Here we go. After a very long break. 5 points to anyone who can spot the Discworld reference. Oh -- apologies for any confusion; earlier today you might have been alerted to Chapter 3, which was already submitted. I had to resubmit it, because I sort of forgot how to use this site. Enjoy.

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"When can I leave?" Severus grumbled to Madame Pomfrey, wincing as she felt his arm.

"As soon as the bone is healthy, Severus," she reminded him. "And it seems to have been injured in more places than one. Your bones aren't very strong. I don't suppose you've been drinking your milk."

"No," he snapped. "I hate milk."

"When was the last time you had some?"

"1968," he said with a smirk. She tutted.

"Do you eat broccoli?"

"I hate broccoli."

"Well, it's no wonder you're so thin," she responded. "What do you live on? Bread and water?"

"Would you have me stuff myself every night? I suffer from indigestion, you know," he grumbled.

"You'll be suffering from a lot more if you continue with this diet, my boy," she berated. "There's little more I can do for this arm other than vanishing the bone so you can grow it back. I know for a fact you've brewed some new Skele-Gro for me. The fresher, the better."

"Woman. No." Severus paled, thinking quickly. "Er—it's in my laboratory. Nobody has the password. Use a spell, damn it. Use a charm."

Poppy stared. "For goodness' sake, Severus, I wasn't serious. And there will be one member of the staff that can easily get into your laboratory and rooms. There always is. Minerva assigned Professor Longbottom."

Severus shut his eyes in exasperation. No wonder the little prat had been able to break past his wards. Damn Minerva. She would do a thing like that. And, perhaps—Severus opened his eyes again—perhaps that was why the toad had gotten in, as well. Like master, like warty amphibian. If he could hex Longbottom's face into warts, he would.

He might've written something for it in his old Potions textbook.

"You're free to go," said Poppy, releasing his newly-healed arm. He flexed it, freed himself from the humiliating infirmary bed, and swept past the nurse to the infirmary's exit.

"Remember, Severus," she called. "Calcium. I shall notify the house elves."

He took five points off a smiling Hufflepuff as he left.

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In his free period after a fifth-year Gryffindor/Slytherin class and before a first-year Hufflepuff/Ravenclaw introduction lesson—dull, bound to be—Neville contemplated using a Summoning charm. No, that wouldn't do. Trevor would have smacked into countless walls and doors before breaking the necessary windows to reach the greenhouse. Then there'd be the mysterious toad-shaped hole in the glass wall to account for. The baby Devil's Snare wouldn't like it. But hisReparo had improved over a week of broken ceramic pots and minor mishaps in the common room. After all, there was no Hermione to fix everything here.

Neville chewed on his lip. What if Trevor had gotten trampled? What if a student had thrown a book at him and squashed him? True, Trevor had lived years beyond the average toad's lifespan, but he had never been lost for more than a day or two. Perhaps he was hiding in the common room. No; one of the Gryffindors would have told him. If Professor Snape really had tripped over him, maybe he was now planning to use him in a potion.

Neville gulped. What had come over him in the infirmary? How could he have been so stupid? And—why did Snape give in? Snape hated him. He'd melted so many cauldrons during his seven years at Hogwarts that the Potions classroom was probably charmed to automatically repel him. Snape always glared at him when they passed in the hallways or met in the professors' lounge. He practicallyignored him at meals.

But the sight of Snape in that infirmary bed, like some great god that had tripped over a goat and come falling down from Olympus, had made his heart beat quicker than a frightened kneazle. Of course, his heart always beat quicker when Snape was near, but this was different. This wasn't the usual sweaty-palms-and-frightened-squeak chain of events. This was a madness-most-discreet sort of thing. Bounty as deep as the sea, and so on. Usually it was heart palpitations—this time his heart had pranced around in his chest. He knew a change had come over him in his seventh year, and he'd almost stood up to Snape then, but in the infirmary, it was if he'd received a shot of pure alcohol into his bloodstream. It was—bloody hell. It was exhilaration itself.

Then the bastard had kicked him out. Snape barely glanced his way as he stood back in surprise.

Neville pounded the Herbology bench with his fist, causing a nearby Screechsnap to squeal.