Chapter Three: Intrigued
In which the new school year begins and Severus is drawn to the puzzle Hermione left in spite of his intentions to the contrary.
The next day, Severus had to face an entirely new set of incoming first year students. The newest Weasley twins, with their quarter-Veela blood, attracted an unwelcome amount of attention, and were a huge distraction. Donning the mantle of his most-feared persona, Severus was forced to separate the three Weasley cousins from each other, strategically placing them around the potions classroom. In the decade following the fall of Voldemort, he’d been able to make adjustments in his method of crowd control. No longer did he allow house affiliations to determine seating arrangements in his classes. Now, each table was a shared Gryffindor/Slytherin or Ravenclaw/Hufflepuff team. It had proved quite successful, and there were fewer hexes and outright rivalries.
None of his first years noticed the small cedar box which he’d placed prominently on his speaking podium. He reasonably deduced that, since everything in the castle was new and wondrous, the box wouldn’t stand out to the youngest students. However, by Thursday, still none of his students had noticed the little box. Not one single student within all four houses and spanning all seven years had divined the fact that there was an interesting nugget to be investigated within their range of sight. It was an odd phenomenon.
Severus’ teaching duties began to take up more and more of his time, but he continued to carry the little wooden box with him. He spent the odd minute here and there, attempting to ascertain its secrets. With inadequate time to devote to concentrated study, he was unsuccessful in breaching the outer wards on the puzzling box. The only reasonable conclusion he’d drawn as a result of his attempts to dismantle the warding was that there were no compulsions cast on the box, and there were multiple layers of protection that required careful handling.
After two weeks, the small cedar receptacle began to assume a prominent placement on his desk, his work bench, the High Table, and his nightstand. Students and colleagues started to notice that the Potions Master appeared occasionally preoccupied, as they watched him fold his arms and drift off into a few moments of contemplation, stroking his goatee thoughtfully. His focal point was always the same apparently vacant spot on his desk or at the High Table. In these moments of distraction, the reserved wizard appeared to trace some object, causing new rumors about the brooding black bat of the dungeons to take flight among the denizens of the castle. He remained unaware, for the most part, of the scrutiny paid to his increasingly frequent moments of inattention, as he was wont to tactilely investigate every corner, every possible seam or imperfection in the grain of the cedar.
As intriguing as the box was, his anger at Hermione simmered, ready to boil over if she returned. He carefully outlined scathing remarks to put the impudent witch in her place. She didn’t return. Severus would scowl at the box, thinking of the brown-eyed chit, rocking the palm-sized trinket in his hands, epithets swirling in his brain. Bushy-haired swot. Know-it-all. Gryffindor Brain. Brilliant. Innovative. When his thoughts turned complimentary, he’d snort derisively and put the box out of his reach. Invariably, and only moments later, he’d pick it up once more. The raven-haired wizard found himself fascinated by the slight shift in weight. The puzzle that the inner trinket represented was as enticing as a siren’s song. Severus had to know what Hermione Granger had placed in the box. What she’d given him.
By September 21, his simmering anger was overridden by rampant curiosity. That evening, Minerva was coming to tea. It was something they did once a month; Albus felt it was helpful… and after the first five years of grumbling, Severus agreed.
Once they were settled in his sitting room, the fire crackling merrily upon the hearth, each nursing a cup of tea – Minerva’s was milky and sweet, his was appropriately tart, with just a wedge of lemon -- Severus removed the box from its awkward position within his robes and placed it atop his copy of Moste Potente Potions. Idly, Minerva’s eyes followed his movements, and, for the first time since the beginning of term, someone other than Severus saw the box.
“Oh, Severus, what a charming little box. When did you get it?”
“It was a gift.”
For some reason, Severus was hesitant to mention Hermione. Minerva’s feelings might be hurt that she hadn’t seen the witch; after all, Hermione had been, and remained, Minerva’s favorite student. For all he knew, they kept up a steady correspondence.
“Really? What exquisite taste they have. May I?” Suiting action to request Minerva reached out to retrieve the little box for closer inspection. With a loud, explosive bang and a flash of bright golden light, Hogwarts’ Deputy Headmistress was forcibly expelled from her chair. She landed in a heap on Severus’ floor, several feet from where she’d been sitting.
Sourly, she began to pick herself up. Severus leapt to his feet to assist her, hiding his irreverent grin. He couldn’t help but think that she’d looked awfully funny hurtling across the room. Minerva assumed it was a joke and spoke sharply to him. “You could’ve warned me! That hurt!”
“Minerva! I had no idea it would do that. She didn’t say anything about….”
Bollocks! This wasn’t funny at all. Severus was acutely aware that he’d just given his most curious colleague a hint as to the gift giver. Bloody hell! What had happened to his command of his tongue? In previous years, not even the Cruciatus could’ve pried unwanted information from his lips. Perhaps, if he was lucky, Minerva would let it go. He’d never really been lucky.
“She?” Minerva raised an eyebrow in inquiry and glanced at the seemingly innocuous box. It was glowing; a misty, angry red radiating from every fibrous cell of offended cedar.
“Yes. She,” Severus bit out. He was not forthcoming. This was his box, his present and his surprise. He didn’t like to share. In fact, he loathed sharing and he wasn’t going to share this. Unbeknownst to him, his hand hovered protectively over the lid of the little box, its shimmering red glare dimming slightly as his hand came within a foot of the rectangular enigma.
“She, who?” Minerva was like an old terrier with a bone… she’d worry him to death until he gave in. She hated not being in the know. The similarity to another bright-eyed, annoyingly curious witch tugged on his awareness. He scowled. Of course, if he gave her a small nibble, Minerva might let it go. At least for now.
“A former student, Minerva. It was by way of a thank you.” That was all he was going to tell her.
But Minerva McGonagall knew her younger colleague, and knew just how and when to pry. All she needed was a lever. Thinking long and hard, her eyes fastened on Severus’ evasive coal-black eyes, and she realized that keeping the secret was important to him. She was fond of her exasperating colleague, and so, preening a little at her self-restraint, Minerva refrained from asking Severus again. Besides, she also knew who to pry for information. Perhaps Albus would know more.
She watched the brooding younger wizard for his reaction as she refrained from asking any more questions and, once again, remembered why he’d been such a good spy. He might be out of practice, but if he didn’t want her to know, she wouldn’t. Minerva decided that she’d definitely have to visit Albus later. Perhaps a new batch of Honeydukes chocolates would entice him to reveal what he knew about Severus’ trinket.
Thinking of Albus and glancing at the clock, which was pointing to ‘having tea,’ Minerva remembered that she had another task to complete that evening. “Severus, I really must go a little early tonight. I have to write to Miss Granger. Poor girl. I always send her a letter on this date.”
Severus accepted her excuse gracefully, relieved that she hadn’t pursued the subject of the box. He was rather surprised by the coincidence of Minerva mentioning Hermione. The younger witch’s name had never come up in their conversations before this – at least, not that he could recall. Although he’d recently begun to realize that the majority of the staff who’d survived the Dark Lord’s overthrow referred to Hermione Granger on a regular basis. Severus had simply never before noticed. But now that she was in his daily thoughts, he seemed to hear her name on everyone’s lips with frequent regularity.
The general consensus of his colleagues was that Hermione Granger was an exceptional witch, representing a pinnacle of virtue and excellence which they wished all their students, and some of their colleagues, aspired to. Each time he’d heard the sentiment, Severus had snorted and replied bitingly, “She was a tolerable student. But like so many witches, the childhood promise has been left sadly wanting in the adult.” Predictably, Minerva and Filius would splutter in indignation and Severus would stalk away, smirking, his hand reaching into his pocket where he’d stroke the smooth wood of the little box he carried with him.
As he saw Minerva to the door, Severus wondered about the significance of the date. September 21. He returned to the sitting room, crossing to his pacing spot, his brows creased as he stood lost in thought, staring at the malevolently glowing cedar box on the table. He remembered. September 21, 2005 - Miss Granger’s wedding day. Why had Minerva said ‘poor girl?’ A wedding anniversary was generally a cause for celebration. Then the rest of the memory unraveled. Miss Granger was a widow. Severus wondered if she’d been happy. Her voice reverberated in his mind ‘…he died, and I learned about having my heart broken as an adult.’ Yes, she’d been happy. Something about that thought made him uncomfortable, and he scowled at the reminder of his former student and her happiness in contrast to the lack of it in his own life.
Picking up the little box, Severus smoothed his fingers across the embedded sigil; the red glow receded revealing that the wood’s sheen had become glossy over the course of the past few weeks. It’d almost taken on the patina of well-used rosary beads, the oils of his skin bringing lustre to the cedar. Severus wondered about its secrets. He inhaled the richly aromatic fragrance of the wood, and, with a whispered, “Hermione,” he wondered if perhaps her name was the key.
He’d taken to trying different passwords after exhausting other possibilities. Thus far he’d tried, ‘Gryffindor,’ ‘Slytherin’ – grinning as he’d said it -- ‘Dumbledore,’ ‘McGonagall,’ the names of all the Weasleys, ‘Lupin’, the names of her deceased parents, her ridiculous friends, even the name of her blasted cat. None had made the slightest difference. And indeed, even her name, whispered in his rooms, had no effect on the box. It glowed bright blue for a moment, and then remained, as ever, impervious.
Severus Snape, however, felt a frisson of anticipation as the sound of her name hung in the air of his chambers for a brief moment until it thinned and dissipated, returning the aural focus to the crackling fire he now paced in front of. He sighed heavily, privately admitting that he was impressed by Hermione Granger’s work. She’d obviously achieved some degree of success within her field.
The fall term quickly passed, and the little box became Severus’ constant companion around the castle; meals, classes, the library, even on his daily rounds. Minerva wasted no time in passing on the tidbit of information that the Potions Master had been the recipient of a ‘gift’ from a former student. However, none of his colleagues had been able to coax any additional information from Severus, in spite of their desire or their earnest pleas. They all wanted to take a look, but it seemed that the only time anyone other than Severus was able to see the box at all was if they were in his chambers. And no one else could safely touch it.
In fact, he found himself hosting every single member of the staff -- long-time colleagues and ingénues -- in his rooms over the course of two months. Even Hagrid found his amiable way to the dungeons for a chat. The half-giant’s excuse was that he’d thought the professor might like some of his fresh rock cakes. He was tolerated and offered tea. Severus drank his own tea in record time, and then hustled his unwanted guest out the door like all the others, none the wiser.
The faculty had a stiff betting pool, determined by both date of the opening and the identity of the actual trinket held within the cedar box’s chamber. The pool was up to several hundred Galleons by Halloween. And as is common in small communities, the information migrated to the students, who speculated wildly about who could possibly ever have wanted to give the greasy git a present, although the fact that it was invisible leant a certain cachet to the little cretins’ theories.
Of course, Severus maliciously enjoyed the shocked surprise on Sybil Trelawney’s face when she was thrown across his sitting room. He’d opened the door to the garrulous witch minutes previously, and she’d simply foisted her way into his rooms without so much as an invitation. She’d never been one to stand on ceremony.
“Oh, Severus,” she’d gushed, sweeping past him, her cloying scent causing his nostrils to flare in offended olfactory overload. “I felt the emanations from your little bauble all the way from my rooms. It’s been calling to me. I keep hearing my name whispered through the corridors and I’ve consulted my inner eye. You know how sensitive my inner eye is. It told me that today was the day your box would reveal its secrets to me. I feel so honored that it called to me.”
Sybil neglected to mention the fact that this was also the date for which she’d laid thirty Galleons on the line in the betting pool. Severus smirked at her owlish squint and merely waited for the inevitable to take place. While it was no longer a secret that he didn’t know how to open his little gift, Severus did know enough about his former student to be certain that Sybil Trelawney would have nothing to do with these particular wards. He recalled the open contempt that Hermione had held for the Divination instructor. Her remembered disdain brought a small smile to his face as he prepared to watch his ditzy colleague make a fool of herself.
“Do come in, Sybil,” it was said in Severus’ most wry tone as the pretentious witch was thrown across his chambers. If the answer had fallen into his lap, so to speak, he would’ve accepted it.
By December, the little cedar box went with the Potions Master everywhere. He could be seen, lost in thought, examining it during quiet moments while students were brewing potions. It accompanied him to the village on Hogsmeade weekends, when he was in the library researching arcane ingredients, even to Quidditch matches. Severus had long since acquired every book the Hogwarts library held relating to wards and their deconstruction, including several tomes from the Restricted Section. He’d read enough of them to recognize the excellence of the wards that had been placed on his possession, but not enough to be able to dismantle them. His anger at the witch who’d cast the enchantments had dissipated into a reluctant, but never voiced aloud, admiration.
As winter break neared it became customary to see the Potions Master lean back in his chair at the end of a meal, his long fingers tracing invisible edges, smoothing across the surface, caressing the engraved symbol of a box that none but he could see. The cedar’s fragrance had become something of a pacifying and calming agent. When the youngest Weasleys’ mischief threatened to get out of hand in class, Severus would remove the box from his robes and, stroking its surface, he’d inhale the rich, aromatic scent of the cedar, his equanimity restored.
As the term had progressed, there’d been fewer house points taken by the Potions Master than ever before. He could still be explosively angry, but his temper had lost its vindictive edge, and his students were no longer quite so terrified of him. Not a single student or staff member had mentioned the changes in the taciturn wizard. Who, after all, wanted to question a gift horse? If Severus had noticed that Albus’ eyes twinkled a little more effusively when he’d looked in his direction, he’d never mentioned it.
In a moment of weakness, Severus had changed the password of his new personal wards to “Hermione.” He’d convinced himself that it was only because it was the last password anyone would ever associate with him.
Severus was looking forward to the winter break. He planned to devote a considerable amount of time to deconstructing the wards on his box, certain that, now that he had the time, he’d be able to open his treasure.
However, by New Year’s Eve, Severus Snape was a frustrated and rueful wizard. He should’ve known that it wouldn’t be so easy to penetrate such sophisticated charms. Hermione was, after all, a very resourceful witch, one who’s Charms NEWTs had been the highest the school had seen in over a century. It would naturally follow that the little box would reflect her field of expertise.
Brooding in his rooms, late in the afternoon of New Year’s Eve, an unexpected visitor descended to the dungeons, one bearing an invitation to a party. Blaise Zabini, former student, former Death Eater, former spy, knocked on Severus’ door. Of all the Slytherin students in Harry Potter’s year, Blaise had been clever and subtle enough to recognize that the role of a Death Eater was not one he wanted to follow. He alone had stood out from his House peers. He hadn’t wanted to be coerced by his parents’ wishes, but knew that he’d have very little choice in the matter. On his eighteenth birthday, his parents had planned to present him to Voldemort and expected him to take the Dark Mark.
Not knowing who to turn to, Blaise had approached Hermione Granger very late one night in the library. They’d shared the majority of their classes and he’d respected her intelligence and her unwavering loyalty to Harry Potter. He’d known that she wasn’t one to gossip or share information, and he’d carefully chosen the time to approach her. They’d been the last students in the library on a Friday night, and it’d been almost curfew. Hermione had cast a silencing charm around them, listened to his story, surprised him with a smile, and, promptly and directly, under cover of Harry’s invisibility cloak, escorted the dark-haired Slytherin to Albus Dumbledore. Once in the large and oddly decorated office, Blaise had poured out his heart to the sympathetic and understanding Headmaster, and from that day forth, he’d become a spy for the Order of the Phoenix.
Blaise and Hermione hadn’t had the opportunity to pursue the slender thread of friendship spun in the library. The war had made them public enemies. Following the final battle, there might’ve been a chance for a friendship to develop, but Hermione had left Britain so quickly, that they’d never had the opportunity. Severus had been Blaise’s ‘handler,’ and the two wizards had developed a mentor/protégé relationship which deepened over time to the firm friendship that it was now.
“So, Severus, will you come tonight? After all this time, you can’t still be avoiding Harry.”
“I plan to avoid Potter for the rest of my days, if possible, Blaise. I don’t know how you can stand him.”
“He’s not as bad as he used to be, you know. He’s grown up. Maybe it’s being a father, or maybe it’s being married to Luna that’s done it.”
Blaise frowned as he scrutinized his mentor. There was something significantly different about the older wizard. He was wearing his normal black robes, and his hair was less oily than usual – probably due to not having to stand over boiling cauldrons for five hours a day – superficially, he seemed unchanged. However, having been trained to read people, Blaise turned his considerable powers of observation to his former professor. The deep lines furrowing his brow were smoother. It took a keen eye to notice that, nested within the well-trimmed goatee, Severus’ mouth was softened, relaxed, not its usual thin, pinched line. Blaise also noticed a few silver hairs in his mentor’s goatee, and smirked a little. If the Potions Master had any idea how becoming facial hair was on him, he’d surely cut it off.
Letting his mind drift, Blaise looked around the room, searching for any other clues to the change in Severus. He replayed the professor’s last words in his mind and realized there’d been no sting to them. No vitriol. Shocked, Blaise began to ask Severus what had happened, when his eyes lit upon the small cedar box that Severus held contemplatively between his hands, lightly running his fingers across its smooth surface.
Sitting upright, excitement colored his voice, Blaise exclaimed, “That’s a Mishima box! When did you get it, Severus?”
Severus sat up, as if Imperio’ed to attention. His mind had wandered as the younger wizard chatted about his recent marriage to Lavender Brown. ‘Pretty and passably intelligent’ had been his original assessment, and it hadn’t changed since she’d been his student. However, anything relating to his puzzle box was guaranteed to grab his interest, and his eyes pierced through his protégé’s excitement, “What are you talking about, Blaise?”
“That box you’re holding. It’s the customized calling card of Mishima, Ltd. Very impressive, Severus. Mishima’s incredibly difficult to contract; we hired them to rework the Estate’s wards a couple of years ago, and we’d been on the waiting list for three years before that. They rarely accept commissions within Britain… in fact, they’ve only begun to work in Europe recently, and you never meet their representatives. It’s their policy; something about eliminating all possible avenues for reprisal. They’re pricey and highly confidential, but worth every Galleon. Not a single Mishima client has ever been breached. You know how many threats I’ve had since the end of the war. Security has been a priority. So, what was in yours?”
“I beg your pardon?” Severus’ voice was harsh, lacking his customary silken tone, even to his own ears. The Potions Master was feeling out of his depth, and he didn’t like it. Not even a small amount.
“Your box, what was in yours?” Blaise looked at Severus uncomprehendingly… and then the ‘Lumos’ flickered in his brain. “You haven’t opened it, have you? Why ever not? I hear that the item in each box is highly personalized, different for each client. No one but the recipient can open the box.”
By this time, Severus was understandably irked and a trifle embarrassed to admit that he hadn’t been able to open the damned annoying little cedar box.
“I wasn’t given the code,” he confessed grudgingly.
“No one is given the whole code at first, just pieces of it. Actually, it’s a clever gimmick, each clue is tailored to the individual client. I understand it’s a relatively new innovation. Are you sure it was meant for you? Bugger! Of course, it was meant for you. Mishima boxes don’t manifest to anyone they’re not intended for. That’s how a client knows they’ve been found acceptable. When I found mine on the dining table, I was thrilled. It took me a week to open it. Inside was the most exquisite amber gazing ball. How they knew about Lavender’s divination work, I’ll never know.”
For once in his life, Severus was glad that Blaise Zabini had become such a talkative fellow. He doubted that Blaise or his wife ever heard a word the other said, neither stemming the flow of conversation for something so mundane as to listen to the other. But the information that his House’s former student was imparting added to the little he knew about his treasure.
“May I see it?” Blaise asked.
“You may, however, I would suggest you don’t attempt to touch it. It seems a bit selective. Actually, I have been the only one able to handle the thing without reprisal.”
Blaise laughed. “It’s definitely tailored to you, then. I can’t imagine anyone touching you without your permission.”
Severus smirked. He felt rather smug now that he held at least one piece to the puzzle. Hermione must work for Mishima, Ltd, which was perfectly consistent with the fact that she now lived in Japan, not to mention that she had hand delivered the ‘example’ of her work. Additionally, Blaise had said that each box came with clues, and was tailored to the individual recipient. It occurred to him that Blaise had just given him another piece to the puzzle.
“I give you permission to pick up the box. If it is honestly tailored to me, then granting you permission should diffuse the defensive wards.”
With some trepidation, Blaise noticed the gleam of humor in his mentor’s eyes as the younger wizard reached toward the small cedar box. When he was able to pick it up, he grinned triumphantly. “Aha! It was made for you, you old sod! It’s just as prickly as you are, too.”
Severus chuckled, “I prefer to think of it as ‘discriminating.’”
As unsettling as it was to think that he was so predictable, the Potions Master couldn’t help but be complimented that Hermione had remembered so much about him. Even if he remained uncomfortable with the possibility that she hadn’t lied about her feelings for him, he was still gratified by the fact that she’d known he’d be amused to have such control over his trinket.
As Blaise got up to leave, accepting Severus’ regrets for the evening, he noticed the hovering sigil over the actual carved mark in the lid of the box. “That’s odd. There appear to be two different symbols here.”
“What?! Show me.” Severus was livid that he hadn’t seen something so glaringly noticeable. As he lurched to retrieve his Mishima box from his former student, he realized that it was limned by two separate layers of color, which bled into one another to cast an overall orchid hue. The underlying glow of red had been overlapped by a vivid blue. Together, the two colors highlighted the shimmering, hovering sigil.
“Accio quill, Accio parchment!” Severus’ commands were sharp and forceful. As soon as he had quill and parchment in hand, he muttered “Replicato,” and allowed the quill to deftly reproduce the three dimensional, hovering symbol. Blaise fidgeted behind him, his excitement palpable in the quiet room. Even the fire seemed to understand the significance of the moment as it popped and crackled.
Narrowing his eyes on the symbol, Snape realized it was, in fact, two intertwined letters wrapped cleverly around the trunk of a tree. A part of his brain was applauding the cleverness and wit of the witch who’d thought of this. Without the tree, the meaning of the two letters would’ve stumped him. But the tree was, in itself, a clue. Thus, with great concentration, he delicately flicked his wand and the letters unwrapped themselves from the tree’s trunk to reveal the initial letters of the Afrikaans loan word for tree (boom) and snake (slang). Boomslang. The essential ingredient in Polyjuice Potion.
Throwing back his head, Severus laughed until his eyes teared. He’d always thought it had been Potter who’d stolen from his warded supplies cabinet during the brat’s second year. Now, he knew better. He should’ve known better then. Potter had never had half the intelligence of Hermione Granger.
“What is it, Severus? What’s so funny?” Blaise was itching with curiosity.
“My thanks, Blaise. It seems that this clue was waiting for me to ‘share’ my toy. Clever, clever witch.”
The last was said so quietly that Blaise was unsure he’d heard it. He’d also never heard that degree of approbation from his mentor… ever. “Well, are you going to open it?”
“If I can. However, considering that I haven’t been able to open it in three months, it stands to reason that the game has not yet reached the end stages. But you may stay if you like – if you will keep quiet.”
Showing that he had earned his high NEWT scores, Blaise immediately perched on the armchair he’d vacated several moments before, without a word passing his lips. Severus nodded approvingly and, directing his wand at the little Mishima box, he swished and said, “Boomslang.”
The box glowed a brighter purple, but nothing else occurred.
“Boomslang skin.”
Again the bright purple glow.
“Polyjuice Potion.”
Absolutely no response from the box. The Potions Master, on the other hand, began to pace. Blaise quietly watched his friend, knowing that the older wizard’s patience was running out, and would figuratively bite his head off if he spoke. But, he had an idea.
“Severus…” he began.
“I said you had to be quiet.”
“I have a thought that might help.”
“Well…?” Impatience underlined the deep baritone query.
“I take it you know the person who gave the box to you?” At Severus’ sharp glance, Blaise continued, “I may dither a bit now that I can, but there’s nothing wrong with my hearing or my brain. You said, ‘clever, clever witch.’ If you know who gave it to you, then I’d think the password might be more cryptic.”
“Obviously.” Frustration at his own underestimation of the witch who’d gifted him with so fascinating a puzzle in the first place gave more bite to the retort than Severus had perhaps intended. But his mind was elsewhere, deep in thought.
The tall Potions Master resumed his pacing, scowl firmly in place, brow furrowed. It wasn’t difficult for him to recall Hermione Granger’s entire history as a student at Hogwarts… after all, she’d been on his mind for the past three months, and he’d culled his memories of her public history, as well as every detail and nuance of their more personal interactions. Some of the memories were sharply painful, while others left him nostalgic for the fleeting moments of shared intellectual zeal, or the breathtaking poignancy of her assistance during the final battle.
Searching for the path of remembrance that the clue recalled, Severus’ mind immediately sought the memory of the Golden Trio’s second year, when Hermione had missed a rather large number of classes. Ironically, her absence hadn’t resulted in the slightest blip on her academic record, even though she’d spent an inordinate amount of time in the hospital wing that year, first as the byproduct of a Polyjuice accident, and, secondly, when she’d been petrified as a result of the opening of the Chamber of Secrets.
Blaise kept quiet, his sparkling indigo eyes tracking the still-graceful wizard pacing in front of the roaring fire. He’d forgotten how unconsciously elegant that the former spy’s movements could be. He knew better than to interrupt Severus’ train of thought at this moment. He simply relaxed in the comfortable leather chair, and enjoyed the aroma of the fire and the remnants of their tea.
“Ah. Of course. Careless of me to think her superficial.” Severus’ voice had taken on a slightly softer, almost affectionate, timbre.
Across the room, Blaise bit his tongue to keep from asking just who his mentor was thinking of. He’d never heard that particular tone in Severus’ voice before, and, even now, as he scrutinized the older wizard, the silver-flecked goatee hid the softened line of his mouth. Blaise rather thought that Severus was smiling.
Abruptly, the raven-haired Potions Master ceased his pacing, and once again swished his wand at the enticing box of cedar, “Basilisk.”
The shimmering, luminous outer layer of vivid blue expanded until it surrounded the cedar box by a width of a full three inches in diameter. Suddenly, multiple layers of charms and magical ley lines became visible in a rainbow of variegated colors, and then, with a fluted, four-note musical scale echoing throughout the suite, the outer layer of protection dissipated into nothingness.
The box remained closed; however, now there was only a layer of red illumination surrounding it. The other colors that they’d seen so briefly had vanished with the outer layer. Severus recognized the angry red glow from times that someone other than he had attempted to hold the box. Peering at his trinket on the table, he looked at the carved sigil, which appeared to be crisply etched on the wooden lid. It was a heraldic symbol: a circle surrounding a three-leaved flower, balanced on a stem. He’d never seen it before, but Blaise had.
“Wow, Severus, you do rate. That’s the Mishima family crest. Who gave this thing to you?”
Severus felt a small bubble of pleasure and satisfaction - hoarding information was a vestigial habit of his days as a spy - still he wasn’t divulging the giver of the gift just yet.
“It was nice of you to come by, Blaise, but do you not have a party to host?”
“Oh, no! You’re not getting rid of me that easily. I helped you. You have to tell me.”
“I will,” Severus smirked, “just not yet.”
“Severus!” Blaise knew it was a lost cause.
“Blaise! I will tell you in my own good time, and today is not a good time.”
Good naturedly, but still grousing, Blaise accepted the decree. Shaking his mentor’s hand warmly, he bid Severus a Happy New Year, followed by a sharp admonition that Severus knew where to find him whenever he wanted assistance with the box. His indigo eyes shining happily as he departed, Blaise thought about the story he’d have to tell Lavender when he got home.
As soon as the door shut behind Blaise, Severus crossed the room to pick up his treasure. The red light dimmed and vanished. The moment the box’s red ward disappeared, a woman’s voice filled the room, “Happy New Year, Severus.” It was Hermione’s voice, and Severus smiled in response. She was a clever chit, indeed.
That night he slept well, and if he dreamed of an elegant, brown-haired, brown-eyed woman, with the enticing fragrance of ylang ylang and neroli, he wouldn’t tell.