The Theory of Magic (Book 1)

18 // Suspicion & Snapping Flowers

Suspicious.

By nature, Severus considered himself a paranoid and distrusting man. Suspicious was a word that often rang in his thoughts, a word that almost continually plucked at the myriad of webs stretched taut about his consciousness, every discrepancy caught and cataloged by Hogwarts' stern Potions professor. His high-strung and calculating mien allowed him to catch even the most enterprising of rule-breakers and to survive his tenor as a spy beneath the Dark Lord's cruel thumb.

He kept his pockets filled with antidotes and his head full of questions.

The foremost question in his mind was, of course, who had cursed the boy's broomstick. He had his suspects, the foremost being Quirinus sodding Quirrell, but there were others too, conspicuous and inconspicuous, a line of faces and masks behind which the culprit was carefully hidden. He couldn't imagine the stuttering ignoramus of a Defense teacher could manage that particular curse, but it had been someone in the staffing section. The fire that threw off his own concentration had interrupted the attacker as well. The timing was too succinct to be a coincidence.

Dullahan. The woman triggered every alarm possible in Severus' subconscious, and yet he didn't think her the perpetrator of this particular crime. No, if she was guilty of anything, it was a rather absurd fear of heights, if he had to guess. The bruises on his covered wrist indicated the true strength behind her terror. She'd been utterly bewildered by Quidditch, and though Severus had to wonder if the woman had been living under a damn rock to not know what Quidditch was, the anomaly wasn't high on his list of priorities.

Somebody had made an attempt on the boy's life right under his nose. Had Quirrell roped one of the village residents into helping him, either by choice or by Imperius? The staffing section of the stands had reeked of Dark magic after the match, though nothing conclusive could be found. Yes, a Dark curse had been preformed, and yet there must have been twenty trained witches and wizards sitting there when it had been cast, all capable of doing the spell had they the inclination to do so.

Albus said they needed to wait. They could not spook the traitor in their midst until he or she had shown their hand.

The whole issue infuriated Severus.

He stepped from the castle into one of the outer courtyards, the bite of November air brisk against the exposed skin of his face. A pair of sixth year Ravenclaws jostled him as the passed through the archway, eager for warmth, and the more observant of the pair let out a small yip of fear when she realized they'd brushed their Potions professor. They scuttled away as Severus sneered.

Visions of the Dark Lord's heretofore unknown servant getting hold of the Stone flickered in his thoughts and phantom pangs went through his left arm, prompting Severus to clasp the offending spot, drawing in a sharp, clearing breath. It won't happen. He Occluded the offending suppositions into the mire of his shields. I won't let it happen.

He walked through the courtyard's open terrace, footsteps silent on the flagstones, leaves skittering about the edges. Distantly, the sound of prepubescent voices echoed, first years spending Saturday afternoon on the grounds, chasing each other over the sloping lawns despite the inclement chill. Music followed the cheering and shouts, growing louder as Severus made for the steps.

His lip curled when Dullahan came into view. She lounged in one of the stone archways, legs sprawled and bent, a lute of all things held loose in her grasp, her face turned toward the wind, toward the distant children playing on the grounds. Her foul-tempered Augurey sat perched on her raised knee and bobbed in time with the idle plucking of her fingers.

She made for an odd picture, her countenance lax, contemplative. His suspicions coiled in his middle.

"Dullahan."