Snape accepted the office hour request without a word.
This, Cael realized, was the most promising response he had gotten all week.
It had come through the official channel, a small grey card he had filled out at the back of the Potions classroom two days earlier: *Mr.
C.
Mourne, third year, Gryffindor, requests an evening consultation with Professor S.
Snape at the Professor’s discretion.
Subject: theoretical questions arising from independent study.* It had not specified what the independent study was.
Nor had it been *specific* on the part of the subject.
He had, in the *subject* line, deliberately kept himself vague.
He had given Snape the opportunity to decline without losing face on either end.
The response had come in two days, by placing the same grey card in front of Cael’s place in Potions with the addition, in green ink, of a new entry in the *response* line: *Tuesday.
8.* That had meant that the meeting was scheduled for Tuesday at eight o’clock.
At eight precisely, he had entered Snape’s office carrying his notebook.
He had brought with him, too, the three theoretical questions from the library he could not answer.
Finally, he carried with him a small pouch of mint humbugs Hermione had gifted him a week early on the grounds that *someone, Cael, is going to forget to give themselves food at Christmas and it’ll be someone else’s problem to solve*.
He did not know, walking towards Snape’s office through the corridors of the dungeons, whether this was to be delivered into Snape’s hands or merely walked past.
Snape’s office at eight PM smelled of bergamot and, faintly, of smoke.
There was a fire burning in the small grate by Snape’s desk.
And there was a leather wingback chair across from Snape’s desk, something Cael had never seen in any other office and which was presumably here ever since Snape had been assigned to the office.
There was also, in a side table near Snape’s desk, a kettle of water which was already boiling.
Snape, sitting behind his desk, was reading something.
He neither looked up nor acknowledged Cael as he entered the office.
Instead, he indicated with a gesture for Cael to come closer and, with his eyes still fixed on the page he had been reading, indicated the leather chair for Cael to take.
He did so, placed his notebook on his lap, and waited.
Snape read for some more time, marked his place with a small ribbon, closed the book, and looked up.
“Mourne.” “Sir.” “You have requested theoretical consultation.
You made your request unspecific.
Expectations are clear.
I now ask for specifics.” “Yes, Sir.
I have discovered a consistency of inversion across thirty-one spells.
Hermione and I have decided to work on a paper based on it.
We have an initial methodological approach, but we are struggling with answering three theoretical questions.
I came here hoping you might help.” “And the questions.” Cael flipped his notebook open to the appropriate page.
“First,” he began, “this is a question related to the intensity of the magic.
As you probably know, an inverted spell will reverse its intended effect but double its intensity — meaning, its effects become more powerful.
In case of Reparo, the broken item will not simply stay unbroken, it will be restored to a state that was damaged before being repaired.
Same goes for Lumos — light will be not turned off but turned into darkness.
With Stupefy, the effect is a hyperactive animation effect of the target.
So, the question becomes – Why exactly doubling the intensity?
If I know how it works — if the intent is inverted and the original magic is now redirected to something else, it means the original magic is doubled automatically.
Yet, the intensity remains two times as high.
Is there any reason for that?
Or does the magic simply not allow anything else?” “That is question number one.” “Second — the question is connected to the first.
I mentioned the intent of the magic — but sometimes the effect of an inverted spell is dependent on more factors than simple intent.
With Reparo, the damage will be consistent with existing weak spots, not random ones; with Stupefy, the spell will affect not random energy, but the animation charm of the target.
Essentially, the magic is more sophisticated here — it reads the spell and then reacts.
My question is — how does it read it?
What is it looking for?” “That is question number two.” “Third — well, there are many things in the world, of course, which may or may not be affected by certain spells.
There are some that I am not sure should be tested at all.
Still, there is one spell that I wish to test — someday, I mean, once I am ready to do it.
It is Avada Kedavra.
Do you have any ideas on what happens with this particular spell if its intent is reversed?” A small flame flickered in the fireplace.
Snape was silent for several moments.
Cael did not break the silence.
On the way here, he had decided that if he were to ask this question, he would ask it bluntly, and not soften it afterwards.
Softened questions got softened answers; and there, he realized, in this particular instance, he did not need one.
Snape finally lifted the small drawer on the side of his desk, rummaege to the content of his drawer and laid a small, thin monograph in front of him.
It had a faded greenish-brown cover — almost the color of moss.
Then, he opened the book and placed it on the desk between them.
“I assume,” Snape said slowly, without lifting his eyes from Cael, “you know what you are asking me.
That, indeed, I have asked the same myself.” “Yes, Sir.” “You do not know, yet, that you cannot expect an answer.” “No.” “What you do expect, Mr.
Mourne, is a *question* from me.
The same question you have asked me.
The inverse of Avada Kedavra.
How do I explain what this spell does when, according to your theory, the intent and the intensity of the magic are reversed and doubled?
The Killing Curse severs something.
Severing something is not the opposite of killing it; the opposite of killing something is… restoring it to life.” Snape stopped there, not completing his sentence.
Cael finished it in a whisper.
“*Recreating it.*” “Yes.
And recreating it to its highest form, double of what it usually has.” Cael suddenly became very still, sitting motionless in the chair and with his hands tightly gripping the notebook on his knees.
There was, in that moment, for the first time in Hogwarts, a strange kind of fear that came from his own magic.
Not of the thing it had done already; but of what it was capable of doing in future.
He felt a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck.
He felt the beating of his heart growing faster than it needed to.
“That is the tool,” Snape said softly, his eyes now fixed on Cael, “that the wizarding world does not have.” “Sir…” “You will not abuse that knowledge.” “No, Sir.” “You will not try that spell on anyone.” “No.” “But if you do try it, you must choose your subject — someone who is dying, and who cannot consent any longer due to their illness.” “Yes, Sir.” “And you will notify me, before you tell anyone else.
Before Granger.
Before the Headmaster.
*Before* anyone.” “Yes, Sir.” Snape looked at him for a few seconds.
“You were going to ask me if you can borrow this book.” Snape pointed to the small volume on the desk.
“I was.” “Take it.
It is mine, and from my time in school.
I have added notes here.
The writing style will surprise you – as I, apparently, was *very* young back then.
Return it within two weeks, together with any notes you have made.
Expect notes.” “Yes, Sir.” “On the first two questions – intensity and mechanism — you will find an answer in there.
Read and come back, we will talk.
The third question, the Killing Curse one, however – you will not repeat it, until you actually have your subject.
Understand the difference, Mr.
Mourne.” “Yes, Sir.” “Good.” Snape leaned back comfortably in his chair.
“Is there anything else?” Cael, who, for some reason he did not quite understand at that point, had forgotten about the humbugs in his pocket, debated briefly whether he should leave them or not — but the time, apparently, had not yet come.
He filed them for some other Tuesday.
“No, Sir.
Thank you for the time.” “This time was useful.” “Thank you, Sir.” “Mourne.” “Yes, Sir.” There was something in Snape’s voice that was not quite warmth and not quite coldness, but somewhere close enough to both.
“The cauldron O still stands.” Cael, already halfway out of the chair, paused.
“Sir?” “Go to sleep.” He left the office and went straight to the dormitories, wrapping the book in his outer cloak in order to preserve its condition despite the dankness of the dungeons.
He laid on his bed, closing the drapes and lighting a lamp, but could not continue reading the book for more than three pages.
On a new, blank page of his notebook, he wrote in a small and neat script: *I know now what the reversed Avada Kedavra does.* He underlined this statement twice.
It was the second double underline in his Hogwarts lifetime.
For a very long time he could not fall asleep.
He knew that Ron was asleep soundly, as usual, and the night wind had started raging outside and rattling some glass pane further down the hallway.
He lay down on his bed with the book in his hands and pondered what it meant to have a magical tool that the wizarding world did not know about yet.
It was a long, calm kind of fear.
He did not fight it.
In the end, while waiting for the sleep to come, he made a decision that he would perform the experiment whenever he got a proper subject for it – somebody dying and not able to give consent; but he would not only make it but also document its results; and he would notify Snape, before he notified anyone.
Finally, he decided, he would go ahead and do whatever it was that the magic wanted him to do, because the logic of magic ran deeper and clearer in him.
*If a thing is given to you, then there must be something in this world that needs to be done with it.* It did not seem to matter if he liked it or not.
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