Home | Members | Help | Submission Rules | Log In |
Recently Added | Categories | Titles | Completed Fics | Random Fic | Search | Top Fictions
SS/Canon

Insidious by Grainne [Reviews - 7]

<< >>

Would you like to submit a review?

Author's Note: Many thanks to the patient and hard-working Vaughn for her beta services. All errors are my own.




Insidious

by Grainne






Chapter 6: Enticements



On the morning of August nineteenth, Petunia Dursley found more than milk and over-priced eggs on her doorstep. There was also a grey envelope bearing her name. She scanned the street suspiciously, but it was early yet, and there was no one about. She plucked the envelope off the mat and examined it more closely. Her eyes grew wide; the envelope bore no postal mark, stamp, or address, and it had a soft, mysterious bulge in the centre. Petunia glanced about once more, crammed the envelope into the pocket of her apron, and withdrew into the house.

A moment later, Mrs Toddy rounded the corner with Fergie, her Pekingese. Fergie started barking like mad, and Mrs Toddy, eager to calm her pet, failed to notice the cause of Fergie’s concern—namely, that the door of number four had just opened and that two seemingly disembodied hands had just appeared, roughly at Pekingese height. The hands snatched the milk and eggs and disappeared inside.

*******


Snape released the last of the pigeons into a hazy morning sky and turned back toward the house. He’d been up half the night writing letters—some of them with that blasted, finicky biro—and his fingers were cramped and sore. He was almost grateful to see Wormtail’s silhouette through the kitchen window, as it meant that there would be tea. And an opportunity to vent his spleen (near-gratitude was not the same thing as forgiveness). Snape let himself into the kitchen.

“You’ve cracked the teapot, Wormtail.”

Wormtail, hunched over a pan on the hob, looked up. “I didn’t,” he said quietly.

“What?” Snape crossed to the cooker and glared down at the shorter man. To Snape’s surprise, Wormtail did not flinch, although his eyes dropped back to the pan in front of him. “If you think you can lie to me and—”

“I didn’t put a crack in that teapot,” Wormtail insisted.

“Of course you did!” Snape spat. “You’re the only other person who’s been in this kitchen all summer. Insolence, treachery—and now carelessness and lies—I don’t know why I allowed you to return.” Snape bent down to sniff the contents of the pan, then gave a disapproving snort. “It certainly wasn’t for your cooking abilities. I think I’ll just have some toast…and be quick about it; I’ve a great deal to do before I leave for Hogwarts.”

Snape longed to stride away imperiously after such a speech, but he still wanted a cup of tea, and the distance from the hob to the kitchen table allowed for nothing more than an exaggerated step or two. He settled himself at the table and was reaching for the teapot when he became aware that Wormtail had not moved.

“Wormtail? Come along now; I said I’ve a great deal to do before I leave.”

Snape thought he saw the little man start to tremble. Suddenly, Wormtail spun around, the hot pan still clutched in his silver hand. His face was pinched and splotchy, disfigured by high emotion.

“And I, for one, ” he screeched, flinging the pan onto the floor, “can’t wait until you do—get your own damn toast!” He flung the wooden spoon down as well and scurried out of the kitchen.

Snape blinked. His hand twitched instinctively toward his wand, then fell back onto his lap. He sat there, open-mouthed, staring at the new dent in the floor and the slow tide of lumpy porridge oozing from the upended pan.

“Leave off, Toby. It wasn’t his fault.”

“It bloody well was! Did you see—”

“What I saw, Tobias Snape, was that you startled him. You know better than to sneak up on him like that when he’s concentrating on controlling his—”

“He was meant to be getting the breakfast, Eileen. The normal way. Not mucking about with magic.”

“Magic
is normal for him! That is never going to change, never, so the sooner you get it through your thick skull, the better. And if you’re not going to help with the mess, then get the hell out of the kitchen.”

“Eileen—”

“On second thought, just go. It’ll be quicker without you.”

“Oh, nice! Our son nearly burns his hand off and ruins my good hand-planed floor—all thanks to magic, by the way—and what’s your solution? You’re going to waggle your little magic stick and make it all better. How is he ever supposed to learn that there are consequences in this world, Eileen?”

“In
our world, Tobias, the consequences for not learning how to wield your power are far greater that being made to wipe up spilt porridge. Go on, get out!

“Severus…
Severus, come here, child. Let Mummy have a look at your hand. Did you burn it? Oh, for Merlin’s…there, that’ll numb things until I can make a poultice.

“Now, listen to me carefully, Severus. Your father shouldn’t have done that, but you’ve got to work harder at blocking out distractions. Most of the time, you won’t have the luxury of performing magic alone in a quiet space, and enemies won’t wait for you to take a deep breath and focus before they attack.”


Snape blinked once more. No, he thought, they won’t. But the worst kind of enemies won’t attack at all. They’ll just sneak around behind your back telling lies, setting traps, and laughing at you from a distance as you walk headlong to your doom. Snape had learned a great deal from his mother before she died, but he’d had to discover that caveat on his own.

Snape stood slowly, his body acutely aware of the hours it had spent hunched over a writing desk when it should have been stretched out in bed. He scowled at the mess on the floor. He considered Vanishing it straight into Wormtail’s bedroom, but he couldn’t quite spur himself to action. The memory had unsettled him. As he poured himself a cup of tea, Snape wondered if there was such a thing as Dreamless Sleep for the daytime. Something that prevented all forms of reverie, nostalgia, and remorse. Something that could prevent him from thinking about who he was and where he had come from.

“Well, there’s always Obliviation,” he whispered with a wry smile. He wrapped his hand around the teacup, but the tea had little heat left to share with the cup, and thus the cup could offer no comfort to his cramped fingers. He downed the tepid brew in one swallow, stepped around the mess on the floor, and went in search of Wormtail.

Snape hated to admit it, but it looked like he was finally going to have to take Dumbledore’s advice and show the pitiful creature some mercy—if only because murdering him outright was not yet a viable option.

*******


Petunia kept up a cheerful enough demeanour until Vernon left for work. Then she set about fretting. She fretted in the kitchen and she fretted in the lounge. She considered burning the letter in the fireplace without opening it, but she didn’t. She went into the hall, where she fretted some more, pacing and peering anxiously through the rippled glass in the door. Eventually she returned to the kitchen, where she left off fretting and commenced dallying—over her chores and a second cup of tea. Still, whenever she stood or sat or leaned over a counter, she heard the soft rustling of the envelope in her pocket. She thought about binning it or taking it out into the garden and burying it. But she didn’t.

Around ten, she looked in on Dudley. He was sprawled face-down, one thick arm dangling off the mattress, head buried under the pillows—the very picture of a teenage boy on summer holiday having an untroubled (and unapologetic) lie-in. And yet, as Petunia gazed at him, she could not help but be reminded of the pictures she’d seen on the telly of the young man they’d recently dragged out of the Basingstoke Canal. Surrey Police weren’t saying much, but Petunia assumed it had been drugs or suicide—or both. She shivered.

But she was being foolish, and she told herself so. Dudley, bless him, would never take drugs. He probably wouldn’t know an illicit substance if he saw one, and as for suicide, why, he had no possible reason to consider it. He was immensely popular and good at sport, and hadn’t she and Vernon made it their number one priority to provide him with the best of everything?

Petunia smiled fondly at her sleeping son and closed the door. She returned to the kitchen, where she steeled herself with a third cup of tea before removing the envelope from her pocket and slitting it open with a poultry skewer.

The bulge proved to be something silvery and coiled; it slid out of the envelope and unfurled upon the table. Petunia started, instinctively tightening her grip on the skewer. The silvery object lay still. It appeared to be a length of ribbon—and rather pretty ribbon, too—but Petunia wasn’t taking any chances. Using the skewer, she prodded, poked, and finally stabbed it. When, at last, she was satisfied that it was only a ribbon, she released the skewer and removed the letter from the envelope. Her fingers shook a little as she unfolded it. Her eyes immediately jumped to the signature scrawled at the bottom, and she gave a cry of relief. It was from Mr Prince!

Her worst fear—namely, that this was another note from that crazed, horrible old Dumbledore—dispelled, Petunia settled back into her chair to read the letter. And for the second time that morning, she chided herself for her foolishness. There was no sinister mystery, no dreaded magic here. Only an eccentric (but apparently very well-connected) gentleman who was still willing to put himself out for the sake of her roses, even in the face of a family emergency.

My dear Mrs Dursley,

My apologies for this awkward method of correspondence; I assure you that I do not make a habit of mistaking the milk float for the Royal Mail.

I can’t remember if I’ve mentioned it to you, but I am involved in the running of an estate up north. A relative’s illness has necessitated my immediate presence. I won’t trouble you with the details, but the situation is very complex, and I fear I may have to remain there for some time.

Rest assured, though, that I have not forgotten about your roses. In fact, I found I could not leave without seeing them once more, so I came by quite early. Anxious that you should not have to wait long to hear of my departure, but not wanting to wake you, I tucked this somewhere I knew you’d find it. Although it will no longer be possible for me to oversee the showcase entry personally, you won’t have to lift a finger. I will arrange for someone to stop by and take a cutting, likely a day or two before the event. Please tie the enclosed ribbon around the James Mason to identify it; this will ensure that the correct specimen is collected if no one is at home.

I regret that, for reasons of national security, I will not be able to give you my exact address, but I will be in touch as soon as I am able. Any messages for me may be sent via Mrs Mountbatten-Woolley-St. John-Blye.

Thank you again for your excellent hospitality the other evening; I appreciate it much more than you know. Give my regards to your husband and tell him that I have not forgotten his little dilemma. I hope to have some definite news for him in the coming weeks.

Sincerely yours,
Elliot Prince


Petunia picked up the ribbon as she read, unconsciously rubbing its silky length between her forefinger and thumb.

“Estate up north,” she whispered, her voice tinged with awe. “Reasons of national security…oh my.”

Whatever insult she felt at not being deemed trustworthy enough to know the address was lessened by a sudden, grand fantasy involving Mr Prince’s connection to an Admiral or some Lord or other—or perhaps even to a member of the Royal Family. Mr Prince had hinted at powerful allies before, but Petunia had never imagined anything like this. She couldn’t wait to tell Vernon.

*******


“That was a very foolish thing to do, Wormtail; do you know why?”

There was no sound from the other side of the door. Snape could have blasted it open, but he’d decided to allow the rat the illusion of having a choice in the matter—another tactic he’d picked up from Lucius. Although, as Snape reflected, the concept wasn’t entirely unknown to Dumbledore.

“There is, of course, the fact that I could imprison you in this house—in this very room, even—whilst I’m away. Trapped here for months and months—or, at least, until our master decides that he desperately desires your company.”

Still, Wormtail made no reply.

“Or,” Snape continued, “I could tell Bellatrix that you’ve been saying unkind things about her. Tell her how you boast about helping Master to regain his body, how you scoff at her claim that she is his most devoted servant. Tell her that you would bet your new hand that she would not make a similar sacrifice for—”

The door was wrenched open, hinges shrieking. Wormtail stood in the gap with a flushed face; little beads of moisture dotted his forehead. He clutched his prosthetic hand to his chest.

“You wouldn’t, Snape. I mean, I never…I didn’t—”

“But,” Snape went on, pushing his way into the room as if he hadn’t been interrupted, “the number one reason why that was a very foolish thing to do is this: I was going to leave you in charge of the Living Water project.”

Wormtail gasped. “R-really?” he stuttered.

“Mmm,” Snape replied, non-committally. “Of course, it requires a keen mind, a steady hand, and a delicate touch. I don’t know that I’d trust it to someone who flings saucepans about and goes into hysterics like a Muggle housewife.”

Snape watched as conflicting urges played out on Wormtail’s face. The rat was obviously still angry and mildly hysterical—there was a healthy dose of fear evident, as well—but he was struggling to control himself, and Snape knew why. Wormtail had been itching to take a more active role in the Living Water project all summer.

And what good Death Eater wouldn’t have?


The Living Water was one of the infamous Dark Draughts: ancient potions deemed so dangerous that their brewing had been outlawed and many of the texts that provided their formulae had been destroyed. This particular draught was supposedly capable of reanimating a corpse without the usual fuss (traditional Inferi-making was time-consuming, power-draining, and awfully smelly) or allowing a live drinker to imbibe another’s soul, much like a Dementor. Naturally, the Dark Lord couldn’t wait to get his pasty hands on the stuff. He had promised great rewards to any of his followers who succeeded in creating it.

Wormtail’s face suddenly hardened; his eyes narrowed. “No,” he mumbled. “You’re having me on. You would never…or you’d swoop in at the last moment and take all the credit for yourself.”

Fair point, Snape thought. But then, he hadn’t expected Wormtail to be a complete pushover. He took a deep breath and launched into the speech he’d prepared on the way upstairs.

“It is true that, under normal circumstances, I would not be inclined to hand over the reins on such an important project.” Snape clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing around the bedroom—his bedroom, once.

“But the security at the castle is being increased substantially. I can’t risk bringing everything with me. Any hint of my involvement in such an endeavour would jeopardize my position. Besides, I have other—ah—priorities this year.” Snape stopped pacing and turned toward Wormtail. “As you now know,” he added pointedly.

Wormtail dropped his gaze to the floor. “I only thought to serve our Lord. How was I to know that you…? But yes, I assumed too much. I should have come to you first for an explanation.”

Snape ignored Wormtail. He went over to the window and looked down into street. Daylight, he decided, did absolutely nothing for it. In the dark, at least, the neighbourhood appeared sinister and forbidding, whereas now it was only depressing. Snape tried to remember if it had ever been any different. It had seen livelier days, certainly.

Snape recalled cats slinking through the shadows, dogs nosing at rubbish, and children whispering conspiratorially on corners or playing football in the street. He’d always known when a shift had let out at the mill, because the women in headscarves and the men with rolled shirtsleeves had appeared, drifting by in groups, smoking fag ends and calling out to one another. The men who had had no wives to go home to had often returned in an hour or so with takeaway from the chip shop in Fuller’s Lane and bottles of beer. There was a low wall bounding the pavement opposite Snape’s house, and the men had sat on it, munching fried haddock and harassing the young women who had been brave (or foolish) enough to pass by. Snape had seen his own father join them, on more than one occasion, when some row or other had got him chucked out of the house.

Snape stood at the window a moment or two longer. He hoped that his silence had increased Wormtail’s anxiety. At last, Snape said softly, “I suppose I’ll just have to rely on Gibbon. He was decent at Potions, and he has access to—”

“Severus, please…”

There was a thud, and Snape turned around to see Wormtail on his knees, twisting the fabric of his robes between his hands.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. You were right. I have been…ungrateful. But you cannot…you cannot—” Tears welled in Wormtail’s eyes.

“Get up this instant!” Snape said, horrified. “And don’t you dare blubber at me.”

Wormtail swallowed back a sob and clambered to his feet. “You cannot give the project to Gibbon,” he went on fervently. “He is too inexperienced, and he does not deserve—”

“And you do?” Snape sneered.

“Master told me to assist you.”

“And what a marvellous assistant you’ve been. I wouldn’t make my worst enemy drink out of one of the cauldrons you’ve cleaned, and the notes from June are a mess. They’ll have to be re-indexed.”

“I would be very careful,” Wormtail cried. “I would inform you of my every action—send you weekly reports. We could come up with a code, even, so there’d be no danger to you if they were intercepted. Please? I fear—” He cut himself off abruptly and stood there, looking uncomfortable.

Snape laughed. “You fear that the Dark Lord has no further use for you. You long for a way to distinguish yourself once more.”

Wormtail nodded miserably.

“You don’t deserve it.”

“I don’t want the credit,” he said meekly. “Just for you to tell him that I am of use to you, and, if we succeed, to tell him that I was a great help. He will listen to your recommendation.”

Snape frowned, but in truth, he couldn’t have been more pleased. Wormtail had taken the bait.

Snape would, of course, remove all rare ingredients and truly helpful texts needed for the Living Water, but he could dole out enough tips in his weekly missives from Hogwarts to keep the rat happily plodding away, spurred on by visions of—well, if not glory, then glory-by-association. There would be no more snooping about, no idle hours for musing about the Malfoys or pondering Snape’s plans for Privet drive. And (perhaps best of all in the short term) Snape was guaranteed to get whatever he wanted for tea with the minimum of fuss.

“Very well,” Snape said gravely. “But don’t mistake me for a Potter this time around—no more second chances, understood?”

Wormtail nodded again, but with a new light in his eyes.

“And you will follow my instructions to the letter?”

“Yes.”

“And believe me, this house, like its owner, does not suffer fools gladly. I’ll know if you don’t obey. So no going into my room, no getting into the wine, and no blowing things up accidentally-on-purpose. And no more tantrums in the kitchen. Is that perfectly clear?”

Wormtail nodded for the third time.

“And if I see rat droppings on the premises when I return, I will personally hand you over to the Weasley twins as a test subject.”

Snape swept past the chastened man, out the door, and across the narrow landing. Before entering his room, he called over his shoulder, “Fish and chips for tea, I think, Wormtail. Nice and crisp.”

As he shrank his few belongings and tucked them into his travelling case, Snape thought about the letters that he’d sent out earlier. Some had probably already been received and were sitting on tables, desks, or windowsills; others were doubtless still on their way north attached to scaly pink pigeon legs. Would they all go over as well as his encounter with Wormtail? Snape could only hope so. His success in the coming year—not to mention his sanity and personal safety—relied on his lies being believed, his requests agreed to, and his enticements regarded as irresistible. A tall order, indeed.

“Why, Mr Prince,” Snape said mockingly as he fastened the clasps on the case, “don’t be absurd! You haven’t a thing to worry about.”


Insidious by Grainne [Reviews - 7]

<< >>

Disclaimers
Terms of Use
Credits

Copyright © 2003-2007 Sycophant Hex
All rights reserved