So I suck
Argh, I didn't work on the Little Ghost story at all, and now it's so uncanon I hate it.
Blegh.
Gonna upload what I've got and see if there's any point in finishing it.
It wasn't quite the same as his old potions lab. He had fewer ingredients to hand, for a start. On the other hand, what he did have, they'd never keep stock of in Hogwarts.
Severus hovered his hand over a faceted glass, no larger than an almond, stoppered with a sliver of calcite. Vitreous humour from a blind squib, killed at birth; not on the Hogwarts' list of readily available ingredients. He closed his thin, yellow fingers on it, fingers stained from a lifetime of entrails, bubotuber pus, nightingale spleens. The boy looked up from his place at the work table.
“What are we going to make with that?” He had lost all the arrogance of the previous years, of indeed, his entire life. He'd been bred into arrogance, of course, but failure under the Dark Lord was a sure way to burn it out. Although Cruciatus wasn't what had broken him, Severus knew. And so he made sure the boy could occlude. No need to have the Dark Lord know that Draco still thought of Dumbledore's last stand with a guilt that twisted for all the wrong reasons.
“We are not making anything. I, however, will be. Don't interrupt.”
Draco nodded, and went back to his reading. A lifetime ago, he would have sneered, kicked at the table like a petulant child. Not any more.
Severus reached over his racks of vials, fingers flicking over the flasks, until he rested on one. The two combined, hmm, they'd be unstable, but it would be what he was looking for. Now, hen's teeth would counter the instability, but they were as rare as...
A vial rattled. The glass sounding bright and cold in the meagre potions lab. Severus stared, frowning, but all was still.
#
Sirius pulled back from the vial, he'd been leaning in to get a better look, to see what old Snivellus was up to this time.
He hated to be around his old friends and around Harry especially, so most of his time he spent haunting Snivellus's boring lab. It didn't hurt as much. Malfoy's kid was always there, and Snivellus would drone on at him about various potions, and lecture him as if the little ferret-faced brat was actually going to be taking his NEWTS. Strangely enough, he never complained, rather subdued for a Malfoy really. Sirius put it down to inbreeding.
He turned his attention back to the vial. It was filled with a silvery black powder, rather like graphite. The bottle was labelled with a slanting script: Powdered Scarab Shells. Sirius snorted, figured that Snape would have dung-beetles as an ingredient. The bastard always had liked to play with filth. Real wizards were good at transfiguration or charms, or defence. He'd flicked it, and it had rattled against the wood. That had never happened before. Curious, Sirius pressed one fingertip against the next vial. Nothing. He could feel it, the cool smooth glass, the splintered wood, but he had no effect on them. Nor could he, like a proper ghost pass through.
If he was a ghost, he could at least talk to people. Then maybe all this spying would actually have a point. He could be useful - report back to the Order, or guide Harry. He kicked at the Malfoy brat's stool. He couldn't guide Harry. He'd practically led the boy to his death. Maybe it was better that Bella had pushed him through the veil. At least this way, he couldn't do any damage.
Snivellus had lit a small fire, and was heating a egg-sized cauldron. The brat was deep into his books. The candles floated around the room, making lazy arcs, casting shivering penumbras. Sirius watched the tableau for a while, grew bored, and drifted on.
#
Severus bottled the last of the potion, it was viscous, slightly green, and smelled faintly of raw liver. He'd test it in the morning, Right now, he was just too tired. His hands shook just as he sealed the final bottle - ten narrow vials placed in their rack, the wax setting on their seals.
At the desk, Draco snapped his book shut, and gathered his notes, rolling the parchment tightly. “Sir?'
“I'm done,” Severus said.
“Will it work?”
“Perhaps. I'll test it tomorrow.” A flick of his wand, and the egg-shell thin cauldron cleaned itself.
Draco stood, and wiped his own desk down with a rag. The Dark Lord had broken his wand, and had set a petty price on Draco being allowed another. Severus stalked off, and could hear the near-silent footfall as Draco trailed behind him. He had no idea how long they would be in this hide-out, before the Dark Lord had them move again, like cats in the night. The room they went to was sparsely furnished; two hard cots, with rough sheets, and grey blankets. There was only a hand-basin to wash in. Draco's hair had taken on a decidedly limp and dirty look.
“Let me see that scar,” Severus said, as he shrugged out of his outer robe, and layed it over the blanket on his bed. He'd lied that day, to save Draco face.
Slow fingers fumbling, Draco unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. He was still wearing his Hogwarts uniform, much tattered now. It was that or Death Eater robes, and Draco shivered every time he looked at them. Finally he had undone the buttons, and the shirt hung open. Severus scowled. Potter's - his - curse had left a scar that ran from Draco's collarbone, almost down to his hip. Poppy had healed most of it, but the scar remained; silvery in the weak candle-light. Privately, Severus thought that this was probably the best it would look, but he appeased the Malfoy sense of self-worth with a topical salve that had shown a little improvement in the damaged skin.
“Draco,” he said, fingers hovering over the pale line. “You do realise this isn't making a difference any more.”
The boy sighed. “I know.” He made no move to button his shirt, but his hands fell to his side, fingers slightly curled. The defeat made his voice heavy, soft.
Severus withdrew, the unguent still glistening on his fingers. He wiped them with a white rag, and rinsed the residue under the tap. There was a clink of glass, the sharp smell of acohol. When he turned back, Draco was dressed again, the scar hidden, two cheap glasses in his hands, filled almost to the brim with amber liquid.
The whisky was cheap and nasty, Severus knew. He'd bought it himself, in a bottle store on the high street of the local town. He'd actually bought several bottles, and the shop-keeper had given him a sneering, knowing look as he'd handed over the crumpled pound notes. God help him, for turning his godson into an alcoholic. It had been the easiest way to get him to sleep.
“Sir?” Draco held one out to him, the whisky slopping over the edge, and Snape took it. He would nurse this through the night, and watch as Draco worked his way steadily through what was left in the bottle. He sipped a little, so that he'd be able to carry it back to his bed without a spill, and gritted his teeth against the foul burn.
He slept in his clothes, because the thin blankets were next to useless. All he did was unbutton his boots, and stand them at the foot of the bed. He sat cross-legged on the bed, his outer robe pulled over his lap, and read in the dim light, the whisky in one hand. He would wait for Draco to pass out, then make sure the boy was covered, before he went to sleep himself.
The night crept loser, breathing frost, and Severus shivered under his draped robe. Only when he could hear Draco snoring softly, did he pad over and cover the boy.
Sleep came quickly, he was too tired to fight against the pull of dreams.
#
Sirius hovered near the tow-headed Malfoy brat. In sleep, he had none of his father's supercilious attitude. They'd both gone to sleep, and Snape, with his prodigious nose, made the louder noise of the two. Sirius drifted closer; a web of fine wrinkles had gathered in the outer corners of Snape's eyelids, and the skin there was papery and bruised with exhaustion. He ran one finger along the thin skin, and beneath the closed lid there was a raid flicker of movement. Snape mumbled, and turned in his sleep. Feeling like a sullen child, Sirius poked at Snape's eye, even though he knew the man would feel nothing.
How had he managed to move the vial in the potion's lab, Sirius wanted to know. He'd never done anything like that before. Sighing, he left the room, going to look through the racks of powders and parts, hoping against hope that he could do it again.
Dawn had come, and through the walls Sirius could hear the faint sound of birdsong. He was sitting cross-legged on the work-counter, a small jar cupped in the palm of his hands. He held it aloft, marvelling at the silvery-grey shimmer of the dust inside. He turned it this way and that, watching the slow trickle of the dust. Absorbed in the movement, the crash of the door opening caught him unaware, and he dropped the glass with a start.
Powder and shattered glass lay across the flagstones, spread out in an incomprehensible helix.
“What the-” Severus stopped short, his tattered robe swirling around him. Behind him the Malfoy boy stared at the mess on the floor.
“I swear I packed everything away, sir.”
Severus made no reply as he swept downward on to one knee, and picked up a scrap of parchment that still held together a piece of glass hazed with fine cracks. “Hmm,” he said, finally, and slipped the label into one pocket. “Clean this up, Draco, I'll be back by lunch to test you on pages 752 through 805.” He waved one hand at the leather-bound book on the smaller table.
Sirius allowed himself a small smirk at the look on the boy's face.
“Yes, sir.”
Dramatic flare still intact despite everything, Severus left the room, his robes flapping about him. Sirius followed him, wondering what the slimy bastard was up to now.
#
A church. Sirius shook his head. This had to be a bad joke, since when had the greasy git taken up religion?
It was an old church, and the stones were stained black with soot. Behind the steeple stacks rose, and all around the pall of industry hung. A choking mist black and foul. Sirius followed Snape up the steps and into the dim light of the church. The air smelled of candles and air freshener. Snape was already in a pew, his head bowed. His hair was greasy as always, and stuck to the faint stubble of his cheek. His lips were moving, but Sirius could hear nothing. He drifted closer, wanting to know what Snape was praying for. Absolution? He laughed silently.
Snape was praying into his folded hands, whispering against his fingers. Sirius saw a flash of gold. A snitch? He shook his head and pressed his face almost against Snape's long potion blackened fingers. It was a cross on a chain that he'd seen. And Snape wasn't praying at all.
“- an attack on the 14th. No full details yet, but the Dark Lord did mention the Weasley's, so my suggestion is to watch Ottery St. Catchpole.”
Sirius drew back, stunned.
#
Snape slammed the book shut, sending dust flying. He missed the Hogwart's library. His fingers tapped against the scarp of glass and parchment - scarab wings. Not an unusual ingredient, but he could find no reference to the phenomenon he'd witnessed. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Perhaps he'd seen nothing. He was going slowly mad, drinking too much, always always always the pressure and pull of two masters working on him, even if the one was dead. He'd been occluding for days - no, weeks - the strain was beginning to show.
He sighed. He needed to test the Dark Lord's latest potions request. The madman had found reference to it in a tome so old that Severus was inclined to believe that it was little more than a fairy tale. But, he had to admit, the formula had been there - ingredients, preparation notes. All in an English so archaic that it was close to illegible, but there nonetheless. A potion to call the dead.
To raise them. He shuddered. The potion required a hair from the deceased and Severus was just glad that Dumbledore was sealed in his tomb, that the Dark Lord could no more enter there than he could set out for a picnic in the middle of St James's park. He'd been given a handful of unmarked vials, each holding a few hairs. What dead was he going to call across the void? Severus didn't want to think about it.
Blegh.
Gonna upload what I've got and see if there's any point in finishing it.
It wasn't quite the same as his old potions lab. He had fewer ingredients to hand, for a start. On the other hand, what he did have, they'd never keep stock of in Hogwarts.
Severus hovered his hand over a faceted glass, no larger than an almond, stoppered with a sliver of calcite. Vitreous humour from a blind squib, killed at birth; not on the Hogwarts' list of readily available ingredients. He closed his thin, yellow fingers on it, fingers stained from a lifetime of entrails, bubotuber pus, nightingale spleens. The boy looked up from his place at the work table.
“What are we going to make with that?” He had lost all the arrogance of the previous years, of indeed, his entire life. He'd been bred into arrogance, of course, but failure under the Dark Lord was a sure way to burn it out. Although Cruciatus wasn't what had broken him, Severus knew. And so he made sure the boy could occlude. No need to have the Dark Lord know that Draco still thought of Dumbledore's last stand with a guilt that twisted for all the wrong reasons.
“We are not making anything. I, however, will be. Don't interrupt.”
Draco nodded, and went back to his reading. A lifetime ago, he would have sneered, kicked at the table like a petulant child. Not any more.
Severus reached over his racks of vials, fingers flicking over the flasks, until he rested on one. The two combined, hmm, they'd be unstable, but it would be what he was looking for. Now, hen's teeth would counter the instability, but they were as rare as...
A vial rattled. The glass sounding bright and cold in the meagre potions lab. Severus stared, frowning, but all was still.
#
Sirius pulled back from the vial, he'd been leaning in to get a better look, to see what old Snivellus was up to this time.
He hated to be around his old friends and around Harry especially, so most of his time he spent haunting Snivellus's boring lab. It didn't hurt as much. Malfoy's kid was always there, and Snivellus would drone on at him about various potions, and lecture him as if the little ferret-faced brat was actually going to be taking his NEWTS. Strangely enough, he never complained, rather subdued for a Malfoy really. Sirius put it down to inbreeding.
He turned his attention back to the vial. It was filled with a silvery black powder, rather like graphite. The bottle was labelled with a slanting script: Powdered Scarab Shells. Sirius snorted, figured that Snape would have dung-beetles as an ingredient. The bastard always had liked to play with filth. Real wizards were good at transfiguration or charms, or defence. He'd flicked it, and it had rattled against the wood. That had never happened before. Curious, Sirius pressed one fingertip against the next vial. Nothing. He could feel it, the cool smooth glass, the splintered wood, but he had no effect on them. Nor could he, like a proper ghost pass through.
If he was a ghost, he could at least talk to people. Then maybe all this spying would actually have a point. He could be useful - report back to the Order, or guide Harry. He kicked at the Malfoy brat's stool. He couldn't guide Harry. He'd practically led the boy to his death. Maybe it was better that Bella had pushed him through the veil. At least this way, he couldn't do any damage.
Snivellus had lit a small fire, and was heating a egg-sized cauldron. The brat was deep into his books. The candles floated around the room, making lazy arcs, casting shivering penumbras. Sirius watched the tableau for a while, grew bored, and drifted on.
#
Severus bottled the last of the potion, it was viscous, slightly green, and smelled faintly of raw liver. He'd test it in the morning, Right now, he was just too tired. His hands shook just as he sealed the final bottle - ten narrow vials placed in their rack, the wax setting on their seals.
At the desk, Draco snapped his book shut, and gathered his notes, rolling the parchment tightly. “Sir?'
“I'm done,” Severus said.
“Will it work?”
“Perhaps. I'll test it tomorrow.” A flick of his wand, and the egg-shell thin cauldron cleaned itself.
Draco stood, and wiped his own desk down with a rag. The Dark Lord had broken his wand, and had set a petty price on Draco being allowed another. Severus stalked off, and could hear the near-silent footfall as Draco trailed behind him. He had no idea how long they would be in this hide-out, before the Dark Lord had them move again, like cats in the night. The room they went to was sparsely furnished; two hard cots, with rough sheets, and grey blankets. There was only a hand-basin to wash in. Draco's hair had taken on a decidedly limp and dirty look.
“Let me see that scar,” Severus said, as he shrugged out of his outer robe, and layed it over the blanket on his bed. He'd lied that day, to save Draco face.
Slow fingers fumbling, Draco unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. He was still wearing his Hogwarts uniform, much tattered now. It was that or Death Eater robes, and Draco shivered every time he looked at them. Finally he had undone the buttons, and the shirt hung open. Severus scowled. Potter's - his - curse had left a scar that ran from Draco's collarbone, almost down to his hip. Poppy had healed most of it, but the scar remained; silvery in the weak candle-light. Privately, Severus thought that this was probably the best it would look, but he appeased the Malfoy sense of self-worth with a topical salve that had shown a little improvement in the damaged skin.
“Draco,” he said, fingers hovering over the pale line. “You do realise this isn't making a difference any more.”
The boy sighed. “I know.” He made no move to button his shirt, but his hands fell to his side, fingers slightly curled. The defeat made his voice heavy, soft.
Severus withdrew, the unguent still glistening on his fingers. He wiped them with a white rag, and rinsed the residue under the tap. There was a clink of glass, the sharp smell of acohol. When he turned back, Draco was dressed again, the scar hidden, two cheap glasses in his hands, filled almost to the brim with amber liquid.
The whisky was cheap and nasty, Severus knew. He'd bought it himself, in a bottle store on the high street of the local town. He'd actually bought several bottles, and the shop-keeper had given him a sneering, knowing look as he'd handed over the crumpled pound notes. God help him, for turning his godson into an alcoholic. It had been the easiest way to get him to sleep.
“Sir?” Draco held one out to him, the whisky slopping over the edge, and Snape took it. He would nurse this through the night, and watch as Draco worked his way steadily through what was left in the bottle. He sipped a little, so that he'd be able to carry it back to his bed without a spill, and gritted his teeth against the foul burn.
He slept in his clothes, because the thin blankets were next to useless. All he did was unbutton his boots, and stand them at the foot of the bed. He sat cross-legged on the bed, his outer robe pulled over his lap, and read in the dim light, the whisky in one hand. He would wait for Draco to pass out, then make sure the boy was covered, before he went to sleep himself.
The night crept loser, breathing frost, and Severus shivered under his draped robe. Only when he could hear Draco snoring softly, did he pad over and cover the boy.
Sleep came quickly, he was too tired to fight against the pull of dreams.
#
Sirius hovered near the tow-headed Malfoy brat. In sleep, he had none of his father's supercilious attitude. They'd both gone to sleep, and Snape, with his prodigious nose, made the louder noise of the two. Sirius drifted closer; a web of fine wrinkles had gathered in the outer corners of Snape's eyelids, and the skin there was papery and bruised with exhaustion. He ran one finger along the thin skin, and beneath the closed lid there was a raid flicker of movement. Snape mumbled, and turned in his sleep. Feeling like a sullen child, Sirius poked at Snape's eye, even though he knew the man would feel nothing.
How had he managed to move the vial in the potion's lab, Sirius wanted to know. He'd never done anything like that before. Sighing, he left the room, going to look through the racks of powders and parts, hoping against hope that he could do it again.
Dawn had come, and through the walls Sirius could hear the faint sound of birdsong. He was sitting cross-legged on the work-counter, a small jar cupped in the palm of his hands. He held it aloft, marvelling at the silvery-grey shimmer of the dust inside. He turned it this way and that, watching the slow trickle of the dust. Absorbed in the movement, the crash of the door opening caught him unaware, and he dropped the glass with a start.
Powder and shattered glass lay across the flagstones, spread out in an incomprehensible helix.
“What the-” Severus stopped short, his tattered robe swirling around him. Behind him the Malfoy boy stared at the mess on the floor.
“I swear I packed everything away, sir.”
Severus made no reply as he swept downward on to one knee, and picked up a scrap of parchment that still held together a piece of glass hazed with fine cracks. “Hmm,” he said, finally, and slipped the label into one pocket. “Clean this up, Draco, I'll be back by lunch to test you on pages 752 through 805.” He waved one hand at the leather-bound book on the smaller table.
Sirius allowed himself a small smirk at the look on the boy's face.
“Yes, sir.”
Dramatic flare still intact despite everything, Severus left the room, his robes flapping about him. Sirius followed him, wondering what the slimy bastard was up to now.
#
A church. Sirius shook his head. This had to be a bad joke, since when had the greasy git taken up religion?
It was an old church, and the stones were stained black with soot. Behind the steeple stacks rose, and all around the pall of industry hung. A choking mist black and foul. Sirius followed Snape up the steps and into the dim light of the church. The air smelled of candles and air freshener. Snape was already in a pew, his head bowed. His hair was greasy as always, and stuck to the faint stubble of his cheek. His lips were moving, but Sirius could hear nothing. He drifted closer, wanting to know what Snape was praying for. Absolution? He laughed silently.
Snape was praying into his folded hands, whispering against his fingers. Sirius saw a flash of gold. A snitch? He shook his head and pressed his face almost against Snape's long potion blackened fingers. It was a cross on a chain that he'd seen. And Snape wasn't praying at all.
“- an attack on the 14th. No full details yet, but the Dark Lord did mention the Weasley's, so my suggestion is to watch Ottery St. Catchpole.”
Sirius drew back, stunned.
#
Snape slammed the book shut, sending dust flying. He missed the Hogwart's library. His fingers tapped against the scarp of glass and parchment - scarab wings. Not an unusual ingredient, but he could find no reference to the phenomenon he'd witnessed. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Perhaps he'd seen nothing. He was going slowly mad, drinking too much, always always always the pressure and pull of two masters working on him, even if the one was dead. He'd been occluding for days - no, weeks - the strain was beginning to show.
He sighed. He needed to test the Dark Lord's latest potions request. The madman had found reference to it in a tome so old that Severus was inclined to believe that it was little more than a fairy tale. But, he had to admit, the formula had been there - ingredients, preparation notes. All in an English so archaic that it was close to illegible, but there nonetheless. A potion to call the dead.
To raise them. He shuddered. The potion required a hair from the deceased and Severus was just glad that Dumbledore was sealed in his tomb, that the Dark Lord could no more enter there than he could set out for a picnic in the middle of St James's park. He'd been given a handful of unmarked vials, each holding a few hairs. What dead was he going to call across the void? Severus didn't want to think about it.