At dusk a few days later, the curtains cut diagonally across the wall. In the half-lit Private Potions-Making Room, floating candles lit themselves, illuminating most of the room and casting their light over the long table, over the wrinkled fur and anguished face of the Beagle lying there.
"..."-the Beagle's characteristically clear, bright voice had gone completely hoarse. He tried to curl into a ball, but the Magic Ropes securing his front and hind legs would not let him. His forcefully splayed paws and the white vapor puffing from his nostrils seemed to be his only outlets.
In complete contrast to the tormented Beagle's reactions stood Severus Snape in front of the long table. Smiling with a feverish expression, he looked positively like a psychiatric patient in the throes of a delusion-suddenly, he reached out a pale hand and lifted the Beagle's two ears, which were trembling from the overwhelming pain in his soul.
Some pale white mist seeped from the ears, swirled through the air, and vanished.
"Ah..." At the sight, Snape drew a deep breath, as though trying to inhale the mist. His expression became even harder to describe, his voice dreamy and floating. "Excellent, excellent-the impurities produced as the soul settles together are being expelled through the ear canals-I smell success. This is it, this is it-"
"..." Brian silently withdrew his gaze from Snape-anyone witnessing this scene would inevitably lean toward the conclusion that "this greasy, grimy great bat of a man is a Dark Wizard conducting an evil experiment." Yet even things seen with one's own eyes could be highly deceptive. Right now, Snape really was treating the Beagle's soul injuries.
Of course, that did not mean Snape was in sound mental health-this meticulous potioneer had indeed shown signs of becoming somewhat unhinged over the