[Fic] Stumbling in the Dark
For fandomfusion's Harry Potter genfic challenge, "Beware the Ides of March."
Title: Stumbling in the Dark
Author: shimotsuki
Rating: PG
Warnings: mild profanity
Word count: 1450 words
Characters: Snape, McGonagall
Prompts: #42 (Ovid); #54 (Tom Waits)
Summary: Dumbledore set the wheels in motion, but he left no map. All they can do is hold on tight and hope that someone knows where they are headed. (Part of the DH-at-Hogwarts series Under the Long Shadow.)
Prompts:
42. Either you pursue or push, O Sisyphus, the stone destined to keep rolling. (Ovid)
54. Did you bury your fire? / Yes sir
Did you cover your tracks? / Yes sir
Did your bring your knife? / Yes sir
Did they see your face? / No sir (Tom Waits)
Stumbling in the Dark
Snape thumbed gingerly through the thick ledger that lay open on Dumbledore’s-or rather, on his desk. “This is a bloody disaster.”
He turned to scowl at the large portrait behind him, but its occupant was nowhere to be seen.
Honestly, the old man’s narrow handwriting was enough to strain even eyes as sharp as Snape’s, and of course last year he’d been writing left-handed, which only made things worse. It certainly didn’t help that the school accounts were in considerable disarray to begin with. Snape was beginning to suspect that Dumbledore had never even tried to collect delinquent payments.
He muttered a few more invectives under his breath and began a new page in his own small, cramped script: September 1997-Accounts Receivable-Student Fees.
But almost as soon as he reached for the first receipt from a precarious stack, an insistent, thudding knock sounded at the door.
Snape sighed.
The teachers all knew the password to the stairs that led to the Headmaster’s office, as a matter of policy, but he had tried to make it clear at staff meetings how little he liked to be disturbed when he was up here. Merely, of course, because it was easier to do his jobs-both overt and clandestine-when he was alone. His preference for solitude had nothing to do with the looks of loathing and wounded betrayal in the eyes of teachers who had once been reasonable colleagues.
That was irrelevant.
Now he flicked his wand, letting the door to the office creak open. It became necessary to suppress another sigh.
“What is it, Carrow?”
The lumpy little man strode into the room and stopped in front of the desk, leering with that air of Death-Eater-to-Death-Eater collegiality that made Snape grind his teeth.
“I want to do something,” Carrow wheezed. “Don’t want to wait for Potter. Let’s make him come here. Start torturing the students. Maybe kill one. That’ll bring him running, yeah?”
Snape closed his eyes and opened them again, very slowly, glaring down his nose.
Even Carrow, a man not well versed in subtlety, took a step back.
“We will act,” Snape hissed, “according to the plan that the Dark Lord himself has endorsed.” He stood and leaned forward across the desk, and was gratified to see Carrow take another step away.
“Well, yeah,” the other man mumbled, “but I thought-speed things up some.”
“We will follow the plan,” Snape repeated. “If we start torturing students too thoroughly now, more parents will take their children out of school. Then, when Potter does come here, there won’t be enough children to use as hostages when we need them.” He shook his head, lip curling into a sneer. “We have discussed this before, have we not? Or is this simple plan too much for your feeble intellect?”
Carrow’s face darkened, and Snape wondered for a moment if he had pushed too far, but then the other man slumped in defeat, shoving his hands into the pockets of his robes.
“So all we can do is wait ’til Potter comes, then?”
“Yes,” said Snape silkily, “we wait for Potter.” He twisted his mouth into a conspiratorial half-smile. “And we teach our lessons, of course.”
Carrow began to leer again. “There’s lots of lessons I can teach about the Dark Arts,” he agreed. “That’s right.”
Snape nodded, letting his sardonic smile signal approval. “Keep things on the right side of actual torture, so the parents don’t start to wonder too hard, and you can teach quite a lot, I expect.”
Sniggering to himself, the repulsive little man turned and left. Snape flicked his wand again and the door closed itself firmly.
Blue eyes twinkled at him from a portrait that had been empty just moments ago. “Nicely done, Severus.”
Snape sighed yet again. “I can only rein them in for so long, you know.” His lips thinned impatiently. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to tell me what it is that Potter thinks he’s trying to accomplish? Perhaps I could actually facilitate his task, if I knew what it was.”
“Not yet, I’m afraid,” said the portrait cheerfully. “All in good time, my boy.”
Snape nodded once, stiffly, and returned to his accounting.
. * . * .
Late that night, the castle corridors were dark and still. Minerva padded along on four silent feet, with ears and whiskers twitching-transforming back to human form only when she reached the staff room door.
Quelling the startled gargoyles with a single stern look, she pushed the door open and slipped inside. Now she felt well enough hidden to light her wand before crossing the room. On the opposite wall hung a large painting of a group of Hogwarts teachers from about four centuries ago, who sat sprawled around a large, amply spread table, munching, gossiping, and toasting each other endlessly.
“I say!” a rather florid man called out. “Professor McGonagall! Lovely to see you!”
“Good evening, Professor Dumfries, ladies, gentlemen.” She inclined her head politely. “Would one of you possibly be so kind as to go up to Headmaster Snape’s office and ask Professor Dumbledore to visit the landscape in my chambers? I need to speak with him in confidence.”
“Certainly, my dear.” Professor Dumfries puffed a bit as he hoisted himself out of his chair, but he bowed to her and hurried off at once.
Minerva bade good night to the other teachers in the painting, locked the staff room behind her, and went loping catwise back to her own rooms. She darted through the cat flap-Charmed to repel any creature other than herself-and transformed, smoothing her tartan dressing gown.
He had arrived first, of course. He sat, most incongruously but looking quite comfortable all the same, in the middle of a field of heather in the painting that hung above her fireplace.
“You wished to see me, Minerva?”
“Albus.” The benevolent, inscrutable smile behind the half-moon spectacles was exactly right - and it made her want to seethe at him, just at it always had. It’s not really him, she reminded herself. Magical paint on canvas-that’s all.
But still her best source for information.
She put her hands on her hips and faced the old man’s image squarely. “I never have a chance to talk with you without Snape listening to every word I say. How can I speak freely in front of a traitor?”
“How, indeed,” murmured the portrait, looking pained and regretful.
Minerva nodded in vehement agreement. “I’d like you to come down here from time to time-at least once a week-and tell me all your news.”
“News?” The white head tilted to one side, and the spectacles actually flashed in the light from the torch on the wall. The artist had clearly been very good. “I don’t get out much, you know.”
“You could tell me what sort of plots Snape and those Carrows are hatching, at the very least.”
“I could, at that,” said the portrait, thoughtfully.
“And-Albus.” The note of desperation crept into her voice against her will, and the blue eyes looked up sharply. “What is Potter doing? He said you had given him a task, and that it was something he couldn’t even tell me about.”
“Did he, now?” His expression was placid, even bland. “I’m sure Harry is doing his very best.”
Minerva huffed. Did the portrait really not know what Potter’s mission was? It had been painted last winter, after all, and she wasn’t sure how frequently Albus had been adding new memories.
On the other hand, she wouldn’t put it past the old man to be keeping secrets, even in this form.
“It’s just-We’re all waiting for him, Albus, and we don’t know what we’re waiting for.” She spread her hands beseechingly. “I would help him, if only I knew how.”
“I think,” said the portrait carefully, “that when it is time for you to do something, you will know.” He stood, brushed a few thistles from his robes, and gave her that infuriating smile again. “It is late, and I must leave you to your rest. But you are quite correct that I should visit you regularly here, where we can speak freely. I’ll see you again within the week.”
With a nod, he strolled serenely out of the painting, leaving the heather swaying in his wake.
Minerva sighed and rubbed at a knot in her temple.
“Some things never change, Albus,” she muttered. “You always did enjoy leaving me in the dark.”
With a wry salute in the direction of the empty landscape, she cast a wordless Nox and went to bed.
. * fin * .
“Under the Long Shadow” series index
.
Title: Stumbling in the Dark
Author: shimotsuki
Rating: PG
Warnings: mild profanity
Word count: 1450 words
Characters: Snape, McGonagall
Prompts: #42 (Ovid); #54 (Tom Waits)
Summary: Dumbledore set the wheels in motion, but he left no map. All they can do is hold on tight and hope that someone knows where they are headed. (Part of the DH-at-Hogwarts series Under the Long Shadow.)
Prompts:
42. Either you pursue or push, O Sisyphus, the stone destined to keep rolling. (Ovid)
54. Did you bury your fire? / Yes sir
Did you cover your tracks? / Yes sir
Did your bring your knife? / Yes sir
Did they see your face? / No sir (Tom Waits)
Stumbling in the Dark
Snape thumbed gingerly through the thick ledger that lay open on Dumbledore’s-or rather, on his desk. “This is a bloody disaster.”
He turned to scowl at the large portrait behind him, but its occupant was nowhere to be seen.
Honestly, the old man’s narrow handwriting was enough to strain even eyes as sharp as Snape’s, and of course last year he’d been writing left-handed, which only made things worse. It certainly didn’t help that the school accounts were in considerable disarray to begin with. Snape was beginning to suspect that Dumbledore had never even tried to collect delinquent payments.
He muttered a few more invectives under his breath and began a new page in his own small, cramped script: September 1997-Accounts Receivable-Student Fees.
But almost as soon as he reached for the first receipt from a precarious stack, an insistent, thudding knock sounded at the door.
Snape sighed.
The teachers all knew the password to the stairs that led to the Headmaster’s office, as a matter of policy, but he had tried to make it clear at staff meetings how little he liked to be disturbed when he was up here. Merely, of course, because it was easier to do his jobs-both overt and clandestine-when he was alone. His preference for solitude had nothing to do with the looks of loathing and wounded betrayal in the eyes of teachers who had once been reasonable colleagues.
That was irrelevant.
Now he flicked his wand, letting the door to the office creak open. It became necessary to suppress another sigh.
“What is it, Carrow?”
The lumpy little man strode into the room and stopped in front of the desk, leering with that air of Death-Eater-to-Death-Eater collegiality that made Snape grind his teeth.
“I want to do something,” Carrow wheezed. “Don’t want to wait for Potter. Let’s make him come here. Start torturing the students. Maybe kill one. That’ll bring him running, yeah?”
Snape closed his eyes and opened them again, very slowly, glaring down his nose.
Even Carrow, a man not well versed in subtlety, took a step back.
“We will act,” Snape hissed, “according to the plan that the Dark Lord himself has endorsed.” He stood and leaned forward across the desk, and was gratified to see Carrow take another step away.
“Well, yeah,” the other man mumbled, “but I thought-speed things up some.”
“We will follow the plan,” Snape repeated. “If we start torturing students too thoroughly now, more parents will take their children out of school. Then, when Potter does come here, there won’t be enough children to use as hostages when we need them.” He shook his head, lip curling into a sneer. “We have discussed this before, have we not? Or is this simple plan too much for your feeble intellect?”
Carrow’s face darkened, and Snape wondered for a moment if he had pushed too far, but then the other man slumped in defeat, shoving his hands into the pockets of his robes.
“So all we can do is wait ’til Potter comes, then?”
“Yes,” said Snape silkily, “we wait for Potter.” He twisted his mouth into a conspiratorial half-smile. “And we teach our lessons, of course.”
Carrow began to leer again. “There’s lots of lessons I can teach about the Dark Arts,” he agreed. “That’s right.”
Snape nodded, letting his sardonic smile signal approval. “Keep things on the right side of actual torture, so the parents don’t start to wonder too hard, and you can teach quite a lot, I expect.”
Sniggering to himself, the repulsive little man turned and left. Snape flicked his wand again and the door closed itself firmly.
Blue eyes twinkled at him from a portrait that had been empty just moments ago. “Nicely done, Severus.”
Snape sighed yet again. “I can only rein them in for so long, you know.” His lips thinned impatiently. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to tell me what it is that Potter thinks he’s trying to accomplish? Perhaps I could actually facilitate his task, if I knew what it was.”
“Not yet, I’m afraid,” said the portrait cheerfully. “All in good time, my boy.”
Snape nodded once, stiffly, and returned to his accounting.
. * . * .
Late that night, the castle corridors were dark and still. Minerva padded along on four silent feet, with ears and whiskers twitching-transforming back to human form only when she reached the staff room door.
Quelling the startled gargoyles with a single stern look, she pushed the door open and slipped inside. Now she felt well enough hidden to light her wand before crossing the room. On the opposite wall hung a large painting of a group of Hogwarts teachers from about four centuries ago, who sat sprawled around a large, amply spread table, munching, gossiping, and toasting each other endlessly.
“I say!” a rather florid man called out. “Professor McGonagall! Lovely to see you!”
“Good evening, Professor Dumfries, ladies, gentlemen.” She inclined her head politely. “Would one of you possibly be so kind as to go up to Headmaster Snape’s office and ask Professor Dumbledore to visit the landscape in my chambers? I need to speak with him in confidence.”
“Certainly, my dear.” Professor Dumfries puffed a bit as he hoisted himself out of his chair, but he bowed to her and hurried off at once.
Minerva bade good night to the other teachers in the painting, locked the staff room behind her, and went loping catwise back to her own rooms. She darted through the cat flap-Charmed to repel any creature other than herself-and transformed, smoothing her tartan dressing gown.
He had arrived first, of course. He sat, most incongruously but looking quite comfortable all the same, in the middle of a field of heather in the painting that hung above her fireplace.
“You wished to see me, Minerva?”
“Albus.” The benevolent, inscrutable smile behind the half-moon spectacles was exactly right - and it made her want to seethe at him, just at it always had. It’s not really him, she reminded herself. Magical paint on canvas-that’s all.
But still her best source for information.
She put her hands on her hips and faced the old man’s image squarely. “I never have a chance to talk with you without Snape listening to every word I say. How can I speak freely in front of a traitor?”
“How, indeed,” murmured the portrait, looking pained and regretful.
Minerva nodded in vehement agreement. “I’d like you to come down here from time to time-at least once a week-and tell me all your news.”
“News?” The white head tilted to one side, and the spectacles actually flashed in the light from the torch on the wall. The artist had clearly been very good. “I don’t get out much, you know.”
“You could tell me what sort of plots Snape and those Carrows are hatching, at the very least.”
“I could, at that,” said the portrait, thoughtfully.
“And-Albus.” The note of desperation crept into her voice against her will, and the blue eyes looked up sharply. “What is Potter doing? He said you had given him a task, and that it was something he couldn’t even tell me about.”
“Did he, now?” His expression was placid, even bland. “I’m sure Harry is doing his very best.”
Minerva huffed. Did the portrait really not know what Potter’s mission was? It had been painted last winter, after all, and she wasn’t sure how frequently Albus had been adding new memories.
On the other hand, she wouldn’t put it past the old man to be keeping secrets, even in this form.
“It’s just-We’re all waiting for him, Albus, and we don’t know what we’re waiting for.” She spread her hands beseechingly. “I would help him, if only I knew how.”
“I think,” said the portrait carefully, “that when it is time for you to do something, you will know.” He stood, brushed a few thistles from his robes, and gave her that infuriating smile again. “It is late, and I must leave you to your rest. But you are quite correct that I should visit you regularly here, where we can speak freely. I’ll see you again within the week.”
With a nod, he strolled serenely out of the painting, leaving the heather swaying in his wake.
Minerva sighed and rubbed at a knot in her temple.
“Some things never change, Albus,” she muttered. “You always did enjoy leaving me in the dark.”
With a wry salute in the direction of the empty landscape, she cast a wordless Nox and went to bed.
. * fin * .
“Under the Long Shadow” series index
.