Spoilers: The canon I've used in this fic is a complicated thing. It's obviously an AU, because Snape's alive, so think of it as having branched off from canon-verse just after Order of the Phoenix, most prominent being that the events surrounding Dumbledore and Snape's deaths did not occur. Some elements of Half-Blood Prince and Deathly Hallows are still here, but different choices were made and different consequences were reaped.
Not Quite the Shilling
by Annie D
ONE
When Harry first heard about the accident, his first reaction was to assume that it was his fault. His second reaction was to cringe inwardly at his first reaction, because all roads did not lead to Harry Potter, though he couldn't be blamed for such thoughts when his informant was a very worried Gryffindor Prefect.
"Headmaster Dumbledore's called you and Professor Sinistra to the infirmary to look-over Professor Snape's condition, sir," Prefect Frampton told him.
"I thought you said no one got hurt," Harry said.
"That's what I was told," Frampton replied with a shrug.
To be honest, from Harry's new vantage point on the other side of the staff table, accidents didn't happen nearly as often in Hogwarts as one would expect from a lethal combination of hormones and magic. Still, most of the time it was the students who bore the brunt of the mishaps; they knew better than to involve the teachers. Whoever dared involve Snape was downright suicidal.
"It happened during third-year Gryffindor-Ravenclaw Potions," Frampton told him. "Whitaker is in the Headmaster's office right now and Professor McGonagall's arguing his case, but don't mind me saying sir, it's not even his fault. Belper and Cardullo were having a disagreement that got out of hand and… Whitaker just happened to be there."
The eye of Harry's mind jumped back a few hours to breakfast, recalling in vivid detail the sight of young Whitaker – a skinny boy with perpetually-wide blue eyes – choking with terror as his grandmother's Howler greeted him over his spilled sausages.
"Ah," Harry said, nodding. "Short on his nerves, overreacted, instant potions accident?"
"I believe so, sir," Frampton said. "And Professor Snape's beyond livid. Erm, as I've been told. Sir."
Harry didn't doubt that for one minute, so when actually arrived at the infirmary he was taken aback by Pomfrey's whisper of, "He hasn't said a word since he got here. If it weren't Snape, I'd say he's in shock."
Harry didn't have enough time to digest that piece of information as he was quickly ushered to the slightly more private corner of the infirmary reserved for staff and visitors. Behind the curtain, sitting on the edge of a pristinely starched bed, was Snape.
Or someone who looked like Snape.
The head shifted slightly and the eyelids opened to stab him with a familiar glare. Definitely Snape, then.
"Not a word, Potter," was Snape's greeting.
As magical accidents went it was pretty harmless. Snape was still the right shape and had all the right limbs. It was certainly not bad enough to merit the way that Snape's upper lip curled as he no doubt contemplated the deaths of two Ravenclaws and one Gryffindor. Harry decided to tell him so.
"Shut up, Potter," Snape replied.
Sinistra took that moment to make her entrance, and Harry watched as her facial expression of concern turned into one of surprised relief.
"Oh, is that all," she said. "Was your class working on glamour potions?"
"No, it wasn't," Snape snarled. "That's the problem."
Harry still did not see the problem, if it could be considered a problem at all, even during the later emergency staff meeting that Dumbledore called to order in his office. Harry and Sinistra had obliged in helping Snape reach the office while avoiding all students from seeing him in his 'condition' (as he'd called it). You'd think the man had grown a second head or something, from the way he'd wrapped Pomfrey's sheets around his person and shuffled to the Headmaster's office, muttering inaudibly all the way.
But once he was within the confines of Dumbledore's office with none but staff members present, he was back to being Snape again, handling it with his own Snapeish way by debating the merit of eternal detention for the three students responsible for his condition. But Dumbledore was not Headmaster without good reason, and easily detoured the topic to another point of consideration.
"Don't be daft," Snape said, then added, "Headmaster."
"Barring the circumstances that lead to this, surely even you must see the magical advancements to be made," Dumbledore said. "Although glamour magic does have its advantages, you said yourself that what your class had been handling today had nothing to do with glamour."
"Certainly not, we were making hide-dissolving potions for the treatment of dragon scales," Snape said. "Nothing whatsoever to do with glamour."
"Indeed," Dumbledore said, "Yet somewhere along the way you discovered this. About twenty years off the clock, perhaps? What do you think, Minerva?"
"Definitely," McGonagall agreed. "Post-graduation, pre-apprenticeship I'd wager."
Something went ping in the senior staff's heads.
"Oh my," Flitwick murmured. "Twenty years, y'say?"
Harry, being the only one present barely past the twenty-year mark, could not appreciate the sentiment. What did the loss of twenty years really mean, anyway? The only thing really different about Snape was the way his collar hung looser around his neck. The pinched lines of the face were gone too, but it was hard to make out all the exact details, for Snape looked like he would bite the head off anyone who tried.
"Do you have any idea what might've happened to cause this?" Dumbledore asked.
Snape chose not to acknowledge the headmaster's question, and at the back of the room there were whispers.
"It is our responsibility," Dumbledore was talking to everyone now, "To document and attempt to duplicate such a unique discovery. The best moments of pure genius tend to happen by accident, and we cannot let such a venture be forgotten as just another daily mishap."
"Not when I'm the guinea pig, no!" Snape snarled. "Don't tell me we're going to promote such juvenile idiocy now?"
Somewhere behind him, Flitwick was murmuring, "Twenty years," and stroking his beard thoughtfully.
Dumbledore sighed. "I'm surprised at you, Severus. I'd though you jump at the chance of developing a new discovery."
"I suppose I wasn't planning on doing anything after classes anyway," Snape muttered dryly. "And what about my classes?"
"What about them?" Dumbledore asked, peering over the rim of his spectacles. "According to Pomfrey you are in perfect health, and you are clearly functioning normally, so unless something else pops up, classes should go on as usual... Unless you believe there's a reason they should not."
Snape's expression was like steel. "No, there's no reason I can think of."
"That's settled then. Perhaps you should form a research team to help with this," Dumbledore suggested.
"Out of the question," Snape said. "I don't need more fools puttering around my dungeons and causing another accident, thank you very much."
"You're talking about your own colleagues, Severus," McGonagall said sharply.
"Your point being?" Snape made an irritated but resigned noise. "It will be faster if I can work on my own."
"Oh, and do try to find out whether it's permanent," Flitwick suggested.
Snape's shudder was barely visible, but Harry saw it anyway. Maybe Snape was concerned about other long-term messing about with the body's natural clock. Harry was trying to figure out how to wrap his mind around that when he was suddenly aware of Dumbledore's blue eyes looking straight at him. "Sorry, what was that?"
"I asked whether you'd like to supervise the trio's detention sessions," Dumbledore asked. "High time you had a go at it."
"Potter, supervising detentions, hah," Snape muttered, retreating into the protective cocoon of Pomfrey's sheets. "Probably give them all a pat on the head."
"I think that would be just fine," Harry said. "My classroom does need a little cleaning up. How long will they be in for?"
"Three weeks should suffice."
"Hah," said Snape, though he didn't argue the statement. Harry made a mental note to talk to Whitaker about the affair, since the kid could probably use some advice from someone else who'd wandered on to Snape's bad side due to unfortunate luck.
Harry got his chance before breakfast the next morning when he briefed the three students on their detention schedule outside the Great Hall. Upon summoning them, Harry was surprised to see that Whitaker, who'd been a nervous wreck the night before, now had a slight spring in his step and a jut to his chin. The two Ravenclaws on the other hand, slumped forward and kept their eyes on the floor. It took a moment for Harry to realise that the innate natures of their Houses were the reason for this: Whitaker had probably been patted and applauded the whole night long, while the Ravenclaws torn apart for bringing their House down the points tally. Just to prove right this line of thought, a fifth-year Gryffindor strolled by at that moment and gave a silent thumbs-up at Whitaker.
Harry had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. "All right, you know why you're here," he said. "An accident involving a teacher is no small matter, and I'd rather expected more from you."
Whitaker's face fell; he'd probably expected praise from a former Gryffindor. Harry felt a pang of pity, but went on with, "There'll be detention every odd night of the week for the next three weeks. Bring reading material or your homework, though I can't promise you'll be able to focus on either. I expect you lot to be outside my classroom at 8 sharp, understood?"
The trio mumbled their acknowledgements. Two turned to leave, but Cardullo, one of the Ravenclaws, did not follow. "Sir?"
"Yes?" Harry asked.
"Is… Is Professor Snape all right, sir?" Cardullo asked, and Harry realised that the fear in her eyes was for more than just her own hide. "No one's told us what happened to him, or if he's okay."
"He's not in the infirmary, if that's what you're asking," Harry said. "And his classes will go on as scheduled."
Cardullo exhaled softly, and then nodded. "Thank you, sir."
Harry gave her a sympathetic smile, and then followed her into the Great Hall, his eyes jumping up automatically to the teacher's table. Snape was not there, though Harry hadn't really expected him to be. He was probably still in the dungeon licking his wounds, or perhaps devising some new way to torture the munchkins so they'd be sure that nothing had changed despite his reduced (so to speak) appearance.
As Harry sunk into his chair and tossed g'mornings to the rest of the staff, he found a smirk playing on his lips. Munchkins, indeed. It'd be a few more years before Harry would forget what it was like to be a munchkin himself, but right now he had fond nostalgia buffering him from the not-so-slight itch of jealousy that most of the young'ins would never know the shadow of Voldemort hanging over their every move.
"I'm rather disappointed—" Vector said, leaning over to his elbow and cutting through his thoughts, "—that Snape's not joinin' us for breakfast. I'dve liked to see him in a little sunlight, didn't get too clear a look at last night's meetin'."
Harry did smile right then, though it was aimed at the toast he was buttering. "I doubt he'd want to be gawked at, Septima."
"Gawked at?" Vector repeated, sounding offended at the word. "No, certainly not, he's no specimen in a jar. I knew him back in the day, you see. Naturally, he was a few years my junior, though it was ages before I saw him again, and when I took Dumbledore's offer to teach he'd already sent up camp in the Potions department. I just thought that since I have the clearest memory of what Snape looked like as a youth, I'd be best be, um…" Did Vector just giggle?
Harry blinked, and focused on chewing his toast.
The morning's double session with seventh-year Ravenclaws and Slytherins went as smoothly as could be expected, with only two casualties and more points gained than lost for the lot. Harry spent about ten minutes carefully going through the consequences of the class' mistakes, which all in all was a far less duration than what had been needed for the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff class, so that was some consolation.
When the class was over, the students milled out in usual disorderly fashion while Harry sorted the submitted essays on his desk, clucking his teeth every so often at the spelling mistakes that taunted him from the parchments.
Student voices wafted over from the corridor.
"…and then Snape threw the cauldron at her!"
"I don't believe you, what would they…"
The voices blurred over into each other, and Harry could hardly have picked out to whom it belonged to and thus could not order the accuser into his classroom to clarify the accusation. His curiosity was tugged, but Harry stayed where he was and trotted obediently through a session with a lethal fourth-year Gryffindor-Slytherin combo.
But after that it was lunch, and Harry was off to the Great Hall for the day's report – the kind perpetuated by Hogwarts' apparent hive mind and natural osmosis of the latest school news. Lightning lips had ensured that none were in the dark over Snape's new condition, and Harry was not at all surprised to learn from a disgruntled McGonagall that Snape had made a Gryffindor girl cry.
"Probably checking to make sure he's still got it," Harry said, and that got a few titters from other members of the staff. McGonagall gave him a glare, though there was reluctant amusement behind it, and Harry settled comfortably into his chair.
A sudden hush fell over the Hall, and Harry tilted his head to one side to watch Snape appear through the side entrance and stalk to his chair.
"Nice hairdo, Snape," Flitwick said as Snape sat down next to him.
"At least I have one," Snape said, flicking his napkin open with a snap. Whatever stupor that had befallen the students melted away into chatter, though perhaps it was more furious than before.
"You're not fooling anyone," Harry said, lifting his voice to travel over Flitwick's head towards the Potions Master. "And you won't be able to eat with that curtain over your face."
"Some of us aren't clumsy oafs who need both hands and the elbow space of a troll to eat our food," Snape said. Sure enough, even with a curtain of dark hair obscuring all but one eye and the inevitable unhideable nose, Snape lost neither grace nor style in feeding himself. It helped that lunch consisted mostly of meat and solid greens: items that could easily be cut into small pieces and steered to Snape's mouth, which Harry guessed was still under that dark curtain somewhere.
Harry continued to smile around his greens, which he chewed thoughtfully.
"Amusing thoughts, Harry?" Dumbledore asked from the high chair.
"Not really," Harry said. "I was just thinking of the novelty of having someone my age on the staff."
Snape made a choking sound. "I am most certainly not your age, Potter," he snarled, though the effect was somewhat lost due to having to travel through a layer of hair that puffed out with each spoken syllable. Harry vaguely remembered seeing something like this on television once, though the hair had been more brown than black and the voice more high-pitched than sonorous. The effect was about the same, though.
"If you say so," Harry said easily, and popped another forkful of peas into his mouth. To his left, Vector was coughing daintily into her napkin, and trying not to look like she was leaning around to catch a glimpse of the Potions Master.
It was only when Snape downed his drink and stalked back to the dungeons that Harry realised that he'd just used the words "grace" and "style" in describing the greasiest Potion Master this side of Great Britain.
"Damn it," said Vector, who hadn't moved from her seat despite having finished long ago. "Can't see a ruddy thing with that hair of his."
"I think that's rather the point," Harry said.
"Reminds me of my youth," Dumbledore said wistfully. No one rose to the bait, and Harry surreptitiously excused himself to prepare for the afternoon's classes.
There was no sign of Snape later at dinner, but in the hours between, the chatter had distilled down to reveal the central truth, which was Snape's apparent reduction of age. It was worth noting that the youthful babble lost no bite in its regard for the Potions Master whom, it was reported furiously, had become trigger-happy with the school's points tally. Through snickers and giggles, Harry made out the rumours that still circulated: it was an accident, or the accident had been a cover for something Snape had done on purpose. Jokes also ran rampant that if it had been on purpose, it had backfired anyway, because there had been no physical improvement whatsoever on Snape's appearance (here Harry wondered what they had been expecting). At one point Harry thought he heard some sixth years joking that they'd hunt down the 1978 Yearbook to see if Snape had ever been without the nose that was his calling card.
Harry pondered what he considered the overreaction of both staff and students on the matter, then brushed it aside as just wizards and witches clamouring on the first available thing to gawk at.
Still, there were people who would find the whole thing interesting and get annoyed if he didn't tell them about it personally. So, during that night's detention session where his trio of charges were busy polishing the desk and chairs, Harry sat at his table up front and wrote a letter to the Weasleys.
I'm settling in, it's all really much easier than I thought it would be. Lesson plans are actually pretty easy to come up with, and the best part of the whole thing is the marking. Don't scoff, this is a sample of what I got from a seventh-year paper, I'm not bluffing I swear.
Harry permitted himself a soft chuckle and surreptitiously copied a paragraph of complete bullshit written by a Slytherin in a submitted essay right in front of him. Harry quite liked this part of the job.
By the way, there was an accident in Potions yesterday, Snape's been thrown back a couple of years, literally. People seem to find it pretty funny.
Harry looked at the words on the parchment. He couldn't really find anything else to say on that, so he changed the subject to the oncoming Quidditch World Cup and whether it was a good idea to hold it in China.
An unseen bonus of the detention session was that he could send one of the students to the Owlery for him when the letter was finished.
The reply came sooner than Harry expected: a neat thin envelope landing on top of his breakfast omelette the next morning.
"I hope you're not expecting a tip for that performance," Harry said, but he tossed the owl a piece of bacon anyway.
"Anything interesting?" Flitwick asked, trying to peer over. The chair on the other side of him, usually occupied by Snape, was still empty.
"It's not the lotto, if that's what you're thinking," Harry said. A Daily Prophet landed on Flitwick's lap, leaving Harry free to open his letter.
As expected, Hermione rattled on about the repercussions of Snape's age reduction, and voiced her disappointment over Harry's complete and utter lack of details. Ron, however, just wanted to know about the immediate response of the Hogwarts audience, and by the way, that paragraph was never from a student essay, no one could be that stupid unless they were Slytherin haha, Harry should so share more if he found any.
Harry made a mental note to copy for Ron a particularly hilarious essay he'd received just a few weeks earlier from a third-year.
"Happy thought, Harry?" Dumbledore asked.
"Just thinking about how my students seem to forget I was a student once," Harry said.
"Finding your own tricks being pulled against you, Potter?" came Snape's voice, from somewhere to his right.
"Something like that," Harry said.
"Snape!" Flitwick said, thumping Snape on the back as he sat down. "Any progress on the You-Know-What?"
"For Merlin's sake, I'm not going to reproduce it overnight," Snape said as he cleanly de-scalped his half-boiled egg with a knife.
"Oh," said Flitwick, disappointed.
Vector was leaning towards Harry again, trying without much success to get the attention of someone further down the table. "Snape? Oh, Snape? Can you – bugger. Potter?"
"Hmm?" went Harry.
"Ask Snape if he's going for the Quidditch match later," Vector said.
Harry tilted slightly towards Flitwick's side. "Vector asks Snape if he's going to the Quidditch match later."
Flitwick turned and said, "Vector wants to know if—"
"Of course not!" Snape barked.
"Snape says—"
"I heard," Vector said, and drank her coffee.
Harry felt mildly alarmed that he'd forgotten all about the Quidditch match. It was Slytherin versus Hufflepuff and he'd agreed to help Hooch referee the game, what with him having his own broom and being not-too-shabby a flier. Harry glanced down the table guiltily at Hooch, who was drinking heartily from her mug. Hooch saw him look over and waved.
Whoops, Harry thought, and quickly excused himself. He'd spent so long writing the letter last night that he hadn't finished marking his essays. He laughed to himself as he jogged down the hall to his classroom, thinking about the nature of homework and how it went around the block more times than a Bludger. Bloody hell, it would take becoming a teacher to force him to deal with homework on a Saturday morning.
Marking the remaining essays went by quickly, leaving enough time for Harry to remove his dusty Emberspur from its box and give it a quick polish before—
"Professor Potter?"
Harry looked up at the tall Gryffindor that had come to collect him. Harry was pretty sure her name started with an L, but it could anywhere in the spectrum of muggle-ish (Lauren?) to witch-ish (Lagomorna?) and honestly, how could Harry be expected to memorise the names of 200+plus students in barely two months? He'd barely known that many people when he'd been a student.
"Yep, I'm coming," Harry said, and began the walk to the Quidditch pitch.
He was almost there when he realised that he'd forgotten to bring a scarf for the chilly weather, but Hooch was ready for that and tossed over an overcoat, gloves and matching goggles.
"Glad to see your reflexes are still in order," Hooch told him with a grin.
"Somewhat," Harry said, and followed her into the sky.
He didn't get to stay there very long though, what with a mid-air collision between two Chasers that would have lead to some unfortunate students in the stands becoming collateral damage, if it hadn't been for Harry's afore-praised reflexes. As soon as Harry saw was going to happen, he swooped down, knees locked around his broom and arms out to catch whatever part of the two Chasers that he'd be able to get a hold of: in this case, an arm and a waist.
Grunting from the impact, Harry pulled the two players away from the stands and gently set them down on the ground, where Hooch had a quick look over and then announced to everyone that both teams would have to continue the game with each a Chaser short. Harry, of course, had to bring the two to the infirmary for Pomfrey's inspection.
Thus, Harry found himself back in the infirmary within 48 hours. Though that had never been an unusual occurrence in itself, he still found it novel whenever he walked in there of his own strength.
Pomfrey was there to greet him, and tutted as she took control over the unconscious young boy that had been levitated in. Harry helped the other shaken Chaser sit down on a bed, patting him on the shoulder and telling him it would be all right.
A flash of black caught Harry's attention, and he turned to see Snape standing on the other side of the infirmary, scowling down at a hand mirror. Said hand mirror had been lifted up close enough to make fond acquaintance with Snape's substantial nose, and the dark hair had been pulled away from his face, revealing an expanse of pale skin that looked devoid of its usual lines. A shiny silver stick protruded from one corner of his mouth, like a cigarette.
As though sensing that he was being watched, Snape's head snapped round to glare at Harry accusingly.
"What?" Harry said. Then he frowned. "Why are you in the infirmary? Are you all right?"
"All right?" Snape said, his voice hitting an unnaturally high pitch at the second word. He seemed to recover, and bit out: "None of your business, Potter." Snape turned away, revealing a ponytail held together by green string.
Harry felt his frown grow. Though there was no helping the sallow of Snape's cheeks, upon closer inspection the little dips and lines that had once made a good home of themselves beneath Snape's chin had cleared away to smooth tautness. Harry touched his own chin for comparison, and felt guilty with relief that he was still free of bags.
"Hey look, even your robes are looser," Harry said, tugging the shoulder of Snape's cloak.
Snape jumped at the closeness of Harry's voice and swung around, his wand arm up in a declaration of personal space as it smacked Harry's hand out of the way. The little silver stick jerked up and down, as though Snape were grinding his teeth. "I'm not a sideshow attraction."
Harry shrugged easily. "It's been what, two days? Try a decade or so. Being gawked at is never fun."
Snape paused, and Harry dismissed the brief unreadable expression as a facial tick.
Just then Madam Pomfrey swept into a view in a flurry of white and beige, her hand reaching out to pluck the stick from Snape's mouth. She squinted at it and then said, "You're still in the pink of health. No signs of reverting either way."
Snape scowled. "Thaumometers aren't known to be completely accurate—"
"Exactly," Pomfrey said, waving her wand over the stick and then sliding both items into her apron pocket. "So come back in a week, and we'll see if there are any further developments. And don't ask me for an NSN, you don't need it."
Snape bared his teeth in a soundless growl – barely any yellow tinge on them now – and swept towards the infirmary exit. As he passed by the shaken Chaser, he snapped, "Five points from Hufflepuff for staring!" causing the Chaser to promptly pass out. Snape appeared to be minimally cheered by that reaction, and disappeared down the corridor without once tripping over the robes that were now too large for him.
Harry looked at Pomfrey. "NSN?"
"No-Show Note," Pomfrey said, sighing. "He doesn't need it, so I don't know why he's so wound up about it. Although… maybe it's because he doesn't want the Ministry to find out about the age-reversal before he gets the potion properly documented and patented."
"Patented?" Harry echoed.
"Patented. But you didn't hear it from me," said Pomfrey, tapping a finger against her nose.
"Oh, of course," Harry nodded. "Hush hush. Is it a big deal? Age-reversal, I mean?"
"Of course it is," Pomfrey said, her eyes wide. "Even the Philosopher's Stone, as powerful as it was, could only extend life, but not renew it. Wizards and witches have been trying for millennia to find the Fountain of Youth, as it's been called. That someone should find it completely by accident, and in a classroom of all places, is… unthinkable. The staff's reaction and curiosity is perfectly understandable."
"Could it be that he's worried about side-effects?" Harry asked.
"Side effects?" Pomfrey asked, eyebrows wrinkling. "Oh, yes, I suppose so. There have been stories of mishaps in trying to achieve the same thing, I believe there was one fellow in Cardiff who underestimated the strength of the reverse charm he'd come up with and disappeared completely, although that was years ago and it's as much urban legend as it is fact. Oh look, he's waking up." Pomfrey flittered off to attend to the fallen Slytherin Chaser.
Harry made a mental note to ask Hermione about it in his next letter.
The weekend breezed by, and Harry spent a part of it in his rooms reading Ginny's newest novel, and another part of it haunting the corridors of Hogwarts in his Invisibility Cloak. On that second part, Harry kept a piece of parchment on his person, upon which he marked a new stroke of ink every time he successfully scared the crap out of a student who was loitering around where no students ought to be.
Sunday night brought the weekly staff meeting with it. Harry settled into his seat early, nodding a thank you to the house elf who placed a hot cup of tea at his elbow. Harry sipped the warm Darjeeling and eyed the four hourglasses above the entrance to the staffroom. Ravenclaw appeared to have a small lead, though the other houses weren't that far behind.
"Let's settle down," Dumbledore said as he entered the room. A small pile of parchments appeared in the centre of the staff table, and each one flew out of the stack to the open hands of the sitting staff members.
Harry listened and nodded throughout the meeting, once or twice adding something to the discussion. But mostly the meeting involved Minerva and Delphi arguing over the new Ministry-approved N.E.W.T.-level syllabus, Flitwick repeating his complaint on the delayed renovations of his classroom, Binns refusing any sort of advice from Babbling on updating his curriculum, and Snape glowering half-hidden behind his curtain of dark hair.
"One more announcement, before we adjourn," Dumbledore said, and nodded in Sprout's direction. "Pomona will be taking on an apprentice, due to arrive in…?"
"Some time in November, once he's been cleared from his previous post," Sprout said, beaming.
"Yes," Dumbledore said, and Harry watched the parchment in front of him note down the minutes. "I hope everyone present will welcome Mister Longbottom's return to—"
"You can't be serious," Snape cut in. "Longbottom is going to be your successor, Sprout? We just saved Hogwarts from peril and you want to bring it back down on our heads?"
The inevitable argument followed, though there was little venom to it as Sprout looked like she was on the verge of bursting with laughter every time she looked at Snape. Harry couldn't see why, since the glare really hadn't changed much, even if the lines around the eyes had faded away.
"You really shouldn't scowl so much," Harry said, jumping into a pause in the discussion. "Now you've got a new face, you should take care of it better."
Snape gave Harry a blank look, probably the result of his train of thought being thoroughly derailed. Then he scowled harder.
Dumbledore chuckled under his breath. "Why, Harry's right about that, dear boy," he said. "How's your new project coming along, by the way?"
"Recreating the exact circumstances of childish folly are heinously difficult, Albus," Snape huffed. "I will report to you the moment I find anything, I assure you."
"Excellent, excellent," Albus said, clapping his hands together. "If that's all, let's call this a night."
Harry was all for that, but as soon as he stepped out of the staff room, McGonagall cornered him into a shadowed area away from the other staff members who were going on their merry way.
"You do know you can talk to me about anything, Harry?" she said.
Harry nodded. "Of course, Minerva, thank you. Actually, there is something I'd like to talk to you about."
Minerva drew in closer, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Of course, anything."
"I was wondering whether I could hold the practical classes outside," Harry said. "For the fifth-years and above. They should learn how to spell in the open air, dealing with wind conditions and that sort of thing. Should be good for practice."
Minerva's face fell, but it was only noticeable to those who'd known her long enough. "I think that can be arranged."
"Thank you," Harry said gratefully. He walked off back to his rooms, not noticing the way McGonagall shrugged helplessly at Dumbledore.