"How Albus Dumbledore Discovered That Love Is Harder to Wage Than War"
New Chapter! You have probably noticed by now that this fic is very very silly. This chapter is very silly indeed. You have been warned.
Disclaimer: Characters & situations are JK Rowling's. I don't have permission to use them. I'm making no money and intend no disrespect by using them in my own fiction.
Warnings: SLASH! Male/male relationships! Homosexuality! Do not read if you don't like that kind of thing. Non graphic. Mentions vice trade.
Rating: Probably not suitable for under 15s.
Summary: Albus' confession does not get the reaction he had hoped for. Severus has heard the words he longed for all his life, but cannot accept them. A little assistance would be useful.
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight
Tugging his hands free of Albus’ grasp, Snape pulled struggled upright and put some distance between himself and the incredible conversation, before he did anything he would regret.
He leaned on the balustrade of the balcony and, heedless of the beautiful view, buried his face in his hands.
“You don’t mean this,” he murmured.
Albus hauled himself to his feet, but made no move to come closer.
“I beg your pardon if I alarmed you, Severus,” he sounded rather worried. “But I mean everything I said.”
In reply, Snape merely shook his head in disbelief.
“It’s true,” Albus persisted, silently cursing himself for losing control and bombarding the boy with undignified pleading instead of laying out his case calmly and seductively as he and Victoriana had planned.
They remained in the same positions for a long time, Albus wracked with guilt and disappointment at his pathetic behaviour, Severus juggling warring convictions that this was both the worst moment in his entire life, and also the very best. He wondered how he could possibly refuse such an offer from the man he had idolised for years, when he knew that doing so would ultimately break his heart and destroy him more thoroughly than any spell or potion his enemies had ever fired at him.
“Severus?” Dumbledore loathed himself for having been the cause of the utter wretchedness emanating from his love as he hunched over the railing. He dared to take a step forward and slowly reach out to touch his shoulder.
As though burned, Snape straightened and took a hasty step away.
“I’ve got to go,” he told the headmaster, trying to hide some of his anguish, but not succeeding.
“Don’t run away,” Albus tried not to beg this time. It was terribly unattractive. “Tell me what troubles you, perhaps I can…”
“I need to return to the dungeons,” he answered firmly, and plunged down the staircase which led back to the office and away from the traumas on the terrace.
Albus collapsed backwards into a chair, noting glumly that it was still warm from where Severus’ bottom had sat in it just seconds earlier, and that the fact ought to have caused excitement rather than the actual sweeping sense of desolation.
A flutter of wings announced Fawkes, who perched on the arm of the chair with the most understanding expression Albus had ever seen.
“Whoops,” the bird said sympathetically.
“You heard that, I suppose,” Albus sighed heavily. “I don’t know what came over me! I think it was when he started talking about leaving the castle, I panicked and just blurted the whole thing out. Now he thinks I’m a completely senile old fool and couldn’t wait to escape. What do you think?”
The phoenix looked at him questioningly.
“What do I think about what?”
“About my situation, of course,” Albus said with some irritation.
“Oh,” said Fawkes. He preened pensively for a moment, effortlessly bending his long neck backwards into a hairpin so he could worry at a couple of feathers between his shoulderblades. “You honestly want my opinion?”
“You are my familiar, I should like to know your view.”
Fawkes returned his head to its normal position and fixed the wizard with a beady eye.
“You’ve ruined everything,” he announced. “You chose completely the wrong moment to go barging in and flinging confessions of undying love at him so he nearly died of embarrassment, thought you were barking mad and is probably packing his bags right now. Honestly.”
Albus gave him the blazing glare of outrage he had recently used on the aurors when he had gone to rescue Severus.
Fawkes clicked his beak with disdain.
“You did ask.”
…….
It wasn’t that Fawkes disliked humans, he reflected as his disembodied spirit hovered insubstantially in the potions master’s rooms. He had chosen to spend a very long time taking care of Albus over the years, and Albus had given him all the unconditional love and loyalty a good pet should. Besides, it was always entertaining to watch the amusing little things the foolish creatures got up to.
He felt rather guilty for his most recent comment. It was the responsibility of the world’s cleverest species to take care of the dumber animals after all, and not to be needlessly cruel. If any other phoenixes found out that he had been abusing his human, he would be in big trouble with certain welfare agencies and possibly be fined or banned from keeping another.
It was Fawkes’ duty to try and lend a wing, not to mention that watching Albus moping around the place, pining for his lost mate, would be terribly boring. When his first mate had blown herself up trying to turn sardines into precious metal (when would the daft mammals learn?), Albus had gone off his food and he had been forced to contact a renowned pet specialist in Beijing to ask for advice.
“Be affectionate,” she had replied. “Humans can be simple, loving creatures and have been known to destroy their own minds after suffering a great loss. Sing to him, as they find our voices consoling. Keep him busy, perhaps find him another human to play with.”
Fawkes did as he was told. Filling out the application form for the post of transfiguration professor had been rather tricky, as it felt unnatural to be using a feather for writing, but he had accompanied Albus to the interview and held all the other humans in a kind of trance with his soothing mystical presence until they hired him. The phoenix had been delighted to find that providing a whole school full of people for him to play with seemed to do the trick, and was rewarded with a much cheerier Albus.
His latest choice of mate had rather mystified Fawkes. Even by the weird ways in which humans measured attractiveness, this one was a non-starter. Snape was widely acknowledged to be ugly in spirit as well as body, with a scrawny, unhealthy look to him which no sensible creature would find appealing. It was possible that the endless emotional torture that the species inflicted on each other with wars and other pointless pastimes may have addled Albus’ brain, and it must be remembered that by human standards, he was incredibly old and dotty. The age gap between his pet and his pet’s intended was also a large one for mortals, though as Fawkes’ last affair had been with a bird seven hundred years older than him, a mere century or so hardly seemed worth mentioning.
Still, Albus had made his choice, and if the phoenix was to enjoy a woe-free domestic environment, he ought to do his duty and help the inferior species sort their lives out.
Snape looked agitated. Believing he was alone, he paced around the room, muttering to himself and rehearsing all the clever responses he ought to have given instead of slithering away. He had a nervous habit, Fawkes noted, of rubbing his fingers on his lips, and collapsing into chairs for a few seconds before leaping to his feet again. Eventually, he seemed to tire, letting his shoulders droop as he halted in front of a lopsided flower in a narrow vase on the side-table. Recognising one of Albus’ mood roses, Fawkes decided it was time for a little meddling.
He manifested with an impressive shower of golden sparks six inches behind Snape’s head and was greeted with a scream and an ebony wand shoved underneath his beak.
“Oh, it’s you,” the boy grunted, retracting the wand sinking back into glumness.
Fawkes was irked. People were usually dazzled by his awesome ability to explode out of thin air in a glorious cascade of mystical beauty. The grumpy potions master was decidedly unimpressed. “You’d better stay away from the laboratory,” he added in a flat voice. “We don’t need any more victory fireworks.”
Sighing, the phoenix supposed it was a fair comment. He carefully herded Snape into an armchair and began to gently warble the song which never failed to entrance humans, hoping to calm whatever it was that had freaked this one out. He began to relax a little, the uptight crease between his brows becoming shallower.
“Did Albus send you?” Snape asked softly. Fawkes paused to shake his head in denial, then resumed, sending notes of crystal sweetness tinkling around the dungeon. It would have been difficult to translate exactly what the song was about, as phoenixes are ancient creatures with amazingly complicated thought-processes, possessed of an entirely different mindset to land-based mammals with only a century or so of life to live.
If pressed, he supposed it could be thought of as some sort of ode to a lonely herder of goats, high on a hill…
Not that Snape seemed inclined to ask, just then. He had fallen under the spell of the singing, now appearing chilled out to the point of intoxication, almost smiling to himself in a way most alien to his harsh features. He reached out a thin white hand to stroke Fawkes’ chin.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered.
“You’re only saying that to get me into bed,” Fawkes sneered in reply. Not understanding, Severus carried on caressing the red-gold feathers.
“But of course you’re beautiful,” he sighed. “You are Albus’ familiar, of course you are lovely and just radiate goodness, because no other creature is worthy of a wizard like him. Certainly not the miserable tainted thing he has set his cap at. I don’t understand why he would plead so and throw himself on the floor in desperation, when there are surely plenty of others who love him as much as I and are so much better.”
“Aha!” exclaimed Fawkes triumphantly. “So you do love him! By Promethius! Albus is going to be so pleased with me when I tell him that you’re just a bit self-effacing, he’ll do anything I ask!”
“Such exquisite sounds you make,” hummed Snape in appreciation.
“Yes!” Fawkes, overcome with delight, allowed his imagination to run away. “I know what I’ll do! I’ll make the old man buy me some…” phoenixes, like normal birds, were incapable of licking their lips, not having any, but he managed to swipe his tongue along the edge of his beak in a fair reproduction of the mammalian gesture, “…aviation fuel!”
He hopped up and down a few times in ecstasy. Wizards had no use for kerosene, unfortunately, and the muggles were terribly careful with it. He had always been too nervous of apparating directly into an airport or hangar for fear of his sparkly aura blowing up everything within a three mile radius - one of the many reasons he steered clear of the more potionly portions of the castle. Neither had he found any on eBay. Chomping coal and curry powder was all very well, but kerosene was surely the nectar of dreams, purest ambrosia, the very elixir of life - or so Fawkes had persuaded himself, over the years.
He felt Snape get up from his chair and walk away, but was so engrossed in his fantasy, he barely noticed. An ordinary firebird was a creature of mythical wondrousness, even that sour-faced git was not immune to the majesty. Add to that the immaculately refined mineral and surely, miracles would happen! He imagined the taste, the smell, the feel of it, oh! the incredible feel of it! It would be…
Fawkes came back to earth as he felt a familiar tingling beginning in the tips of his claws. This was not a good development!
In the next room - the laboratory, judging by the interesting smells - he could hear a voice, which, though muffled by distance, seemed to be rather familiar. He could pay no further heed once the prickly sensation reached his ankles.
“Oh no!” he squawked, no hint of his earlier trilling musicality in the sound. “I don’t believe it!” This hadn’t happened spontaneously since he had been a kindling! A bird his age should have more control of his natural functions, not shamelessly going off like a cheap firework just because of some lustful petroleum-related thoughts!
He fought the tingle, willing it to recede and spare his dignity, but as it got as far as his knees, he knew all was lost.
“Bugger,” said Fawkes.
…
It was so easy to confide one’s thoughts to a dumb creature, thought Snape, as the beautiful bird sang its innocent song for no other purpose than to soothe a soul it perceived to be in torment.
If only every being were as pure and selfless as Fawkes. He allowed his battered spirit to respond to the music, wishing he could find an answer to his dilemma which would not cause him any more suffering. He had grown distinctly tired of pain.
For no apparent reason, Snape turned to look at the door which led from his sitting room to his classroom. There had been no sudden noise, nor had the wards been disturbed, just a flicker of awareness from that direction which made his conscious mind awaken from its phoenix-induced stupor and pay attention.
Were there foul brats in his lovely laboratory?
He narrowed his eyes and gripped his wand, ready to sneak up on the heinous miscreants, take revenge for their invasion, then somehow make it look like an unfortunate accident. It wasn’t for nothing that he had studied at the Malfoy school of personal security.
He slid out of the chair and padded across the room, partly sorry to be leaving the comfort of the bird’s chirps, but keen to take out some of his frustrations on whoever was breaking at least fifty rules by daring to exist when Snape was upset. He flung open the door and cast a room-wide Immobilus.
This had no effect whatsoever on the translucent figure standing in front of the blackboard. He lowered his wand and stared.
“I haven’t seen you before,” he said suspiciously.
“I’m not really a Hogwarts ghost,” the apparition confessed, raising one corner of her mouth into a smirk. “I haunt laboratories, usually the one I died in, but not exclusively. And Bourdon Hall, of course.”
“Bourdon Hall?” A little frisson shimmered through Severus at the mention of the home of the man he loved.
“Yes, the poor old place! It’s longing to be lived in again, but Albus is so wrapped up in school and war, he hardly ever comes home anymore.”
Cogs whirred in Snape’s mind as he assembled the information given to him by this ghostly lady. Bourdon Hall. Died in a laboratory. Restrained by the complicated system of corsetry and hairpins demanded by the late 19th century ideals of womanhood.
“Wait,” he felt almost light-headed as realisation dawned. “You’re Victoriana Dumbledore!”
There was an almighty WHOOSH from the sitting room, and the lab flooded with a burst of orange light for a few hair-raising seconds.
“Oh, don’t tell me,” her voice dripped ice. “The Pyrotechnic Parrot?”
“Er,” said Snape, uneasily.
“Never mind,” she waved a translucent hand dismissively. “You are correct, I am Victoriana. You are Severus Snape, I presume?”
He nodded, glancing back towards the door in case anything other than Fawkes was ablaze. All seemed safe so he returned his full attention to his visitor.
“May I ask why you are here, Mrs Dumbledore?”
The supernatural eyes twinkled dangerously, and her thin face broke into a smug smile.
Disclaimer: Characters & situations are JK Rowling's. I don't have permission to use them. I'm making no money and intend no disrespect by using them in my own fiction.
Warnings: SLASH! Male/male relationships! Homosexuality! Do not read if you don't like that kind of thing. Non graphic. Mentions vice trade.
Rating: Probably not suitable for under 15s.
Summary: Albus' confession does not get the reaction he had hoped for. Severus has heard the words he longed for all his life, but cannot accept them. A little assistance would be useful.
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight
Tugging his hands free of Albus’ grasp, Snape pulled struggled upright and put some distance between himself and the incredible conversation, before he did anything he would regret.
He leaned on the balustrade of the balcony and, heedless of the beautiful view, buried his face in his hands.
“You don’t mean this,” he murmured.
Albus hauled himself to his feet, but made no move to come closer.
“I beg your pardon if I alarmed you, Severus,” he sounded rather worried. “But I mean everything I said.”
In reply, Snape merely shook his head in disbelief.
“It’s true,” Albus persisted, silently cursing himself for losing control and bombarding the boy with undignified pleading instead of laying out his case calmly and seductively as he and Victoriana had planned.
They remained in the same positions for a long time, Albus wracked with guilt and disappointment at his pathetic behaviour, Severus juggling warring convictions that this was both the worst moment in his entire life, and also the very best. He wondered how he could possibly refuse such an offer from the man he had idolised for years, when he knew that doing so would ultimately break his heart and destroy him more thoroughly than any spell or potion his enemies had ever fired at him.
“Severus?” Dumbledore loathed himself for having been the cause of the utter wretchedness emanating from his love as he hunched over the railing. He dared to take a step forward and slowly reach out to touch his shoulder.
As though burned, Snape straightened and took a hasty step away.
“I’ve got to go,” he told the headmaster, trying to hide some of his anguish, but not succeeding.
“Don’t run away,” Albus tried not to beg this time. It was terribly unattractive. “Tell me what troubles you, perhaps I can…”
“I need to return to the dungeons,” he answered firmly, and plunged down the staircase which led back to the office and away from the traumas on the terrace.
Albus collapsed backwards into a chair, noting glumly that it was still warm from where Severus’ bottom had sat in it just seconds earlier, and that the fact ought to have caused excitement rather than the actual sweeping sense of desolation.
A flutter of wings announced Fawkes, who perched on the arm of the chair with the most understanding expression Albus had ever seen.
“Whoops,” the bird said sympathetically.
“You heard that, I suppose,” Albus sighed heavily. “I don’t know what came over me! I think it was when he started talking about leaving the castle, I panicked and just blurted the whole thing out. Now he thinks I’m a completely senile old fool and couldn’t wait to escape. What do you think?”
The phoenix looked at him questioningly.
“What do I think about what?”
“About my situation, of course,” Albus said with some irritation.
“Oh,” said Fawkes. He preened pensively for a moment, effortlessly bending his long neck backwards into a hairpin so he could worry at a couple of feathers between his shoulderblades. “You honestly want my opinion?”
“You are my familiar, I should like to know your view.”
Fawkes returned his head to its normal position and fixed the wizard with a beady eye.
“You’ve ruined everything,” he announced. “You chose completely the wrong moment to go barging in and flinging confessions of undying love at him so he nearly died of embarrassment, thought you were barking mad and is probably packing his bags right now. Honestly.”
Albus gave him the blazing glare of outrage he had recently used on the aurors when he had gone to rescue Severus.
Fawkes clicked his beak with disdain.
“You did ask.”
…….
It wasn’t that Fawkes disliked humans, he reflected as his disembodied spirit hovered insubstantially in the potions master’s rooms. He had chosen to spend a very long time taking care of Albus over the years, and Albus had given him all the unconditional love and loyalty a good pet should. Besides, it was always entertaining to watch the amusing little things the foolish creatures got up to.
He felt rather guilty for his most recent comment. It was the responsibility of the world’s cleverest species to take care of the dumber animals after all, and not to be needlessly cruel. If any other phoenixes found out that he had been abusing his human, he would be in big trouble with certain welfare agencies and possibly be fined or banned from keeping another.
It was Fawkes’ duty to try and lend a wing, not to mention that watching Albus moping around the place, pining for his lost mate, would be terribly boring. When his first mate had blown herself up trying to turn sardines into precious metal (when would the daft mammals learn?), Albus had gone off his food and he had been forced to contact a renowned pet specialist in Beijing to ask for advice.
“Be affectionate,” she had replied. “Humans can be simple, loving creatures and have been known to destroy their own minds after suffering a great loss. Sing to him, as they find our voices consoling. Keep him busy, perhaps find him another human to play with.”
Fawkes did as he was told. Filling out the application form for the post of transfiguration professor had been rather tricky, as it felt unnatural to be using a feather for writing, but he had accompanied Albus to the interview and held all the other humans in a kind of trance with his soothing mystical presence until they hired him. The phoenix had been delighted to find that providing a whole school full of people for him to play with seemed to do the trick, and was rewarded with a much cheerier Albus.
His latest choice of mate had rather mystified Fawkes. Even by the weird ways in which humans measured attractiveness, this one was a non-starter. Snape was widely acknowledged to be ugly in spirit as well as body, with a scrawny, unhealthy look to him which no sensible creature would find appealing. It was possible that the endless emotional torture that the species inflicted on each other with wars and other pointless pastimes may have addled Albus’ brain, and it must be remembered that by human standards, he was incredibly old and dotty. The age gap between his pet and his pet’s intended was also a large one for mortals, though as Fawkes’ last affair had been with a bird seven hundred years older than him, a mere century or so hardly seemed worth mentioning.
Still, Albus had made his choice, and if the phoenix was to enjoy a woe-free domestic environment, he ought to do his duty and help the inferior species sort their lives out.
Snape looked agitated. Believing he was alone, he paced around the room, muttering to himself and rehearsing all the clever responses he ought to have given instead of slithering away. He had a nervous habit, Fawkes noted, of rubbing his fingers on his lips, and collapsing into chairs for a few seconds before leaping to his feet again. Eventually, he seemed to tire, letting his shoulders droop as he halted in front of a lopsided flower in a narrow vase on the side-table. Recognising one of Albus’ mood roses, Fawkes decided it was time for a little meddling.
He manifested with an impressive shower of golden sparks six inches behind Snape’s head and was greeted with a scream and an ebony wand shoved underneath his beak.
“Oh, it’s you,” the boy grunted, retracting the wand sinking back into glumness.
Fawkes was irked. People were usually dazzled by his awesome ability to explode out of thin air in a glorious cascade of mystical beauty. The grumpy potions master was decidedly unimpressed. “You’d better stay away from the laboratory,” he added in a flat voice. “We don’t need any more victory fireworks.”
Sighing, the phoenix supposed it was a fair comment. He carefully herded Snape into an armchair and began to gently warble the song which never failed to entrance humans, hoping to calm whatever it was that had freaked this one out. He began to relax a little, the uptight crease between his brows becoming shallower.
“Did Albus send you?” Snape asked softly. Fawkes paused to shake his head in denial, then resumed, sending notes of crystal sweetness tinkling around the dungeon. It would have been difficult to translate exactly what the song was about, as phoenixes are ancient creatures with amazingly complicated thought-processes, possessed of an entirely different mindset to land-based mammals with only a century or so of life to live.
If pressed, he supposed it could be thought of as some sort of ode to a lonely herder of goats, high on a hill…
Not that Snape seemed inclined to ask, just then. He had fallen under the spell of the singing, now appearing chilled out to the point of intoxication, almost smiling to himself in a way most alien to his harsh features. He reached out a thin white hand to stroke Fawkes’ chin.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered.
“You’re only saying that to get me into bed,” Fawkes sneered in reply. Not understanding, Severus carried on caressing the red-gold feathers.
“But of course you’re beautiful,” he sighed. “You are Albus’ familiar, of course you are lovely and just radiate goodness, because no other creature is worthy of a wizard like him. Certainly not the miserable tainted thing he has set his cap at. I don’t understand why he would plead so and throw himself on the floor in desperation, when there are surely plenty of others who love him as much as I and are so much better.”
“Aha!” exclaimed Fawkes triumphantly. “So you do love him! By Promethius! Albus is going to be so pleased with me when I tell him that you’re just a bit self-effacing, he’ll do anything I ask!”
“Such exquisite sounds you make,” hummed Snape in appreciation.
“Yes!” Fawkes, overcome with delight, allowed his imagination to run away. “I know what I’ll do! I’ll make the old man buy me some…” phoenixes, like normal birds, were incapable of licking their lips, not having any, but he managed to swipe his tongue along the edge of his beak in a fair reproduction of the mammalian gesture, “…aviation fuel!”
He hopped up and down a few times in ecstasy. Wizards had no use for kerosene, unfortunately, and the muggles were terribly careful with it. He had always been too nervous of apparating directly into an airport or hangar for fear of his sparkly aura blowing up everything within a three mile radius - one of the many reasons he steered clear of the more potionly portions of the castle. Neither had he found any on eBay. Chomping coal and curry powder was all very well, but kerosene was surely the nectar of dreams, purest ambrosia, the very elixir of life - or so Fawkes had persuaded himself, over the years.
He felt Snape get up from his chair and walk away, but was so engrossed in his fantasy, he barely noticed. An ordinary firebird was a creature of mythical wondrousness, even that sour-faced git was not immune to the majesty. Add to that the immaculately refined mineral and surely, miracles would happen! He imagined the taste, the smell, the feel of it, oh! the incredible feel of it! It would be…
Fawkes came back to earth as he felt a familiar tingling beginning in the tips of his claws. This was not a good development!
In the next room - the laboratory, judging by the interesting smells - he could hear a voice, which, though muffled by distance, seemed to be rather familiar. He could pay no further heed once the prickly sensation reached his ankles.
“Oh no!” he squawked, no hint of his earlier trilling musicality in the sound. “I don’t believe it!” This hadn’t happened spontaneously since he had been a kindling! A bird his age should have more control of his natural functions, not shamelessly going off like a cheap firework just because of some lustful petroleum-related thoughts!
He fought the tingle, willing it to recede and spare his dignity, but as it got as far as his knees, he knew all was lost.
“Bugger,” said Fawkes.
…
It was so easy to confide one’s thoughts to a dumb creature, thought Snape, as the beautiful bird sang its innocent song for no other purpose than to soothe a soul it perceived to be in torment.
If only every being were as pure and selfless as Fawkes. He allowed his battered spirit to respond to the music, wishing he could find an answer to his dilemma which would not cause him any more suffering. He had grown distinctly tired of pain.
For no apparent reason, Snape turned to look at the door which led from his sitting room to his classroom. There had been no sudden noise, nor had the wards been disturbed, just a flicker of awareness from that direction which made his conscious mind awaken from its phoenix-induced stupor and pay attention.
Were there foul brats in his lovely laboratory?
He narrowed his eyes and gripped his wand, ready to sneak up on the heinous miscreants, take revenge for their invasion, then somehow make it look like an unfortunate accident. It wasn’t for nothing that he had studied at the Malfoy school of personal security.
He slid out of the chair and padded across the room, partly sorry to be leaving the comfort of the bird’s chirps, but keen to take out some of his frustrations on whoever was breaking at least fifty rules by daring to exist when Snape was upset. He flung open the door and cast a room-wide Immobilus.
This had no effect whatsoever on the translucent figure standing in front of the blackboard. He lowered his wand and stared.
“I haven’t seen you before,” he said suspiciously.
“I’m not really a Hogwarts ghost,” the apparition confessed, raising one corner of her mouth into a smirk. “I haunt laboratories, usually the one I died in, but not exclusively. And Bourdon Hall, of course.”
“Bourdon Hall?” A little frisson shimmered through Severus at the mention of the home of the man he loved.
“Yes, the poor old place! It’s longing to be lived in again, but Albus is so wrapped up in school and war, he hardly ever comes home anymore.”
Cogs whirred in Snape’s mind as he assembled the information given to him by this ghostly lady. Bourdon Hall. Died in a laboratory. Restrained by the complicated system of corsetry and hairpins demanded by the late 19th century ideals of womanhood.
“Wait,” he felt almost light-headed as realisation dawned. “You’re Victoriana Dumbledore!”
There was an almighty WHOOSH from the sitting room, and the lab flooded with a burst of orange light for a few hair-raising seconds.
“Oh, don’t tell me,” her voice dripped ice. “The Pyrotechnic Parrot?”
“Er,” said Snape, uneasily.
“Never mind,” she waved a translucent hand dismissively. “You are correct, I am Victoriana. You are Severus Snape, I presume?”
He nodded, glancing back towards the door in case anything other than Fawkes was ablaze. All seemed safe so he returned his full attention to his visitor.
“May I ask why you are here, Mrs Dumbledore?”
The supernatural eyes twinkled dangerously, and her thin face broke into a smug smile.