
She twisted her sleeve, worrying. "I don't want anything to happen . . . " She lowered her voice, although they were decidedly alone. "If you understand my meaning."
Snape nodded, acknowledging the beginnings of a headache, which was manifesting itself behind his right ear. "Do you have any ability to suppress your symptoms when you feel their onset?"
"No."
Snape raised an eyebrow. "Have you ever tried?"
"Yes."
"How have you tried?"
She crossed her arms over her chest. "I just have, is all."
"No," Snape said, irritated, "you haven't. Not properly, anyway."
"I'm sure you'll excuse my inability, sir," Astrid said petulantly, "but it's not my bloody fault."
Snape's eyes narrowed. "Hush! Enough of that," he snapped. "Self-pity is an unattractive and useless state of mind. I shan't allow you to wallow." Astrid's mouth twisted into a frown as she regarded him sulkily, her arms crossed over her chest. Snape considered her, thinking; oddly enough his mind flashed to Potter -- his need to squelch Potter was absolutely inherent; however, Snape knew to deliver the same bearing to Astrid Lestrange would actually require effort. The girl needs it though, he thought, if she is to become strong. He stared at her haughty face for a moment, then stood. "Sit up properly," he barked. Astrid moved almost imperceptibly. "Do it now, or I'll send you on your way." Rolling her eyes slightly, she straightened herself and squared her shoulders, allowing her hands to drop to her lap. Snape continued, "Comportment is essential to one's self, culling spell or not. I expect you to carry yourself well and with dignity."
She stared at him silently.
"Close your eyes. Relax." She blinked owlishly at him. "It will not hurt," he stated. Slowly she let her lids close; as she did so, Snape returned to his seat behind his desk and watched her for several minutes. Shortly he saw her shoulders ease from their squared position, and the tiny muscles around her mouth slackened gently. Silently he pulled his wand and whispered the spell so stealthily, he was positive she heard nothing.
"Legilimens."
Astrid's left hand fell from her lap to the seat of the chair; otherwise she remained still. Snape closed his own eyes and quickly centered himself internally, allowing his brain to operate in an impressionist, rather than an analytic, mode as he stepped inside her mind. Images cascaded past him, a surfeit of shadowy impressions, disorganised and bleak. He found himself walking a couloir of undetermined length, black and craggy shadows streaking upward on either side; the distinctive rattling sound finally triggered his recognition --- he was clearly proceeding through a looming mass of Dementors. In the distance, Snape heard the distinctive cry of a human infant; mentally, he drew his wand, his lips barely moving as he uttered the Patronus spell. The Dementors receded and he continued forward through the whirling images. It was a visual cacophony; Snape stopped, tilting his head. A different sound was rising above the baby's cries: A voice, muffled, yet instantly recognisable.
He couldn't help himself. "Bella . . ." he hissed out loud. Astrid's eyes fluttered at his utterance; however, she did not open them. Snape refocused, calling out to her in his mind. "Bellatrix . . . show yourself . . ." And then he was in a small, cobbled cell, gazing upon a naked and bloodied Bellatrix Lestrange crouched on the floor, practically nose to nose with the newborn Astrid as she cast her culling spell. Snape heard the clanging of the heavy locks as the Dementors attempted entry; Bellatrix turned her head to glance at the door, and Snape was surprised to find that her face was blurry and distorted, her distinct, elegant features indistinguishable through the curtain of tangled, long dark hair falling forward across her face. He moved closer and carefully put his face up to Bellatrix's. She remained a blurred visage to him, even at close range --- a mere impression of the image which had long ago been burned into Snape's memory. He registered that Astrid had only seen her mother as a newborn, and like all infants her newborn eyes had not been able to see Bella's face in focus; he realised he was experiencing the sole visual memory Astrid Lestrange had of her mother's face. The girl had had the benefit of gestation to thoroughly learn the sound of Bella's voice, however, which explained the distorted sound Snape was encountering.
Astrid's despair was fully palpable.
Snape turned and the scene disappeared. Bits of images were careening by him, impressions of Astrid's childhood memories and feelings: Armand and Agnes Lestrange, and their familiar home; a chocolate, standard poodle bounding about; a beautiful Christmas tree, fully trimmed; the small voice of an eleven-year-old girl pleading to be Sorted into Slytherin House; the faint voice of the Sorting Hat whispering in response; letter after letter sent hopefully to Azkaban prison by a tiny girl with immense, shining eyes; her private shame at never receiving a single reply. Snape picked carefully through Astrid's memories, amazed at the amount of anger he encountered, and paused to revel in her few bright spots of happiness and hope, for the feelings of despondency and defeat were fully overwhelming.
He found himself surrounded by fear and humiliation, and the smell of rotting, decayed flesh permeated his nostrils. Even though he knew it was an olfactory illusion, he had to resist the urge to retch as he considered the image of Astrid curled in her bed, Agnes Lestrange leaning over her, concerned and crying, patting the girl helplessly. Snape then felt the distinct impression of being kissed, and felt a faint tug in his groin, and he caught glimpses of a familiar Hufflepuff boy sporting an adoring gaze.
The Dementors came again; Snape pulled his wand and uttered the Patronus spell; however, his Patronus charged about blindly, having no effect on their ranks, and he could feel the cold overtaking him, and smell the unmistakable mouldering essence of the Dementors, and he was suddenly terrified.
"Finite!"
Snape opened his eyes, blinking several times as his office came back into focus. "Miss Lestrange," he said, after a moment. Astrid opened her wide, brown eyes.
"Did you see all that too?" she asked bleakly.
"I did, yes."
"There's no hope, then, is there?" Her shoulders slumped forward dejectedly. "Professor Snape . . ." her voice trailed off momentarily. "Why me?"
Snape had no idea how to adequately respond. Sighing, he folded his arms across his chest. "It is an irrelevant question, Astrid," he said, letting his usual guise of stern formality fall. "The situation just is. Knowing the reasoning behind it will not aid in tempering the symptoms of the spell, nor will it assist us in finding its counter. Your impressions, your memories, your feelings, however, do have their use in finding a solution to your situation."
The girl was considering him closely, and Snape could all but see the wheels turning in her head as she gazed at him, her eyes narrowed in sudden realisation. "Did you . . . do you know my parents?" she asked, clearly enlightened.
Shite. "Yes."
Her face took on a curious, eager look, her eyes shining at the prospect of information long sought. "What were they like?"
Snape stared, nonplussed.
She continued, "Grand-mere and Grand-pere refuse to talk about them, even when I ask." She leaned forward and inched toward the edge of her seat. "Can you . . . would you tell me about them?" Snape remained silent; after an uncomfortable pause, she prompted him one last time. "Please?"
His eyes glittering malevolently, Snape stood; clutching at the side of his desk, his voice unfurled dangerously. "What you need to know about your parents, you already do. There is no sympathetically tragic or noble back story for either your mother or your father, Miss Lestrange. You are living with their hellish legacy, a legacy which is exceptionally reflective of its origins. That is all you need know."
Her face screwed up in indignation, but she said nothing; fixing her jaw defiantly, she glared at Snape silently.
Slowly he re-took his seat and picked up his red quill. Returning his attention to his stack of essays, he spoke once he could trust his voice would maintain its usual mellifluousness. "You shall meet with me twice weekly -- Tuesday afternoons and Saturday mornings after breakfast," he commanded briskly, scrawling along on an unlucky student's essay. "I shall train you in structuring your mental defences --- it is an absolute imperative. As well, I will be devising an individual course of potions therapy to help contain your symptoms." He looked up at her then, easily penetrating her resistant facade. "Your mind is genetically predisposed to weakness -- is that the legacy you wish to know of? What is your ambition, Miss Lestrange? To be worthy of your name, to redeem it, or to merely be ordinary, to be washed along in the detritus that is wasted human ambition?" Astrid remained silent, although her gaze was less reproachful; finally she shook her head. "Then I suggest you tap into what resources you do have: your ambition; your resourcefulness; your compulsiveness. No one begs their way into Slytherin, no matter the familial heritage in question, so despite your unnecessary justifications to the Sorting Hat, you should know that you are not under my watch by accident."
"You . . . you heard my Sorting just now?"
"Tuesdays and Saturdays, Miss Lestrange, beginning immediately." He stood and rounded his desk; rummaging through his supply cabinet, he emerged with two small glass phials, a phial rack, and a gleaming steel lance. "Your finger please."
She pulled away reflexively, her dark eyes suspicious. "Why?"
"I wish to have a sample of your blood; it will be useful in researching your predicament and countering your symptoms." He reached out and took her hand, pinching her left forefinger between his own index finger and thumb; deftly he applied a sterilising potion to Astrid's finger and positioned the lance. Pausing, he looked up. "Are you right or left handed?" he enquired.
"Left," she said, wincing slightly.
With a practised shrug, Snape efficiently jabbed the finger on her left hand with the lance. "You'll survive," he said dryly. Astrid's blood began letting into the first phial as Snape continued to apply pressure to her finger. "The Latin word for 'left' is sinister," he said, almost conversationally, once the flow was established. She nodded. "For many years, persons who were left-handed were persecuted as witches -- persecuted by Muggles, of course." The first tiny phial filled up, and he delivered it to the rack for safekeeping. He administered a drop of preserving potion to the sample and sealed the phial with his wand. He took her hand again and began the process once again. "It is how the word 'sinister' became associated with implying evil or nefariousness."
"I didn't know that, sir."
"Mmm." He was busy with his task.
The second phial took a bit longer to fill than the first; however, it was soon completed, and Snape tapped Astrid's finger with his wand, muttering a healing charm. Releasing her hand he turned from her. "I expect you here in my office Saturday morning, no later than ten o'clock. You may go."
NUMBER OF ADVERBS BEFORE EDIT: 67
* * * * *
AFTER
As Draco exited Snape's office his mind was preoccupied by thoughts of Pansy and the intriguing prospect of having her as a house guest at Malfoy Manor, thus he did not see anyone in front of him; when he slammed into someone he was quite startled by the contact, and the sound of the person's rucksack hitting the floor, spilling its contents.
"Lestrange!" he snapped, rolling his eyes. "Watch where you're going!"
Astrid pulled back, throwing him an offended look. "Watch it yourself, Malfoy! You ought to keep your head level while you're walking --- you were looking up at the ceiling." She knelt and began re-packing her bag. Draco shook his head, but followed suit. Kneeling beside her, he began collecting the parchments and quills which had fallen to the corridor floor. They cleaned up Astrid's belongings; Draco extended a hand to help her back up.
"Well, sorry about that," he said, glancing her over. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," she said, a touch put out, brushing at her robes. She jerked her head toward Snape's office door. "Is he in?"
Draco nodded. "And not in too bad of a mood either. I'd go in if I were you, before that changes."
She proceeded toward the door. "See you, Malfoy."
"Lestrange." He headed down the corridor, smoothing his hair away from his eyes. Astrid knocked and pushed open the door when Snape's voice bade her come in.
"Hello, Professor Snape," she said, sighting him at his desk.
Snape looked up. "Miss Lestrange," he acknowledged, rising. He gestured to the chair Draco had just vacated. Astrid shut the door behind her and crossed his office; sitting, she gave him a wan smile.
He once again placed his peacock quill aside and steepled his fingers. "Are you well?"
"Yes. Thank you. I was just wondering . . ." She wasn't quite sure how to voice what she needed. "I have a date," she blurted.
Snape cringed inwardly. Dear God, he thought. Will the continued horrors of their adolescent needs be forever endless? "I expect this is good news to you?" he enquired, after a moment.
Her large eyes were unreadable. "I expect it should be, yes."
"May I ask with whom you plan to socialise?"
She hesitated. "C.R. Waldvogel asked me to Hogsmeade, sir." A deep flush was overtaking her face.
Bloody fabulous. Snape remembered his recent conversation with Alastor Moody. There are, in fact, students whom I monitor extremely closely for Dark Arts proclivities he had said to the ex-Auror. Astrid Lestrange is not one of them . . . Snape sighed. But C.R. Waldvogel is. He braced himself before continuing. "And your opinion on the matter?"
She twisted her sleeve, worrying. "I don't want anything to happen . . . " She lowered her voice, although they were alone. "If you understand my meaning."
Snape nodded, acknowledging the beginnings of a headache, which was manifesting itself behind his right ear. "Do you have any ability to suppress your symptoms when you feel their onset?"
"No."
Snape raised an eyebrow. "Have you ever tried?"
"Yes."
"How have you tried?"
She crossed her arms over her chest. "I just have, is all."
"No," Snape said, irritated, "you haven't. Not properly, anyway."
"I'm sure you'll excuse my inability, sir," Astrid said, "but it's not my bloody fault."
Snape's eyes narrowed. "Hush! Enough of that," he snapped. "Self-pity is an unattractive and useless state of mind. I shan't allow you to wallow." Astrid's mouth twisted into a frown as she regarded him, unimpressed, her arms crossed over her chest. Snape considered her, thinking; his mind flashed to Potter -- his need to squelch Potter was absolute and inherent; however, Snape knew to deliver the same bearing to Astrid Lestrange would actually require effort. The girl needs it though, he thought, if she is to become strong. He stared at her haughty face for a moment, then stood. "Sit up," he barked. Astrid didn't move. "Do it now, or I'll send you on your way." Rolling her eyes, she straightened herself and squared her shoulders, allowing her hands to drop to her lap. Snape continued, "Comportment is essential to one's self, culling spell or not. I expect you to carry yourself well and with dignity."
She stared at him, saying nothing.
"Close your eyes. Relax." She blinked. "It will not hurt," he stated. She let her lids close; as she did so, Snape returned to his seat behind his desk and watched her for several minutes. He saw her shoulders ease from their squared position, and the tiny muscles around her mouth slackened. He pulled his wand and incanted the spell so that he was positive she heard nothing.
Legilimens.
Astrid's left hand fell from her lap to the seat of the chair; otherwise she remained still. Snape closed his own eyes and centered himself, allowing his brain to operate in an impressionist, rather than an analytic, mode as he stepped inside her mind. Images cascaded past him, a surfeit of shadowy impressions, disorganised and bleak. He found himself walking a couloir of undetermined length, black and craggy shadows streaking upward on either side; the distinctive rattling sound finally triggered his recognition --- he was clearly proceeding through a looming mass of Dementors. In the distance, Snape heard the distinctive cry of a human infant; mentally, he drew his wand, his lips still as he uttered the Patronus spell. The Dementors receded and he continued forward through the whirling images. It was a visual cacophony; Snape stopped, tilting his head. A different sound was rising above the baby's cries: A voice, muffled, yet recognisable.
He couldn't help himself. "Bella . . ." he hissed out loud. Astrid's eyes fluttered at his utterance; however, she did not open them. Snape refocused, calling out to her in his mind. "Bellatrix . . . show yourself . . ." And then he was in a small, cobbled cell, gazing upon a naked and bloodied Bellatrix Lestrange crouched on the floor, nose to nose with the newborn Astrid as she cast her culling spell. Snape heard the clanging of the heavy locks as the Dementors attempted entry; Bellatrix turned her head to glance at the door, and Snape was surprised to find that her face was blurry and distorted, her distinct, elegant features indistinguishable through the curtain of tangled, long dark hair falling forwards across her face. He moved closer and put his face up to Bellatrix's. She remained a blurred visage to him, even at close range --- a mere impression of the image which had long ago been burned into Snape's memory. He registered that Astrid had only seen her mother as a newborn, and like all infants her newborn eyes had not been able to see Bella's face in focus; he realised he was experiencing the sole visual memory Astrid Lestrange had of her mother's face. The girl had had the benefit of gestation to learn the sound of Bella's voice, however, which explained the distorted sound Snape was encountering.
Astrid's despair was palpable.
Snape turned and the scene disappeared. Bits of images were careening by him, impressions of Astrid's childhood memories and feelings: Armand and Agnes Lestrange, and their familiar home; a chocolate, standard poodle bounding about; a beautiful Christmas tree, fully trimmed; the small voice of an eleven-year-old girl pleading to be Sorted into Slytherin House; the faint voice of the Sorting Hat whispering in response; letter after letter sent hopefully to Azkaban prison by a tiny girl with immense, shining eyes; her private shame at never receiving a single reply. Snape picked through Astrid's memories, amazed at the amount of anger he encountered, and paused to revel in her few bright spots of happiness and hope, for the feelings of despondency and defeat were quite overwhelming.
He found himself surrounded by fear and humiliation, and the smell of rotting, decayed flesh permeated his nostrils. Even though he knew it was an olfactory illusion, he had to resist the urge to retch as he considered the image of Astrid curled in her bed, Agnes Lestrange leaning over her, concerned and crying, patting the girl. Snape then felt the distinct impression of being kissed, and felt a faint tug in his groin, and he caught glimpses of a familiar Hufflepuff boy sporting an adoring gaze.
The Dementors came again; Snape pulled his wand and uttered the Patronus spell; however, his Patronus charged about having no effect on their ranks, and he could feel the cold overtaking him, and smell the unmistakable mouldering essence of the Dementors, and he was suddenly terrified.
"Finite!"
Snape opened his eyes, blinking several times as his office came back into focus. "Miss Lestrange," he said, after a moment. Astrid opened her wide, brown eyes.
"Did you see?"
"I did, yes."
"There's no hope, then, is there?" Her shoulders slumped forward. "Professor Snape . . ." her voice trailed off. "Why me?"
Snape had no idea how to respond. Sighing, he folded his arms across his chest. "It is an irrelevant question, Astrid," he said, letting his usual guise of stern formality fall. "The situation just is. Knowing the reasoning behind it will not aid in tempering the symptoms of the spell, nor will it assist us in finding its counter. Your impressions, your memories, your feelings, however, do have their use in finding a solution to your situation."
The girl watched him, and Snape could all but see the wheels turning in her head as her eyes narrowed in realisation. "Did you . . . do you know my parents?" she asked.
Shite. He nodded. "Yes."
Her face took on a curious, eager look, her eyes shining at the prospect of information long sought. "What were they like?"
Snape stared, nonplussed.
She continued, "Grand-mere and Grand-pere refuse to talk about them, even when I ask." She leaned forward and inched toward the edge of her seat. "Can you . . . would you tell me about them?" Snape remained silent; after an uncomfortable pause, she prompted him one last time. "Please?"
His eyes glittering, Snape stood; clutching at the side of his desk, his voice unfurled. "What you need to know about your parents, you already do. There is no tragic or noble back story for either your mother or your father, Miss Lestrange. You are living with their hellish legacy, a legacy which is reflective enough of its origins. That is all you need know."
Her face screwed up in indignation, but she said nothing; fixing her jaw, she glared at Snape.
Slowly he re-took his seat and picked up his red quill. Returning his attention to his stack of essays, he spoke once he could trust his voice would maintain its usual mellifluousness. "You shall meet with me twice weekly -- Tuesday afternoons and Saturday mornings after breakfast," he commanded, scrawling along on an unlucky student's essay. "I shall train you in structuring your mental defences --- it is an absolute imperative. As well, I will be devising an individual course of potions therapy to help contain your symptoms." He looked up at her then, penetrating her resistant facade. "Your mind is genetically predisposed to weakness -- is that the legacy you wish to know of? What is your ambition, Miss Lestrange? To be worthy of your name, to redeem it, or to merely be ordinary, to be washed along in the detritus that is wasted human ambition?" Astrid remained silent, although her gaze was less reproachful; finally she shook her head. "Then I suggest you tap into what resources you do have: your ambition; your resourcefulness; your compulsiveness. No one begs their way into Slytherin, no matter the familial heritage in question, so despite your unnecessary justifications to the Sorting Hat, you should know that you are not under my watch by accident."
"You . . . you heard my Sorting just now?"
"Tuesdays and Saturdays, Miss Lestrange." He stood and rounded his desk; rummaging through his supply cabinet, he emerged with two small glass phials, a phial rack, and a gleaming steel lance. "Your finger please."
She pulled away, her dark eyes suspicious. "Why?"
"I wish to have a sample of your blood; it will be useful in researching your predicament and countering your symptoms." He reached out and took her hand, pinching her left forefinger between his own index finger and thumb; he applied a sterilising potion to Astrid's finger and positioned the lance. Pausing, he looked up. "Are you right or left handed?" he enquired.
"Left," she said, wincing.
With a practised shrug, Snape jabbed the finger on her left hand with the lance. "You'll survive," he said. Astrid's blood began letting into the first phial as Snape continued to apply pressure to her finger. "The Latin word for 'left' is sinister," he said, almost conversationally, once the flow was established. She nodded. "For many years, persons who were left-handed were persecuted as witches -- persecuted by Muggles, of course." The first tiny phial filled up, and he delivered it to the rack for safekeeping. He administered a drop of preserving potion to the sample and sealed the phial with his wand. He took her hand again and began the process once again. "It is how the word 'sinister' became associated with implying evil or nefariousness."
"I didn't know that, sir."
"Mmm." He was busy with his task.
The second phial took a bit longer to fill than the first; however, it was soon completed, and Snape tapped Astrid's finger with his wand, muttering a healing charm. Releasing her hand he turned from her. "I expect you here in my office Saturday morning, no later than ten o'clock. You may go."
NUMBER OF ADVERBS AFTER EDIT: 3
* * * * *
My first edit got the adverbs down to eleven. My second edit, down to three. You may wonder why I chose to keep the adverbs that I did. First, inwardly shows something Snape did not do overtly. He didn't cringe outwardly; he cringed inwardly. The only way the reader can know how Snape cringed is by utilizing an adverb. In the second instance, hopefully modified sent; it changed the way the reader perceives the word sent. It wasn't just sent to Azkaban -- it was sent with hope by a little girl who wanted a basic acknowledgement of her existence from her parents; that she never gets it makes her hope all the more poignant. In the third instance, conversationally -- technically almost conversationally -- modifies he said; it brings attention to how Snape says a certain something, and demonstrates the significance of Snape holding a normal conversation with a student, for this is something we never see in canon. So it's important and I wanted to draw attention to the fact that he was speaking differently than he usually does. It was highly unusual for Snape, thus important. Both adverbs were chosen to change the reader's understanding of the verb, to strengthen the verb. A quick note on the little qualifier of almost in almost conversationally: normally little qualifiers (kind of, almost, sort of, a bit, a little, quite, rather, very, etc) are not recommended, as it erodes the impact of the word or words they're qualifying. I deliberately kept almost because I didn't think Snape would outright be conversational with a student. He flits around it.
From Roy Peter Clark's Writing Tools: 50 Essential Strategies For Every Writer, four exercises to help with adverb usage.
1. Look through the newspaper for any word that ends with -ly. If it's an adverb, cross it out and read the new sentence aloud. Which version works better?
2. Do the same for your last three pieces of writing. Circle the adverbs, delete them, and decide if the new sentence is stronger or weaker.
3. Read through your adverbs again and mark those that modify the verb rather than intensify it.
4. Search for weak verb-adverb combinations. "He spoke softly" might become "He whispered" or "He mumbled." If you come upon a weak combination, try a stronger verb to see if it improves the sentence.
As always, feedback and discussion is welcome!
I'll note for the record that our own JKR is an adverb freak! Pick up any book from the series and flip through it -- see how many adverbs you find, particularly at the end of dialogue ("Harry said irritatedly" "Hermione said timidly" "Ron said loudly")
Roy Peter Clark, author of Writing Tools: 50 Essential Strategies For Every Writer and writing teacher, tells us adverbiage (the excessive use of adverbs) reflects the style of an immature writer.
An adverb is a word that either changes the reader's understanding of a verb (She smiled sadly) or intensifies a verb (The explosion completely leveled the building).
Most adverbs are unnecessary. As a writer, you do not need to use adverbs to reiterate obvious information. For example, take the sentence He clenched his fist tightly, advancing on his enemy. The adverb of tightly is unnecessary, for is there any other way to make a true fist than tightly? We already know a fist is tight. No need to reiterate that fact. In the example The explosion completely leveled the building, completely is unnecessary because leveled indicates total destruction. It's like being slightly pregnant: either one is pregnant or they're not! There is no in between. Leveled is total destruction. Clenched is tightness. There is no need for intensifying adverbs for such straightforward words.
Consider the following examples from Writing Tools: 50 Essential Strategies For Every Writer:
The cheerleader gyrated wildly before the screaming fans.
The accident totally severed the boy's arm.
The spy peered furtively through the bushes.
Compare these sentences when the adverbs are removed. In each case, Roy Peter Clark writes, the deletion shortens the sentence, sharpens the point, and creates elbow room for the verb.
The cheerleader gyrated before the screaming fans.
The accident severed the boy's arm.
The spy peered through the bushes.
Weak verb-adverb combinations can and should be revised with stronger verbs: "He ran quickly towards the goal" can become "He charged down the field, locked onto the goal". "She came down the stairs effortlessly" can become "She glided downstairs".
Try to avoid redundancy through adverbs: completely finished; absolutely determined; invigoratingly stimulated; rudely interrupted; carefully considered; crept timidly; whispered quietly; laughed happily; fretted anxiously.
Do try using adverbs to change a verb's meaning to the reader. For example, laughed mirthlessly. Mirthlessly contradicts the inherent meaning of laughed as an expression of happiness; it changes the expected meaning of laughed for the reader. Laughed mirthlessly is an example of a good verb-adverb combination. Some other examples include cried happily; hid openly; mourned lightly; forgave grudgingly; screamed silently.
I want to give an honorable mention to adjectives while we're on the subject of improper and over use of certain types of words. Many adjectives are also unnecessary, especially ones that are redundant: brownish dirt; yellow daffodils; blue sky; lacy spiderwebs; precipitous cliff. The previous examples are from On Writing Well by William Zinsser, a great book on writing. Watch those adjectives, too! ETA: khalulu makes a fine point about redundant adjectives. She pointed out that "blue sky" in some areas may be highly unusual, so in that regard not redundant. In a place where the weather is consistently overcast, to see the blue sky is an exciting and maybe unusual occurrence.
Next is a passage from my very first fan fic called Muggle Studies, written back in 2004. As you will see, as an amateur writer I overused adverbs like whoa. The first original, unedited, passage contains 67 adverbs! After editing the passage with my 2011 eye, I whittled my adverbs down to 3 (with one being questionable still!)
As a reader, compare and contrast the two versions. What are your thoughts about the adverb-infused version versus the sparser one?
The basic information for the passage is that it is a scene between an OFC, daughter to Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange, who was born in Azkaban, and Professor Snape. There is a rather abrupt change in POV at the beginning, another testament to my amateur writing skills. But POV is a whole 'nother post!
BEFORE
As Draco exited Snape's office his mind was preoccupied by thoughts of Pansy and the intriguing prospect of having her as a house guest at Malfoy Manor, thus did not see anyone in front of him; when he slammed roughly into someone he was quite startled by the contact, and the sound of the person's rucksack hitting the floor, spilling its contents.
"Lestrange!" he snapped, rolling his eyes. "Watch where you're going!"
Astrid pulled back, throwing him an offended look. "Watch it yourself, Malfoy! You ought to keep your head level while you're walking --- you were looking up at the ceiling." She knelt and began re-packing her bag. Draco shook his head slightly, but followed suit. Kneeling beside her, he began collecting the parchments and quills which had fallen to the corridor floor. Silently they cleaned up Astrid's belongings; Draco politely extended a hand to help her back up.
"Well, sorry about that," he said, glancing her over quickly. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," she said, a touch put out, brushing at her robes. She jerked her head toward Snape's office door. "Is he in?"
Draco nodded. "And not in too bad of a mood either. I'd go in if I were you, before that changes."
She proceeded toward the door slowly. "See you, Malfoy."
"Lestrange." He was already heading down the corridor, smoothing his hair away from his eyes. Astrid knocked and pushed open the door when Snape's voice bade her come in.
"Hello, Professor Snape," she said, sighting him at his desk.
Snape looked up. "Miss Lestrange," he acknowledged, rising. He gestured to the chair Draco had just vacated. Astrid shut the door behind her and crossed his office; sitting timidly, she gave him a wan smile.
He once again placed his peacock quill aside and steepled his fingers. "Are you well?"
"Yes. Thank you. I was just wondering . . ." She wasn't quite sure how to voice what she needed. "I have a date," she blurted out abruptly.
Snape cringed inwardly. Dear God, he thought. Will the continued horrors of their adolescent needs be forever endless? "I expect this is good news to you?" he enquired neutrally, after a moment.
Her large eyes were unreadable. "I expect it should be, yes."
"May I ask with whom you plan to socialise?"
She hesitated slightly. "C.R. Waldvogel asked me to Hogsmeade, sir." A deep flush was overtaking her face.
Bloody fabulous. Snape remembered his recent conversation with Alastor Moody. There are, in fact, students whom I monitor extremely closely for Dark Arts proclivities he had said to the ex-Auror. Astrid Lestrange is not one of them . . . Snape sighed. But C.R. Waldvogel surely is. He braced himself before continuing. "And your opinion on the matter?"
She twisted her sleeve, worrying. "I don't want anything to happen . . . " She lowered her voice, although they were decidedly alone. "If you understand my meaning."
Snape nodded, acknowledging the beginnings of a headache, which was manifesting itself behind his right ear. "Do you have any ability to suppress your symptoms when you feel their onset?"
"No."
Snape raised an eyebrow. "Have you ever tried?"
"Yes."
"How have you tried?"
She crossed her arms over her chest. "I just have, is all."
"No," Snape said, irritated, "you haven't. Not properly, anyway."
"I'm sure you'll excuse my inability, sir," Astrid said petulantly, "but it's not my bloody fault."
Snape's eyes narrowed. "Hush! Enough of that," he snapped. "Self-pity is an unattractive and useless state of mind. I shan't allow you to wallow." Astrid's mouth twisted into a frown as she regarded him sulkily, her arms crossed over her chest. Snape considered her, thinking; oddly enough his mind flashed to Potter -- his need to squelch Potter was absolutely inherent; however, Snape knew to deliver the same bearing to Astrid Lestrange would actually require effort. The girl needs it though, he thought, if she is to become strong. He stared at her haughty face for a moment, then stood. "Sit up properly," he barked. Astrid moved almost imperceptibly. "Do it now, or I'll send you on your way." Rolling her eyes slightly, she straightened herself and squared her shoulders, allowing her hands to drop to her lap. Snape continued, "Comportment is essential to one's self, culling spell or not. I expect you to carry yourself well and with dignity."
She stared at him silently.
"Close your eyes. Relax." She blinked owlishly at him. "It will not hurt," he stated. Slowly she let her lids close; as she did so, Snape returned to his seat behind his desk and watched her for several minutes. Shortly he saw her shoulders ease from their squared position, and the tiny muscles around her mouth slackened gently. Silently he pulled his wand and whispered the spell so stealthily, he was positive she heard nothing.
"Legilimens."
Astrid's left hand fell from her lap to the seat of the chair; otherwise she remained still. Snape closed his own eyes and quickly centered himself internally, allowing his brain to operate in an impressionist, rather than an analytic, mode as he stepped inside her mind. Images cascaded past him, a surfeit of shadowy impressions, disorganised and bleak. He found himself walking a couloir of undetermined length, black and craggy shadows streaking upward on either side; the distinctive rattling sound finally triggered his recognition --- he was clearly proceeding through a looming mass of Dementors. In the distance, Snape heard the distinctive cry of a human infant; mentally, he drew his wand, his lips barely moving as he uttered the Patronus spell. The Dementors receded and he continued forward through the whirling images. It was a visual cacophony; Snape stopped, tilting his head. A different sound was rising above the baby's cries: A voice, muffled, yet instantly recognisable.
He couldn't help himself. "Bella . . ." he hissed out loud. Astrid's eyes fluttered at his utterance; however, she did not open them. Snape refocused, calling out to her in his mind. "Bellatrix . . . show yourself . . ." And then he was in a small, cobbled cell, gazing upon a naked and bloodied Bellatrix Lestrange crouched on the floor, practically nose to nose with the newborn Astrid as she cast her culling spell. Snape heard the clanging of the heavy locks as the Dementors attempted entry; Bellatrix turned her head to glance at the door, and Snape was surprised to find that her face was blurry and distorted, her distinct, elegant features indistinguishable through the curtain of tangled, long dark hair falling forward across her face. He moved closer and carefully put his face up to Bellatrix's. She remained a blurred visage to him, even at close range --- a mere impression of the image which had long ago been burned into Snape's memory. He registered that Astrid had only seen her mother as a newborn, and like all infants her newborn eyes had not been able to see Bella's face in focus; he realised he was experiencing the sole visual memory Astrid Lestrange had of her mother's face. The girl had had the benefit of gestation to thoroughly learn the sound of Bella's voice, however, which explained the distorted sound Snape was encountering.
Astrid's despair was fully palpable.
Snape turned and the scene disappeared. Bits of images were careening by him, impressions of Astrid's childhood memories and feelings: Armand and Agnes Lestrange, and their familiar home; a chocolate, standard poodle bounding about; a beautiful Christmas tree, fully trimmed; the small voice of an eleven-year-old girl pleading to be Sorted into Slytherin House; the faint voice of the Sorting Hat whispering in response; letter after letter sent hopefully to Azkaban prison by a tiny girl with immense, shining eyes; her private shame at never receiving a single reply. Snape picked carefully through Astrid's memories, amazed at the amount of anger he encountered, and paused to revel in her few bright spots of happiness and hope, for the feelings of despondency and defeat were fully overwhelming.
He found himself surrounded by fear and humiliation, and the smell of rotting, decayed flesh permeated his nostrils. Even though he knew it was an olfactory illusion, he had to resist the urge to retch as he considered the image of Astrid curled in her bed, Agnes Lestrange leaning over her, concerned and crying, patting the girl helplessly. Snape then felt the distinct impression of being kissed, and felt a faint tug in his groin, and he caught glimpses of a familiar Hufflepuff boy sporting an adoring gaze.
The Dementors came again; Snape pulled his wand and uttered the Patronus spell; however, his Patronus charged about blindly, having no effect on their ranks, and he could feel the cold overtaking him, and smell the unmistakable mouldering essence of the Dementors, and he was suddenly terrified.
"Finite!"
Snape opened his eyes, blinking several times as his office came back into focus. "Miss Lestrange," he said, after a moment. Astrid opened her wide, brown eyes.
"Did you see all that too?" she asked bleakly.
"I did, yes."
"There's no hope, then, is there?" Her shoulders slumped forward dejectedly. "Professor Snape . . ." her voice trailed off momentarily. "Why me?"
Snape had no idea how to adequately respond. Sighing, he folded his arms across his chest. "It is an irrelevant question, Astrid," he said, letting his usual guise of stern formality fall. "The situation just is. Knowing the reasoning behind it will not aid in tempering the symptoms of the spell, nor will it assist us in finding its counter. Your impressions, your memories, your feelings, however, do have their use in finding a solution to your situation."
The girl was considering him closely, and Snape could all but see the wheels turning in her head as she gazed at him, her eyes narrowed in sudden realisation. "Did you . . . do you know my parents?" she asked, clearly enlightened.
Shite. "Yes."
Her face took on a curious, eager look, her eyes shining at the prospect of information long sought. "What were they like?"
Snape stared, nonplussed.
She continued, "Grand-mere and Grand-pere refuse to talk about them, even when I ask." She leaned forward and inched toward the edge of her seat. "Can you . . . would you tell me about them?" Snape remained silent; after an uncomfortable pause, she prompted him one last time. "Please?"
His eyes glittering malevolently, Snape stood; clutching at the side of his desk, his voice unfurled dangerously. "What you need to know about your parents, you already do. There is no sympathetically tragic or noble back story for either your mother or your father, Miss Lestrange. You are living with their hellish legacy, a legacy which is exceptionally reflective of its origins. That is all you need know."
Her face screwed up in indignation, but she said nothing; fixing her jaw defiantly, she glared at Snape silently.
Slowly he re-took his seat and picked up his red quill. Returning his attention to his stack of essays, he spoke once he could trust his voice would maintain its usual mellifluousness. "You shall meet with me twice weekly -- Tuesday afternoons and Saturday mornings after breakfast," he commanded briskly, scrawling along on an unlucky student's essay. "I shall train you in structuring your mental defences --- it is an absolute imperative. As well, I will be devising an individual course of potions therapy to help contain your symptoms." He looked up at her then, easily penetrating her resistant facade. "Your mind is genetically predisposed to weakness -- is that the legacy you wish to know of? What is your ambition, Miss Lestrange? To be worthy of your name, to redeem it, or to merely be ordinary, to be washed along in the detritus that is wasted human ambition?" Astrid remained silent, although her gaze was less reproachful; finally she shook her head. "Then I suggest you tap into what resources you do have: your ambition; your resourcefulness; your compulsiveness. No one begs their way into Slytherin, no matter the familial heritage in question, so despite your unnecessary justifications to the Sorting Hat, you should know that you are not under my watch by accident."
"You . . . you heard my Sorting just now?"
"Tuesdays and Saturdays, Miss Lestrange, beginning immediately." He stood and rounded his desk; rummaging through his supply cabinet, he emerged with two small glass phials, a phial rack, and a gleaming steel lance. "Your finger please."
She pulled away reflexively, her dark eyes suspicious. "Why?"
"I wish to have a sample of your blood; it will be useful in researching your predicament and countering your symptoms." He reached out and took her hand, pinching her left forefinger between his own index finger and thumb; deftly he applied a sterilising potion to Astrid's finger and positioned the lance. Pausing, he looked up. "Are you right or left handed?" he enquired.
"Left," she said, wincing slightly.
With a practised shrug, Snape efficiently jabbed the finger on her left hand with the lance. "You'll survive," he said dryly. Astrid's blood began letting into the first phial as Snape continued to apply pressure to her finger. "The Latin word for 'left' is sinister," he said, almost conversationally, once the flow was established. She nodded. "For many years, persons who were left-handed were persecuted as witches -- persecuted by Muggles, of course." The first tiny phial filled up, and he delivered it to the rack for safekeeping. He administered a drop of preserving potion to the sample and sealed the phial with his wand. He took her hand again and began the process once again. "It is how the word 'sinister' became associated with implying evil or nefariousness."
"I didn't know that, sir."
"Mmm." He was busy with his task.
The second phial took a bit longer to fill than the first; however, it was soon completed, and Snape tapped Astrid's finger with his wand, muttering a healing charm. Releasing her hand he turned from her. "I expect you here in my office Saturday morning, no later than ten o'clock. You may go."
NUMBER OF ADVERBS BEFORE EDIT: 67
* * * * *
AFTER
As Draco exited Snape's office his mind was preoccupied by thoughts of Pansy and the intriguing prospect of having her as a house guest at Malfoy Manor, thus he did not see anyone in front of him; when he slammed into someone he was quite startled by the contact, and the sound of the person's rucksack hitting the floor, spilling its contents.
"Lestrange!" he snapped, rolling his eyes. "Watch where you're going!"
Astrid pulled back, throwing him an offended look. "Watch it yourself, Malfoy! You ought to keep your head level while you're walking --- you were looking up at the ceiling." She knelt and began re-packing her bag. Draco shook his head, but followed suit. Kneeling beside her, he began collecting the parchments and quills which had fallen to the corridor floor. They cleaned up Astrid's belongings; Draco extended a hand to help her back up.
"Well, sorry about that," he said, glancing her over. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," she said, a touch put out, brushing at her robes. She jerked her head toward Snape's office door. "Is he in?"
Draco nodded. "And not in too bad of a mood either. I'd go in if I were you, before that changes."
She proceeded toward the door. "See you, Malfoy."
"Lestrange." He headed down the corridor, smoothing his hair away from his eyes. Astrid knocked and pushed open the door when Snape's voice bade her come in.
"Hello, Professor Snape," she said, sighting him at his desk.
Snape looked up. "Miss Lestrange," he acknowledged, rising. He gestured to the chair Draco had just vacated. Astrid shut the door behind her and crossed his office; sitting, she gave him a wan smile.
He once again placed his peacock quill aside and steepled his fingers. "Are you well?"
"Yes. Thank you. I was just wondering . . ." She wasn't quite sure how to voice what she needed. "I have a date," she blurted.
Snape cringed inwardly. Dear God, he thought. Will the continued horrors of their adolescent needs be forever endless? "I expect this is good news to you?" he enquired, after a moment.
Her large eyes were unreadable. "I expect it should be, yes."
"May I ask with whom you plan to socialise?"
She hesitated. "C.R. Waldvogel asked me to Hogsmeade, sir." A deep flush was overtaking her face.
Bloody fabulous. Snape remembered his recent conversation with Alastor Moody. There are, in fact, students whom I monitor extremely closely for Dark Arts proclivities he had said to the ex-Auror. Astrid Lestrange is not one of them . . . Snape sighed. But C.R. Waldvogel is. He braced himself before continuing. "And your opinion on the matter?"
She twisted her sleeve, worrying. "I don't want anything to happen . . . " She lowered her voice, although they were alone. "If you understand my meaning."
Snape nodded, acknowledging the beginnings of a headache, which was manifesting itself behind his right ear. "Do you have any ability to suppress your symptoms when you feel their onset?"
"No."
Snape raised an eyebrow. "Have you ever tried?"
"Yes."
"How have you tried?"
She crossed her arms over her chest. "I just have, is all."
"No," Snape said, irritated, "you haven't. Not properly, anyway."
"I'm sure you'll excuse my inability, sir," Astrid said, "but it's not my bloody fault."
Snape's eyes narrowed. "Hush! Enough of that," he snapped. "Self-pity is an unattractive and useless state of mind. I shan't allow you to wallow." Astrid's mouth twisted into a frown as she regarded him, unimpressed, her arms crossed over her chest. Snape considered her, thinking; his mind flashed to Potter -- his need to squelch Potter was absolute and inherent; however, Snape knew to deliver the same bearing to Astrid Lestrange would actually require effort. The girl needs it though, he thought, if she is to become strong. He stared at her haughty face for a moment, then stood. "Sit up," he barked. Astrid didn't move. "Do it now, or I'll send you on your way." Rolling her eyes, she straightened herself and squared her shoulders, allowing her hands to drop to her lap. Snape continued, "Comportment is essential to one's self, culling spell or not. I expect you to carry yourself well and with dignity."
She stared at him, saying nothing.
"Close your eyes. Relax." She blinked. "It will not hurt," he stated. She let her lids close; as she did so, Snape returned to his seat behind his desk and watched her for several minutes. He saw her shoulders ease from their squared position, and the tiny muscles around her mouth slackened. He pulled his wand and incanted the spell so that he was positive she heard nothing.
Legilimens.
Astrid's left hand fell from her lap to the seat of the chair; otherwise she remained still. Snape closed his own eyes and centered himself, allowing his brain to operate in an impressionist, rather than an analytic, mode as he stepped inside her mind. Images cascaded past him, a surfeit of shadowy impressions, disorganised and bleak. He found himself walking a couloir of undetermined length, black and craggy shadows streaking upward on either side; the distinctive rattling sound finally triggered his recognition --- he was clearly proceeding through a looming mass of Dementors. In the distance, Snape heard the distinctive cry of a human infant; mentally, he drew his wand, his lips still as he uttered the Patronus spell. The Dementors receded and he continued forward through the whirling images. It was a visual cacophony; Snape stopped, tilting his head. A different sound was rising above the baby's cries: A voice, muffled, yet recognisable.
He couldn't help himself. "Bella . . ." he hissed out loud. Astrid's eyes fluttered at his utterance; however, she did not open them. Snape refocused, calling out to her in his mind. "Bellatrix . . . show yourself . . ." And then he was in a small, cobbled cell, gazing upon a naked and bloodied Bellatrix Lestrange crouched on the floor, nose to nose with the newborn Astrid as she cast her culling spell. Snape heard the clanging of the heavy locks as the Dementors attempted entry; Bellatrix turned her head to glance at the door, and Snape was surprised to find that her face was blurry and distorted, her distinct, elegant features indistinguishable through the curtain of tangled, long dark hair falling forwards across her face. He moved closer and put his face up to Bellatrix's. She remained a blurred visage to him, even at close range --- a mere impression of the image which had long ago been burned into Snape's memory. He registered that Astrid had only seen her mother as a newborn, and like all infants her newborn eyes had not been able to see Bella's face in focus; he realised he was experiencing the sole visual memory Astrid Lestrange had of her mother's face. The girl had had the benefit of gestation to learn the sound of Bella's voice, however, which explained the distorted sound Snape was encountering.
Astrid's despair was palpable.
Snape turned and the scene disappeared. Bits of images were careening by him, impressions of Astrid's childhood memories and feelings: Armand and Agnes Lestrange, and their familiar home; a chocolate, standard poodle bounding about; a beautiful Christmas tree, fully trimmed; the small voice of an eleven-year-old girl pleading to be Sorted into Slytherin House; the faint voice of the Sorting Hat whispering in response; letter after letter sent hopefully to Azkaban prison by a tiny girl with immense, shining eyes; her private shame at never receiving a single reply. Snape picked through Astrid's memories, amazed at the amount of anger he encountered, and paused to revel in her few bright spots of happiness and hope, for the feelings of despondency and defeat were quite overwhelming.
He found himself surrounded by fear and humiliation, and the smell of rotting, decayed flesh permeated his nostrils. Even though he knew it was an olfactory illusion, he had to resist the urge to retch as he considered the image of Astrid curled in her bed, Agnes Lestrange leaning over her, concerned and crying, patting the girl. Snape then felt the distinct impression of being kissed, and felt a faint tug in his groin, and he caught glimpses of a familiar Hufflepuff boy sporting an adoring gaze.
The Dementors came again; Snape pulled his wand and uttered the Patronus spell; however, his Patronus charged about having no effect on their ranks, and he could feel the cold overtaking him, and smell the unmistakable mouldering essence of the Dementors, and he was suddenly terrified.
"Finite!"
Snape opened his eyes, blinking several times as his office came back into focus. "Miss Lestrange," he said, after a moment. Astrid opened her wide, brown eyes.
"Did you see?"
"I did, yes."
"There's no hope, then, is there?" Her shoulders slumped forward. "Professor Snape . . ." her voice trailed off. "Why me?"
Snape had no idea how to respond. Sighing, he folded his arms across his chest. "It is an irrelevant question, Astrid," he said, letting his usual guise of stern formality fall. "The situation just is. Knowing the reasoning behind it will not aid in tempering the symptoms of the spell, nor will it assist us in finding its counter. Your impressions, your memories, your feelings, however, do have their use in finding a solution to your situation."
The girl watched him, and Snape could all but see the wheels turning in her head as her eyes narrowed in realisation. "Did you . . . do you know my parents?" she asked.
Shite. He nodded. "Yes."
Her face took on a curious, eager look, her eyes shining at the prospect of information long sought. "What were they like?"
Snape stared, nonplussed.
She continued, "Grand-mere and Grand-pere refuse to talk about them, even when I ask." She leaned forward and inched toward the edge of her seat. "Can you . . . would you tell me about them?" Snape remained silent; after an uncomfortable pause, she prompted him one last time. "Please?"
His eyes glittering, Snape stood; clutching at the side of his desk, his voice unfurled. "What you need to know about your parents, you already do. There is no tragic or noble back story for either your mother or your father, Miss Lestrange. You are living with their hellish legacy, a legacy which is reflective enough of its origins. That is all you need know."
Her face screwed up in indignation, but she said nothing; fixing her jaw, she glared at Snape.
Slowly he re-took his seat and picked up his red quill. Returning his attention to his stack of essays, he spoke once he could trust his voice would maintain its usual mellifluousness. "You shall meet with me twice weekly -- Tuesday afternoons and Saturday mornings after breakfast," he commanded, scrawling along on an unlucky student's essay. "I shall train you in structuring your mental defences --- it is an absolute imperative. As well, I will be devising an individual course of potions therapy to help contain your symptoms." He looked up at her then, penetrating her resistant facade. "Your mind is genetically predisposed to weakness -- is that the legacy you wish to know of? What is your ambition, Miss Lestrange? To be worthy of your name, to redeem it, or to merely be ordinary, to be washed along in the detritus that is wasted human ambition?" Astrid remained silent, although her gaze was less reproachful; finally she shook her head. "Then I suggest you tap into what resources you do have: your ambition; your resourcefulness; your compulsiveness. No one begs their way into Slytherin, no matter the familial heritage in question, so despite your unnecessary justifications to the Sorting Hat, you should know that you are not under my watch by accident."
"You . . . you heard my Sorting just now?"
"Tuesdays and Saturdays, Miss Lestrange." He stood and rounded his desk; rummaging through his supply cabinet, he emerged with two small glass phials, a phial rack, and a gleaming steel lance. "Your finger please."
She pulled away, her dark eyes suspicious. "Why?"
"I wish to have a sample of your blood; it will be useful in researching your predicament and countering your symptoms." He reached out and took her hand, pinching her left forefinger between his own index finger and thumb; he applied a sterilising potion to Astrid's finger and positioned the lance. Pausing, he looked up. "Are you right or left handed?" he enquired.
"Left," she said, wincing.
With a practised shrug, Snape jabbed the finger on her left hand with the lance. "You'll survive," he said. Astrid's blood began letting into the first phial as Snape continued to apply pressure to her finger. "The Latin word for 'left' is sinister," he said, almost conversationally, once the flow was established. She nodded. "For many years, persons who were left-handed were persecuted as witches -- persecuted by Muggles, of course." The first tiny phial filled up, and he delivered it to the rack for safekeeping. He administered a drop of preserving potion to the sample and sealed the phial with his wand. He took her hand again and began the process once again. "It is how the word 'sinister' became associated with implying evil or nefariousness."
"I didn't know that, sir."
"Mmm." He was busy with his task.
The second phial took a bit longer to fill than the first; however, it was soon completed, and Snape tapped Astrid's finger with his wand, muttering a healing charm. Releasing her hand he turned from her. "I expect you here in my office Saturday morning, no later than ten o'clock. You may go."
NUMBER OF ADVERBS AFTER EDIT: 3
* * * * *
My first edit got the adverbs down to eleven. My second edit, down to three. You may wonder why I chose to keep the adverbs that I did. First, inwardly shows something Snape did not do overtly. He didn't cringe outwardly; he cringed inwardly. The only way the reader can know how Snape cringed is by utilizing an adverb. In the second instance, hopefully modified sent; it changed the way the reader perceives the word sent. It wasn't just sent to Azkaban -- it was sent with hope by a little girl who wanted a basic acknowledgement of her existence from her parents; that she never gets it makes her hope all the more poignant. In the third instance, conversationally -- technically almost conversationally -- modifies he said; it brings attention to how Snape says a certain something, and demonstrates the significance of Snape holding a normal conversation with a student, for this is something we never see in canon. So it's important and I wanted to draw attention to the fact that he was speaking differently than he usually does. It was highly unusual for Snape, thus important. Both adverbs were chosen to change the reader's understanding of the verb, to strengthen the verb. A quick note on the little qualifier of almost in almost conversationally: normally little qualifiers (kind of, almost, sort of, a bit, a little, quite, rather, very, etc) are not recommended, as it erodes the impact of the word or words they're qualifying. I deliberately kept almost because I didn't think Snape would outright be conversational with a student. He flits around it.
From Roy Peter Clark's Writing Tools: 50 Essential Strategies For Every Writer, four exercises to help with adverb usage.
1. Look through the newspaper for any word that ends with -ly. If it's an adverb, cross it out and read the new sentence aloud. Which version works better?
2. Do the same for your last three pieces of writing. Circle the adverbs, delete them, and decide if the new sentence is stronger or weaker.
3. Read through your adverbs again and mark those that modify the verb rather than intensify it.
4. Search for weak verb-adverb combinations. "He spoke softly" might become "He whispered" or "He mumbled." If you come upon a weak combination, try a stronger verb to see if it improves the sentence.
As always, feedback and discussion is welcome!
I'll note for the record that our own JKR is an adverb freak! Pick up any book from the series and flip through it -- see how many adverbs you find, particularly at the end of dialogue ("Harry said irritatedly" "Hermione said timidly" "Ron said loudly")