Ravenclaw Common Room, 7.02pm, 24th October 1971

'Hey, Elias, fancy a bet?'
That was how it started. A (mostly) innocent query to liven up a dull afternoon spent writing Potions essays and wrestling with Transfiguration theories. Elias Sylvan, darling of the second years, grins.
'I'm listening.'
'No gambling,' mumbles the Head Boy automatically, barely looking up from his papers.
'Yes, Theodore,' chorus the younger Ravenclaws, also automatically.
'It wasn't going to involve gambling in any way,' the girl who made the suggestion, Azaria, assures Theodore, with just a shade too much innocence.
'So what was it going to involve then?' asks another second year.
'Well, you know how Elias can make friends with anyone?' Most of the common room snorted at that, and Elias flushed a little.

'I think,' she continues, and all the innocence has gone from her smile, 'that, as conscientious Ravenclaws, we ought to test that hypothesis.'

Elias is Not Impressed with where this is going.

'And, since of course we wouldn't dream of gambling,' with a sly look at the Head Boy, 'I think we should have a dare.'

'Nothing illegal,' chorus a couple of prefects from an opposite corner. The Head Boy glances up approvingly, and five second years simultaneously roll their eyes.

'The question is, who,' Azaria muses, and Elias sighs.

'Don't I get any say—'

'No,' she says firmly, 'I will make the decision about who your new best friend will be,' and that is that.

'I'm not trying any of the year aboves, they'll flatten me.'
Azeira considers this for a minute, before nodding. 'A first or second year then. Not in Ravenclaw, that's far too easy…'

'Slytherin?' suggests Paul

'You are dead to me,' Elias hisses in his ear, and Paul laughs. Azaria nods approvingly.

'Thank you, Paul. Slytherin is an excellent suggestion.'
'Inter-house mingling,' mumbles the Head Boy absentmindedly. Azeira points at him.
'Exactly. That. So, lunchtime tomorrow, I'll point out the one that'll be your new best friend.'
'Alright then,' says Elias. And really, what's the worst that can happen?

The Great Hall, 1.35pm, 25th October 1971

First-year Severus Snape is sitting quietly at his House table, eating lunch, as he does every day, ignoring his housemates, as he does whenever they irritate him (also every day).
'Hey!' A sandy-haired Ravenclaw is suddenly in his face, plonking both his plate and himself down on the bench beside him.
Severus blinks.

The Ravenclaw takes this as an invitation to start talking. And he doesn't stop. He is, Severus supposes, what is commonly called charming.

Severus hates him on principle.

'So,' the boy says cheerfully, 'what class have you got next? We could walk together!'

Severus sneers. It's quite a good one, he's been practicing.
'No, thank you,' he says, with a fair imitation of the haughty cool that the Malfoy heir constantly exudes, and goes back to his shepherd's pie.

Ravenclaw Common Room, 8.47pm, 25th October 1971

'He said no.'
Elias is still in shock.
'I can't believe he said no!'
Most of his classmates are trying to stifle their giggles, with varying degrees of success. One boy has given up completely, and is shaking in his chair with silent laughter.
'So, did you make a new friend?' teases a fifth year as she passes the group. After all, everyone's friends with Elias. Elias, who is currently sounding remarkably like a broken record.
'He said no,' he whispers to the fire, and the fifth year chuckles and makes her way up to the dorms.
No one sees the steel in Elias's eyes, but in that instant, Severus Snape's fate is sealed.

Elias Sylvan will be his friend, or he will die trying.

Somewhere Very Wet in Wales, 5th July 1989

Elias,

Once again, we have reached the time of year when I most envy you your dilapidated, isolated Welsh hovel. Every exam paper I mark costs me yet more of my precious sanity. This has perhaps accounted for the, frankly unprecedented, following request; I am in need of some aid, and this one should fox you. I have been tasked by the illustrious Headmaster with finding a cure for what I believe to be a particularly nasty, slow-acting version of a wasting sickness. It appears to be leeching the magic of the child in question, growing stronger as their magic develops. I am enclosing a copy of my notes on the subject. If you could liberate some books from the Society Archives, I would be most grateful.

Severus

My dear Severus,
You poor, regularly employed and well-salaried sod. Wales welcomes you whenever you wish (I haven't seen you since the kelpie affair, and that hardly counts – we really ought to have lunch).

I have duly braved the Society and raised your problem, but they're all either too lazy to dig through the papers, or too old to remember anything. I'll root around in the archives for you, although I can't promise anything. Your notes were, as always, very comprehensive; I have to say, I've never seen anything like this horrible thing. Is there a possibility that it's more of a magically-transmitted parasite – and if so, might the Scamander lot be better able to help? Or even Flamel, if you can prise his address from Albus' lemon-drop scented hands?
Good to hear you still love your job.
Yours,
Elias

Elias,

My thanks for your wasted breath at the past meeting. Do let me know if you find anything, however insignificant, or, miraculum miraculorum, a Society member rouses their useless self to be helpful. Albus ran some prior tests with regard to magical creatures, and I believe even took the child to the Scamanders, but they were both very certain that whatever ails the boy is not an independent creature, but a magical spell. There is also the possibility that it is linked to a living person, in which case the problem becomes delightfully more complex.
Nicholas is apparently on holiday. Albus has not seen fit to give me his address, but has promised to write himself, which will have to be adequate.
Why couldn't you have isolated yourself in the Maldives. Wales is even wetter than Scotland, which I didn't think was possible.

Severus

My dear friend,
Maybe if I'd set up in the Maldives, I'd have a better chance of running into Flamel – how vexing. Still, if anyone's desire for secrecy is understandable, it's his. I shouldn't like to be hounded by the fifteen thousand owls that will curse his house if his address is made public.

I'm up to my eyeballs in dusty medieval parchment, and I've not found much; what is there sounds like senseless rambling, but I've transcribed it for you anyway, as you're clearly flying completely blind here.
Let me know some lunch dates - you can't just ignore me and hope I'll forget about it. I will continue to ask you until you give me an answer, and as you well know, that is not an idle threat.
Yours,
Elias

Elias,
You were, for once, not exaggerating. I shudder to think what our medieval predecessors were drinking, but after reading their findings, I would quite happily join them in blissful oblivion. The main difficulty I believe that we face is that the curse has been allowed to develop to such a stage that it has a nigh-on iron-clad grip on the child's magic. Prising it loose at this stage will take a great amount of skill that I cannot in all honestly profess to possess. Albus has been remarkably slow about acting; I believe he thought it was some kind of Muggle disease, and thus easily cured, but alas.
Do please keep searching the archives.
Severus

Sev,
Nicholas won't be the only one hounded by a multitude of owls. Lunch. Dates.
E

"E",
Fine. This Thursday, next Monday, Saturday week.
"Sev"

You are such a sarcastic bastard. Next Monday's good - I know a lovely place down near York. I'll see you then.
Elias