A/N: some chapters were originally written in Russian as parts of other fics, so if anyone here knew me at snapetales com under a different name… well met on ff net!

Chapter 1. Ye Good People of Slytherin

The economy of the Magical Britain, in Severus Snape's own humble opinion, was speeding towards disaster.

He saw much emigration (Ravenclaws), simmering discontent and absenteeism (Hufflepuffs) and almost casual revolt (Gryffindors). Not to mention the profits which many Slytherins had yet to learn to conceal. Moreover, nobody in the school – including the new 'professors' – seemed to accept his authority; oh, they did not openly defy his orders, and the Heads of Houses must have warned the students not to (attempt to) do him 'justice'…

(Except, maybe, Slughorn.)

…and yet, the Headmaster's days were, ah, unpleasant.

Paperwork. Granted, he understood the need for prudence. Take, for instance, the whole Care for the Magical Creatures fiasco. He was all set to keep Hogwarts working like a clock, without drawing unnecessary attention from the powers that be. He went all out to accommodate the old-timers in their personal approaches to teaching… but… Flitwick asking for permission to use sugar plumes instead of feathers, to motivate the students not to drop the levitated objects (through their pureblood craving for hygiene, etc. etc.) was not prudence. It was something far in the opposite direction. And the rest of them were hardly any better.

(Except, maybe, Sprout. She was always polite and moderate in her requests… but Hufflepuff alone knew what Sprout thought. She had that certain something in common with Molly Weasley, and he had – once – tried legillimizing the woman. Incidentally, the attempt convinced him to never beget children of his own.)

Indolence. Here was something he was not going to tolerate, and he had made it known.

Incompetency. Alecto's and Amicus's 'methods' made him re-evaluate Lockhart's apparent lack of raison d'être. He even made inquiries into the proper protocol for admitting one's employees into St. Mungo's Hospital. And their ignorance! Amicus had marveled where the odour of brandy and horses' sweat came from. What his sister smelled in the air was not fit to mention in polite society. Snape himself was occasionally driven up the wall by the sweet aroma of lilies. (In short, it was a miracle that all those batches of Felix Felicis students were hell-bent on brewing had so far escaped detection.)

However, the Dark Lord was amused by the Carrows' reign of terror, and Snape dared not risk his displeasure.

Together, these factors (and the Dark Lord) contributed to a rather gloomy picture of the future of the country which he was even now contemplating.

'Knock,' said a disembodied voice from before the door of his office. 'Knock… knock?..'

'Professor, you are already in,' said Snape with all the patience of a wizard who'd taken the Castle of Hogwarts with one curse. (He wasn't sure that had been a right decision anymore.) 'You might as well materialize.'

In the middle of the room, a wispy figure of Cuthbert Binns slowly condensed into view. The air grew chillier. Binns peered at him with mild surprise.

'You do not look aged today, Headmaster, forgive my boldness.'

'When have I? It is, unfortunately, a common failure of those less than forty years old.' He nodded towards a large cardboard sign reading 'SNAPE' on top of parchments littering his desk. Binns tended to forget little things like surnames of people who had yet to gain historical weight through dying.

(Except, maybe, Potter.)

He gritted his teeth and nodded to the ghost. 'Have you revised the list?'

'Indeed, I have. It now contains three-and-forty positions, with accomplishments ranging from unbendable socks to being the primary reason why the Rules of the Quidditch World Cup are reviewed every twenty-three years and one hundred five days.'

'Very well,' said Snape. 'Proceed.' He had yet to create an antidote to stultification caused by Binns's lecturing, but a shot of good old Ogden's had showed promising results. Pity the youth who did not have such a refuge.

(Except, maybe, Longbottom.)

He had never expected to see so much of the particular Professor, though perhaps he should have. The Dark Lord did request they tailor the curriculum to the demands of the current era. At first, the ghost was puzzled and even offended by the renovations, then something (Snape did not ask what) happened to change his mind, and he started bringing heaps of proposals.

Goblins arose in a new light, to say the least. One could not help admiring their ingenuity. They strove to undermine wizards' monopoly on the privileges of constituting the magical community; bitter treason and blood feuds remained their favourite tools, but the applications fanned out in the recent time to encompass every aspect of 'the civilized way of life'.

(Except, maybe, education.)

On the subject of Wizard-Muggle relations, Binns – alone among the Hogwarts population – retained a happy ambivalence, though perhaps a touch more attention was paid to Muggles as affected by the Wizardkind. The crazy flight of Potter and Weasley in a charmed car has even been woven into the discussion, though there remained only the vaguest outline of the original story and the car has mutated into a fantastical fire-breathing beast. After all, Binns's memory wasn't what it used to be.

The centaurs, too, received a place of honour. Apparently, the hill figures in the lowland counties were their work! It was they who cut an itty bitty effigy down there near Wilmington, in commemoration of Merlin! (For which, Snape theorized, they just had to press a score human slaves – manual labour wasn't their strong point, and they did not approve of House Elves as domestic appliances.) Whatever happened to the 'hard fact and first-hand accounts' principle?

(Except, maybe, the Chamber of Secrets.)

He did not challenge Binns for two reasons – one, nobody ever challenged Binns, and two, all this pomp benefited a non-human staff member.

Despite not being counted a Professor, Firenze but was still teaching. It required a bit of bureaucratic contortionism on the Headmaster's part, and even with Snape's status in the Inner Circle of the Death Eaters things had looked bleak for a long while. However, even Death Eaters have heard about Trelony's uselessness in everything except predicting Potter's untimely demise – and curiously enough, she wasn't keen on it these days. Also, the Dark Lord held Divination in esteem. These two arguments allowed 'the creature' to be semi-legalized as a Professor's Aide, though the Ministry raised hue and cry and Trelony took to foreseeing elaborate fates which always ended gruesomely for a certain person of high position. (He collected her most laughable prognoses; like being burned to a crisp by the Hellfire, or bitten by a Basilisk, or even beheaded by Neville Longbottom. Technically speaking, he was keeping her on payroll for sheer audacity... and out of sheer audacity.)

The whole course of History of Magic was radically changed (and he had to verify every. Single. Comma), to suit the agenda of the ruling fraction, but the students, unfortunately for the new regime, attributed a different moral to the lectures. Ah well. Some battles you just can't win.

As a result, Snape was growing rather weary of the droning to which he was regularly subjected. He didn't like History when he studied it. Having to sign the innumerable lesson plans felt like an impot.

It was then a surprising development that he asked the ghostly Professor to comprise a list of Slytherins famous for their inventions, charity, artistic talent – whatever might have served the Greater Good. 'To install their statues in the halls and popularize their achievements among the student body.' He had been thinking about the future. Nobody else seemed to.

(Except, maybe, the DA.)

Binns, though hesitant at first, was too gracious to voice the common belief that Slytherins only served the Greater Good when a Gryffindor out-Slytherinned them. He set to the task and, with the help of their unflappable librarian, dusted off a few pathetic bookworms – which could hide in the Ravenclaw Tower, now that he thought of it.

('These people had worked for the glory of their House, Mr… Mr. Snaffle.'

'No,' said Snape, and the bookworms dissolved in the mists of Time.)

Madam Pince shrugged, Binns huffed, and a fortnight later another company was assembled. This one began with an Alchemist of the Second Class, who accidentally invented a self-stirring cauldron – it self-stirred every seventh Sunday, if the wind blew from South-South-East. And the only thing it didn't expel was unsalted porridge (of any kind) – though it would undoubtedly be the best-stirred porridge ever cooked in an overpriced, hideous tub.

According to Binns, it had to be re-charmed after three uses, and –

'No,' said Snape, and whoever queued up after the tub-torturer never got a chance to explain themselves.

It appeared that Slytherins weren't, en masse, a charitable, talented lot. He complained to Albus about the situation, and Albus argued that in their case the really worthy contributions to Progress would be either jealously guarded or… anonymously supplied. They were all Salazar's heirs. Tom Riddle simply happened to be his direct descendant.

Snape drank to it, dismissing the failure as insignificant. He had too many worries as it were.

…But Binns liked being helpful, and mental stimulation simply happened to be the only source of pleasure left to him.

So they met again, and again, and again; and a stream of dreamers and eccentrics tricked on into Snape's personal Hall of Honour. He didn't say that aloud – it would feel like a betrayal of something he held dear, though he couldn't name it if he tried – but he started to appreciate the harmlessness of those who had money and leisure and spent them on devising Evercool Jars or Mole Attractants. In real life, the resources usually went to more, let us say, down-to-earth purposes. There was something to say for people whose main fault was vanity, but who accommodated themselves with toys instead of lethal weapons.

(There was a rumour that the Mirror of Erised was of Slytherin design, though Snape suspected it had nothing to do with the object's origin.)

Sometimes, he was reminded of the experiments he had planned to do. Oh, he wouldn't squander time on unbendable socks; he'd go for the jugular. Not the Philosopher's Stone Jugular, either, but – a cure for the Thestral Bite Fever, or a treatise on the effect of the Polyjuice Potion on the development of latent Animagic powers. His ideas had come in handy some years ago, when that Granger girl turned herself into a giant cat.

But on the whole – what a waste of potential! To perpetuate such trifles would be an offence to his House's dignity – and though a lesson in humility was needed, public whipping would do more evil than good.

'Ahem?'

He shook himself. Binns had finished his litany and was waiting for an answer. In the slanting, pale rays of dusk he looked like… well, almost a herald.

'Thank you,' Snape said. 'I am afraid we'll have to discontinue the enterprise.'

'In that event, I shall take my leave of you, Headmaster, and bid you good evening. Is there anything else you require?'

'No, but I am grateful for the insight which your peerless expertise provided.' He took the heavy roll and locked it away. Binns nodded and melted through the floor.

In the end, did it matter, what all that dust amounted to in the eye of Eternity? His concern was with the living. He rose, flipping out his wand from its holster, and left the office for a stroll. There would be no new statues of Slytherins to clutter up the corridors.

'Except, maybe, yours…' whispered Albus Dumbledore.