DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling, and is, therefore, not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain to be made from this, and is for entertainment purposes only.
MANY HAPPY RETURNS
Classes had resumed after the winter break with full force, thinning the receding holiday spirit, pulling back students from the intoxications of Christmas cheer and New Year celebrations and plunging them in happily forgotten schoolwork. While the more lenient teachers like Professor Flitwick and Professor Sprout started the term with general recapitulations, easing them into the new course work, some others were not. The Transfiguration teacher Professor MacGonagall had kept on piling homework and gloriously indulged in taking points off all those who failed to turn them in. Worse was Professor Snape; he had begun term by springing a series of surprise tests on the previous term's course work as revision. The tests started out as a surprise, but people soon realised that they were to continue for a time long enough to mitigate that element of surprise.
It was rather late when Harry finally rolled out of bed and finally headed to the showers, but he couldn't care less. Snape's tests from the past weeks had worn him out and he had no scruples about missing the first class of the day. He needed to catch up on his rest. After all the roughhousing at The Burrow, the series of tests, the piled up homework, his energy levels were running low. Not that he had actually run himself down to score well in the Potions tests; quite the contrary, to tell the truth, but Harry felt the short lax was justified.
By the time, he got through his ruminations, he was more than a little late, which was when he realised that the first class of the day was double Potions. Unwilling to lose points from his house, Harry geared himself up, collected Ron from the Common Room and headed for the dungeons, already fifteen minutes late.
Snape wasn't a man who liked interruptions, in anything. And he liked them even less when they took the form of one black-haired green-eyed Gryffindor boy with a terribly familiar face that reminded him of childhood miseries. He was well into his lecture when Harry and Ron burst into the classroom, banging the door and finally skidding to a halt in front of two empty seats.
A deadly silence filled the classroom as Snape gathered his ammunition, ready to fire. Both boys meekly took out their books and gathered their ingredients, not wanting to attract any more unhealthy attention. While they set up their paraphernalia, Harry, ever the curious one, chanced a glance upwards. Snape was glaring at them with a murderous expression on his face; his rage had discombobulated his ability to speak, he merely looked at them, conveying the brunt of his inarticulate fury through his fanatically gleaming eyes. After what seemed like an eternity to Harry, he looked away.
Harry and Ron were stunned beyond belief when Snape resumed his lecture without deducting points or telling them off. He had passed up a perfect opportunity to belittle and ridicule Harry. Not dawdling on his thoughts, he continued his work. Snape ignored him for the rest of the class, something for which Harry was eternally grateful; made no comment when he passed by his cauldron which, unlike the grey fumes suggested in the text, was issuing embarrassing amounts of jet black smoke.
When the bell rang, signalling the end of the period, Harry breathed a rare sigh of relief. A whole Potions lesson without mishaps. He was almost bouncing on the balls of his feet, eager to leave the classroom, as he carried his sample up to Snape's desk for evaluation. It may have been his over-excitement or simply sweaty hands. He couldn't tell which, but as the vial slipped off his fingers and landed on the floor with a crash, spilling the potion everywhere, Harry felt like he wanted to cry. His potion, after much rectification was almost close to the colour mentioned in the book, something he had not accomplished in a long time. Because of the rectifications, his ingredients had fallen short the second time; the potion turned out to be only enough for a vial and a half, hardly more. He knew Snape would reject it as he filled half of a second vial and approached Snape.
"Half a vial, Potter?" Snape snarled angrily as he looked up, taking in the half-empty container Harry held with both hands. "I know the regular rules don't apply to the high and mighty Chosen One in other classes, but you're sorely mistaken if you assume the same for mine. You will either hand in the required amount or nothing at all."
"The first vial slipped and fell, Professor. Only this much was left in the cauldron," Harry replied, dismayed and vexed at the finality with which Snape spoke. He didn't receive a reply to his explanation, but a calculating gaze. Something shifted in Snape's black eyes they rested on Harry's. He was about to turn away when he heard his low, impatient baritone, head bent towards the papers on the desk, "Do you need an invitation to put that on the desk?"
Harry placed the vial on the desk with a soft clunk and fled from the classroom, stuffing his things into his bag, Ron close at his heels. He was too stunned by Snape's behaviour to even discuss it with Ron and quietly made their way to Transfiguration.
After a whole evening of brain-wracking Harry was still at a loss as to why Snape showed him a modicum of consideration in class that day. He was lost in thought when Ron intervened, "Forget it Harry, he was probably ill or something today and will be back to insulting us tomorrow. Listen, can you help me with the Transfiguration stuff? Hermione'll have my head if I ask her a third time. I can't believe McGonagall sprung this on us. The test was supposed to be in February."
"February's only two days away, Ron," Harry grumbled back, his mind coming back to the dreaded Transfiguration test scheduled for the first of next month, all thoughts of Snape's erratic behaviour gone from his mind. Taking out the books from his bag, he settled down to study, groaning and grousing.
Down in the dungeons, amidst the soft breathing of a sleeping man, a lone flame flickered on a guttering candle erected in front of a torn photograph leaning against the wall.