The
Burning Pen
Heroes
by Ruth Solomon
The story content is adult in nature and can
contain graphic sex and violence. Those under the age of 18 are asked
to leave this site immediately. You
are not welcome here. The author is not responsible for those under-aged
who view these works.
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to JKR.
All original characters and situations are mine. No $$$ is being made from this fanfic.
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Chapter 17 ~ A Conversation Between Two Magicians
Severus led Artimus into his office. The first thing the sorcerer noticed was
the collection of pickled creatures, plants and whatever other godforsaken
things Severus had floating in large mason-like jars on the shelves behind his
desk. As a biologist, he was immediately interested in what he thought were
preserved bits of flora and fauna. Hanging in the middle of the display was a
portrait of an old man with long white hair and an even longer beard staring
back at him, unmoving. He wore what looked like gold bifocals and had long,
crooked nose that looked as if it had met a fist more than once. The painting’s
eyes were kind, blue and bright. Underneath the painting was a rather large
plaque that read:
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore
Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Wizardry
from 1956 – 1997
Artimus looked up at the top shelf. On it rested a rather shabby, pointed hat
that looked like a Halloween accessory that had seen better days. Artimus
started when it seemed to bend in his direction, but he didn’t say anything. It
wouldn’t surprise him if it were alive. No proper laws governing existence
seemed to work in this place.
The office was illuminated by torches and had a closed in feeling, like the
dungeons. It was furnished sparsely. There was a large, claw-footed desk with a
comfortable high-backed upholstered chair behind it, and a smattering of hard
wooden chairs and benches strategically arranged around the room. Books lined
the walls, and the windows were heavily curtained. He noticed some smaller pull
curtains higher up on the walls and could make out frames behind them. Hm,
covered up paintings.
“Follow me, Mr. Rogue,” Snape said, turning down a hallway that led to his
private quarters.
Artimus followed him down the hall, passing several doors and walking into a
large, sparsely furnished study, lined with even more books. There was another
smaller desk, a sofa, two armchairs and a fireplace with a comfortable fire
blazing inside the hearth. The chairs faced the fireplace and between them was a
small table, and on the table a bottle of Ogden’s Firewhiskey and two tumblers.
Snape gestured to one of the armchairs and Artimus sat down. Snape joined him.
“I hope you’ll appreciate Firewhiskey, Mr. Rogue. It is all I have on hand at
the moment,” Snape said.
Artimus studied the amber liquor.
”I usually drink bourbon,” the sorcerer replied, “but I’m feeling adventurous.”
Snape nodded, picked up the bottle, removed the cap and poured two fingers of
Firewhiskey into each glass, closing it and setting it back on the table.
Artimus picked his glass up, sniffed it and nodded slightly. He took a sip,
rasping appreciatively as he felt the burn coursing through his throat.
”Ah. This will do,” the sorcerer said, as Snape took a sip of his own drink,
then stared into the fire.
They sat there in silence for about five minutes nursing their drinks, Artimus
also looking into the flickering flames. Snape wasn’t much of a
conversationalist it seemed.
”Mr. Rogue, do you smoke cannabis often?” Snape suddenly asked him, still
staring into the flames.
”No, not often at all, Mr. Snape. Usually when I am overly stressed. There are
detrimental effects involved with the recreational use of any mood-altering
substance and I can’t afford to be found lacking. I am an educator after all,
and the undergrads at Finklenook are extremely sharp. I wouldn’t have my
position for long if I abused cannabis,” he replied.
Snape nodded.
”That’s good to know. Substance abuse would just add to what is already a
difficult situation for you,” the wizard said, turning his head to look at
Artimus now. “How old are you, Mr. Rogue?”
”Forty-seven,” the sorcerer replied. “And your age?”
”I am also forty-seven although I feel as if I’ve walked this earth more than a
single lifetime. I’m certainly not as well-preserved as you. You appear to be in
your late twenties,” he observed.
Artimus sipped his drink.
”Sorcerer biology. Our aging subsides once we reach the age of thirty, then
resumes when we enter the latter part of our third century. We live quite a long
time,” the sorcerer replied.
”Provided you aren’t killed by . . . clerics,” Snape purred, the firelight
catching his black eyes. “I understand this is a kind of holy war.”
Artimus scowled.
”There’s nothing holy about it except the titles of our enemies, and their use
of prayers to counteract our spells,” the sorcerer replied.
“There has never been a full out battle between sorcerers and clerics? No
organized attacks by either side?” Snape inquired.
”Only the clerics are organized, Mr. Snape. They watch for us in the mundane
world and enter into the Magical Realm from time to time in hopes of surprising
us,” Artimus replied. “Sorcerers don’t have societies as your kind do. We live
in various countries and are rather individualistic. Usually a sorcerer is alone
when the clerics descend on him or her. It is always an ambush.”
Snape looked thoughtful.
”A very difficult situation. I imagine it is impossible to identify clerics,
since they are ordinary human beings. Are there no spells to hide your presence?
No way to dampen your magic? If they cannot identify you, they cannot attack
you,” Snape said.
”A concealment spell has to be maintained by another sorcerer. Attempting to
cast it yourself doesn’t work, because you are expending magic to try and cancel
out magic. All it does is add more magic to the mix. Dampening spells are cast
on dwellings, the main focus on the homes of young sorcerers, hospitals and
schools as well as the young sorcerers until they reach the age of eighteen and
are given wands of their own. As adults, they have to look out for themselves,”
the sorcerer replied.
Snape frowned slightly.
”That sounds very much like organization to me, Mr. Rogue,” he said, pouring
another glass of Firewhiskey. Artimus joined him.
”It is volunteer-based. There are small independent groups of sorcerers
collectively called “Protectors” who actively engage clerics and protect young
sorcerers once they are identified. I’m not sure of their numbers. I’m not a
part of that group,” Artimus said, bitterness in his voice.
Snape caught it.
”If you are so concerned about the war, Mr. Rogue, I would think you would make
every effort to thwart the clerics. If you aren’t part of the solution, then you
are part of the problem,” Severus said evenly.
”I do my part,” Artimus said in a low growl.
”I still don’t understand why you aren’t one of these ‘Protectors,’” the wizard
said.
Artimus’ countenance turned stony.
”My parents were killed because of the Protectors,” he said darkly. “A new
recruit removed the protections around my home because I was no longer on the
premises. No one had informed him that the protections had to stay in place
because my home was saturated with my magical signature. Usually a sorcerer who
comes of age supplies his own protections on his or her family. But I hadn’t yet
done that. I was . . . distracted, angry and had left the country.”
Artimus’ jaw clenched tightly.
”When the recruit removed the magical protections, the clerics discovered my
signature and came to my home, looking for me. I wasn’t there, but my parents
were . . . and they paid for having a sorcerer for a son with their lives.”
Artimus blinked into the fire, his eyes glistening. Now Severus truly understood
what was behind Artimus’ vehemence this morning in the Room of Requirement. He
knew what it was to have someone that was dearly loved . . . murdered and what
it felt like to have the need for revenge coiled in one’s belly like a snake
ready to strike.
”I had just turned eighteen, and just received my wand . . . “ Artimus said, the
liquor loosening his tongue. “I went on . . . on a journey to discover my roots
when my mother told me the man who raised me was not my father. It was difficult
locating the area where he lived and I was gone several months. By the time I
returned home, my parents were both dead and buried, and my sister living with
relatives elsewhere.”
Artimus made a small gesture toward the bottle on the table. Snape nodded and
the sorcerer poured himself another small drink. He took a sip, then continued.
”I didn’t discover the error of the Protectors until years later, but learning
my parents were killed because of their negligence didn’t help. It was quite an
ugly scene when I first encountered a group of them after learning about the
mistake, a group that had nothing to do with our particular protections. There
was no way to find them either since they work independently. Sorcerer on
sorcerer violence is rare, Mr. Snape, but believe me it can occur, and did.
Luckily, no one died, although I was badly injured.”
Severus just listened quietly as Artimus told his tale. It was clear to see that
he needed to talk, and if the dark wizard was good at anything, it was
listening.
”I’ve come to terms with the Protectors now, and realize it was just a mistake
and that they are necessary. I have just never been able to bring myself to join
them outright, but I have provided assistance from time to time if I’ve run
across them in battle,” he said softly.
Artimus was being modest. He had saved an entire group of Protectors when they
had been outnumbered, caught unaware because of faulty information they’d been
provided with. Dahlia had been one of the sorcerers he saved that day. He had
overhead there were clerics in the North Woods and he and Steede followed at a
distance.
It was a good thing he had followed, and that he was skilled with the crossbow
because they were all in the process of being taken when he joined the battle.
”We all have our shortcomings, Mr. Rogue. At least you do something. All that is
required for evil to prevail is that good men do nothing,” Snape said.
”Evil has been prevailing for two millennia, Mr. Snape. I would like to see it
end, and am working toward it. Access to Damar is a major difficulty because no
one knows the exact location . . . “
Artimus’ voice faltered and Snape immediately knew he was concealing something
pertaining to Damar.
”I sense you aren’t being completely truthful, Mr. Rogue,” he said silkily, “the
inflection in your voice tells me there is something you are withholding about
this city. Something . . . important.”
Artimus looked at him, not at all surprised that a man like Snape could
immediately tell when someone was being less than forthcoming. After all, he had
survived years as a spy. He had to have some people skills.
”I’ve been to Damar,” Artimus said, “once under my own power and three more
times when I was taken by clerics.”
Severus blinked at him. Hermione had told him that once sorcerers were taken to
Damar, they were killed. No one escaped. At least according to Dahlia.
”If that were the case, Mr. Rogue . . . you should be dead . . . er . . . four
times over,” Severus said, pouring himself another drink. “Or at least, you
should be able to return to the city if you did it once.”
”The first time I did it, I was under great emotional turmoil, Mr. Snape. I had
discovered my parents were dead, grabbed my father’s shotgun, waited for sunset
and intended to go into the magical realm in search of the bastards, just in
case they came through. I was immersed in hatred and longing to see them,
imagining them in my head, blowing them away as the shimmer rose. Instead of
passing through the puddle, I accidentally psychically transported. That’s the
only way I could explain it. I managed to kill four clerics, with the shotgun
and by dropping stones on them with my wand before I was taken. Clerics are not
allowed to spill our blood . . . that’s saved for later. They took my wand and
imprisoned me with several other sorcerors, then over the next few days they
took them out one by one and they never returned. Finally, my turn arrived, and
they stripped me, manacled me and hoisted me over a large tub. As I hung there,
they opened my veins, letting my blood pour down . . .”
Snape leaned forward in his armchair now.
”And how is it you survived, Mr. Rogue?” he asked the sorcerer, who had a pained
expression on his face.
”Magic,” he replied shortly.
He fell silent for several minutes, Snape saying nothing for a while, then, “Do
you mind elucidating? You said they took your wand and you were manacled. Did
someone else save you?”
Artimus looked at him.
”Not someone else . . . something else. Something . . . inside me. I was losing
consciousness, then suddenly there was a tightening, as if I were swelling up
from the inside . . . a terrible pressure that made me feel as if I were going
to explode. And I did, in a manner of speaking. A blinding white light burst
from my body . . . it was searing and I screamed in agony and dropped into the
tub of my own blood. Around me there was screaming too, and as my vision
cleared, I saw the clerics, whirling and grabbing themselves, screaming in agony
before they just . . . disappeared completely. Not everything . . . their
clothing was still there, but the clerics were gone. My wounds were healed as
well. I put on a set of robes and shoes, covered my head with the hood and left
the citadel. Not one person tried to stop me or said anything to me. It was as
if I were invisible. Damar’s landscape is all terraformed and any water run-off
collects in areas that are guarded during sunrise and sunset. I waited near one
of the areas. The guards came as the sun was setting, but not one said anything
to me. When I saw the shimmer rise, I ran through. No one pursued me,” Artimus
said, his eyes haunted.
”Quite impressive. Is this wandless magic normal in sorcerers?” Snape asked him,
truly impressed. Defensive magic that can melt away enemies could be quite handy
in a war.
”No,” Artimus replied, the bitterness back in his voice, “and it’s a magic I’ve
never been able to recreate on my own. It only seems to manifest when I am in
danger of losing my life. When I returned to the magical realm, I attempted to
get into Finklenook and talk to someone, tell them what I saw. It was the only
place sorcerers congregated and I thought someone should know what happened.
Unfortunately you can only enter Finklenook if a person who either attends there
or works there brings you in. I found some undergrads outside and excitedly told
them what had happened to me, but they didn’t believe me.”
“No one had ever escaped Damar. We knew about the blood loss because sometimes a
corpse was left where it could be found, as a message. Although my Bleeding
marks were visible, they looked like old scars. I was accused of making them
myself, and trying to appear to be more than I was. They refused to let me in,
and buffeted me around before chasing me across the grounds, sending stones
flying at me with their wands. They told me the only way I’d get into Finklenook
was to be accepted there. I finally escaped them and returned to the mundane
world, got a job and began my education in earnest, determined to get in. I was
turned down four times before I was accepted, then after several years I was
offered the Creations position. I never mentioned what happened in Damar
publicly again, even when I was recaptured and escaped again. I couldn’t prove
the secondary magic I have and didn’t want to put myself up for ridicule,”
Artimus said, his voice slightly thick now. “And I’ve never been able to get
back there on my own.”
”A very sad story, Mr. Rogue,” Snape said rather coldly, “but that’s the way it
is. Truths others would rather not face are often given the designation of lies
so they can be ignored in good conscience.
One unfortunate side effect of this practice is that men develop the habit of
withholding the truth of a matter rather than take the risk of being ostracized.
It is unfortunate because those who might take that truth seriously are denied
access to it. In your case however, you weren’t telling those undergrads
anything they didn’t already know as far as the Bleeding went . . . but they
were unwilling to believe that you accomplished what no one else did, escape the
clerics alive. After all, you were a wet-behind-the-ears young sorcerer and they
were ‘skilled and educated’ sorcerers. Far more worthy than you of accomplishing
so great a feat. So, they beat you down, Mr. Rogue. And you haven’t risen
since.”
Artimus scowled at Snape now.
”Are you calling me a coward, Mr. Snape?” he asked him in a low voice.
Severus quirked an eyebrow at him.
”I suppose if I were, you’d be willing to prove you aren’t by some physical
display of prowess. Wrestling or fisticuffs, perhaps, since our magic doesn’t
work well against each other. You appear to be very testosterone-driven,” the
dark wizard said. “But no, I am not calling you a coward, Mr. Rogue. I am simply
pointing out that your reticence to share your experiences can be detrimental to
your cause. Not everyone will disbelieve you, especially now that you are an
established and I imagine respected staff member of . . . Finklenook. You might
inspire others to action if you make the attempt.”
Artimus snorted.
”I’m no leader,” he said.
Snape smirked.
”The best leaders usually aren’t, Mr. Rogue,” he replied sagely, then gave him a
rather curious look. “Mr. Rogue, I am interested in this secondary magic you
appear to have, a kind of ‘preservation’ magic. It sounds as if it works much
like adrenaline. Have you looked into it?”
Again Artimus snorted.
”Oh yes, I did in a way. I did tell the Dean my story and he asked me a few
questions. He was absolutely delighted to find out that my biological father was
a Lemurian. You see, we have very little information about Lemurians except that
they have magical abilities different from our own. All we know about them is
they are very self-contained and don’t use wands. He immediately wanted me to
work with several other staff members to ‘research’ my abilities, citing that it
would help me to understand my own abilities better while adding to Finklenook’s
store of knowledge.”
”And did you do research?” Snape asked him.
Artimus looked at him as if he were crazy.
”Hell no I didn’t do it. Mr. Snape, my ability only manifests when I am about to
die. Now, do you really think I would allow myself to be brought to the point of
death repeatedly just to see if lightning shot out of my fingertips?” he asked
Severus.
For the first time, Artimus heard Snape chuckle. It was a surprisingly pleasant
sound coming from one who looked so severe.
”No, I suppose you wouldn’t, Mr. Rogue, although it does sound rather
interesting,” he replied.
”From where you’re sitting,” Artimus growled.
But he found he did feel as if some of the weight he carried was lifted. Snape
hadn’t once been dismissive of what he had to say.
”Now you know my story, Mr. Snape, how about telling me yours. Something not in
the history books,” Artimus said to the wizard.
”I’m afraid my tongue doesn’t loosen as quickly as your, Mr. Rogue, although I
daresay in your case it was a matter of need rather than alcohol. But I can tell
you I empathize with your situation in one aspect. The sense of being . . .
alone in your aspirations. Unlike you however, I was constantly under the
suspicion of being a traitor, by both sides. Voldemort believed I was
withholding information, and members of the Order of the Phoenix believed I was
supplying it. Not a very secure position to be sure. I was under constant
scrutiny . . . and more than scrutiny.”
”I read that,” Artimus said, “you were tortured and still didn’t betray those
who you were protecting.”
Snape swallowed several times.
”To betray them would have cost me my life,” Snape said quietly, his brows
furrowed. “Heroism is highly overrated. The instinct to survive can often be
erroneously translated to heroism under mitigating circumstances.”
It was Artimus’ turn to study the dark wizard, his eyes drifting over his gaunt,
hawkish features and lank hair as Snape looked into the fire.
”So you mean to tell me that you don’t consider yourself a hero, Mr. Snape?” the
sorcerer asked him.
”No, I don’t. I simply did what I had to do to bring about the required results,
and survive the process,” the dark wizard replied.
“From what I understand, you almost didn’t survive, and wouldn’t have except for
your Headmistress,” Artimus said, “so what happened? Did your sense of
‘self-preservation’ peter out? It would seem to me that you could have saved
yourself during the commotion by just taking off and not exposing yourself to
death. But you didn’t. You stayed to the very end, Mr. Snape.”
Severus didn’t say anything, and Artimus’ lip curled sardonically.
”Now who’s not telling the truth?” he asked Snape, who seemed to flinch slightly
as if trying to throw off the sorcerer’s words.
”Your belief that you are not a hero, Mr. Snape, only proves to me that you
truly are,” Artimus told him soberly. “No man who wasn’t dedicated to a cause
would have gone through what you did, for as long as you did. You didn’t give
your life, but that’s only because someone was there to keep you from falling
into that long, dark night. So, save the ‘self-preservation’ line as being your
driving force. I don’t believe you and I highly doubt if many people do.”
Snape sipped his drink.
”That’s because the majority of people are idiots,” he remarked, scowling.
Artimus simply smiled. He did agree with Snape. People were idiots for the most
part . . . but not in this instance.
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A/N: Thanks for reading. I had to estimate Albus’ duration as Headmaster of
Hogwarts. He was a transfiguration teacher, and Tom Riddle arrived in 1938, so I
chose 1935 randomly to give him a couple of years in the position, but not too
many.A/N/N: Someone pointed out to me that Albus became
Headmaster in 1956. I was unable to find that info, but edited the story to
reflect that according to the HP Lexicon.
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