Chapter Four: Solutions
In which Severus has some success and some failure. There is some light lemonade in this chapter.
Confidently expecting the remainder of the wards to reveal themselves and be as easy to subvert as the outer layer, Severus was deeply disappointed when the little box remained as impervious as ever. By mid-January, after the winter term had commenced, the reviled and most hated professor at Hogwarts had made his appearance once again.
Students fled as Severus stalked the halls of Hogwarts, taking points as frequently as he drew breath. Even Miss Flint, the Fourth Year Ravenclaw, who’d had a bit of a crush on her Potions professor, fled in fear of his acid tongue. Her fancy had died a quick and painful death, having been given a taste of the rough side of Severus’ tongue one afternoon in Potions when she’d answered one question too many. Her resemblance to a bushy-haired know-it-all had been too much for the professor’s temper. After class, she’d pronounced to her fellow Ravenclaws that, indeed, no witch could ever love the Potions Master.
His exploits over the next couple of weeks sent his popularity plummeting lower than it had ever been.
“Ten points, Miss Finch-Fletchley, you are out after curfew. It is a shame we do not have your Head of House teach a remedial course in telling time.”
And, again, as a migraine threatened to override any remaining patience, Severus had caught the Weasley cousins sneaking into the kitchens and starting a food fight with the Ravenclaws who were already conducting their own midnight raid. “Messrs. Weasley, Miss Weasley, I expected nothing better from your fathers’ children, but I had hoped, obviously a mistake on my part, that perhaps your mothers’ influence might have curbed the Weasley predilection for rule-breaking. Twenty-five points from Gryffindor. Each.”
The worst, however, was his combined Slytherin/Gryffindor First Year’s Potions class. “Mr. Longbottom, I regret that this is a required class for even those students with your gross incompetence. I’m certain you will be relieved to know that if you continue as you have begun, in another five years you will have surpassed even your father’s dubious accomplishment of melting more cauldrons than any other student in the history of this institution. As much as it pains me, ten points from Slytherin.”
The practices and habits of decades cannot be easily erased by one heartfelt gesture of goodwill, no matter how intriguingly wrapped, and, in his perceived state of vulnerability after New Year’s Day, Severus had concluded that he’d grown soft. Soft and insipid. Hermione Granger, the little chit of a witch, had undoubtedly meant to torment him by ridiculing him in front of his peers and his students by presenting him with an unbreakably warded box. All his former delight in the puzzle that the box represented was subsumed by his frustration, anger, and perceived humiliation.
He was done being a puppet.
On a bitterly cold night at the end of January, Severus stalked to the top of the Astronomy Tower, balefully glared at the annoying cedar box and, with several harsh words, he flung it from the top of the tower, hoping to cast the damned gift from its height and pulverize the rootlets of affection for its creator that had begun deep in Severus’ heart.
“Insufferable… insolent… irritating… stupid little girl! How dare she? Ridiculous waste of my time!”
Refusing to see whether the box had been shattered by its long fall, he descended from the high tower at a furious pace, stormed through the castle to his own quarters, where he changed the password on his wards to ‘bushy-haired bint,’ and proceeded to drink himself into a stupor. He was livid -- with himself, with Hermione, with the situation, with his inability to figure out the puzzle she’d given him.
Severus Snape had one long-standing vanity: he was used to being more intelligent than most people around him. One of the reasons he tolerated Albus, Minerva, and Filius Flitwick to such an extent was the fact that they were as intelligent as he. He found their conversation bracing and interesting. The fact that a former student, regardless of how promising, had stumped him had hewn a serious chink in his intellectual armor. As Severus fell into a firewhiskey-induced slumber, he assiduously ignored his conscience, which told him that, if he’d simply ask Hermione, she might tell him the password.
Waking the next morning was painful and rather embarrassing. He was nauseated, had a headache and his spine was stiff and sore from sleeping in his chair. His clothing was rumpled, and he smelled of stale firewhiskey and the previous day’s sweat. He felt old. Not even in his mid-fifties, he’d already lived a harder and more wearying life than wizards twice his age. Pinching the bridge of his nose and groaning, Severus opened his bleary eyes, only to see, perched atop his pile of books on the coffee table, his small cedar box. Unbroken and undamaged.
It mocked him. She mocked him. The whole effing castle mocked him.
“ARGH! Bloody, sodding, hell! Get out of my life, you vicious little witch!”
Severus struggled to his feet, in a frenzy, looking for his wand. He was going to blast the taunting little cedar rectangle into splinters and use it for kindling. He scooped up his fourteen-inch ebony wand, feeling its familiar grooves slip into his accustomed grip, and he found his other hand unconsciously patting his pocket in what had become a habit. It was empty. Its normal occupant was lying atop a pile of books, waiting to be blasted to bits. Unnerved, he recognized the degree to which the little box had become his personal talisman of comfort over the past several months.
Shocked into immobility, Severus practically fell back into his chair, dropping his wand into his lap as he hung his throbbing head in his hands. How low had he sunk? What had he become? How could this have happened? What had Hermione done to him? Where was she? What was happening to him?
Groaning, he looked at the little box, his left hand itching to hold it, to feel its smooth wood in his fingers. He refused to succumb to the inclination, the accustomed pattern, the need.
Unbidden, the little box began to glow an iridescent, emerald green, pulsing and heating the surrounding space. Severus could feel it from his chair. When the box was so bright that it hurt to look at it, Hermione’s voice echoed through his chambers in a lecturing, teasing tone.
“Each Mishima box is individually crafted, revealing its clues in conjunction with the recipient’s need and interest. Or, in your case, Severus, it’s tuned to your impatience. I gave you all the clues you need to open the box when we spoke in August. All you have to do is to remember them, and you’ll have the answers.”
The emerald light faded as her message sounded in the hollow chill of his rooms, until, with her final word, it winked out, leaving the little box, once again, quiescent.
Galvanized by her message, Severus was not about to be out-thought, outdone, outmaneuvered by a thirty-one year old witch, no matter how intelligent and innovative. He stiffly made his way to his bath and downed the last vial of hangover elixir. He’d have to add it to the list of potions he needed to restock.
Severus folded his long body into his tub, reveling in the hot, bay rum scented water. As his muscles began to relax, and he stretched to his full length, letting the elixir take effect, Severus resolutely turned his memory to the last time he saw Hermione Granger. What had she said that last day of summer that would give him the clues to open the bloody box? She’d given him a list of dates. Significant dates according to her. That surely couldn’t be it. There was no correlation between those dates and the events surrounding the box, other than when Minerva had been thrown from her chair. A small smirk played at the corner of Severus’ mouth at the memory of Minerva picking herself up from his floor. No, the dates weren’t it.
What else had she said?
As his headache and nausea receded, it was easier to think. Severus had always enjoyed letting his mind wander while in the bath; he’d often been at his most creative when submerged to his chin in aromatic, steaming water.
“I appreciate your giving me a few minutes of your time today. I know you’re busy. I’ve followed your recent research and read your published articles. It’s been heartening to know that your career has flourished.”
Her voice was so clear in his mind that, for a moment, he thought the box had followed him through his chambers and was, once again, playing a recorded message. It hadn’t. For some reason, one he wasn’t willing to dwell upon, Hermione’s words from that last day of August remained clear and concise in his head. What was important about this last bit? Realization ignited his brain, as combustible as ‘Incendio.’
Sitting up so quickly that water sloshed onto the stone floor, Severus knew what the clue was. He knew. It was so blindingly clear that he couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to him before. He’d centered his thoughts on her strength – charms -- and not his own. The box had been tailored to suit him, his forte. Potions.
Damnation! What a complete and utter git he’d been, not to have realized before. Blaise had told him that each box was clued for its owner. Hermione had made this box for him.
Roused once more into action, Severus hastened to dress and, retrieving the box from his sitting room, reveling in the feel of the wooden talisman once more at home in his hand, he made his way to the small, private laboratory he’d called his own for two decades. Quickly making his way across the room, Hogwarts’ Potions Master waved his hand and wandlessly ignited the torches to light the room. The notes and receipt from his most successful variant were still on the blackboard, which comprised almost the entirety of the back wall. His revealing potion. Tasteless, odorless, and almost undetectable.
“I’ve followed your recent research and read your published articles.”
Her words rang in his head. This was what she was talking about.
A number of Death Eaters had escaped from the final battle and attempted to hide across Britain and the Continent. Taking a hint from the famous wizard writer, and like his purloined letter, they’d hid in plain sight. Aurors had found it incredibly difficult to identify the former Death Eaters because they’d taken to wearing glamours -- some more effectively than others -- to disguise themselves as they’d crafted new identities.
Severus had been instrumental in identifying many of the escapees. As a member of the Dark Lord’s inner circle, he’d been privy to the identities of the new recruits, a fact which had caused him no end of heartache when he’d realized that the majority of Slytherin’s students had elected to take the Dark Mark upon their eighteenth birthdays. Choice, parental directive, or peer pressure hadn’t mattered in the end. All but five of the graduating Slytherin Class of 1998 had died in the skirmishes leading up to and during the final battle. Two of the remaining five were in Azkaban. Blaise Zabini, because of his undercover work for the Order had been immediately pardoned, and Draco Malfoy, because of his family’s vast fortune and influence, had been placed under house arrest, in an outward attempt to show the public a ‘reformed’ Death Eater. And the last, Pansy Parkinson, who’d had no choice in the matter of taking the disfiguring mark, had gone underground.
A week after Voldemort’s defeat at the hands of the then twenty-one year old Potter, Severus had begun to craft his revealing potion. He’d named the potion after his Roman ancestors who’d founded the small village of Snape in Yorkshire, and had managed to hide themselves so seamlessly that the present population of three-hundred-fifty had no idea that Snape Manor had been built on the site of the family’s original Roman villa. It’d taken him four years to perfect his revealing draught and, upon completion, the Compromettere Potion had first been put in the hands of the Order of the Phoenix, and then given to the Aurors.
It’d functioned exactly as intended and, six years ago, Bill Weasley, under the guise of a new customer, had visited Madam Rose’s, to unmask the missing Pansy Parkinson. She’d been passing herself off as the proprietress of Knockturn Alley’s most lucrative brothel. With her arrest, the last unveiled Death Eater had been taken into custody.
Nott, Dolohov and Mulciber had been captured the previous year, all with the use of the Compromettere Potion, at a dinner party Mulciber had hosted at his retreat in Tuscany. Nymphadora Tonks had attended the party in the guise of the wife of the local mayor. Her Metamorphmagus form had been unaffected by the Compromettere Potion; she’d been able to add half a vial of the tasteless liquid to the wine served with dinner, and call in reinforcements as soon as the glamours had evaporated.
The Ministry of Magic had finally retracted the confidentiality clause eighteen months ago, and Severus had been elated to learn that he’d be able to publish his findings and research. The previous spring, Alchemist’s Monthly had published his findings, it had been one of the most satisfying moments of his career. No longer hampered by his work as a spy, Severus had finally been able to pursue his chosen field of research.
Basking for a brief moment in remembered success, Severus glanced around the small lab. Two walls of shelves housed his ingredients and bottled potions, categorized first by toxicity and usage, then perishability, and, finally, alphabetically within each subcategory. A third wall was covered by the chalkboard and sink, and the final wall housed his work table. It ran the length of the twenty-foot room, and was a five-inch thick oak plank.
His affinity for wood had led Severus to choose it over a granite surface, and its fire resistant quality had made oak his choice. Over the years, its durability had been a boon. When the lab was in use, Severus cleaned the table magically and manually. He’d “Evanesco” the remaining corrosive or magical detritus first, and then pour scalding water on the oaken surface, raising any remaining impurities from the grain of the wood. Taking fine grit sandpaper, Severus would spend up to half an hour removing any imperfections from the tabletop. The results met both his standards of cleanliness and the artist’s need in his soul. He loved to run his hands along the surface, feeling the satin-smooth texture of the finely grained wood.
Scanning the stores of his completed potions, Severus knew that he had a few Compromettere bottles left on the shelves. But somehow, he wanted to make a fresh batch for the box. It would take two weeks. Now that he had a course of action, he could wait. He knew how to be a patient man. After all, he’d waited for two decades to defeat the Dark Lord. Pushing up his sleeves, Severus was no longer bothered by the fact that the faded Dark Mark still marred his left forearm, he set to work.
That night, he dreamed of Hermione again, only this time he remembered it in the morning. In that curious state of semi-awareness, before one’s body fully awakens, Severus felt the stirrings of his arousal, but courted the remnants of the erotic images he’d just been slumbering in the arms of -- he didn’t want to wake from the heady eroticism. He’d been dreaming of a nude and passionate Hermione. Mithras’ Horns, she was captivating in the throes of pleasure.
Out of the faded charcoal mist of his mind’s eye, Severus conjured the image of her naked body sprawled across his black silk sheets, her fair skin clearly limned by the dark background, accentuating her pale breasts with their dusky areolas, and her waist nipping in before rounding out into womanly hips which gave way to lean, toned legs. Legs that were spread far enough to draw his attention to the apex of her thighs, a tantalizing delicacy with its protective coat of glistening, damp, chestnut curls. Looking back to her mouth, watching her tongue trace along her full, bottom lip, Severus felt his desire race through him with the speed of a Firebolt 2010 and his erection twitched in response. He could hear the throbbing of his heart in a tremendous pulsating beat, similar to Taiko drums, hammering against his ribs with the escalation of his need.
Nothing beyond the bed and Hermione existed for him, and Severus breathed raggedly as he looked down upon the willing, naked woman spread across his sheets. Hermione’s unruly hair, unbound, covered the pillows with curling tendrils in a manner of enticement that was bewitching. Her eyes were heavy-lidded with desire and sleep, and she reached for him, almost purring his name, “Severus.”
He was on her in an instant.
Years’ worth of pent up and unacknowledged attraction had built to an unendurable need on his part, and the surge of desire burned in his groin as his erection pulsated in reaction to her nearness, to the exotic mingled scent of her fragrance and her arousal. Severus had to have her, now.
Quickly moving to the welcoming cradle of her legs, he leaned on one elbow, covering her body with his, feeling the satin of her skin against his. Nothing had ever felt this good, this right. His entire existence was narrowed to this experience. Time slowed down, and his movements were like a paddle through treacle. Trailing his fingers along the arm she’d wrapped in his hair, he felt the gooseflesh raise upon her skin as he, with tormenting languor, forged a path to her breasts. His erection throbbed with urgency as he rocked gently against her, begging for entrance, even as his fingers circled, tugged, and rolled her nipple, causing instant pebbling. Hermione arched her back, thrusting her chest up to him, gasping for breath. Severus couldn’t wait another second, and with one swift thrust, he sheathed himself into her tight, welcoming depths.
A low groan broke into his reminiscence, half-dream, half-fantasy, and Severus woke fully to discover that the groan was his own, and the illusion of her tight depths was, humiliatingly, his own hand. He was too far gone and, within a short few strokes, Severus climaxed, his release explosive, yet entirely unsatisfying.
Growling at his fancy, the Potions Master grabbed his wand and cleaned himself up before beginning his day. The elation of the previous evening was dampened slightly by the creeping understanding that something had changed irrevocably in terms of how he thought about Hermione Granger, although perhaps not changed so much as finally recognized. However much he might wish to return to ignorance, his current course was determined… he had to know what was in the box. Nothing else seemed as vital as brewing the Compromettere and discovering what trinket Hermione had thought most appropriate for him.
The following two weeks passed slowly for Severus, but everyone else in the castle was relieved that the Potions Master seemed to have discarded his resurrected evil ‘bat of the dungeons’ persona in favor of the brooding but, on the whole, more congenial wizard they’d all grown accustomed to. His students no longer quaked in fear, and Poppy Pomfrey had gone so far as to wish him a Happy Valentine’s Day at breakfast. He’d been so busy that morning, adding the final ingredient to the Compromettere -- five grains of powdered Hellebore -- that he’d forgotten what day it was. He’d measured the toxic substance carefully; it was rendered safe in combination with the other ingredients of the potion, and its benefits were unquestioned. The addition of Hellebore was what rendered the glamour invisible. Once it was added, the potion had changed color from a crystal blue, to a much darker gray, and, after simmering for fifteen hours, and eight counter-revolutions of a hand-blown glass spoon every four hours, the potion would be complete.
In his single-minded purpose, Severus ignored the increasing frivolity during the day. Even the Headmaster’s cloying cheerfulness hadn’t fazed him when he’d entered the Great Hall at dinner. For tonight was the night he’d use the Compromettere on his gift. Seated at the High Table, Severus sneered at the pink, heart-shaped confection on his dessert plate. It was another example of his tolerance that he didn’t drop it on the floor or throw it at Albus.
Severus had always loathed Valentine’s Day; it only served to remind him of the fact that he was alone. However, this year, his thoughts were turned to the clever, sparkling brown-eyed witch who’d given him a most admirable puzzle to solve, and seemed to lurk in his subconscious during every waking moment, not to mention, increasingly, as the star of his dreams as well. Pushing his plate to the side, Severus removed his box from his pocket and, leaning on his elbows, the Potions Master let his fingers caress the wood, listening to the slight thud of the metal inside as he tilted it to and fro. Just two more hours until he would be free of his in loco parentis obligations for the evening.
While the majority of the students danced in the Great Hall, Severus took his accustomed path through the rose garden, rousting snogging couples as he went. In contrast to past years, he issued warnings and deletion of house points, but, at the end of his tour of duty, no rose bushes had been blasted and he’d not issued a single detention with Argus Filch. Instead, as soon as his rounds were completed, he hurried to his private lab, eager to see just what his little treasure would reveal.
At his warded entry, Severus muttered his new password, “Clever girl,” and entered. Shedding cloak and teaching robes as he went, he rolled up his sleeves and entered his lab. The copper cauldron simmered gently on a low flame, and the potion within had turned its final color. None. It was completely clear. The slightly noxious smell of the Hellebore from the morning’s addition had dissipated entirely.
With deliberate motions, Severus subdued the magical flame, and readied the vials for the cooled, decanted potion. An hour later, he bottled the Compromettere, half to be consigned to Albus and half to the Ministry. The Ministry paid handsomely for his work, and he’d begun a personal nest egg -- entirely separate from the entailed Snape Estate funds, which were just enough to maintain the uninhabited manor – out of the commission. It’d become quite sizeable after several years of compound interest and periodic deposits.
After setting aside five vials for his personal use, the bottling was complete and his efforts were boxed for delivery. Methodically, Severus cleaned his work bench; if his heart beat a little in anticipation of the experiment to come, he pretended that it was just a matter of a little physical exertion.
At ten minutes to midnight, all was in readiness. Severus placed the cedar box on his work table, and felt the adrenaline race through his veins. His palms were slightly sweaty. It’d been five-and-a-half months since he’d come into possession of the trinket, and today, he felt certain, its secrets would be revealed.
Taking a low-volume pipette, Severus sucked a five milliliter portion of Compromettere from its dark blue vial. He then held the glass tool center symbol over the box and, drop-by-drop, emptied the pipette onto the sigil. Within seconds multiple layers of previously invisible wards surrounding the palm-sized box were illuminated clearly and distinctly. Their colors ringed the color wheel, and each layer appeared to be separated by some form of magical ley line. Severus was momentarily stunned by the thoroughness of Hermione’s work.
Quickly summoning parchment and quill, he began to jot down notes, his scientific mind preparing for the orderly dismantling of the wards. He itemized the layers, and had catalogued several: chartreuse, red, gold, cerulean, lavender, and indigo, including the estimation of their widths, when a silver sheen began to saturate the outer chartreuse layer, rendering it inactive and inert. The ley lines beneath it disappeared, and the silver mist began to corrupt the red layer as well, subsuming the ward within its wake.
Something like panic began to roil in Severus’ gut as he worried whether the Compromettere had been contra-indicated, and, as the layers melted and merged into one another, narrowing until only a few remained between the outer perimeter wards and the actual wooden box, Severus crossed his lab, almost at a run, to grab the antidote. What if the potion damaged his box, his gift, his link to Hermione? His heart wrenched painfully at the thought that his memento might be destroyed.
When the mercurial silver sheen had penetrated and dissolved the external layers until only three remained, Severus opened the ante-Compromettere. He decided that it would be better never to know what was inside rather than to destroy it completely. However, almost in conjunction with his thought, the ravenous silver component halted its destruction and sealed the remaining wards in place.
Once again, as had happened twice before, Hermione’s voice filled the lab.
“A superb piece of work, Severus, my compliments. You have every right to be proud of the Compromettere. Your dedication and level of creative application is merely one facet that makes you so very appealing.” Her voice took on a teasing note, “Nevertheless, did you think I’d make it so easy for you? Tsk, tsk! You still have all the information you need to break the final wards. Happy Valentine’s Day.”
Then her words faded along with the enveloping silver layer of protection around the small box, leaving a very relieved and slightly befuddled Potions Master staring at her work. His box had been saved. Hermione had congratulated him and wished him a Happy Valentine’s Day. She thought he was appealing. She’d teased him, and offered him a challenge.
An unknown feeling suffused him, similar to what he’d felt for Narcissa, but yet so very different. He wished fervently that he could’ve seen Hermione’s face as the words were spoken. He wanted to ask her about her wards, and her work. How had she set up the timed vocal responses? Gods! He wanted to see her, to talk with her, to spend time with her. What had the little witch done to him?
Utterly bemused, Severus pocketed his box, patting its familiar form distorting the pocket of his robes, and returned to his quarters. He automatically undressed, placing wand and box in their customary places upon his night stand, and slipped under the covers of his large bed, pulling up the heavy comforter. With a wave of his hand, he snuffed the torches ringing his room. He closed his eyes, hoping that he’d find her in his dreams, so he could wish her a Happy Valentine’s Day, and with a small smile on his lips, Severus dropped off to sleep.