The ABC Challenge
another fine, sweaty day here in the bowels of Hell, where the sun is shining, the sky is a beautiful blue and stepping outside is like walking into a blast furnace even so early in the morning.
....maybe i should be living in the Arctic?
anyhow, here's the daily dose of quick fic from the Snape ABC Challenge. this is another one of those odd, angsty kind of pieces. but come on, this is Snape. if he isn't angry and belligerent, he's angsty and brooding.
impalpable: (adj) unable to be felt by touch; Not perceptible to the touch; intangible
The light in the corridor seemed brighter than usual, making his eyes burn. He wasn't used to this much light. He rarely ventured out of his dungeons any more. Things had become so desperate that he didn't dare venture out of the castle. The only times he really left the dungeons were to attend the evening meals. But this night was different. There was a more somber feeling in the air. He could hear a hushed murmur from up the hall, but he couldn't see who it might be.
The day had been so mild and so uneventful. Unless one counted the only class he'd taught that day. It had been double potions and he hadn't been looking forward to it. He'd finally found a student who was even less adept at brewing potions than Longbottom and the child was in that particular class. The potion had been fairly simple. Nothing that would have been dangerous. And yet, things had been odd since it had ended. As a starter, the headache he'd had since he'd woken was simply gone. He'd tried every potion he knew could help. None of them had made a dent in the throbbing pain in his skull. Yet it had just suddenly vanished.
That alone was enough to strike him as odd.
Second, he knew that it had to be well past dark. By his calculations, it had to be near to the curfew hour. And still, he was certain he could hear the sounds of students up and out of bed. Many students up and out of bed. Where was the Headmaster? He'd tried to go and tell them to return to their Common Rooms, but he couldn't seem to find where they were at. He only knew that he could hear them.
"He has to be here somewhere, Albus," Minerva's voice, high and grating, floated down the hall toward him. "The students swore that he was there when the class ended. I can't begin to understand what could have happened."
"Peterson mentioned an explosion," Albus' voice sounded tired.
He frowned. Yes, there had been an explosion. He could recall that. His even worse than Longbottom student had blown up her cauldron just that afternoon. How she'd managed it, he couldn't be sure. He was shocked that such a simple potion that was made to help remove warts could explode in such grand disarray as hers had.
"No one has seen him for hours. You don't suppose he's been called away, do you?" Minerva sounded deeply worried.
"I would have been notified or would have known if this were the case," Albus replied. Their voices were growing louder, though they were wrapped in some kind of fog. It was as if he were hearing them from on the other side of a thick cloud of cotton. Their voices, while moving toward him, were muffled and distorted. It was disconcerting. He couldn't imagine what would be causing such a phenomenon.
"He can't simply have vanished," Minerva stated with a heavy amount of surety. "Can he have?"
The uncertainty he heard in her voice made him pause.
"There is no telling, Minerva. But, whatever the case, we shall bring him back to us. It will only take some time."
He was gone? A frown furrowed his brow. In a moment, Minerva and Albus turned the corner, coming right at him. He stepped into their paths, blocking them. They only passed through him. Not around him. Through him! He knew a moment of panic. The two of them had just walked through him. As if he hadn't been standing there. As if he were nothing more than spirit. Panic hit him. He couldn't be a ghost. He wasn't ready to become like Binns, standing at the head of the class, droning on and on about history and putting every single student to sleep with his boring monotone.
He turned to follow after them, his hand reaching out to grasp Albus' shoulder. It went through. He couldn't feel the rich velvet of Albus' robes nor the weight of age on his sloped shoulders. He couldn't feel anything. A cry of frustration left him. There was nothing of him there to touch. Something had happened and he had become some intangible thought or memory.
He was as impalpable as the ghosts that roamed the castle at will.