A special thanks goes out to:

Hazeldragon, JulieSnape02, HogwartsRocks, Ginnylove9990, cara-tanaka, hkeas, 13AkiraKuranXIII, notwritten, PinkMusicalCherry, yamiduke13, and RatchetsGirl for their reviews!

Please feel free to keep sending me love- for oh, how I love it!

And now onto more fun . . . please tell me if you enjoy it, and even if you don't, but without flaming.

{Not mine, as the old adage goes!}

Be chipper. Have fun with it.

Brooke~

And again, please note that every detail will not be according to the original novels. My primary concern is characters that are as close to canon as it is possible to be. Enjoy =)

Chapter 4-

Coal Might Be Better ~

Harry would be staying with Snape for this entire summer. It was too much to comprehend, and he really could not understand why he needed to open up the valve in his ability to absorb the knowledge. Despite the fact that he knew he was sitting among dirty, dingy boxes yellowed out from days of neglect, the fact that they belonged in the house of his potions master seemed the very notion of haywire, as if connections were shooting all around the room, drawing the cobwebs in the it together. They intertwined with each other over the junk surrounding him, and he did not know how he was sitting here in Snape's house while spiders crawled out from these long threads of spider silk, looking down at him. They were giant, fuzzy black specimens that would have made Ron bury his head beneath his pillows for the rest of his life. These large, fat bugs that had been hiding in the potion master's house for years descended upon him, from without and within the storage. Their webs began circling around him tightly as the spiders drew their nests over him, their prey. The threads swung over him, and Harry watched with horror, wondering all the while whether the yellow boxes were actually a part of Snape's history and what they held. Secrets. The house was filled with secrets that he would never work out, and the boxes taunted him, letting him know that he would never explore them . . .

In his mind, he knew that the spiders and the dingy clutter had nothing to do with reality. Harry knew that the spiders were not trying to grab him, for how could anything make an attempt to suffocate him in the living room? He was slightly confused. Yet nevertheless, the darkness in the room was overpowering him, and he was no longer feeling so utterly sane. Perhaps, the chaotic environment was not playing a trick upon him. Perhaps Snape's house was in fact enchanted to wreak vengeance upon him. The imaginings he had were becoming reality. He could no longer distinguish between the two. He should probably just bury himself within the folds of the bedcovers upstairs, or if he could not find a bed, then he should hide in a corner behind the boxes, so that he could escape the evil predators raining down upon him . . .

"Potter." Harry nearly jumped visibly, as a moving shadow crept through this entire nightmare, moving towards him. He did not want to speak to the potions master. Snape leered at him through the gloom. "It is late, Potter," he said in a low tone, "why are you not in bed?"

"Is it time for bed, sir?"

"It is always time for bed, Potter." Harry could now hear the heavy voice threading through his ears, and he knew this must have been a bad dream. "An eternal bed from which you will never wake up." He brandished his wand.

Harry woke up. His heart pounded madly against his chest, until he realized that he was in fact, lying on a rollaway cot that he himself had chosen when he'd scouted out all of the spare rooms. He took a few moments to quiet his breathing, looking around the small space with a scowl dripping from his lips. The reason he had dreamed about the potions master in this bizarre manner remained a mystery. Yet he still felt that a terrible omen had been placed upon his head after he had crawled out from the dream, that didn't seem to want to leave him. Harry was afraid that the spiders had really nearly killed him, and that the boxes were taunting his adventurous side, threatening to kill it . . . there was, still, so much that he wanted to know about this. He was understandably curious about his new environment, for he never had known that Snape lived like a normal person. The last idea had a wry tone to it, but of course, no one really needed to know that. It suited him well enough to think that the potions master was in fact a surreal bat of the dungeons that lived in the manner of one.

A crash suddenly resounded. Harry jolted upright, his heart becoming a madman's axe with the speed of a terrible troll hurtling towards him. He realized a minute later, that, the thrumming of his wild imagination was the cause. He cocked his ears, but everything was quiet, and he knew that he must have imagined it. The house was eerily silent. Quietly, so as not to disturb the quiet once again, afraid of what he might run into if he sought out the cause, he stood up. As the covers fell away, Harry's footsteps met the floor, where shadows danced beneath the moonlight window as though they were sending him a signal. Sucking in his breath, he attempted to ignore whatever signal that might be, steadied his roiling mind the best that he could, and left.

Snape's house had two stories, so he could easily use the thick banister to look down upon events which the potions master probably didn't want him to see, much to his satisfaction. To his shock, he saw the professor clearly among the boxes within the living area, tending to some kind of a large wound on his arm. Harry leaned over slightly, trying to get a better view. The red spot on his pallid arm grew to twice its original size when he came into the soft light of the room. Harry's eyes widened. Professor Snape was applying a substance upon it from a minuscule, short fat bottle that he didn't recognize. His face was screwed tight with pain as the liquid splashed onto the gaping red sore, and he let out a low hiss between his teeth.

Harry knew that he should retreat to his room, but the bare hallway did not provide an image nearly as interesting as watching the potions master. Snape extended the arm, his eyes now focused upon the egg-sized cut, and began to chant in a language he did not understand. He pulled his wand from his pocket a split-second later, rapidly moving the thin piece of wood across it in a few slashes as he continued murmuring his spell in a song-like tone. Confused by the sight but mesmerized, due to the fact that he had never seen music utilized in spell-casting before, he continued to watch. Apparently it did not work in this instance though, because Snape now allowed the wand to fall from his grasp, panting just loud enough to be heard. Then he cursed loudly. He raised his head, an ugly scowl deeply ingrained on his lips, stretching about his entire face-

"Potter!" Harry blanched, his heart beginning to pound again. He knew that he would never get out of this circumstance. He'd be lucky if Snape didn't use one of those spells that involved a song upon him, but in his case they would not be used for healing. Perhaps he would enchant the dingy spider webs to come down hungrily upon him to devour him. His dream sequence would stir to life.

"I was just- " He cast around furtively for an excuse, willing anything to come to his mind. "I was getting a glass of water."

"Really?" he sneered. His black eyes bored into Harry's own, and Harry fought hard not to look away. "Then perhaps, Potter, you would not stand on the stairs seeking about for the kitchen. Very few houses actually have a kitchen on the second floor."

"I know that, sir," he said in a low tone, balling his hands into fists at his sides. He knew of course that there was no way out of this situation. He would need to go downstairs and get a cup. Keeping his eyes carefully trained in front of him, he let his hand slide along the banister as he made his way down, slowly. He refused to look at the potions master while he progressed, although he could tell by his peripheral vision that he had sat down on one of the cluttered sofas. He could hear him breathing laboriously. His curiosity getting the better of him as he walked into the room, he glanced over at the wound on Snape's arm that he had not yet been able to heal. Before Harry could stop himself he blurted,

"Is that the same wound that I tried to heal when you were a cat?" He looked at Harry, a frown that seemed permanently etched out on his face making crude cuts into Snape's pale-white skin. His whole face was an interesting mystery to Harry. The many creases that ran between the eyes and the nose were so engaged by his elaborate expressions. Harry imagined that same face twisting up into an evil smile between two patches of long whiskers in a furry face, and had to stifle a laugh as it threatened to burst from him.

"What, pray tell, do you find humorous Potter?" he asked him in an eerily calm tone. Harry detected danger, but as he looked at Snape, the idea of him dashing toward him as a black cat created an irony that impacted him so strongly it caught him off guard. To his horror, a chuckle burst from him that he could not stop, and he quickly turned away, his hand covering his mouth. A large box to his right then sporadically seemed to appear at him from this angle, flaunting a lacy napkin at him, that swayed precariously out of the top like the gloved hand of a lady. The top flaps were yellowed, so he somehow had the impression that life was now working against him. He remembered the yellow boxes from the dream. Before his imagination could put forth any more spirited versions of Snape, he managed to force his expression back to a neutral appearance, to his relief.

"I'll just go and get my glass of water, sir," he said, in a tone that he prayed sounded respectful. As he made towards the door to what he assumed was the kitchen though, Snape's voice wafted over to him,

"You better watch that you do not grab anything which is mine, Potter." Harry paused, looking back at Snape strangely. He was staring directly at him, with his arms crossed. A most peculiar gleam stirred in his eyes that Harry did not trust. But what choice did he have? Hesitantly, he turned back toward the chipped white door. When his hand reached the handle, he thought better of the action though, as a voice that sounded distinctly like Hermione's warned him not to do anything rash. After all, he wasn't terribly thirsty. Snape had given him a meal earlier in the day that had sufficiently provided for those needs, to his vague surprise. However, he was not sure that Snape would be completely averse to cursing something with a label such as 'S.S.' upon it.

Harry turned back around, hesitation rippling over his features. He slowly moved his head up to meet Snape's face. He glared at Harry for a moment. Then his face morphed into the epitome of what he assumed was a thin smile that nonetheless caused him some amount of anxiety. The arm with the bleeding red spot moved upward, and again displayed the ugly wound, now looming at him. Before Harry knew what had happened, the gaping denture in Snape's arm grew darker, as the white and red became a black, and he now stood staring down at a cat . . .

That wound which he'd seen impacted his mind in an odd manner. The cat turned its tunnel-black eyes to him, and its lips stretched out in what looked to be a leer, but it did not appear humorous upon Snape, and leering did strike him to be utterly acceptable. The animal placed a paw on the whitewash and pushed through. Shaking his head vigorously, Harry followed the animal, taking deliberately slow steps while he dragged in after him.

The cat jumped onto one of the shabby counters as soon as they entered. Glancing around, he realized that this room may in fact have been one of the more upscale of those in Snape's house. He could depict areas on the cabinets where elegant paintings had once hung, although why there were paintings hung on the cabinets he could not fathom. However, thin, ornate silver frames had been set upon their small doors, flaunting what used to be depictions of witches with black hair- raven black hair. He stared at the pictures . . . Snape's mother. He looked at cat-Snape. He wasn't really Snape anymore was he? An animal had taken the potion master's place, and now regally sat directly across from him, staring at him with black eyes. The idea of imagining it was only a cat rapidly dissipated.

To his astonishment, the cat jumped down and began circling the rusted blue tiles, flicking its tail back and forth.

"What do you want me to do?" Harry asked, baffled at the movement. He scratched his head in confusion, taking a step back while Snape's eyes stared at him out of the black face of fur. The red gash stood out poignantly against the thin frame, small drops of blood trickling from it. The idea occurred to him that maybe he should just try to leave when the cat turned its back. But the next minute, Snape had pawed open a cabinet beneath the sink on the floor, slunk into it, and then returned with a can of what looked like some kind of green powder. Taking it between his teeth, he set it on the floor, then glared at it for several minutes. Harry's eyes trailed the cat's movements. Curiosity had taken over his entire body, rooting him to the spot. The cat's eyes were set upon the jar, transfixed. Slowly, Snape placed one of his paws into the powder, removed it, and then, stretched his neck over. He then proceeded to groom himself, to Harry's disgust, albeit in an extremely methodical way.

The green powder spread across the cat's back at his movements. Snape continued to lick himself, driving the substance closer to the wound on his side. Harry watched uncertainly. The cat licked vigorously, but the powder did not extend to the red gash. He knew by instinct that the cat-Snape was attempting to heal himself in some bizarre manner, though why he needed to do it as an animagus he couldn't imagine. Finally he halted, hissing and spitting.

Tentatively, Harry walked over to the animal. The black head turned towards him, the eyes narrowed to slits.

"Well . . . " he muttered. "If you erm, want me to." Gleaming orbs of black again locked onto him. Snape's rigid form stood erect, and Harry felt as though he were daring him to come any closer. Watching him warily, he reached out, and rubbed the powder into the wound, trying not to touch it too much, lightly pressing it into the gash with his fingers. Harry stared at his work, but nothing happened. Then he noticed a change, and realized that the wound was moving, twisting grotesquely into itself, as though an invisible hand were knitting it together. Finally, all that remained was a thin gray line, the gash having taken on a life of its own to complete its work. The cat began circling slowly around the bottle, becoming enveloped by a black smoke soon after. Infused within the suffocating cloud, Harry reared back into the cabinets, while a tall, thin robed form stepped out of the whirlwind. A minute later and the smoke dissipated, vanishing into the air around them. Snape pulled back the robe of his arm and held it out to the light. Harry watched quietly.

Save for a few minor scars, the angry redness had faded from the potion master's alabaster white skin. Apparently satisfied, Snape placed his arm again at his side, allowing the robed sleeve to once again fall down over it. Without a word, he bent over to the jar, moving to replace it from where he had been keeping it in the cabinet.

"What was that?" Harry asked him.

"What, Potter?" he asked boredly.

"The powder. And why did you need to turn into an animagus to heal yourself with whatever it was?" he asked. Snape stared back at him for a minute.

"It was a healing powder," he said abruptly. "The powder is known as Invectus Septimum, and was created for heal minor cuts to large cuts on animals that are no deeper than two inches," he said, sneering the last two words. "I turned back into an animagus, Potter, because obviously, as I'm sure you've already deduced, I was unable to in my human form." Ignoring him after this, Snape retreated from the kitchen. Harry contented himself with looking around the kitchen for a few moments, battling against himself and his burning desire for answers.

Making up his mind, he left the kitchen as well, following Snape out into the living room. The startlingly pale man was resting against the sofa situated beneath a dingy window directly across from him. Harry couldn't help thinking that he looked rather like a vampire, barely breathing beneath that white exterior.

"You knew that you couldn't do it as a cat, so why didn't you just ask for help?" he forced himself to ask. Snape's eyes snapped open immediately. He flashed him a smirk, though there was something strange about the twist in his mouth that Harry couldn't quite put his finger on.

"That is none of your concern. But for your own information to put away sometime in the future, let us suffice it to say that you, Potter, are a terrible healer." Harry shook his head, in bewilderment. "But I did it better than you did," he stated baldly. Snape scowled at him. There was a beat of silence. Then,

"No, Potter, I assure you that you did not. If you will attempt patience, then you will soon see the effects of touching Invectus Septimum," he snarled, with less vigor than usual as his eyes snapped shut. Harry's stomach roiled in anger, which bubbled into horror soon after, as Snape's words sunk in. He now understood. The cat had leered at him before it went into the kitchen. What if he had been poisoned? He glanced at the demonic twist in Snape's mouth, trying furtively to think of what his next move should be, while his mind rushed forth with all kinds of terrible ideas, gleaned primarily from his overactive mind, which put Snape to the forefront once again. An oozing red sore, yellowed boxes, the stretch of a cat's smile . . . and the sight of an exhausted and extremely irritable Professor Snape.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked finally, almost afraid of Snape's answer.

"Various manifestations have been reported," he muttered, a light smile tracing his face. His eyes snapped open, and locked onto Harry's green ones. "We shall have to wait and see." He thought that Christmas might have come for Snape by the sparkle in the coal-black eyes. And he suddenly wished that he had it in his power to put a large clump of coal in his stocking. He nearly grinned, pleased with the idea, thinking of the image of a large clump of it dirtying the potion master's hands one morning. Coal giving.

Although he sobered almost immediately, for a split second, it was certainly a better image than the potions master gave to him.