wit begeondan gemete is mannes maest hord
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December 14, Saturday
Wonderful day! The weather was perfect, sunny and crisp. I got up smiling, and decided that the day was too good to waste indoors, so after breakfast I went on a shopping spree to Hogsmeade. I needed some new quills and parchment, and wanted to replenish my stock of tea, so I got my money bag and took the staff and walked across the shimmering white lawn down to the village. There I had a couple of pleasant hours choosing quills and rummaging through books, and having a mug of hot Butterbeer at Madam Rosmerta's.
As I walked back, I could see Hagrid sweeping snow off the roof of his hut, with his enormous dog gambolling around, and a group of kids throwing snowballs at each other. I felt very happy. I fancied a skate, and was just walking along the road thinking about what would be best to turn into a pair of skates (I was leaning towards paperclips), when suddenly my left ear was filled with snow. I stopped, somewhat winded, dropped my bag and staff into the snow-bank and started digging the remains of the snowball out of my aural channel, and heard a familiar Irish voice say in tones of terror:
'Oh, I'm sorry, Professor Heald, sir...'
And suddenly I felt I wanted nothing in the world so much as to join them in their snowball fight.
'Sorry?' I drawled, 'I'll give you sorry, Mr Finnigan...' Then I grabbed a handful of snow, crushed it in my fist and sent it flying towards Seamus Finnigan, knocking off his woollen hat. He was taken completely by surprise, of course, and looked scandalised.
'I wasn't expecting this, sir!' he said indignantly.
'I didn't expect yours either, Mr Finnigan,' I said, scooping up another fistful of snow. We were standing in a circle, I expectant, they hesitant. They weren't sure of what was going on, but I think my widening grin gave them a clue, because Hermione Granger suddenly piped up, "We'll avenge you, Seamus!" and threw an inexpert snowball at me, hitting me on the shoulder.
I turned to her, hitching a look of fatherly reproach to my face.
'Miss Granger,' I said, shaking my head ruefully, and when she looked down, blushing, I lobbed my snowball at her.
And we were off. They started pelting me with snowballs, left right and centre. Then Neville came running along and with a battle-cry of "Hold on, cousin!" he joined me. The next half-hour was pure ecstasy. Finally I let them overcome me and surrendered, tripping and falling backwards into the snowdrift. Then the bell rang for lunch and we all trooped, wet and ruddy-faced, to the castle. As we entered, I saw S standing in the shadows. He shot me a very dirty look and swished past me with a very audible "huh!" During lunch, he wouldn't look at me at all, and only after we rose from the table and I caught him by the sleeve, demanding what the matter was, that he deigned to tell me that he considered it degrading for my status as a teacher to join the students in their games. Well, I should have known. Turns out he'd been watching me for the whole half-hour through the window, only to work up some righteous indignation about my irresponsible behaviour. Git.
However, after lunch, I did turn two paperclips into tolerable skates and had a great time on the Lake. I remember Sev. used to enjoy skating too, but of course he wouldn't dream of joining us – that is, myself, Flitwick, Madam Hooch and Aurora Sinistra. Preposterous old sod. He doesn't know what he's missing.
December 20, Friday
Last day of term, yay! Just filled in the last column in the assessment tables and am now enjoying some well-deserved and much-needed "dolce far niente".
Afternoon: It's beginning to look and feel and smell like Christmas round here. After lunch, everyone was busy (I was also consсripted) putting up decorations in their offices and the corridors and the Great Hall and fighting off Peeves who takes especial delight in waiting until you've finished balancing atop a highly tottery stepladder, and then tearing the tinsel you've just spent twenty minutes on off the wall, getting entangled in it, cackling maniacally and blowing loud raspberries. After he'd repeated this amusing trick three times, we exchanged dark looks with Prof. Sprout (whom I'd been helping), then simultaneously hit him with immobilising charms, at which he fell down on the floor and lay there quite still, glaring at us, with his tongue still sticking out, tinsel hanging off him randomly. Prof. Sprout took a can of colour-changing spray-paint out of her pocket, we sprayed him gold and silver and shaped the tinsel into wings, then put him up on the wall with a Sticking Charm to serve as an angel, the brim of his hat like a halo around his head. I must confess I felt inordinately happy doing all that.
After dinner: He's still hanging on the corridor wall, Peeves is! Looks like we're in for a peaceful Christmas.
March 12, Friday
Made the teaching easy on myself today. Time to set tests, and that's what I did today to my fourth-years. Next week, it will be the others' turn. While they were writing their translations and exercises, I just read a book quietly.
Hang on, is that a voice from the fireplace?
Yepp, was Sev. "Oi, Heald! C'mere!" the fireplace shouted suddenly. I stuck my head in the fire and saw him standing in his office, working robes on, sleeves rolled up. He looked at me appraisingly and said:
'Look, can you lend me a bit of your hair for a potion?'
'What?' I said. 'How the hell can I lend you hair?'
'Oh all right, not lend, but can you let me use a bit of your hair? Just a snippet. I'm out of wolf's fur, and I need it for this draught I'm trying out.'
I suppose I must have looked stupid. I definitely felt stupid, standing there on all fours with my head in the grate, looking up at him. He must have understood it.
'Oh come here,' he said impatiently, pulling me up. I got out of his fireplace and saw that he was in the middle of making a potion: there were jars and mounds of unidentifiable powders on his desk, and a small cauldron full of something blood-red in colour was hissing and bubbling on the portable burner. He was watching me, tapping his left palm with a pair of scissors he was holding.
'Why do you want my hair?' I asked.
'I told you, I need wolf fur,' he said. The scissors flashed menacingly.
'But my hair ain't exactly fur,' I said. 'I'm only half werewolf.'
'It is, I examined it ages ago. Now come on! I'm not gonna cut your wonderful locks off, although Heaven knows I'd really like to, the way it looks,' he said.
'You're the one to lecture me about how my hair looks?' I asked, but he wasn't listening. He walked around me, looking like a maniac barber, then lifted a strand of hair which hung over my eyes and cut it off. Then he turned away and seemed to forget about my existence immediately. He rolled the hair between his palms into a small ball and threw it into the cauldron. The bubbling substance there turned still and shiny black. He said a long incantation under his breath and stirred it a few times, in different directions. Blue vapour started coming from the cauldron. Severus nodded and started mixing together the powders with a brush.
'What's that you're making, anyway?' I asked.
'It's an—experimental—solution,' he said, making long pauses between words as if he wasn't quite there with me. 'If I have the right proportions—it should be effective—effective for—keeping one awake... I've got hair of wolf—lots of coffee bean—moonstone—that sort of thing...' He gathered all the powders and threw them into the cauldron. The substance there turned orange and sort of sparkling.
'What, an antidote against the Draught of Living Death?' I asked.
'Could be... could be...' he answered absent-mindedly, adding fourteen drops of some green liquid to the cauldron, at which the potion turned clear and started smelling strongly of lemons. He sighed contentedly, stepped away from the cauldron and started wiping his hands on a towel. Suddenly his head jerked up: he frowned and looked at me. 'Why are you still here?'
'I have a right to know what use bits of my body are being put to,' I said.
'I'm not sure it works,' he said. 'It looks right, but I've got to try it out to make sure.'
'I'm not drinking that,' I said quickly. 'I already have my own share of sleepless nights, thank you.'
He surveyed me through his curtain of hair disdainfully.
'I wasn't going to ask you to drink it,' he said. 'What if it's wrong and you die? What shall I tell Umbridge when she asks why the Runes master is missing classes? And it's such a lot of paperwork when someone dies at school. I'll drink it myself.'
'Why do you think it won't kill you if it could kill me?' I asked.
He smiled grimly and said:
'You wish.'
March 30, Tuesday
Bored of sitting in my room. I think I'll go down to Sev.'s dungeon.
Later: He's a wonder to watch. He was making a tricky potion, and it was a real pleasure watching a master at work. I was curled up in his armchair, looking at him, never talking because I know he hates being distracted, and just enjoyed the stillness and the calm and his unwonted good mood (because potions is a thing he loves, and he can't help feeling happy doing something he excels at). His hands are perfect for a potion-maker, I've always thought that, with his long and firm thin fingers, and bear witness to his many experiments in the shape of little burn-marks and discoloured spots, or that thin scar on the back of his left hand from that memorable occasion ten years ago when the test-tube containing an experimental potion exploded in his face, destroying half his workshop and leaving him poisoned with the fumes. A truly unforgettable experience, that was, and thank Heaven I was there, staying at Spinner's End for a week, to drag him out of the room. He might have sustained some permanent damage if he'd stayed inside. Damage, though? I'd never seen him that nice before, or after, if truth be told, he was as meek and docile as a child, transformed for an afternoon by an overdose of that aggression-repressing draught. And – and I was desperate. I had no idea what to do with this new reformed Snape who said "please" and "thank you" and asked my permission to do things and stood there quietly as I picked out the shards of glass from his hair and robes, and was so upset when I cut myself on one. I thought I'd go mad. When he woke up the next morning, surly and rude as ever, I was incredibly relieved, even though I got a thorough bollocking straight away for having done something or other wrong. No, I definitely prefer him the way he is.
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December 14, Saturday
Wonderful day! The weather was perfect, sunny and crisp. I got up smiling, and decided that the day was too good to waste indoors, so after breakfast I went on a shopping spree to Hogsmeade. I needed some new quills and parchment, and wanted to replenish my stock of tea, so I got my money bag and took the staff and walked across the shimmering white lawn down to the village. There I had a couple of pleasant hours choosing quills and rummaging through books, and having a mug of hot Butterbeer at Madam Rosmerta's.
As I walked back, I could see Hagrid sweeping snow off the roof of his hut, with his enormous dog gambolling around, and a group of kids throwing snowballs at each other. I felt very happy. I fancied a skate, and was just walking along the road thinking about what would be best to turn into a pair of skates (I was leaning towards paperclips), when suddenly my left ear was filled with snow. I stopped, somewhat winded, dropped my bag and staff into the snow-bank and started digging the remains of the snowball out of my aural channel, and heard a familiar Irish voice say in tones of terror:
'Oh, I'm sorry, Professor Heald, sir...'
And suddenly I felt I wanted nothing in the world so much as to join them in their snowball fight.
'Sorry?' I drawled, 'I'll give you sorry, Mr Finnigan...' Then I grabbed a handful of snow, crushed it in my fist and sent it flying towards Seamus Finnigan, knocking off his woollen hat. He was taken completely by surprise, of course, and looked scandalised.
'I wasn't expecting this, sir!' he said indignantly.
'I didn't expect yours either, Mr Finnigan,' I said, scooping up another fistful of snow. We were standing in a circle, I expectant, they hesitant. They weren't sure of what was going on, but I think my widening grin gave them a clue, because Hermione Granger suddenly piped up, "We'll avenge you, Seamus!" and threw an inexpert snowball at me, hitting me on the shoulder.
I turned to her, hitching a look of fatherly reproach to my face.
'Miss Granger,' I said, shaking my head ruefully, and when she looked down, blushing, I lobbed my snowball at her.
And we were off. They started pelting me with snowballs, left right and centre. Then Neville came running along and with a battle-cry of "Hold on, cousin!" he joined me. The next half-hour was pure ecstasy. Finally I let them overcome me and surrendered, tripping and falling backwards into the snowdrift. Then the bell rang for lunch and we all trooped, wet and ruddy-faced, to the castle. As we entered, I saw S standing in the shadows. He shot me a very dirty look and swished past me with a very audible "huh!" During lunch, he wouldn't look at me at all, and only after we rose from the table and I caught him by the sleeve, demanding what the matter was, that he deigned to tell me that he considered it degrading for my status as a teacher to join the students in their games. Well, I should have known. Turns out he'd been watching me for the whole half-hour through the window, only to work up some righteous indignation about my irresponsible behaviour. Git.
However, after lunch, I did turn two paperclips into tolerable skates and had a great time on the Lake. I remember Sev. used to enjoy skating too, but of course he wouldn't dream of joining us – that is, myself, Flitwick, Madam Hooch and Aurora Sinistra. Preposterous old sod. He doesn't know what he's missing.
December 20, Friday
Last day of term, yay! Just filled in the last column in the assessment tables and am now enjoying some well-deserved and much-needed "dolce far niente".
Afternoon: It's beginning to look and feel and smell like Christmas round here. After lunch, everyone was busy (I was also consсripted) putting up decorations in their offices and the corridors and the Great Hall and fighting off Peeves who takes especial delight in waiting until you've finished balancing atop a highly tottery stepladder, and then tearing the tinsel you've just spent twenty minutes on off the wall, getting entangled in it, cackling maniacally and blowing loud raspberries. After he'd repeated this amusing trick three times, we exchanged dark looks with Prof. Sprout (whom I'd been helping), then simultaneously hit him with immobilising charms, at which he fell down on the floor and lay there quite still, glaring at us, with his tongue still sticking out, tinsel hanging off him randomly. Prof. Sprout took a can of colour-changing spray-paint out of her pocket, we sprayed him gold and silver and shaped the tinsel into wings, then put him up on the wall with a Sticking Charm to serve as an angel, the brim of his hat like a halo around his head. I must confess I felt inordinately happy doing all that.
After dinner: He's still hanging on the corridor wall, Peeves is! Looks like we're in for a peaceful Christmas.
March 12, Friday
Made the teaching easy on myself today. Time to set tests, and that's what I did today to my fourth-years. Next week, it will be the others' turn. While they were writing their translations and exercises, I just read a book quietly.
Hang on, is that a voice from the fireplace?
Yepp, was Sev. "Oi, Heald! C'mere!" the fireplace shouted suddenly. I stuck my head in the fire and saw him standing in his office, working robes on, sleeves rolled up. He looked at me appraisingly and said:
'Look, can you lend me a bit of your hair for a potion?'
'What?' I said. 'How the hell can I lend you hair?'
'Oh all right, not lend, but can you let me use a bit of your hair? Just a snippet. I'm out of wolf's fur, and I need it for this draught I'm trying out.'
I suppose I must have looked stupid. I definitely felt stupid, standing there on all fours with my head in the grate, looking up at him. He must have understood it.
'Oh come here,' he said impatiently, pulling me up. I got out of his fireplace and saw that he was in the middle of making a potion: there were jars and mounds of unidentifiable powders on his desk, and a small cauldron full of something blood-red in colour was hissing and bubbling on the portable burner. He was watching me, tapping his left palm with a pair of scissors he was holding.
'Why do you want my hair?' I asked.
'I told you, I need wolf fur,' he said. The scissors flashed menacingly.
'But my hair ain't exactly fur,' I said. 'I'm only half werewolf.'
'It is, I examined it ages ago. Now come on! I'm not gonna cut your wonderful locks off, although Heaven knows I'd really like to, the way it looks,' he said.
'You're the one to lecture me about how my hair looks?' I asked, but he wasn't listening. He walked around me, looking like a maniac barber, then lifted a strand of hair which hung over my eyes and cut it off. Then he turned away and seemed to forget about my existence immediately. He rolled the hair between his palms into a small ball and threw it into the cauldron. The bubbling substance there turned still and shiny black. He said a long incantation under his breath and stirred it a few times, in different directions. Blue vapour started coming from the cauldron. Severus nodded and started mixing together the powders with a brush.
'What's that you're making, anyway?' I asked.
'It's an—experimental—solution,' he said, making long pauses between words as if he wasn't quite there with me. 'If I have the right proportions—it should be effective—effective for—keeping one awake... I've got hair of wolf—lots of coffee bean—moonstone—that sort of thing...' He gathered all the powders and threw them into the cauldron. The substance there turned orange and sort of sparkling.
'What, an antidote against the Draught of Living Death?' I asked.
'Could be... could be...' he answered absent-mindedly, adding fourteen drops of some green liquid to the cauldron, at which the potion turned clear and started smelling strongly of lemons. He sighed contentedly, stepped away from the cauldron and started wiping his hands on a towel. Suddenly his head jerked up: he frowned and looked at me. 'Why are you still here?'
'I have a right to know what use bits of my body are being put to,' I said.
'I'm not sure it works,' he said. 'It looks right, but I've got to try it out to make sure.'
'I'm not drinking that,' I said quickly. 'I already have my own share of sleepless nights, thank you.'
He surveyed me through his curtain of hair disdainfully.
'I wasn't going to ask you to drink it,' he said. 'What if it's wrong and you die? What shall I tell Umbridge when she asks why the Runes master is missing classes? And it's such a lot of paperwork when someone dies at school. I'll drink it myself.'
'Why do you think it won't kill you if it could kill me?' I asked.
He smiled grimly and said:
'You wish.'
March 30, Tuesday
Bored of sitting in my room. I think I'll go down to Sev.'s dungeon.
Later: He's a wonder to watch. He was making a tricky potion, and it was a real pleasure watching a master at work. I was curled up in his armchair, looking at him, never talking because I know he hates being distracted, and just enjoyed the stillness and the calm and his unwonted good mood (because potions is a thing he loves, and he can't help feeling happy doing something he excels at). His hands are perfect for a potion-maker, I've always thought that, with his long and firm thin fingers, and bear witness to his many experiments in the shape of little burn-marks and discoloured spots, or that thin scar on the back of his left hand from that memorable occasion ten years ago when the test-tube containing an experimental potion exploded in his face, destroying half his workshop and leaving him poisoned with the fumes. A truly unforgettable experience, that was, and thank Heaven I was there, staying at Spinner's End for a week, to drag him out of the room. He might have sustained some permanent damage if he'd stayed inside. Damage, though? I'd never seen him that nice before, or after, if truth be told, he was as meek and docile as a child, transformed for an afternoon by an overdose of that aggression-repressing draught. And – and I was desperate. I had no idea what to do with this new reformed Snape who said "please" and "thank you" and asked my permission to do things and stood there quietly as I picked out the shards of glass from his hair and robes, and was so upset when I cut myself on one. I thought I'd go mad. When he woke up the next morning, surly and rude as ever, I was incredibly relieved, even though I got a thorough bollocking straight away for having done something or other wrong. No, I definitely prefer him the way he is.
@темы: ГП, RH, творчески наследил
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18.10.2007 в 23:41I like the idea of Snape having a friend at school, thought I don’t believe in it.
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19.10.2007 в 01:56И спасибо за коммент
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19.10.2007 в 12:30Well, yeah, they are. But don’t you think it makes the whole thing a little bit hard to deal with? I mean for people, who don’t speak English? Or may be you put this fic in some foreign internet resource, if you don’t mind me asking again? Of course it's your Diary, and you are free to write it whatever you like, I'm just wondering, you see, it's the first time I meet the author writing HP fanfiction in a foreign language.
Ну, я ведь прочитала фанфик, он меня заинтересовал, значит, как честный пионер, должна оставить отзыв. )))
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19.10.2007 в 14:48As for writing fanfics in a foreign language, I am by no means unique. I once tranlsated a rather longish fic written in impeccable English, by - as it turned out later - a person of German descent living in Rostov-on-Don. Неисповедимы пути
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19.10.2007 в 15:20It was never meant for a wide audience
I see then.
I'm even aware of a Hungarian author who writes in English.
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19.10.2007 в 17:50Well, if my little creation seems to you to be worth sharing with a wider and non-English-speaking audience, I give you permission to translate it
I'm even aware of a Hungarian author who writes in English.
Кто ж не читал Микеша
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19.10.2007 в 18:05Да, Микеш - это замечательно.
Мне нравится ваш фик, и Гэри Стью очень милый и необычный. Но, боюсь, (только не обидьтесь), широкая масса читателей фанфикшена охотнее будет читать про самого Снейпа, чем про его приятеля. В любом случае, с интересом буду ждать продолжения этой истории. )))
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19.10.2007 в 23:53Я посмотрю, что еще из эпопеи про рунолога достойно быть выложенным. Просто это все писалось, на самом деле, как некие хроники жизни родной университетской кафедры "в терминах ГП", там много такого, что будет неинтересно людям, с этой сферой не связанным.
Да, и Гэри Стью раскланивается и говорит спасибо за добрые слова в его адрес