The Birthday Present
By excessivelyperky
Rowling: All hers. Just borrowing them for a bit.
Author's note: HBP did not happen!
Chapter 12: The Thirteenth Apprentice
Author's note: This chapter contains description of past child abuse and other adult subjects. With luck it won't be as depressing as the last one, though. Thanks again to Snape's Nightie, my loyal Britpicker, who has updated some of her stories (hint!). Warning: modest discussion of Quidditch theory ahead.
Severus Snape
Snape went directly to his bedroom in the dungeons and looked for a flask of Dreamless Sleep potion. In less than a week, the Swiss would start him on the regimen and he wouldn't be able to use any at all.
Then he stopped. He had others to think of now. He couldn't owl or Floo them directly, at least not at this hour. However, he could use the Mark as he had told the Headmaster to check on them. Since none of them had been hurt it was less likely that his arm would be affected again.
Severus wearily walked back up to the Slytherin Common room. He didn't know if he needed the pillar or not at this point, but it would be best to have it available.
He sat down in a chair near the back of the room and bowed his head. How could he blame Dumbledore for recoiling the way he had? The old man had tried to hide his disgust, but his emotions leaking back along the Legilimens connection had given him away. I tried. I tried so hard. I know what he feels about me. The way he's always felt about me. I can't let it matter. I have too much to do.
He took several deep breaths, hoping his stomach would settle down. As he pulled up the sleeve on his left arm, he saw the Mark was fading. He touched it with the tip of his wand and recited the names of his apprentices. Draco. Crabbe and Goyle. Zabini. Miss Parkinson. Theodore Nott. Joshua Avery. Charles Rosier, Miss Elizabeth Rosier. Jake Macnair. And then the other two, the two he'd stolen from their true sponsors: Miss Edgecombe. Percy Weasley.
As he brought the images of their faces to his inner eye, his Mark grew darker, though without pain. It felt as if he were picking up one thread, in some cases two, at a time and holding them as each one became part of a group. A clamor of feeling and thoughts echoed through his mind. Oh Merlin, he couldn't hide his feelings from them either. His own dismay at what he'd done tonight silenced the few streams of pride and malice that came from his students. Whatever you feel, you must hide, he commanded. I warned you all that this service would be hard. You are safe with me. You are mine and I will protect you. A wave of love surged out to them, even those who had rejoiced to see such cruelty. Even now, in the depths of the Pit, you are not lost. I will help you find your way in the darkness until you are on firm ground again. He was telling them too much, but couldn't help it. He had to let them know that there was a path out of this hell, if only they would take it.
He released the threads, now no longer totally black in his mind but edged with gold. They were young and needed their sleep, if they could find it tonight after what they had done and what they had seen him do.
Snape leaned back in the chair, suddenly exhausted. His head went to one side as weariness overtook him.
Oddly enough, the dreams weren't so bad tonight. He was in Knockturn Alley again, fetching a bottle for his mother while his father was away, again. He went across the street with too few coins, knowing he'd had to sit on the old man's lap and be slobbered over to get what Mother wanted. Folben always gave him a lolly after the Funny Thing happened and told him to be careful getting back home. Severus knew it had to be a secret, because they always went to the little storeroom behind the counter. He'd told his mother once about it, and she said that old men sometimes had trouble with wetting their pants as if they were little, and not to say anything. He'd tried to tell her it was different, that it smelled different, but she'd hushed him sharply and told him it was wrong to go around spreading tales. Then she would open the bottle and the harsh scent of the gin would overpower the lingering memory of the other odor.
Sometimes if he felt really bad, she would notice and give him a little of the liquor, too. Then it didn't bother him so much.
But in this dream the old man wasn't there. The middle-aged woman who stood behind the counter said that he had enough for the bottle he wanted to buy, because it was on sale this week. And when he got back home, his mother set the package aside instead of opening it instantly and made dinner instead.
Snape felt an odd presence overshadowing this vision, something green and silver that wound through his mind like a serpent and coiled up around it, as if keeping him safe.
Another dream arrived after that one. Severus had never had this one before. He was in a square space with a rope fence inside a building that rang with the shouts of boys and reeked of sweat worse than the showers after a Quidditch match. He felt exposed as he stood inside the ropes in little more than briefs. Everyone could see his scars.
Young Potter circled him warily, wearing puffy gloves and an odd leather helmet. Why wasn't the idiot wearing his glasses? Surely he couldn't see. Snape looked down at his own hands, but they were bare.
Even in this vision he felt odd about lashing out at the brat physically, though the boy had no trouble striking out at him. Snape merely blocked the blows. He still blames me for Black's death, he thought. I suspected he needed very little help from the Dark Lord to do so. Normally Potter's rebellion would send him into a rage. He'd never understood it. Other students, no matter how annoying, usually met his shield of cool indifference and occasional jabs of sharp humor. Only this boy made him lose control so often.
Tonight he was so tired he didn't care any more. I know what I look like to him now, he thought inside the dream. He's not allowed to strike back against what his family and I have done to him, so he lands a blow on anything he can reach. I did the same just a few hours ago.
He went over backwards onto a mat as a fierce uppercut numbed his jaw. Potter stood over him, glaring with those impossibly green eyes. In the struggle, the boy's head protection had fallen off and his scar was turning black.
Snape picked himself up and reached out towards the lightning-shaped wound with his left hand as his Mark darkened, though the blotch on his arm had a lighter colored speck in the middle of it. "It hurts, doesn't it? he said softly. He wondered if the boy ever looked at his forehead in a mirror in the waking world these days. As his fingers grazed the puckered skin, he felt pain and fury drain into his own body. "I shouldn't have forgotten you," he heard himself say in a murmur.
Potter let his gloves drop turned away with a harsh sob. The dream faded after that, and his sleeping mind returned to jumbled images that had no meaning. What peace.
When he woke up, it was late morning and his back hurt from sleeping in the chair too long. Severus stood and stretched, his mind much calmer than he expected. A thought came to him. Albus said he was my responsibility now. The brat might as well be a Slytherin by the way he acts. Some of his own house had families like the Dursleys, and they normally spoke little of their ordeals unless the stories were cajoled out of them, usually in their first year. He was normally able to make most of his Snakes trust him, but not always. A pity he had let his weakness drive him into rage whenever he saw the boy. He should know better.
Snape walked down to his chambers, washed, and changed, though some stains would never come out after last night. He went to his office. All right, Mr. Potter, let's suppose you are a transfer student. This school used to have them on occasion before I became Head of Slytherin, either from outside or when circumstances demanded a re-Sorting. Neither one had occurred in Dumbledore's tenure, which Severus thought was strange. Adjustments did occur to students while they were here that were radical enough to warrant at least a new evaluation, while the school used to receive transfers from other schools, ranging from Durmstrang from the Salem Academy in the States. What happened? When he first came here he looked through all the cabinets and saw dusty, unused forms for such additions to the roster, but had never used one.
That was about to change. He began a fresh file, took one of those forms from the middle where dust had yet to touch the stack, and started filling it out for Harry Potter. He'd ask Minerva for a duplicate of the information she kept on the boy. He charmed a duplicate of Potter's grades in Potions and the few essays Snape had thought worth keeping and put them into the new folder. He wrote his evaluation of the Dursleys, along with what he'd learned in the Occlumency lessons last year. He added the letters he'd gotten from Mrs. Dursley this summer. It might be a good idea to ask Madam Hooch what she had—she was always deeply involved in the lives of the better Quidditch players. He shuddered to think about the files she must have on Crabbe and Goyle, and he would rather not speculate on her opinion of Draco.
He stared at the folder. He almost always drew a chart of friendships and other relationships with a Slytherin student as well, both in and out of the study group they were assigned to in their first year. It made figuring out their position in the Pit easier, though naturally that changed day by day. In his cabinet, he usually kept members of the same study group together, rather than filing strictly by alphabetical order.
With a sigh of martyrdom, he added two more folders—one for Miss Granger, who was Potter's only chance to survive if the boy would listen to her, and one for Mr. Ronald Weasley. Since he was also responsible for Percy Weasley to some extent these days, and had taught all the others, the youngest Weasley boy may as well join the group. He'd long kept a special file on the twins from self-defense.
Then he recklessly threw in one more for Miss Ginevra Weasley. He may as well collect the entire set. Though the trauma of her first year appeared to be resolved, he knew that she could be hiding it, or might yet have a role to play in this game. The Dark Lord had appeared interested when Lucius had told him about the diary, and the chaos that had ensued during Draco's second year.
No doubt he should have done this years ago. System, that was the thing. System and logic were rarely found in the Wizarding World, even among Ravenclaws who applied them to their studies and not to their lives. He'd seen the despair on Miss Granger's face upon discovering this fact. However, that meant that anyone who made use of them had an advantage over the rest.
That reminded him of someone else who kept files. Filch undoubtedly had bulging folders on the Trio and Miss Weasley. Some of the information had already passed his way through casual chat. The game of 'pick one student to hang in chains' rarely palled, though Argus had finally made him choose someone besides Potter. Snape had informed him that most Gryffindors generally made past Hanging in Chains to Personally Strangle before their third year, though Mr. Longbottom had advanced to Mince Slowly and Simmer by now.
Admittedly, the Great Bouncing Ferret Incident had required fifteen minutes behind a closed door and a Silencing Charm for both of them before either were fit to take points from students. It had taken Snape an additional half hour to vent in regards to 'Moody' before it was safe for him to venture out to the evening meal that night, and he'd replaced Filch's tea set shortly afterwards.
A pity that Draco hadn't learned anything from it, at least judging by his conduct afterwards. No doubt he was merely following his father's orders, but sucking up to Umbridge all last year was not going to help the boy during this one.
He left his chambers and visited McGonagall. She didn't seem surprised at his request for a copy of her file on Potter, but blinked a bit when asked about the others. He pointed out that the boy's associations were quite important. "Since all of them will likely be key in some way, I need to know more about them myself," he said. "If nothing else, Percy Weasley will be anxious for news of his younger brother and sister. No doubt being cut off from his family is harder for him than it might be for others."
Minerva turned sober with that observation. "It will likely be easier for you to pass that information along than it would be for me to talk to Moody," she said.
He nodded. He didn't tell her that the retired Auror might want Percy isolated from anyone but him. Moody had always preferred his operatives to be single and unencumbered with other alliances; he had certainly protested against two of them marrying during the first time Voldemort rose. Snape had long made it his business to find out all he could about his former interrogator, including Mad-Eye's activities during the Grindelwald War.
That taken care of, he went to the noon meal and pretended to have an appetite. Dumbledore mercifully left him alone. Professor Sprout was back from her stay in the country and expected everyone to share her enthusiasm. Even Flitwick was overwhelmed by her good cheer, which was saying something.
She spotted him, unfortunately. "Severus!" she said. "You're looking better than usual. Have you actually been outdoors this summer?"
"Once or twice," he said acerbically. He tried not to think about all those shattered branches. He'd changed his walking habits since to take in the Forbidden Forest, where the trees could manage for themselves. "I survived anyway."
"See? I told you the sun wouldn't melt you!" Sprout laughed.
"It was a near thing once or twice," he riposted. She, along with Minerva, could hold her own at the table.
The plump Herbology professor smiled. "You'll have to bring me your brewing schedule for next year fairly soon, so I can get what you need started in the greenhouses."
"That depends on the Ministry," Snape said, glancing at the Headmaster. Albus was staying quiet tonight. How odd. "It's a little complicated. But I'd appreciate it if you could get some aconite growing for the Wolfsbane Potion, and mark which greenhouse it's in so Mr. Lupin doesn't go in there by accident. The potion is supposed to work as well with the dried plant, but I have always thought fresh ingredients better."
Dumbledore sat staring at his tea, and wouldn't meet his eyes. Severus tried to ignore how much that hurt, though he knew he deserved it. I'm trying to do what you want, he thought. I'm trying to be what you want me to be. After last night, though, he knew the Headmaster would never forgive him.
He tried to participate in the conversation even after that, though he really wanted to crawl off to his quarters and never talk to anyone again.
After he'd eaten what little he could, he rose from the table and began to head down to the dungeons. Poppy intercepted him. "What's wrong with Albus?" she asked. "I heard you came in late last night. Are you all right."
"I wasn't hurt," he said. "Could…could we talk privately?" He tried to keep his voice from cracking.
They went up to the infirmary and back to her office. She closed the door. Once they sat down, she said, "Now tell me what happened.
He told her as much as he could of last night's events. Snape was afraid she'd be revolted as well, but she needed to know the truth. It wasn't really the Headmaster's fault. "I did lose control," he whispered, and let his dark hair fall in front of his face. "I shouldn't have let the Dark Lord manipulate me like that. I know Dumbledore is disappointed in me. For that, and everything else."
"What do you mean, everything else?"
He couldn't tell her what the Dark Lord wanted of him. He couldn't. "Albus found out how I got the Order its information last year," he said, almost mumbling the words.
Madam Pomfrey leaned forward. At least she didn't try to pat his shoulder, or anything like that. "I'm so glad you were finally able to tell him."
"I didn't. He knew I was hiding something. I offered to show him last night's meeting in the Pensieve, but he used Legilimens instead." He swallowed. "The Dark Lord…he knew about Lucius, he has all along, and he, um, talked about it a little bit." It was humiliating to remember what Voldemort had done to him through the Mark. "Because the Headmaster knew how I felt, he realized it was true."
"Oh dear," Poppy said.
"He was disgusted with me. How can I blame him?" Poppy didn't need to know what the Dark Lord wanted. It might not ever happen anyway.
"Perhaps Dumbledore was angry with himself, or at what happened to you," Pomfrey said quietly. "It was hard for me the first time I had to heal you because Lucius Malfoy plays too rough. I want—I still want to do things to him that no mediwitch ought to dream of. It's hard to see someone you care for endure such horrors and not be able to help."
"I wish it was like that," he said plaintively, and then was ashamed of himself, but couldn't stop talking about it. "Legilimens can go both ways. I killed someone last night, Poppy, and that made him sick, too. He was like that when I first opened my mind to him. He almost threw up both times. He wouldn't even look at me at the table today." He wanted to curl up on his bed under a mountain of blankets and pretend he could hide from it. I hope she doesn't try to hug me, he thought, knowing he was being childish again. Even Dobby's touch would be too much right now.
"I wish I knew how to help both of you," Pomfrey said, her voice thick. "I know some therapists work in this field now. It's a relatively new one for the Wizarding World, but some progress has been made."
He glanced up and saw she had taken off her glasses and was wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. "None of them are in the Order, are they?" he asked wistfully.
"No. After what happened with your blood tests, I wouldn't dare recommend anybody out of it." She sighed. "You can always talk to me. You're not the first to come to Hogwarts with a family like yours, or been hurt so badly here. How do you think I saw through that farrago of lies you tried on me that first time last year? I'm just surprised I didn't figure out what Malfoy was doing to you when you were a student."
"He was more careful not to hurt me then," Severus admitted. "And if he did, he was always careful to heal me afterwards." Besides, what Lucius had asked of him long ago hadn't been much different than what he'd done for Folben once he'd gotten a little older. True, the summers he'd spent at Malfoy Manor had been unpleasant. Snape knew that he had to take more responsibility for what happened last year, though. He had, after all, finally gone back to the older man after avoiding Lucius for so long.
"I'm glad I was able to help, though I have to admit that you were the one who brewed the potions," she said in a brisk tone of voice.
"I probably won't be able to either brew or use many potions once I start on that wretched regime," Snape said, more than happy to change the topic. "I'll just have to be more careful and not get hurt as much."
"I hope it's that easy," the mediwitch said gently. "I forgot to tell you, an owl came with more detailed instructions about the potions you'll be taking. Both of us are to be familiar with them by the time actual formulations arrive."
"I've been thinking about that," Snape said. "If I manage the side effects without the extra potions, the whole process could take a couple of months less than scheduled."
"I don't think that's a good idea. You're lighter than you should be already, and you're still sleeping badly, even after being at the clinic for a week."
"I made it through last year, didn't I?"
"To be honest, I'd like you on the sedative, the mood-enhancer and the appetite encourager by themselves for a month before you start the rest of the regimen," Poppy said flatly. "You want building up after everything that's happened."
He bit his lip, and hoped Poppy wasn't going to talk about Lucius or the Headmaster again. He had to keep the woman talking about the regimen. "If I were on them and stopped, the backlash is said to be vicious," he asserted. He had researched all the compounds out of curiosity, though he certainly wasn't going to take them all. "The reason I'm doing this in the first place is because of all the muck in my veins. Adding more seems counter-productive."
"I won't argue with you on that," Pomfrey said. "There's a Muggle theory that some illness are caused by basic chemical deficiencies in the brain, and that resolving them could be as simple as making sure to eat oranges in the winter to ward off scurvy."
"Of course." Snape rolled his eyes. "They used to cure fevers with blood-letting, too."
"You have a point," she sighed. "Let's try things your way on a week-by-week basis. I don't blame you for wanting to get through this as quickly as possible. But if you lose too much weight or can't sleep for more than two nights in a row, we'll have to reconsider."
"And to think the Headmaster believes he runs this school." Severus briefly smiled to take the sting from his remark. "I'd better see those instructions."
"Yes. You'll need to drink plenty of fluids, too. Severus, are you sure you can't spend the first week or so of the regime at the clinic?"
"I was lucky to have the time I did," he snapped. "As things are, I'm lucky to have any time to myself." He winced at the note of bitterness in his voice. The last thing either master really wanted from was the truth.
Poppy looked about to say something, then clearly decided not to.
"It'll be all right," he said, trying to reassure her though he felt little confidence himself. He picked up the papers. "May I take these with me?" he asked.
"Certainly. But bring them back once you're certain of what to do. Please keep going outside once a day. Your color really is much better since the beginning of the summer. I'm glad Dobby is helping to remind you when to go on your walk. When the students come back, I'll make sure he doesn't have to clean Gryffindor Tower all by himself."
"He said something about Miss Granger, at least that's what I think he meant." Dobby had mentioned "Miss Book-Girl."
"Yes. She does mean well. I must admit, little Winky has been much happier since she started helping you when your arm was paralyzed. I'm glad you're continuing to teach her."
It wasn't much trouble, and her technique was already better than some he knew would be in their second year this autumn. "She does try to be careful," he said. "If I have to follow the Ministry's schedule, then I'll really need her help, at least for lab preparation. But some of the ingredients she may handle later on could be dangerous, even for a house elf. How do I get her to wear gloves or a lab-robe?" His mother had brought a house elf with her from Russia, but when things had gone wrong for his parents, Duschka had been sold. It was childish of him to miss her after all these years, but he did. Winky sometimes reminded him of her.
"Oh, dear. She'll think they are clothes."
Good. Poppy had gotten away from his problems. "The size isn't really much trouble. I can always shrink a first-year set. I'll have to be careful what I call them, though," he mused out loud. "Maybe if she wears them only in the work area?"
"I'll have a chat with her," the mediwitch said. "But don't think I've forgotten about making sure you're eating and sleeping properly, on this regime or not. And when the weather gets nasty, I'm sure Professor Sprout can arrange some corner for you that won't be too cold."
"I've been venting the dungeons once a day, too," he said. Normally he'd protest about being fussed over like this, but it didn't seem worth the trouble any more. The thunderclouds of anger that normally lived inside had moved off, at least for today. Last night he'd gladly welcomed them back in. Oh, it had felt good to finally release some of that hidden fury! But he knew the price. Dumbledore would never forgive him for it, or for anything else the older wizard had found out last night.
Severus glanced down at the papers from the clinic. "I'll look at these quickly, make notes, and get them back to you as soon as I can."
Pomfrey nodded. "They want you to make notes of all your symptoms, too, since you'll be the first one on this modified outpatient regime. There should be a form to fill out each day. All that will be confidential, of course, so you might as well tell the truth."
"Why, Poppy! I'm surprised," he said, deliberately keeping his tone light. "You don't trust me."
"Got it in one." A smile lit up her wrinkled face. "Now move along. I have work to do before all the little darlings come back, especially since you send me all your Slytherins to get checked over the first few days."
"That's because I know how far to trust them, too," Severus said. "It's a longstanding Snake tradition to hide any weaknesses." He got up, taking the papers with him, and headed outside to read in the shade. He may as well get his outdoor time without wasting it entirely.
He sat on a bench in one of the gardens, and hoped the angry part of himself was satisfied enough by last night to keep from breaking any more branches. He grimaced. It was like dealing with Peeves, only not even the Baron could manage this poltergeist.
Snape sighed, and went over the new instructions. They were ponderously written and excessively detailed even for him, but that was normal to the Germanic mind. He skimmed through the potion composition, times of day they were to be taken, diet items to be avoided with their use, interactions with other potions, and the like. He'd take more detailed notes of those later. One section labeled Personal Life caught his eye.
"The subject is advised to avoid relations with partners while taking these potions, due to possible toxins in the body fluids. Female patients are advised to take the standard potion each month to encourage effusions from the womb, especially if of childbearing age, and to avoid becoming pregnant. Male patients are encouraged to clean the ducts on a weekly basis, if not oftener, to avoid scarring from toxin buildup." Well, he'd never heard it put that way before. Thank Merlin he was a man! He knew about those potions for women and was thrilled to avoid the whole problem. Just watching over young female students was exciting enough, since their cycles tended to coincide during a year from being in proximity with each other. Actual poltergeists created by young witches were fortunately rare. Peeves hated rivals and took out his spite on the witch responsible, so it was usually easy to identify her and manage her problem.
I wish I could manage my problems so easily, he thought. Using a potion was clearly out of the question, but perhaps he could work with the pensieve some more. I'll have to find somewhere else to store the memories I find most aggravating. The Headmaster will want his back one of these days, and I've already ordered a second one for the Potter boy.
He rolled up the instructions. Just as he got up from the bench, Madam Hooch walked by whistling. "You're just the person I wanted to speak to," he said.
She stopped in mid-tune and looked at him. "Now, that's a surprise! The last time you were on a broom was almost five years ago. I made twenty Galleons betting you wouldn't throw up till after refereeing the game."
"I thank you for your confidence in me," he said dryly.
"I lost five on the side-bet, though," Hooch added. "I saw how much Calming Potion you downed ahead of time, and bet Minerva you'd have to stop for a pee break before the end of the game. But she said you'd hold it somehow."
Snape rolled his eyes. There was always something adolescent about Madam Hooch, no matter how long it had been since she'd played for the Manchester Steamers. "I am always glad to exceed expectations. But the reason I wanted to speak with you was about Mr. Potter. I have been given some responsibility for him, and I'd appreciate a copy of your file on the boy."
"Follow me to my office," she said, striding off. Snape followed, and had to stretch his legs to keep up. She continued talking as they walked. "It's mostly a few pieces of scattered notes. He doesn't foul much, even with Malfoy pushing him, and he's a damned good natural flyer. I wasn't here when his father played, but he was supposed to be just as good, going by Trimmer's old notes. Now, don't cloud up like that, I wouldn't have had James Potter on my team as a gift. A highly skilled pain in the butt can disrupt a whole season and make the team go sour for years afterwards. Saw it happen with the Cannons back in '87—wasn't till Alfred 'my shit doesn't stink' Mallem nearly got a skull fracture from a Bludger because he couldn't be bothered to be civil to his Beaters that the coach finally saw the light and benched him for a couple of months. All for health reasons, of course, but Mallem did think things over, or why he's listed right next to Bagman these days. It would have done James Potter a world of good to have it happen to him and his little friends, but we both know why it didn't. Trimmer had plenty to say about that when he was giving me the tour. At least you give Malfoy a smacking-around when I let you know he's in need of one, though that little stunt with the brooms his second year almost got him grounded permanently."
Snape knew that the Quidditch coach took her position seriously. "About Harry Potter," he interrupted once she stopped talking for a moment.
"Oh, yes. Well, it almost made me cry when that toad bounced him from the team. Flying keeps him straight when things pile up on him, and I know how that feels! Now, you weren't the only one who felt like giving him a good kick last year, but it's a crime to keep him on the ground. When I was laid up for six months before I finally quit the pros, I hated everybody, including myself. When you were at that clinic, I bet they had to put a body bind on to keep you from playing with their cauldrons. Think of not getting to touch one for a year."
"That's what they're threatening me with now," he said gloomily, "unless this horrible outpatient trial works. What is the one word you'd use to characterize Mr. Potter's flying?"
Hooch thought for a second, then smiled warmly. "Joy. I'm surprised his Patronus isn't a broom!"
They entered her office, even more crowded and paper-infested than his own. "As long as I have your attention, I might as well ask you about his friends. Mr. Weasley, for instance."
She chewed her lip and sat down. "He…thinks out there on the field, he doesn't just react. That got him into trouble at first as Keeper, because so much of what he should do is pure reaction. But he was there long enough to learn how to think faster than he does at chess. I'm glad nobody pulled him when he was so bad at first. See, most Keepers block the Quaffle with pure physical speed, and they start out with a much higher percentage of saves than Weasley did at first. But then I saw he was trying to integrate everyone's movements at once, and that's much harder. So naturally his error rate was horrendous there." Hooch tapped her foot. "But he's got the hang of it now. He'll be a fine Captain next year—I know he was doing half the stats that were turned in last year, if only because I had to use a Translation Spell to read them. He's beginning to feel Quidditch the way he does a chessboard, and that's going to be really interesting once he gets good at it."
Hearing that any Weasley besides Percy was capable of more than raw emotion was a surprise. Then again, the twins had some of that with potions. By rights they should have killed half the school by now, and their business well on the way towards doing to the rest of the Wizarding World—but they hadn't. "And Miss Weasley?"
"You don't do things by halves, do you?" Hooch smiled.
"I have evolved a theory that there is no such thing as just one Weasley."
She laughed. "She's using up her energy in the field instead of in the Astronomy Tower. It's the smartest things she could do, given the way the fellows flock around her. Being one of the boys instead is good for her. Some girls would have turned nasty-nice after what happened her first year."
He needed to get out of the castle and speak to other teachers more often. Perhaps he ought to talk to Hagrid about the Trio as well. What Hooch said was very perceptive. "She could also have gone the other way," he said. "Miss Weasley is not the only girl who has had unpleasant experiences."
The coach nodded. "Sprout still tells stories about Molly. Sometimes I wonder…but that's not always the way it works. Some girls just fall over easy because they like it, too. Besides, once she met Arthur no one else existed."
Snape nodded. Women spoke of things when they believed they were by themselves that would cause Lucius Malfoy to go into a dead faint. "Miss Granger."
"Flew competently her first year, like everything else she did, and hasn't been on a broom since." Hooch drummed her fingers on the desk. "She never did finish her second year class. Between being a cat and then petrified half the year, she somehow managed to skip out of it. I wonder if there's enough like her to run a Remedial Brooms class this year?" She grinned at him. "I'd sign you up if I could. I doubt you've been on one since you refereed that game."
"No. I like it that way."
"I could promise no bucking brooms or nasty bystanders," she said. "Trimmer kept good notes. Your maneuvering during that game was basic, but definitely competent. You'd never want to play Quidditch, I'm sure, but it couldn't help to get in a bit of practice."
"When pigs fly." He had enough on his plate without going out of his way for more.
"It might save your life someday to get on a broom without a gallon of Calming Potion. Imagine the surprise factor, if nothing else."
Snape didn't think Madam Hooch was in the Order, but it was possible that she was and the Headmaster intelligent enough to keep some separate. "I shall consider it," he said with a martyred sigh.
"Wouldn't want to have oh, say, Longbottom better on a broom than you are," she teased.
"That was a low blow," he said, trying to work up a Glare of Death and failing. "But if you could get me whatever information you have on the two Weasleys and Mr. Potter, I would appreciate it."
"Sure. If you do get back on a broom, I've got a nice, quiet Cleansweep as calm and safe as an old mare. The practice course for the Remedials will start two inches off the ground and is out of sight of the regular one on the other side of the pitch. I don't want anybody laughed at just for trying. I thought I'd mention it in case you need to find Miss Granger, of course."
"Of course," Snape said sourly, knowing he was probably going to be told to take advantage of this opportunity. "Oh, and thank you. I think," he said before striding off to go inspect it. If the Ministry passed the new rules, he'd have to manage an hour a day outdoors anyway. He suspected a conspiracy, or would if Hooch hadn't been after him for years to get more practice. He supposed if nobody watched him the ordeal of flying wouldn't be too bad.
Severus found an overgrown pitch laid out where Hooch said it would be. Some of the tree branches would have to be trimmed off for safety before a windstorm took them down. I know, he thought. I'll come out here whenever I'm pissed off. Those branches ought to drop like flies.
He didn't understand why he was in such an ugly mood. He shouldn't be surprised by the Headmaster's reaction. Snape knew Dumbledore would have found out about Lucius eventually. Besides, he was disappointed himself by what he'd done last night, never mind what others thought. I let the Dark Lord manipulate me. I let my anger loose on a dying man when I could have finished him off. I can't do that. I can't let my emotions rule me. The others could be in danger if I do. The Headmaster was right to dismiss me. He probably avoided me today because he didn't want me to see how angry he was.
A branch broke and fell to the ground. I have no right to be this upset. I could be sent to Azkaban for the Unforgivable I used last night. Then fear struck him. He had always thought that Dumbledore would tell him if that was about to happen. He already warned me at the beginning of this summer that I had to rule my temper. I didn't listen. Perhaps the Aurors were coming to take him away as he stood out here in the gorse and heather.
Snape folded his arms. At least I wouldn't have to take those wretched potions! He struggled with the impulse to flee now, taking nothing with him. I am still too valuable as a spy, at least for now. If Percy Weasley survives a year, perhaps they can do without me. Till then I am likely safe. Well, as safe as I can be from either side.
He walked back to the school, his heart hammering in his chest. Despite what his mind told him, his body was still afraid. But he was used to ignoring it by now.
Harry Potter
Harry understood why Banks had directed him and his cousin to study different fighters to watch. Dudley's right cross was getting better all the time, while he was going to have learn better footwork and faster combinations just to get through to the other guy.
At first he thought Muhammad Ali was just like Gilderoy Lockhart, all boast and no follow-through, what with those stupid rhymes and all. While he watched a few bouts, though, he saw what the fighter actually did. It was sad that the man had gotten Parkinson's disease and couldn't fight any more, but in his prime he really was able to 'float like a butterfly, sting like a bee."
Something nasty and tight inside was getting better as he pounded his gloves against the bag, or sparred with other boys and Mr. Banks. His hate and anger were actually getting in the way. Thinking of every opponent as Snape made his punches harder, but he had trouble concentrating on the right combinations when filled with rage.
He wasn't surprised when the dreams changed. Harry still liked the ones where Snape was in the ring and he smashed his teacher into the ground. Or he and his friends were in the Shrieking Shack with Sirius, only Lupin changed and tore Snape apart. Well, he liked that part of the dream, anyway, because it always ended with Remus going after Sirius and devouring him as well, even when his godfather changed into Padfoot. Fortunately he always woke up before the werewolf attacked him.
No, he much preferred the ones where Snape was boxing without any protection and he could attack. Funny how the Potions Master never fought back. Harry had to force himself to remember the cuts on his dad's face in that one Pensieve memory after a bit to keep on hitting. It was amazing how many scars the older wizard had. Part of his mind wondered how many of them his father and his friends had put there. No! his mind shrieked in denial. He had to be doing something for the Marauders to put him in his place. Why didn't Sirius tell me when I asked him about it?
Then his father would show up outside the ring and cheer whenever Harry knocked Snape down. This time, he asked James Potter why.
"Because he exists," his dream-dad would say.
Snape would lie there, panting for breath and his eyes closed the way he had in the Shrieking Shack after the three of them had attacked the Potions Master to save Sirius Black. He never even took points from us for that night, Harry remembered.
One night his temples hurt horribly even before he went to bed. Harry didn't remember taking any blows to the head, or even to the helmet at practice, and he couldn't eat anything though he'd been starving like always earlier. Aunt Petunia had clucked over him, felt his forehead, and sent him to bed early. It was almost like being in a real family for once.
That night he dreamed of the gym being attacked by Death Eaters. Everyone was running, and many were screaming, as the black-clad wizards inflicted horrible spells on the boys and Mr. Banks. He couldn't find Snape. Probably behind one of those horrible silver masks, he thought.
Then he was in the ring again, fighting the Potions Master, while surrounded by the enemy. "Why aren't you down there with them, Snape?" Harry taunted. But for once the older wizard was silent, with no cutting words or sneers to answer.
Harry looked at his audience again. This time the masks were off. He recognized most of those who were standing around watching him—Malfoy, Parkinson, Crabbe and Goyle, and some Slytherins he didn't recognize. Marietta Edgecombe hid behind one of the Slytherins, clearly trying not to be noticed, while Percy Weasley stood glumly over to one side.
He took real pleasure in knocking over Snape this time. But it didn't help. His head still hurt like anything, and he kept hearing someone screaming. He glanced over, and saw that someone else had joined the audience, who kept his mask on but whose red eyes gleamed.
I'm forgetting who the real enemy is, he found himself thinking. He looked back into the ring. Snape's eyes were open and the Potions Master had a grim look on his face. The Dark Mark burned black on his forearm. Maybe that hurts as much as my scar does. Harry wasn't used to thinking like this.
Then the older wizard got up. He took out his wand and created a mist that kept the others from seeing what was going on. Harry was afraid, though he knew he shouldn't be. If he wants to hurt me, the others will applaud him the same way they did for me. Why doesn't he want to show off for them?
Instead, Snape touched the tips of his fingers to Harry's scar. Pain and darkness drained out, and so did much of his anger. He turned away before the wizard could see him cry.
Harry woke feeling hollow inside, as if his fury had been the only thing holding him together. He almost missed it. If he was wrong about Snape, what else was he wrong about?
Then he remembered how nasty he'd been to everyone, even his friends last year, only to find out that Voldemort was behind it all. Well, most of it. He knew some of his bad temper had been all his, especially around Umbridge.
Why is it always Snape I dream about killing or punching about? Harry wondered as he dressed and hurried down to the kitchen. It was Umbridge who had the quill that hurt me the most. It was that horrible Lestrange who really killed Sirius. Snape hated those Occlumency lessons as much as I did, but he didn't have any choice either. Dumbledore admitted he was afraid to see me with Tom Riddle in my eyes. Why did he shove that off on Snape, then? The Headmaster was safe hiding in his office, but Snape wasn't.
It was a good thing that he was used to making breakfast without having to think much about it. He still loathed the Potions Master, of course, but that was at the normal ick level, and not the ferocious longing to tear him apart that he'd felt since his godfather's death.
He spent breakfast time thinking. Harry knew he hadn't really thought about things for a while. By rights, he should be dreaming of knocking down Uncle Vernon or Dudley. Both of them had smacked him around a lot harder than Snape ever had.
Maybe because everyone else was so glad to see me when I first went to Hogwarts, it pissed me off more that Snape wasn't. It was such a change from here that I wanted everything to be perfect. There aren't supposed to be people like Snape in fairy tales, aren't there? Well, at least in the good ones. My story started going bad that first year when I look at it, he thought. Only it was Quirrell, not Snape, who had Voldemort stuck on the back of his head telling him what to do.
Maybe that was his problem. He hadn't done any of the Occlumency exercises since he'd quit Snape's lessons. Even when he'd felt Riddle inside him in the Headmaster's office, and vowed he'd rather die than give in, it hadn't gotten him to work on it. It was more fun to blame everything on Snape. It was galling whenever he learned the greasy git was right about something. But even Remus had been unhappy when the Potions Master had stopped the lessons.
He finished his breakfast. It was easier this summer, when nobody taunted him about being a freak, to want to empty his plate. This year there was even enough on it. (Of course, any time Aunt Petunia had him cook and didn't watch him like a hawk, he'd snag a few bits here and there. But that wasn't the same as eating a meal without being harassed the way he was able to this summer.)
He picked up the plates and took them to the kitchen, and had a sudden vision of Sirius laughing as Snape left without having anything to eat or drink. Harry remembered how glad they'd all been to see the spy go off and let them have their own food in peace.
He filled up the soapy side of the sink, let the dishes soak a bit, and let the running water into the rinse side distract him. No. That couldn't be right. Snape just didn't want to sully himself by having anything to do with the rest of the Order. He was too high and mighty to need anything. That had to be it. Someone as nasty as the Potions Master surely didn't care what other people thought of him. Harry tried to forget just how thin the man was, compared to Sirius once his godfather had had a chance to fill out a bit.
By the time the dishes were drying in the rack he'd convinced himself that they hadn't done the same thing to Snape as the Dursleys had done to him at meals. It couldn't be like that. They were the good guys, right? Anything the Slytherin got he probably deserved.
"Because he exists", his dad had said.
Harry was glad to work on his chores that day. Anything was better than considering that maybe Snape was right, and that he was like his father.
