Snapecase Fic: A Short Story
The reveals are up at . I wrote only a short story for this fabulous fest. And the fic could have been easily recognised as mine by anyone familiar with my work, particularly with the Binns story I posted last October (A Different Truth).
Author: paulamcg
Title: A Short Story
Characters and Pairings: Severus Snape, Cuthbert Binns, Aberforth Dumbledore; Severus/Cuthbert
Rating: G
Word Count: 3060
Summary: In 1993, two days before Halloween, Severus is surprised as (the ghost of) Cuthbert Binns wants to confide in him and accompanies him to Hogsmeade.
Disclaimer: These characters won't help me make any money.
Notes: This was written for snapecase. Thank you for the fest, iulia_linnea and all the other participants! Thank you for the beta, justtoarguewithyou!
In 1993 October's full moon fell on the night before Halloween. It's not completely impossible to reconcile this fact with canon, although the real calendar was obviously not taken into consideration in the writing of PoA.
Read here on AO3,
here in the Livejournal community,
or right here:
A Short Story
"It's a short story,” the ghost says.
All right. Let's hear it. This colleague can't possibly be as irritating to listen to as the werewolf.
He did call me Sniverus, but that was hardly further off the mark than other names he comes up with when addressing people who haven't been at Hogwarts for decades or centuries.
Binns has kept hovering considerately at my side, but not too close, all through the corridors and down the staircases. It did surprise me that he chose to use the door and followed me when leaving the staff room, instead of drifting through the walls towards his own office or History classroom. The ghost professor tends to haunt a very limited sphere and seldom participates in any conversation, let alone initiates any.
The first awkward phrases he said to me were inane comments on the weather (astonishingly bright and cold for late October). However, now he's offered to explain why he didn't move on when he died. As if I hadn't stopped wondering - in case I'd ever cared to know, even back when bored in the ancient, dead wizard's class.
As I only nod and turn to look at him, the ghost seemingly draws a deep breath before continuing.
The incorporeal voice rings out clear. "Albus wanted me to stay."
"Indeed?" I manage an aloof tone, reining in a strange surge of emotion: a feeling of being pierced by rays sharper than the silvery shine from any real man's cool grey eyes, and of being recognised...
I refuse to be startled into breaking the eye contact, and only raise my brows slightly. Having stopped in the middle of the Entrance Hall, I wonder how to end the conversation in the most satisfying manner.
"Yes." Binns floats on, and only right in front of the oak doors he swirls around so as to face me. "I'll be happy to share a somewhat longer explanation, if you don't mind company on your way to Hogsmeade."
Oh, of course. This close to Halloween, a ghost is free to prowl around a larger area than its usual sphere. The Hogwarts ghosts can traverse the castle's outer walls, and some of them visit the nearest graveyard. However, has Binns ever been seen to do that? (Who would have cared to pay attention?) Who would have expected Binns to enjoy such a freedom - or anything, like heart to hearts?
The unyielding, frozen soil on the harvested field under my boots adds to the pleasure of breathing in clean, crisp air.
I would have chosen this shortcut to the village on my own, too. Now it helps me prevent anyone from eavesdropping a conversation about potentially controversial topics.
To my relief, my ghost companion has so far not been too talkative, and his presence has actually enhanced the delights at the start of my weekend. Viewed through the translucent face, the hawthorn hedge's garish red and yellow are subdued into pastel tints.
No, I need to focus on the elusive facial expressions, so as to be prepared for revelations and inquiries.
It's amusing to realise that I've never before paid any attention to Binns's features. There is nothing ostentatious about them or his garb either. The lines on his clean-shaven face indicate that he lived to be at least eighty years old, perhaps a hundred. But maybe he's not so antiquated as students, myself included, must have always been inclined to assume, not a ghost since long before the 1970s. He's wearing nothing in any style that went out of fashion centuries ago, except the pince-nez (with the strong lenses that magnify his glowing eyes).
Did he die when Albus was young, or even later? I can't help becoming curious.
I'll wait patiently for Binns to bring up that topic again. There's something suspicious about his behaviour today. Why does the habitual old recluse make these advances now - after more than ten years of showing no interest in a young Potions Master, or in anyone else?
After the initial promise of an explanation, the two of us have retreated to banalities. The dead interlocutor has praised the beauty of the dying day, and this barely more lively one's pointed out that even though we are lucky to finish classes early on Fridays, the sun's already so low that it fails to compensate for the warmth escaping into the skies swept by a northerly gale.
"You don't mind the cold, do you?" the ghost now whispers, turning the question into an intimate one.
The lace-like veil of his figure shimmers in my eyes, and suddenly shifts to my other side. Merely a frayed edge of the immaterial cloak brushes my bare hand, but I sense the promise of a delicious chill that could pierce me, perhaps first tease me by enveloping my body cautiously. No.
No, I don't mind, but there's the risk that I'm misinterpreting the touch and the question.
It's less risky to ask, "Would you mind now explaining? Perhaps start by telling me when you were recruited and by..."
"Albus. In 1965. When he recruits, he doesn't always have the students' best interests at heart."
A ghost's wink - this one's at least - is an impressive gesture: a flash of steely light. However, there's no need to react to the hint at another questionable choice of teacher. I'm not so sensitive that I'd take everything personally, and perhaps Binns is referring to whom Albus employed only this year.
"Really? You haven't been here longer than that?"
"As a professor, no. My professional life lasted for only a few years, and turned into service beyond death not long before you lot arrived. By that time I'd lost all ability to recollect new names, but I do remember that you were in the same year with... you know, the boy who would become the escaped prisoner, and... I call him Liripipe, according to a mate I had when I was a boy."
Lupin? Of course. It's the werewolf's fault that Binns has now got the idea to bug me, after all these years!
Even Binns must have heard about the prank Lupin played with Longbottom, and maybe he's made some assumptions about a penchant for cross-dressing and even about sexual orientation, as if there needed to be any connection. Worse, Lupin, who hobnobs with everyone, has perhaps shared with Binns what he knows about the details in my preferences.
No matter. I won't let Binns notice I've had anything related to sexual pleasures in mind when interacting with him.
Until perhaps later tonight, in order to get a better chance of learning something about not only Albus's old secret agendas, but also Lupin's plans. Not that I truly believe he's helping a murderer.
“Albus must have deemed you an excellent teacher.”
“On the contrary!” The words burst out with a laugh, a rather substantial one for the self-effacing ghost I've thought he is (if I've ever thought about him). "But he was perfectly satisfied. He got what he'd been searching for when he realised I looked like a venerable historian and picked me. I'd been right under his nose. Here, in quite a different occupation."
He waves a pearly hand ahead, towards the first buildings at the edge of the village. As we enter a narrow lane, a couple of alleys off of the High Street, he continues his unchecked babbling, which forces me to question the truth about a ghost's inability to get drunk.
"The first permanent job I got," he says, grinning, "years after I failed my few NEWTs, which didn't even include History of Magic, as far as I can remember."
"You worked in Hogsmeade?"
"Right here, in his brother's inn. Let's go in! I haven't paid a single visit since I died. Started planning one only last week when this new colleague reminded me of my annual freedom of movement, and encouraged..."
Lupin, obviously. We don't need to name him.
And I won't say I prefer Puddifoot's to the Hog's Head. A café or a more reputable pub might be less suitable for showing up with a ghost.
Opening the door under the uninviting depiction of a severed head, I gesture for Binns to float in while I take in (due to the gloom, through my nose rather than my eyes) the squalidness of the almost deserted room.
"Evening, Aberforth! I'm bringing a former barkeep of yours."
A snort guides my gaze to where the repulsively unkempt owner of this lousy establishment is placing a sputtering candle on the bar. "Or he's bringing you? Otherwise I could only wonder what task of espionage brings you to your least favourite... Ah, Cuddy! Is it truly you? After all the Halloweens I've hoped to see you here!"
Binns glides swiftly over to him, and for a moment the limber figure glimmers in a swirl around the gruff publican's stiff one.
Another spell of laughter makes the words barely distinct - "How's life?" - but the spirit's voice ever more... spirited, vibrant.
"Same old, same old," Aberforth responds, chuckling.
"I've been like besotted - buzzed, I mean... Ever since I got the idea I could come, and learnt that a colleague was heading to the village, and it was such a thrilling coincidence that..."
"Make yourself at home. I'll prepare a special treat for -" Some shrill bleating interrupts Aberforth, and he hurries to the back door. "Soon. A goat's kidding."
"No kidding?" Binns is giggling now, which seems totally out of character.
I choose a seat as far away from the bar as possible, next to a window, which offers a refreshing draft, but scarcely a view through the grimy, opaque pane.
"When Aberforth comes back," I say, "I can leave the two of you..."
"Please don't!" Binns settles on the chair opposite mine and leans closer, as if he rested his elbows on the tabletop (while its stickiness can't possibly bother him). "By the coincidence I was talking about I meant that it was you who had planned an evening out! When I had decided to seek your company."
"To talk about why we became and remained teachers?" As an attempt at some humour, I point out, "I've witnessed Albus interviewing candidates for teaching positions here in his brother's establishment. Not known he's employed any who worked behind the bar." Hell, why not add, "However, towards the end of the war he employed someone who would have otherwise soon been behind bars."
"It can't have been easy for you. And I'm sorry that back then I offered no support as an older colleague."
All right. Now it's been confirmed that the ghost professor, too, paid attention to the circumstances of my joining the staff, and he must remember I'd been a Death Eater. Of course, he can't know what brought me to ask for Albus's help and to become his spy. Now that I think about it, I may feel aversion to the Hog's Head due to having heard the prophecy here.
"I could hardly expect a vote of confidence." Taking care of sitting with an erect posture but with my shoulders relaxed, I keep my hands calmly on the table (one hands' fingertips immobile on the other one's knuckles).
"I had no doubts about your loyalty to the school." Binns still talks energetically but now in a serious tone. "I even knew you had spectacular skills in the subject you came to teach, if not the right disposition to become a good educator."
Just as I expected, Binns (Cuddy) reaches out with a reassuring gesture. A light touch on the back of my hand ends up penetrating the palm and some fingers - their blood and their bones - with a thrilling chill.
I remain still, but I let my lips curl slightly in acknowledgement of the deep contact, and he goes on.
"And how could I have cared what your values were! Myself I agreed to teach History of Magic by reciting the texts of Albus's choice so as to ingrain the official truths in young minds. And to detect and report to him the few students who'd be inclined to serious rebellion: those who try to have a debate even with a hopeless case like me. Soon I was left with no hands to turn pages in the opened books he arranged in my classroom. And I didn't mind, didn't care about values. No, I resented you just... because I was jealous, I guess."
"Jealous? Because I mastered my subject?"
"No. A bit less, in fact, exactly because you mastered it. Naturally because you were young and alive and he... loved you. I understood this was the main reason he gave you a second chance."
No... There's no reason to respond with any information on reasons.
"And you? You started this conversation by saying he wanted you..."
"Oh, I had my foolish dreams. Never a partner. Never any charm any more than talent. Everyone can see that: I've always been a more boring person than any other - dead or alive. But on the day when he described his ideal candidate to his brother and turned his twinkly eyes to me, I must have been bewitched. In a few years, while my health began to fail me, I comprehended I had no chance. Albus wanted from me only my professional services. Perhaps I could have said no to him, if he had not enticed me to remain by giving me new false hopes - regarding another handsome wizard with long curls. A dead one."
"Nearly Headless -"
"Sir Nicholas. Sadly, he's not bent. You find him handsome, too?"
"Not my type."
"Because he's a Gryffindor? I remember when you first arrived, you were friends with a Gryffindor... Ellerby?"
Fine, let's call her... "Ellerby... when we were third-years, she actually brought me here, introduced me to Aberforth. They'd already made friends."
What am I talking about? History, my personal history! Perhaps Binns has some talent for historical research, after all.
"She didn't mind having friends above her age," he points out.
"No, she often complained that her peers were childish. And she was an exceptional Gryffindor: willing to develop friendships beyond her House... until she couldn't ignore a clash of values."
"I can't claim to have noticed or to remember much. I remember no other friends you had outside the Slytherin House."
"I wouldn't expect you to." Because I had... no other friends.
"Now you've got a colleague of your generation, your age. And you are kind to Liripipe: you brew the potion he needs..."
"Albus's orders."
"He says the Wolfsbane Potion makes him more ill. That's the reason why he couldn't come out for a walk even tonight. Tomorrow, of course, the moon would make his company undesirable."
"Of course. I left a portion in his rooms today, and tomorrow afternoon I must make sure he drinks another gobletful."
"I imagine it's a vile concoction. But he says it's supposed to be a blessing."
The gullible fool! Or he's cunning enough to pretend that the two of us... have each other's best interests at heart!
And here comes a different smoking beverage. I do hope Aberforth doesn't expect me to empty the tankard he's levitating towards our table.
No, he manually places a small metal tumbler in front of me.
"On the house," he says, giving me only a sideways glance, but after a grunt, without doubt reluctantly, he goes on, "Glad someone's now taken good old Cuddy on a date. Must be his first."
I've tasted the shot only cautiously, but I'm about to choke on it. At least I can be sure I'm not blushing, and I won't deign to protest.
Binns, however, has suddenly turned all rose-tinted.
Oh, it's because he's leaning over the tankard that has landed in front of him. The smoke is rising in slow curls and now glowing purple, blue, green... And Binns's figure abandons any pretence at corporealness and begins a swirling dance.
"Ah, this is divine," Binns says - or sings, as his delivery, too, has evolved to a new level of expression. "We didn't serve anything like this back when I worked for you."
"No. I've had this recipe only for fifteen years or so. It was invented by Severus's childhood friend. Another genius potion-brewer."
I won't say more about her. Or anything at all while Aberforth is listening. Binns has turned out to have an uncanny influence on me, and I've prattled - in perhaps a more out-of-character manner than he has.
The ingredients in this shot are easy for my palate to recognise. Besides juniper, there's nothing more suspicious than orris root and dragon eye.
The semblance of senses that a ghost can possess are, of course, so limited that it's barely possible for Binns to register any pleasant taste or smell. Or any touch. What's left to function somehow is sight. Perhaps he isn't capable of hearing, although he might (want to) believe that he is when he reads our lips (and naturally errs with new names) and possibly concludes other sounds from what he sees.
Now Binns revels in watching the smoke's shifting colours and in joining them in movement. "This is -" His form shakes in rapture and turns a somersault. "A glorious treat to my kind!"
"Thanks to this specialty, I've got some discerning customers who come around each Halloween. There'll be gatherings tomorrow night and the night after."
"Splendid! With the full moon's shine, too. I'm sure to return tomorrow, now that I've finally shaken myself out of the stupor of dying and disappointments. So silly of me to waste all these years before figuring out how to live more fully when dead."
"I'll talk to you more then. And now let you concentrate on enjoying your living catch."
"Any chance we could have more privacy: a room?"
There's a clang as Aberforth drops an iron key on the table just where I'm setting down my empty tumbler.
This may have barely been a story, but I won't word and commit to memory how exactly two pawns of Albus's pleasure each other. How my ecstatic reaction to the frigid form's passing over and through me delights the ghost and secures an ally for me.
What counts is that the werewolf won't succeed in any schemes to postpone the Dementor's Kiss. The escapee won't be interrogated and found not guilty of the betrayal.
Author: paulamcg
Title: A Short Story
Characters and Pairings: Severus Snape, Cuthbert Binns, Aberforth Dumbledore; Severus/Cuthbert
Rating: G
Word Count: 3060
Summary: In 1993, two days before Halloween, Severus is surprised as (the ghost of) Cuthbert Binns wants to confide in him and accompanies him to Hogsmeade.
Disclaimer: These characters won't help me make any money.
Notes: This was written for snapecase. Thank you for the fest, iulia_linnea and all the other participants! Thank you for the beta, justtoarguewithyou!
In 1993 October's full moon fell on the night before Halloween. It's not completely impossible to reconcile this fact with canon, although the real calendar was obviously not taken into consideration in the writing of PoA.
Read here on AO3,
here in the Livejournal community,
or right here:
A Short Story
"It's a short story,” the ghost says.
All right. Let's hear it. This colleague can't possibly be as irritating to listen to as the werewolf.
He did call me Sniverus, but that was hardly further off the mark than other names he comes up with when addressing people who haven't been at Hogwarts for decades or centuries.
Binns has kept hovering considerately at my side, but not too close, all through the corridors and down the staircases. It did surprise me that he chose to use the door and followed me when leaving the staff room, instead of drifting through the walls towards his own office or History classroom. The ghost professor tends to haunt a very limited sphere and seldom participates in any conversation, let alone initiates any.
The first awkward phrases he said to me were inane comments on the weather (astonishingly bright and cold for late October). However, now he's offered to explain why he didn't move on when he died. As if I hadn't stopped wondering - in case I'd ever cared to know, even back when bored in the ancient, dead wizard's class.
As I only nod and turn to look at him, the ghost seemingly draws a deep breath before continuing.
The incorporeal voice rings out clear. "Albus wanted me to stay."
"Indeed?" I manage an aloof tone, reining in a strange surge of emotion: a feeling of being pierced by rays sharper than the silvery shine from any real man's cool grey eyes, and of being recognised...
I refuse to be startled into breaking the eye contact, and only raise my brows slightly. Having stopped in the middle of the Entrance Hall, I wonder how to end the conversation in the most satisfying manner.
"Yes." Binns floats on, and only right in front of the oak doors he swirls around so as to face me. "I'll be happy to share a somewhat longer explanation, if you don't mind company on your way to Hogsmeade."
Oh, of course. This close to Halloween, a ghost is free to prowl around a larger area than its usual sphere. The Hogwarts ghosts can traverse the castle's outer walls, and some of them visit the nearest graveyard. However, has Binns ever been seen to do that? (Who would have cared to pay attention?) Who would have expected Binns to enjoy such a freedom - or anything, like heart to hearts?
The unyielding, frozen soil on the harvested field under my boots adds to the pleasure of breathing in clean, crisp air.
I would have chosen this shortcut to the village on my own, too. Now it helps me prevent anyone from eavesdropping a conversation about potentially controversial topics.
To my relief, my ghost companion has so far not been too talkative, and his presence has actually enhanced the delights at the start of my weekend. Viewed through the translucent face, the hawthorn hedge's garish red and yellow are subdued into pastel tints.
No, I need to focus on the elusive facial expressions, so as to be prepared for revelations and inquiries.
It's amusing to realise that I've never before paid any attention to Binns's features. There is nothing ostentatious about them or his garb either. The lines on his clean-shaven face indicate that he lived to be at least eighty years old, perhaps a hundred. But maybe he's not so antiquated as students, myself included, must have always been inclined to assume, not a ghost since long before the 1970s. He's wearing nothing in any style that went out of fashion centuries ago, except the pince-nez (with the strong lenses that magnify his glowing eyes).
Did he die when Albus was young, or even later? I can't help becoming curious.
I'll wait patiently for Binns to bring up that topic again. There's something suspicious about his behaviour today. Why does the habitual old recluse make these advances now - after more than ten years of showing no interest in a young Potions Master, or in anyone else?
After the initial promise of an explanation, the two of us have retreated to banalities. The dead interlocutor has praised the beauty of the dying day, and this barely more lively one's pointed out that even though we are lucky to finish classes early on Fridays, the sun's already so low that it fails to compensate for the warmth escaping into the skies swept by a northerly gale.
"You don't mind the cold, do you?" the ghost now whispers, turning the question into an intimate one.
The lace-like veil of his figure shimmers in my eyes, and suddenly shifts to my other side. Merely a frayed edge of the immaterial cloak brushes my bare hand, but I sense the promise of a delicious chill that could pierce me, perhaps first tease me by enveloping my body cautiously. No.
No, I don't mind, but there's the risk that I'm misinterpreting the touch and the question.
It's less risky to ask, "Would you mind now explaining? Perhaps start by telling me when you were recruited and by..."
"Albus. In 1965. When he recruits, he doesn't always have the students' best interests at heart."
A ghost's wink - this one's at least - is an impressive gesture: a flash of steely light. However, there's no need to react to the hint at another questionable choice of teacher. I'm not so sensitive that I'd take everything personally, and perhaps Binns is referring to whom Albus employed only this year.
"Really? You haven't been here longer than that?"
"As a professor, no. My professional life lasted for only a few years, and turned into service beyond death not long before you lot arrived. By that time I'd lost all ability to recollect new names, but I do remember that you were in the same year with... you know, the boy who would become the escaped prisoner, and... I call him Liripipe, according to a mate I had when I was a boy."
Lupin? Of course. It's the werewolf's fault that Binns has now got the idea to bug me, after all these years!
Even Binns must have heard about the prank Lupin played with Longbottom, and maybe he's made some assumptions about a penchant for cross-dressing and even about sexual orientation, as if there needed to be any connection. Worse, Lupin, who hobnobs with everyone, has perhaps shared with Binns what he knows about the details in my preferences.
No matter. I won't let Binns notice I've had anything related to sexual pleasures in mind when interacting with him.
Until perhaps later tonight, in order to get a better chance of learning something about not only Albus's old secret agendas, but also Lupin's plans. Not that I truly believe he's helping a murderer.
“Albus must have deemed you an excellent teacher.”
“On the contrary!” The words burst out with a laugh, a rather substantial one for the self-effacing ghost I've thought he is (if I've ever thought about him). "But he was perfectly satisfied. He got what he'd been searching for when he realised I looked like a venerable historian and picked me. I'd been right under his nose. Here, in quite a different occupation."
He waves a pearly hand ahead, towards the first buildings at the edge of the village. As we enter a narrow lane, a couple of alleys off of the High Street, he continues his unchecked babbling, which forces me to question the truth about a ghost's inability to get drunk.
"The first permanent job I got," he says, grinning, "years after I failed my few NEWTs, which didn't even include History of Magic, as far as I can remember."
"You worked in Hogsmeade?"
"Right here, in his brother's inn. Let's go in! I haven't paid a single visit since I died. Started planning one only last week when this new colleague reminded me of my annual freedom of movement, and encouraged..."
Lupin, obviously. We don't need to name him.
And I won't say I prefer Puddifoot's to the Hog's Head. A café or a more reputable pub might be less suitable for showing up with a ghost.
Opening the door under the uninviting depiction of a severed head, I gesture for Binns to float in while I take in (due to the gloom, through my nose rather than my eyes) the squalidness of the almost deserted room.
"Evening, Aberforth! I'm bringing a former barkeep of yours."
A snort guides my gaze to where the repulsively unkempt owner of this lousy establishment is placing a sputtering candle on the bar. "Or he's bringing you? Otherwise I could only wonder what task of espionage brings you to your least favourite... Ah, Cuddy! Is it truly you? After all the Halloweens I've hoped to see you here!"
Binns glides swiftly over to him, and for a moment the limber figure glimmers in a swirl around the gruff publican's stiff one.
Another spell of laughter makes the words barely distinct - "How's life?" - but the spirit's voice ever more... spirited, vibrant.
"Same old, same old," Aberforth responds, chuckling.
"I've been like besotted - buzzed, I mean... Ever since I got the idea I could come, and learnt that a colleague was heading to the village, and it was such a thrilling coincidence that..."
"Make yourself at home. I'll prepare a special treat for -" Some shrill bleating interrupts Aberforth, and he hurries to the back door. "Soon. A goat's kidding."
"No kidding?" Binns is giggling now, which seems totally out of character.
I choose a seat as far away from the bar as possible, next to a window, which offers a refreshing draft, but scarcely a view through the grimy, opaque pane.
"When Aberforth comes back," I say, "I can leave the two of you..."
"Please don't!" Binns settles on the chair opposite mine and leans closer, as if he rested his elbows on the tabletop (while its stickiness can't possibly bother him). "By the coincidence I was talking about I meant that it was you who had planned an evening out! When I had decided to seek your company."
"To talk about why we became and remained teachers?" As an attempt at some humour, I point out, "I've witnessed Albus interviewing candidates for teaching positions here in his brother's establishment. Not known he's employed any who worked behind the bar." Hell, why not add, "However, towards the end of the war he employed someone who would have otherwise soon been behind bars."
"It can't have been easy for you. And I'm sorry that back then I offered no support as an older colleague."
All right. Now it's been confirmed that the ghost professor, too, paid attention to the circumstances of my joining the staff, and he must remember I'd been a Death Eater. Of course, he can't know what brought me to ask for Albus's help and to become his spy. Now that I think about it, I may feel aversion to the Hog's Head due to having heard the prophecy here.
"I could hardly expect a vote of confidence." Taking care of sitting with an erect posture but with my shoulders relaxed, I keep my hands calmly on the table (one hands' fingertips immobile on the other one's knuckles).
"I had no doubts about your loyalty to the school." Binns still talks energetically but now in a serious tone. "I even knew you had spectacular skills in the subject you came to teach, if not the right disposition to become a good educator."
Just as I expected, Binns (Cuddy) reaches out with a reassuring gesture. A light touch on the back of my hand ends up penetrating the palm and some fingers - their blood and their bones - with a thrilling chill.
I remain still, but I let my lips curl slightly in acknowledgement of the deep contact, and he goes on.
"And how could I have cared what your values were! Myself I agreed to teach History of Magic by reciting the texts of Albus's choice so as to ingrain the official truths in young minds. And to detect and report to him the few students who'd be inclined to serious rebellion: those who try to have a debate even with a hopeless case like me. Soon I was left with no hands to turn pages in the opened books he arranged in my classroom. And I didn't mind, didn't care about values. No, I resented you just... because I was jealous, I guess."
"Jealous? Because I mastered my subject?"
"No. A bit less, in fact, exactly because you mastered it. Naturally because you were young and alive and he... loved you. I understood this was the main reason he gave you a second chance."
No... There's no reason to respond with any information on reasons.
"And you? You started this conversation by saying he wanted you..."
"Oh, I had my foolish dreams. Never a partner. Never any charm any more than talent. Everyone can see that: I've always been a more boring person than any other - dead or alive. But on the day when he described his ideal candidate to his brother and turned his twinkly eyes to me, I must have been bewitched. In a few years, while my health began to fail me, I comprehended I had no chance. Albus wanted from me only my professional services. Perhaps I could have said no to him, if he had not enticed me to remain by giving me new false hopes - regarding another handsome wizard with long curls. A dead one."
"Nearly Headless -"
"Sir Nicholas. Sadly, he's not bent. You find him handsome, too?"
"Not my type."
"Because he's a Gryffindor? I remember when you first arrived, you were friends with a Gryffindor... Ellerby?"
Fine, let's call her... "Ellerby... when we were third-years, she actually brought me here, introduced me to Aberforth. They'd already made friends."
What am I talking about? History, my personal history! Perhaps Binns has some talent for historical research, after all.
"She didn't mind having friends above her age," he points out.
"No, she often complained that her peers were childish. And she was an exceptional Gryffindor: willing to develop friendships beyond her House... until she couldn't ignore a clash of values."
"I can't claim to have noticed or to remember much. I remember no other friends you had outside the Slytherin House."
"I wouldn't expect you to." Because I had... no other friends.
"Now you've got a colleague of your generation, your age. And you are kind to Liripipe: you brew the potion he needs..."
"Albus's orders."
"He says the Wolfsbane Potion makes him more ill. That's the reason why he couldn't come out for a walk even tonight. Tomorrow, of course, the moon would make his company undesirable."
"Of course. I left a portion in his rooms today, and tomorrow afternoon I must make sure he drinks another gobletful."
"I imagine it's a vile concoction. But he says it's supposed to be a blessing."
The gullible fool! Or he's cunning enough to pretend that the two of us... have each other's best interests at heart!
And here comes a different smoking beverage. I do hope Aberforth doesn't expect me to empty the tankard he's levitating towards our table.
No, he manually places a small metal tumbler in front of me.
"On the house," he says, giving me only a sideways glance, but after a grunt, without doubt reluctantly, he goes on, "Glad someone's now taken good old Cuddy on a date. Must be his first."
I've tasted the shot only cautiously, but I'm about to choke on it. At least I can be sure I'm not blushing, and I won't deign to protest.
Binns, however, has suddenly turned all rose-tinted.
Oh, it's because he's leaning over the tankard that has landed in front of him. The smoke is rising in slow curls and now glowing purple, blue, green... And Binns's figure abandons any pretence at corporealness and begins a swirling dance.
"Ah, this is divine," Binns says - or sings, as his delivery, too, has evolved to a new level of expression. "We didn't serve anything like this back when I worked for you."
"No. I've had this recipe only for fifteen years or so. It was invented by Severus's childhood friend. Another genius potion-brewer."
I won't say more about her. Or anything at all while Aberforth is listening. Binns has turned out to have an uncanny influence on me, and I've prattled - in perhaps a more out-of-character manner than he has.
The ingredients in this shot are easy for my palate to recognise. Besides juniper, there's nothing more suspicious than orris root and dragon eye.
The semblance of senses that a ghost can possess are, of course, so limited that it's barely possible for Binns to register any pleasant taste or smell. Or any touch. What's left to function somehow is sight. Perhaps he isn't capable of hearing, although he might (want to) believe that he is when he reads our lips (and naturally errs with new names) and possibly concludes other sounds from what he sees.
Now Binns revels in watching the smoke's shifting colours and in joining them in movement. "This is -" His form shakes in rapture and turns a somersault. "A glorious treat to my kind!"
"Thanks to this specialty, I've got some discerning customers who come around each Halloween. There'll be gatherings tomorrow night and the night after."
"Splendid! With the full moon's shine, too. I'm sure to return tomorrow, now that I've finally shaken myself out of the stupor of dying and disappointments. So silly of me to waste all these years before figuring out how to live more fully when dead."
"I'll talk to you more then. And now let you concentrate on enjoying your living catch."
"Any chance we could have more privacy: a room?"
There's a clang as Aberforth drops an iron key on the table just where I'm setting down my empty tumbler.
This may have barely been a story, but I won't word and commit to memory how exactly two pawns of Albus's pleasure each other. How my ecstatic reaction to the frigid form's passing over and through me delights the ghost and secures an ally for me.
What counts is that the werewolf won't succeed in any schemes to postpone the Dementor's Kiss. The escapee won't be interrogated and found not guilty of the betrayal.