A Potions Master's Perspective – 2.5
The Potions Master sneered at the lot of raucous students milling about. Black robes intermingled with red, blue, green and yellow.
A nearby group of students burst into laughter, only to be silenced by the glare Severus sent their way.
It was hardly a party.
The whelps did not understand the gravity of the situation. It was all just a game for them.
A surge of annoyance went through him when he spotted Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody standing away, in the sidelines, his magical eye zooming as if by its own accord. Seeming to sense his gaze, Moody's eye fixed itself to watch him, followed by the other eye, and for the tiniest moment, Severus saw intense hatred flare, before it was masked. He supposed his own non committal gaze reflected none of the rage, resent or hate he felt towards the man. He respected the man's ability as an Auror, the best damn one that farce of the MLE had once had; arrogance and paranoia aside.
That little voice in his head said "Kettle, meet Pot," and Severus largely ignored that voice.
Severus usually never turned away first from a silent battle of wills, but that was not to be. His gaze was averted, distracted by tiny movement. Moody's tongue flicked out and back in again, akin to a lizard's habit. Moody looked away, noticing the small frown that graced Snape's face.
"I've never known Moody to have a tic," Severus mused; he should know, having spent weeks glaring up into that disfigured face, as Moody tried to pry information from him. Severus shuddered a little at the memory.
He knew Moody. His face, his sneer, the disgust in his eyes when he spoke to the Death Eater. "Just another one from the scum of our world," he would never forget. Nor would he forgive.
Yes, he knew Moody.
And the Moody he knew never had an involuntary tic. He did suppose that over the years he could have developed one. The man was half insane anyway. But the timing seemed very strange. Had he not seen Moody just a while before the school year started, at one of the meetings? Yes, yes he had.
No tic then.
"Who's paranoid and obsessive now?" Severus wondered if hearing voices was a sure sign of insanity. Probably was.
Severus shook himself out of his frame of thought, and glanced once more at Moody, who was now looking at the Potter brat. Probably looking out for the Golden Boy, as Dumbledore had requested of him at the start of term.
He must have been scowling, he noticed a couple of third years scramble a foot or ten away from him. "What's the matter? Afraid that Dumbledore doesn't trust you anymore?" He briefly wondered if there was any potion to stop voices in the head, then again, why blame the voice for saying what he feared to think for himself consciously?
He sighed. The only reason he had survived his short spell in Azkaban during his interrogation, was Albus. In what were the darkest moments of his life, Albus had been his sole ray of hope, clear blue eyes, sad and sympathetic, looking at him through the bars of the holding cell. It had kept him from giving up, and dying of shame and despair.
He was shaken from these terrible thoughts by the Headmaster's voice asking everyone to settle down. Looking around, Severus spotted Potter and his side-kicks sitting toward the back, surrounded by a moat of red hair. At least the boy had loyal friends.
Severus almost rolled his eyes. Almost.
He paid only partial attention to the selected three. He had had his guesses. Usually the bravest and strongest in magic were chosen, and he could guess well. Krum, that big oaf, the Diggory boy, and the frail looking Ms. Delacour. He applauded perfunctorily and wore an air of mild interest, but within, Severus burned with curiosity. He was quite looking forward to the challenges and excitement the contest posed. An onlooker might have thought Severus was driven to boredom.
It was then that he saw it. He was the first to notice it.
The goblet, which should have been peaceful, was agitated. The flame flickered and turned an angry red. People instinctively looked on, Albus noticed the shocked surprise that had been plain on his face, he thought, and turned to the goblet.
Albus was worried.
The goblet spat out, as if choked, and then expelled an unwanted object. A piece of half burned parchment flew to the floor.
For a moment, everyone seemed to have been under a mass 'Stupefy'. The Headmaster moved forward, hesitation in his steps, to pick up the parchment. When Albus instinctively turned to look at him, the fear and concern he saw in Albus' eyes made his heart speed up and his shoulders tense. One must understand that what bodes ill for the greatest Wizard since Merlin, bodes ill for all who trust him.
"Harry Potter," the voice was so soft; Severus strained to hear it, and immediately wished he hadn't.
"Harry Potter," the Headmaster repeated, now composed, yet angry. Severus' eyes found Potter, who looked an image of fear. His eyes had grown wide and his mouth hung open like a gaping fish out of water. He supposed that's how Potter felt at this moment. Like a fish out of water.
Potter made no move to stand. The Granger girl practically hauled him out of his seat and pushed him toward the Headmaster. The silence hung thick in the Great Hall; one could cut it with a knife. Malevolence seemed to tinge the silence.
Potter stumbled, hesitated and walked a little unsteadily toward the Headmaster. Albus' normally gentle gaze had sharpened to a point, and seemed to pierce and rend Potter, as he directed Potter to the ante-room, where the other challengers waited. Severus wanted to believe that this was all Potter's doing, but it was difficult.
As Potter passed him, Severus was surprised once again this evening.
Emerald eyes looked up at him, pleading with him, urging him to do something, say something sharp and biting, as if hearing Severus berate him would give him a grip on reality. It would be something normal. Severus was lost, in those unnaturally green eyes, in the unprecedented request he saw there.
Something must have cracked in that icy gaze of his, for the boy looked away. Perhaps he couldn't bear to see pity. "So much like you," that not-so-snide voice whispered in his head. For once, it seemed not to mock him, or taunt him, but just state the disturbing obvious thought.
In every day that Severus saw Potter, the lesser Potter seemed to be like his father, and a little more like himself.