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The cauldron lay hollow, save for a lone stone. Ragged and sedimented of hairs and the indigested materials, the bezoar caught no eye. No ordinary experimenter, anyways. But the black-clad potioneer knew better, for he had taught the first years about bezoars himself. All this time, he thought he knew everything there is to know about potions.
Not tonight.
Head bent low over the cauldron, his raven-like hair framing his face, he extended an arm outward.
"Fawkes."
With a melodic cry, the phoenix swooped to a perch upon his index finger. Carefully, he hovered the bird above the cauldron. No heat, no ingredients, no incantations. Just a cold iron vessel beholding a bezoar, and a phoenix. Fawkes fluttered his sanguine feathers, then watered his large, beady eyes.
A drop splashed upon the bezoar.
Severus peered down. The stone absorbed the tear, returning to its dry state again.
Then a rhythmic trickle of tears tapped upon the stone, until it broke to rain. Fawkes lifted his head and a shriek escaped his beak, to which Severus drew a vial from his robes. He stilled the phoenix with his palm to the throat, then tipped the contents down the bird's beak.
After a moment, Fawkes fluttered his wings again, briefly nuzzling the Potions Master's thumb. Severus released him as Fawkes swooped from the lab, energy renewed.
Back to the cauldron, no longer did a bezoar or brine exist. Replacing them now rested a silvery, illuminating liquid. Against all experimental standards---against basic safety, the professor scooped a hand into the new substance.
A Potions Master's intuition, perhaps.
The silvery matter behaved like water with an almost gaseous density. It rolled off his callouses in a spiralizing motion. For an elixir thin as such, the potion brushed into every vein and muscle into his hand. An intense cooling effect pacified his nerves, like mint. A mist manifesting into tangible relaxation itself, caressing and massaging each scar, each old cut, no matter the severity or size.
The scentless liquid explored other results as well. Every numbed scar and ache wiped from from his subconscious. As if Tobias Snape, with all his abuse and neglect, obliviated blissfully forever.
Candlelight's dancing auras entranced him. The aroma of parchment, the shine of the glass obsidian ink jar upon his desk---the softened, fine quill bristles: all of its sensory appeal heightened. All the fears, obligations, and memories . . . vanished.
No masters to serve: freed from Dumbledore's lifelong quest; freed from the Dark Mark.
Blissful nothingness cleansed his body, and soul. To become one with the fine wisps, one with Hogwarts. Just here, and now. Childlike awareness as if newly brought into this world. Before the rules, before the mind connects and judges what seeds are planted.
Euphoric innocence.
And then, the potion swam up his wrist, forearm---
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Severus swept out of his bed, his billowing black robes trailing behind that might've been mistaken for black sheets. "Lumos," he muttered, his voice raspy from sleep. Wandlessly flicking the door to his neighboring lab open, he ignited the chamber with a flick of candle flames. In the closet, he found a stone, then wandered behind his desk to fetch a spare cauldron. In the corner, the candle-illuminated clock's subtle ticks reminded him that this was no longer a dream.
Tick. Tick.
He leaned against the table, one hand planted for support, the other pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Accio Fawkes."
A deafening silence ensued for a near minute. He glanced around, his dark eyes studying his classroom laboratory.
Comparing the dream to reality.
Tick. Tick. It was late. Or early.
One of the spare windows, open for exhaust, let the bird in. The phoenix flapped against the pull of the charm towards his outstretched arm.
Following the dream's template, he summoned a vial and conjured water, then an already prepared stimulative draught. Severus needn't relay his wishes to the phoenix, for it squinted its eyes shut, preparing the brine. After all, if summoned at an odd hour, phoenixes knew the objective.
A sad reality, really.
All for the greater good. Just like his agreement to continue spying on Voldemort when he returns. He rubbed his arm.
Following the dream, the stone still absorbed the tears at the steady rate. He motioned the bird closer to the cauldron, urging it to increase the flow. Fawkes cracked a dehydrated squeak, but held fast as he increased his flow. Severus split his attention between the cauldron and Fawkes, and he tipped a vial of water into his outstretched beak as he massaged the phoenix's throat to help the water quench Fawke's thirst.
The stone lay damp in a puddle of tears. Gradually, the brine began to stir itself counterclockwise on its own accord.
The waters increased velocity, and the cauldron radiated an unknown heat. Pulling back Fawkes, Severus administered the remaining vial contents, then sent the bird flying from the chamber.
Drip. Drip.
Golden flickers danced wildly along the walls, and melting wax dripped on the floors from the floating candles. A gush of fermented, torrid air filled the room, then echoing dents erupted within the cauldron. Contracting and expanding in varying areas.
Sweat beaded along his forehead. His night cloak clung to him, and the room became bright with blazing incandescence.
Severus raised his wand, rushing towards the cauldron. The sounds greatened in force, and with it the burning, reeking scent of his cauldron.
"Evanesco."
Flames died down. His robes fell back upon his legs---in all his focus, he hadn't been aware the heat's winds had risen them.
Smoke wisped above the ruined experiment. A warped, white charred pot remained.
Sparing a glance, a white speckled explosion stained the interior, dried and reeking of fresh bezoar.
In the dream, he followed and conducted the precise procedure, which yielded that elixir. What did he miss? Did the flaw lie in Fawke's tears, its salinity affected by dietary variations? Room temperature?
Upon realization, the dream provided poor insight on control factors.
For the dream only bequeathed one useful note: healing. Body and soul.
And Severus sought to revive that feeling.
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1:11AM. Niamh scrolled absentmindedly through stories on ao3.org (archiveofourown). Her desensitized thumb tapped yet another fanfiction tagged Severus Snape.
4,000+ words.
Work begins at 10AM, she reminded herself. With that, she clicked off her screen and curled up.
Indeed, the Coronalife. Standardize self-entertainment; standardize all hopes and dreams behind a screen. Behind a mask---literally and figuratively. Watch a film, then simply imagine laughter echoing beyond the speakers and into the home. Imagine laughter without a glitch; laughter from the bodies that should've celebrated here tonight.
Not in the hospital. Or across the sea.
A sad reality, really.
Yes, the Coronalife. Enforce the mask; enforce the distance. Loose touch with the meaning of eye-contact, forsake fresh air to inhale one's own carbon dioxide and misted saliva. Oh dear, but imagine a smile! Yes yes, go on . . . oh well . . . perhaps draw upon the olden times---the times so very long ago, yet ranged of mere months . . .
Her eyelids drooped, but her mind swam its own path.
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Strike. Strike.
A hand splinters a pick against the matchbox's rough edge, until a hissing flame ignites the darkness. The hand glows a faded tan, tracing up the arm to a shoulder covered by dark thick curls weeding into varying lengths. Rise higher to find cheekbones rounding off to a small, narrow nose. By waning flame-light the eyes reflect blackness, but after sharing it amidst three candles, the imagination knows those eyes to fill in the gaps.
Down below, the cold nothing now reflects a gaze in its aromatized depths, my gaze. Infused essential oils then overwhelm my senses.
Inhaling, I retreat with an ancient tale. For the government canceled all travel, save for books. Now is the time to venture into forbidden eras and lost places.
My bath widens into the interior Egyptian lagoon to the pharaoh's royal guest; me. The candles flair into torches aflaming the ritual to finish. The oils---well, yes, guised in natural poisonous extracts. Sink lower and lower, until the ripples no longer echo until the morning gales.
Surrender . . . surrender, surrender . . .
. . . clicking hooves interrupt the hypnotic, watery beats. As blackened blurs hasten its toll, the tangible, clear slimy feeling of a tongue licking at my neck. Moist odors of hay, corn, and grains puff on my face, and the thing grunts. A cooling, wet nose nuzzles my temple, and then golden lights erupt in the darkness. The glass-like rippling waters lap energy against my body. Coming into focus directly in the center streaks two brown lines down a white, furry face. Horizontally slitted, curious eyes focus down on my neck, spreading its ointment. Curling, ribbed horns protrude from its scalp.
A goat.
My body relaxes, and a sense of mental freedom washes away the past.
No confusion. No thoughts either.
Tranquility. Every molecule in the water embraces this moment, even the moonlight leaves overhead glitter with a sense of presence.
Present.
Not in the past, nor in the future. Immersing myself here, and now.
Innocence. A simple creature resuscitating more than just life itself.
Molten wax solidifies on my shoulder as I lean forward from the tub. The book lies open on my lap; the ink bleeding from the submerged pages. Only one candle lights the bathroom, and the clock suspends between midnight and sunrise. Despite my back aching from story to slumber, I remind myself:
This is my vacation. The vacation we never got.
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Niamh gripped the wooden tub, only to find it dry and polished. Lifting her head from the pillow, her hands retreated from layers of sheets, until she blindly fingered a spiralized notebook. The pen; where's the pen?
It was more than just a fleeting dream of randomness for writing. She didn't know what a goat, or an Egyptian lagoon had to do with her current original writing drafts, or Severus, in all honesty. It was a dream. The context likely mattered little.
Where's the pen?
But as she frustratedly tossed to the other side of her sheets, giving up on finding her pen as she always misplaced it, she ran a palm along her neck.
Euphoria ended with the dream.
Yet Niamh sought to revive that feeling.
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Despite quarantine draining Niamh of energy, she befriended late nights deeper than before.
Late nights, the radix of loneliness, existential questioning . . . but entwine this with inspiration fleeting flashes of another tale---like that Egyptian scene---another life! If only she had the energy to reach up and grab the idea by the wrist---to never let it go---if only she had the energy to pick up the pen . . .
Ambitions, motivation . . . it all sifted into nothing. Nothing, but an endless cycle of eating, working, and reading until fonts bled into the blue wavelength before her weary eyes.
Niamh had mapped it all out since her freshman year of high school: she would ace each year, build memories in her A'Cappella class, write and publish that lingering fictional tale in her head, and start a biology degree with the support of a scholarship.
Niamh found her soulmate in college in fall 2020, and her first kiss.
But fate had closed another door for her.
No longer an affirmation.
All but the tale. All but romance.
It was 2019.
A'Cappella's intimacy had archived so faraway now.
The laughter. That momentum. Top of the class; writing in between periods. Studying ever enthusiastically. Scholarship recommendations. Proud teachers and parents.
Standing ovation.
Pursuing this, and climbing higher well into the holidays.
It was so ethereal, now. That energy, that confidence---had another virus mutated and trashed these eternally?
Panic had its way. Twas the night of their spring concert.
That night, where they all rest in their homes. Alone. Silent. Television rang the new melody now.
Club meetups postponed.
Even days prior, the atrium thinned out to a muffled crowd that should've filled the halls with laughter and eager gossip. Niamh spoke with the closest friend, Jessica, she had for the last time, whilst eyeing up the interior design, the teachers' faces, even down to the greasy lunch food.
"We'll be back in two weeks," Niamh had assured everyone throughout the day. Yet her subconsciousness urged her to take in the school with all five senses in spite of it.
We'll be back.