Notes: I don't have the book right now, nor Internet. But then, the way canon is violated (er, raped), it shouldn't matter too much if I bastardize canon. I should post a LOVE shoutout to all the readers, how did you put up with me back then?
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Classes
There were rumors bouncing around the school the next day.
"Did you see him?"
"Did you see his face? His scar?"
Chris apparently enjoyed the attention. He looked very upbeat at breakfast, smile bright as the sunshine that never seemed to reach into the castle. He knew Hogwarts after all, knew her almost as intimately as a child knew his mother, he'd grown up in the school, and nothing, not even war, would stop him from enjoying his first day.
In fact, he'd enjoyed walking around the castle so much, the red-and-gold crest finally upon his robes, that he and Ron Weasley, who'd taken to him almost syncophantically, arrived embarassingly late to their first class. Transfiguration, with the Slytherins.
It wasn't the most auspicious of beginnings.
"It's fine, it's fine," he wheezed near-breathlessly as they staggered into the classroom where half the eyes lit up and half haughtily turned away . "Professor McGonagall's isn't here yet."
Then he noticed the cat. Oh.
Oh, indeed, because the cat was already changing, lengthening, the bones resettling themselves, and soon the stern-looking teacher was already in their faces, looking most displeased.
"I had expected better from you, of my House, and especially you, Mr. Potter." She shook her head, mouth a thin line (only Damien noticed the slight curling at the edges, the amusement hidden deep in her intonations). "My classroom should not be so hard find, considering I've been teaching you here for a few years already, or shall I need to transfigure your broomstick into a map again?"
"Sorry, Professor," Chris bowed his head, having at least the grace to be embarassed. "Won't happen again."
McGonagall, looking dubious, nodded, took off a few points to be fair, and directed them to vacant seats behind the bushy-haired girl. She, who introduced herself earlier in a high nervous voice as Hermione Granger, looked appalled that Gryffindor had lost points so soon.
(Damien would be the first to tell her not to be so surprised. The losing side.)
~0~
"Now," McGonagall faced the body of the class, the gleam of certainty and a hint of excitement in her old eyes, reassured in her knowledge of the subject. "Transfiguration is one of the most complex and dangerous subjects you will learn. You will find that aside from the added utility and versality you may obtain from the most mundane objects, transfiguration can be a force in itself, a tool for battle. I only hope that whatever you learn within these walls would go towards ignoble purposes." Her clear gray lingered just a slight moment longer on the Slytherins. "Hence, I will not tolerate fooling around in this class. Troublemakers will not be dealt with leniency."
Then she turned her desk into a hog (it was gray and it had wiry whiskers and it was real) and back again. This, this was the power of Transfiguration, an alchemy beyond mystique and illusion, the solid reality of an object framing itself to a spellcaster's will, defying its own nature.
Damien found that he didn't much ike Transfiguration (it was exceedingly useful, yes, but obscene in its unnaturality, much like himself). He was fully capable of turning the table equally porcine, even serpentine, even Draconian, whichever he preferred, but first years were only expected to perform far less impressive tricks.
Wood to metal. Matches into needles.
(Child's play.)
"My father's good at these things," Chris was saying from his end of the room (from his end of existence). "He taught me most of the basic spells. Professor McGonagall too - I think I know all the spells for this class."
The redhead waved his wand and his match turned into a perfectly pointy silver needle.
McGonagall watched him, her smile visible, a memory of an equally arrogant and talented boy playing in her mind, James Potter, who'd succeeded on his first attempt as well. She gave ten points to Gryffindor.
Damien blasely turned to his own match, very much unhurried. Draco, who'd also been looking and unabashedly eavesdropping, shrugged in annoyance. The blond has perhaps wanted to say something, but relented due to to his inability to transfigure his own match.
Damien said the spell, the words were slick on his tongue, infused with power.
A perfect needle, silver to its very core.
His mouth quirked a little in amused realization. This had been the first time he'd consciously done magic in the open air, to be seen. Fun.
He repeated the spell, a soft whisper that seemed to dissipate into the air. Nothing happened.
~0~
Draco watched from the corner of his eye as Damien (seemingly) failed to do the spell a second time, frustrated with his own progress, or lack thereof. He'd read on Transfiguration, since his mother was most adept at charms and his father was always away and no one else (save Severus Snape) could be trusted with his instruction. Practice, he admitted, was different from Theory.
To his right, Pansy Parkinson's eyes had widened rather comically in astonishment. Her match was now very much a needle.
Draco frowned. Parkinson, while sporting her own brand of insidious cunning, had never poured much energy into learning petty spells such as these (she'd announced it at seven years old, housewitch spells, never!).
To his left, a grunt spurted forth. Goyle was staring, rather dumbfounded, at the silver sliver in his match.
Only years of keeping cryptic faces allowed Draco to maintain his composure. His eyes snapped suspiciously to McGonagall (the enemy), but even she looked genuinely shocked. His gaze traveled across the room, only briefly taking note is his own match starting to give off a metallic sheen, searching every face, and it wasn't until he saw Santelli's mean little half-smile that he finally caught on.
So Santelli was gunning for a little (though honestly, astounding) showing off? Well, if that was the case, there was no reason for Draco to interfere.
The only other Gryffindor who got it right was Granger.
~0~
The dungeons were a dark, dank place, smelling too much of dry brittle powders and moss and potions fumes, the stone walls were cold, the floor charred in odd places.
Professor Snape, gaunt in his dark robes, looked upon them all, his head held in a sharp angle, disdain in his void-black eyes. "The Headmaster said there was a promising batch of students this year, but none of you look any different from the incompetent dunderheads who seek to call themselves brewers."
A few students swallowed visibly. Several turned red, whether in rage or humiliation it cannot be determined. But Potter, the poor fool, bristled angrily.
"Yes, Potter?" Snape asked silkily. "Our esteemed savior."
"That's not fair, Professor. You don't know us," Chris' eyesbrows were drawn together.
"Believe me, Potter, I know you more than I care to. It is rather unpleasant to always have your countenance plastered on my daily paper."
Chris flushed angrily. Snape throttled on.
"The news had always been wrong on many counts," (Damien tilted his head in agreement.) "Perhaps we should test the latest article lauding Mr. Potter as the next genius of this generation? By their account, you are very knowledgeable in Potions, Mr. Potter. Did you know your mother was the same?
Chris shook his head.
"She'd been fairly competent. I doubted you had the insight to appreciate the subject. A bottle, Mr. Potter, a vial, a drop, and even without any magical power one can cast misfortune, brew obsession, stash away everlasting sleep. But maybe you thought it wouldn't be of help in the Dark Lord's, or more likely your, demise, you'd rather use wands."
Chris, who'd gone very still, managed to ladle out an answers. "Yes, sir, wands. My father said – "
"I do not care what your father said," Snape icily cut him off, and started the lesson.
~0~
In the end, very few students managed to still their hands enough for brewing, constantly on the receiving end of a barrage of biting criticism.
Chris and another boy, Neville Longbottom, got the worst of it. The latter's potion had exploded in a magificent burst of acid green smoke and great starbursts of melted cauldron. Neville was escorted to the Hospital wing, his body covered in great slews of pustule-filled boils and rashes, almost incoherent in terror.
Chris went away complaining.
~0~
It was after the last crying stragglers (namely, Hermione, who'd bent over her greatly-manhandled potion with grim determination) left that Draco beckoned for Damien to stay behind.
Damien scowled at him (I do not take kindly to being ordered.) but idled in the classroom anyway.
"If you mean to convince me that you finally gained a capable hand in potion-making, it will not work, Draco," Snape sneered, annoyance stretching across his face.
"I did my fair share," Draco sniffed starchly. "I mean no offence, but I am rather not interested in Potions. If you wanted a protegee, Santelli. I'm sure you will enjoy each other."
Snape and Damien surveyed each other dubiously.
"Well met, Professor," Damien nodded towards the older man, calculated respect in his voice.
"Pity Draco Malfoy thought not to inherit his mother's skills but rather his father's, but at least you show some promise, Mr. Santelli," Snape drawled, acknowledging the dark-haired boy.
"He's an ally, Professor," Draco said, heavy emphasis on the right words, causing both men to stared rather crossly at his distinct lack of subtlety.
Snape rubbed his forehead in aggravation, then relented and retrieved a copy of the Daily Prophet. Contrary to what he said earlier, it did not contain Potter's laughing mug but rather a mocing sepia image of irate goblins and general pandemonium.
The break-in. It was a spectularly-publicized and notorious event, whispers floating across lunch tables and classrooms had reeked of it.
"The Dark Lord?"
Snape shrugged ambiguously, his face sallow and tight and unreadable.
"But it didn't work out," Damien said firmly.
Snape looked sharply at him. "No," he whispered, a wince not quite supressed in his tone. "It didn't. I suppose the Dark Lord had been very displeased."
"What was in the vault?"
"That is none of your business. But they said it's now hidden somewhere very well-protected, very close to the ones seeking to protect it." Snape said, very deliberately.
Ah.
~0~
A voice, "I want everything there is to know about him."
End Chapter Ten.
Spoiler: SeverusLily is my Harry Potter OTP now, but in this story, Snape had been in love with, uh, Narcissa Malfoy.