Chapter Fourteen - Information

Autumn aged towards winter, and the castle became even colder, if that were possible. Rain was more often than not interspersed with sleet, and it was considered a clement day if the grey sky didn't weep. Students stiff-legged their way about the grounds encased in all manner of woolly accessories on top of their uniforms, their exhalations evident from the pearly clouds that were whisked away from in front of their faces by the cutting winds that gained speed from racing over the heath-covered hills and across the Black Lake.

The weather did little to dampen the mood of the students. The Tournament provided enough warming excitement to hold off the usual winter melancholy. It wasn't far from the end of November when McGonagall brought up the farce that was to be the Yule Ball to the rest of the teachers.

"I cannot stress how important it is that you all attend," she lectured with a prim set to her mouth. "This is not just some frivolous social event for the students. It is a tradition going back centuries, and regardless of the modernising elements that the Headmaster has seen fit to allow, I have no desire to see the Ball turned into some kind of drunken and debauched orgy." She ignored the noises of feigned disappointment coming from Hooch and Flitwick. "Personally I have no desire to give either Maxime or Karkaroff the continued opportunity to point out how much better their schools are than Hogwarts, so that means that all students and staff..." She looked pointedly at Hooch and Flitwick. "...are to be on their best behaviour, whatever the cost to enjoyment."

That brought a collective muttering from the teachers, who had been looking forward to downing a few and throwing some shapes on the dance floor... interschool relations be buggered! Sprout even let out a few colourful phrases that McGonagall pretended not to hear.

"Now, the Heads of House are expected to ensure that all their students are suitably prepared for the dance," the Deputy Headmistress continued in a voice loud enough to drown out some of the more persistent whinging. "No scruffy attire, no ridiculous and strumpet-like make-up on the girls, no shouting or squealing, and at least an attempt at mimicking the classical forms of dance. All students old enough to attend the ball are to be given firm guidance in correct etiquette and deportment, as well as dance instruction wherever required...Severus Snape, don't even think about leaving this room before I've finished!" McGonagall's finger shot out behind her, stopping Snape in his slide towards the door of the staffroom.

"I refuse to be condemned to teaching any students how to prance about, Minerva," Snape grated at her in a voice more chill than the north-westerly that was rattling at the windows.

"If you wish to have your students stumbling about like a bunch of oafish clubfoots, Severus, then I'm sure Karkaroff and Maxime would be a very receptive audience in witnessing the acclaimed sinuous grace of Slytherin House," McGonagall shrilled back at him, her face all sharp angles of disapproval. "I know that Filius, Pomona and I would also enjoy it."

Snape folded his arms and gritted his teeth, eyeing the door to freedom that sat less than five feet away.

"As it is, you have been lucky enough to draw the short straw and so will avoid scrutiny on the dance floor," McGonagall pointed out, her lips so thin that they were just a rumour.

"Short straw for what?" Snape asked with a due sense of dread scratching its fingernails down his back.

"Shag patrol," replied Sprout, swirling the dregs in her teacup before downing them.

"Absolutely not!" the tall man spat. "I'm not wasting my evening hunting out frenetically humping teenagers!"

"Funny, I would've thought that was right up your spiteful alley, Severus," Hooch clipped out at him whilst the other teachers snickered openly.

"Right, that's quite enough!" McGonagall interrupted before Snape could fire a verbal volley back at Quidditch mistress. "I look forward to seeing the fruits of your noble efforts representing our school in a few weeks' time." With that, she breezed out of the staffroom in a gust of tartan and with a twitch in her left eye.

For the second time, Parr's physical form shifted like a slow, inward breath. It attracted less attention from the students this time, but they still stepped around her carefully. If anything, Parr was far less challenging to deal with during this time, mostly because she kept to herself more than ever and spoke little to those around her.

Snape watched her during his classes with analytical fascination. Parr's movements were carried out with a deliberateness that spoke not of a need to control clumsiness; it was more a restraint of a surge of force, like someone managing a furnace that went through bouts of oxygenated flaring. Her face was frozen in something akin to a grim determination that would briefly thaw into what looked like consternation. It seemed unrelated to whatever she was doing, but it was hard to tell what was going on behind those eyes, grey or green.

Midweek, she was absent. Ill, if the notification from Pomfrey was to be trusted.

Just before lunchtime that same day, Snape made his way to the school greenhouses. He'd almost gone through his entire supply of painkiller in trying to stop the Dark Mark on his left arm from keeping him up at night. In order to make some more, he needed to ask Sprout for fresh leaves of mandrake and Kelp's nightshade. There was never enough natural light in the dungeons for him to grow his own supply, so he often relied on the Herbology teacher to provide what he needed.

He'd been just about to push the glass door to Greenhouse One open when a birdcall off to his left stopped him. Strutting about on the grass was a starling, the dull light coming through the clouds barely strong enough to reflect off the bird's glossy, almost metallic plumage. It cocked its head at Snape and belted forth another burst of avian chatter. It came closer with a stilted gallop and paced back and forth, one beady eye kept on him at all times.

Snape looked around before bending down towards the bird. It high-stepped over and stuck out a stick-leg. Tied carefully to it was a small roll of paper, the width of a finger. The second the roll was off its leg, the starling took off across the lawn to join some of its brethren who were busily stabbing the sodden ground for worms.

Snape stood straight again and carefully pulled the paper flat. It was blank. That was surprising. He had expected something by now, some indication. He looked over at the flock of starlings still grubbing about busily and wondered how long the bird had waited until he'd emerged from the castle in order to deliver its message. It knew never to enter the castle itself and to wait for the recipient of its message to be away from eyes of others before approaching.

Scrunching the tiny scrap of paper up into a ball, Snape dropped it into his pocket and entered the greenhouse. The wall of warm, moist air hit him instantly, the smell of mouldering leaf litter and peat barely a second later. There were no students present; Snape had made sure that Sprout didn't have a class before his visit. The sea of green leaves shimmered with the outside air that gusted in after him, and a few midges swirled about in the eddies. He craned his neck to look over the table of purple-stemmed cowbane and caught sight of Sprout's crumpled hat crammed down onto her head of flyaway hair. Surprisingly, he also saw Pomfrey's white matron headscarf. Both women appeared to be in some kind of intense conversation at the far end of the greenhouse.

Sprout had a trowel in one hand that was slowly spilling dirt onto the floor as she listened to Pomfrey. The mediwitch had one hand tucked under the opposing arm and the fingers of her other hand fussing around near her own mouth. She kept shaking her head periodically as she spoke.

Taking a quick look at the layout of the greenhouse, Snape decided to make his way over to Sprout behind the screen of coughwort plants. The conversation appeared too interesting to miss.

"I really don't know what to do any more, Pomona." Pomfrey's voice floated between the large teardrop-shaped leaves. "I've exhausted most of the traditional treatments, and they're not having any effect."

"Have you tried using that cutseal paste? I've heard that the mediwizards down in Portugal have been getting some great results with it," came Sprout's reply.

"That's what they were using at the hospital," said Pomfrey. "It only worked for a little while, and even then it wasn't much good."

"I'm afraid I don't have anything that you haven't already tried, Poppy," Sprout sighed, dropping what was left of the dirt on her trowel into the pot in front of her. "I wish I did, but I'm all out of ideas."

"I'll just have to keep using the coneflower and fox clote, then," said Pomfrey, almost to herself.

"Fox clote's just on the end of that bench there if you want to grab some," Sprout told her, pointing with her trowel right where Snape was standing and listening. Realising that the opportunity for any further eavesdropping was about to be cut short, he walked around the end of the bench and almost straight into Pomfrey.

"Oh, Severus, I'm sorry, I didn't know you were here," cried Pomfrey, jumping back in surprise.

"That's quite all right, Poppy. I'm just here to pick a few things up from Pomona," Snape told her and sidestepped fluidly around her.

Sprout looked up. "I thought I heard the door open," she mentioned. "I thought it might be Longbottom. He's supposed to be helping me prune the shrivelfigs." She waddled over to another bench and picked up two linen wrapped packages. "Here's your mandrake and nightshade, Severus. The nightshade's a new strain, bit stronger than normal so just be careful you don't overdo it." Sprout handed the soft material to him, leaving fingerprints of dirt smudged on the fabric. "You might want to grab some of that cowbane to give to your students before the Ball," she added with a smirk.

Snape glared at her. "Very funny, Pomona," he snapped and swirled away from her before she could make any more smart comments.

He caught up with Pomfrey on the path back to the castle.

"I can assure you, Severus, I wouldn't allow Chara out of the infirmary if her condition were contagious," Pomfrey said in response to his questions, fiddling with the bunch of fox clote leaves clutched in her hand.

"I also have some concern that Miss Parr will not be able to attend classes in the frame of mind required for sufficient learning, Poppy. That she has missed her class altogether today just strengthens my doubts."

"Chara would have attended her classes today had she any say in the matter," Pomfrey revealed as they entered the castle. "To my mind she pushes herself more than she should."

"It seems strange that the hospital would discharge a patient that ill," Snape noted slyly, watching Pomfrey out of the corner of his eye.

The mediwitch stopped abruptly with an expression almost as severe as one of McGonagall's finest. "I sincerely hope you are not intimating that I am incapable of adequately treating Chara's condition, Severus!" Her head scarf fairly bristled with indignation.

"Not at all, Poppy," he replied smoothly in his most reasonable voice, blinking at her innocently. "I was just–"

"I know what you were 'just' doing, Severus," Pomfrey countered sternly, the steel door dropping swiftly. "You know how I feel about discussing patients. Regardless of your training, I consider it inappropriate for you to try and winkle information out of me, and I do wish you wouldn't bother Chara about it either!" With that she marched off up the stone staircase with a disapproving sniff and a rustle of starched fabric.

AN: Cowbane was reputed to have ardour-reducing qualities, hence Sprout's suggestion of its use to Snape.