A Tiny Bit about Dueling: The Heir of Slytherin
Halloween, Saturday, October 31, 1992 (two days before the first quarter)
Snape hated Halloween. More than anything, it was for him the anniversary of Lily Evan's death. The fact that he had to make a public appearance at a major feast and pretend to be enjoying it made it worse, although it did usually keep him from thinking too much about the Astronomy Tower. The year before hadn't been so bad in terms of memories since everyone ended up dealing with a troll, and Snape was mauled by a three-headed dog, which tends to distract one's attention. This year was more normal.
It was something, at least, to note that young Potter and his friends were not at the feast. Last year he'd been new and unsure of himself. This year, it appeared, he was sufficiently at ease at Hogwarts to be able to absent himself from the gathering without feeling like he was doing something wrong. For the first time, Snape actually felt some sympathy for the boy. After all, it must be equally difficult for him to have the whole school celebrating on the anniversary of his parents' deaths. Luckily, he had friends for moral support.
As they left the Great Hall at the end of the feast, Snape and the other teachers noticed that student radar had detected a disturbance upstairs. Even the Hufflepuff and Slytherin students were hurrying upwards, away from their dormitories. Since this could signal a fight, the teachers ran for the stairs, too, as quickly as they could go.
Snape reached the second floor with the other teachers in time to hear Malfoy's voice ring out, "Enemies of the Heir, beware! You'll be next, mudbloods!" Then Filch's voice soared above the babble, screaming that his cat had been murdered.
On the wall, written in red letters that might be blood, were the words: THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.
Dumbledore swept through the crowd to where Mrs. Norris indeed hung by her tail from a torch bracket. By then Snape was near enough to see that the students directly in front of the stiff body of the cat were Potter and his two friends. What are they doing here?
Dumbledore was gathering Filch and the three students to go to his office when Lockhart appeared. "My office is nearest, Headmaster – just upstairs – please feel free –"
"Thank you, Gilderoy," responded Dumbledore, and followed Lockhart with Filch, Potter, Weasley, and Granger. McGonagall went, too, since the students were in her house.
Suddenly, Dumbledore turned to catch Snape's eye. With a slight smile, he lifted a finger and beckoned Snape to follow as well. This must have something to do with our conversation. We'll see now just exactly how truthful Potter is.
Inside Lockhart's office, Snape stayed in the background. Filch sobbed like a parent for a dead child as Dumbledore examined the cat and Lockhart babbled about how Mrs. Norris had been killed and all the things he might have done to save her if he'd been there. No one paid any attention to him.
Then Dumbledore calmly informed them that the cat was not dead. "She has been Petrified, but how, I cannot say…"
This led to Filch accusing Potter, Potter insisting on his innocence, and the startling revelation that Filch was a Squib who subscribed to a Kwikspell course. Snape and McGonagall glanced at each other. I really did not need to know all of this.
Meanwhile, Dumbledore did and said nothing. Snape finally couldn't contain himself any further.
"If I might speak, Headmaster. Potter and his friends may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but we do have a set of suspicious circumstances here. Why was he in the upstairs corridor at all? Why wasn't he at the Halloween feast?"
Expecting Potter to talk about his parents, Snape was astonished to have all three students burst into a simultaneous description of Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington's deathday party. He was now genuinely curious.
"But why not join the feast afterward? Why go up to that corridor?"
And then Potter began his lies. "Because – because – because we were tired and wanted to go to bed."
Snape glanced over at Dumbledore in barely concealed triumph, then looked quickly at all three students. Weasley and Granger were nervous. Probably wondering what Potter will say next. "Without any supper?" he asked. "I didn't think ghosts provided food fit for living people at their parties."
"We weren't hungry," said Weasley, a statement betrayed by the unmistakable look of near starvation on his face.
Realizing he could tease McGonagall over the Quidditch flap, and trying to keep a straight face, Snape said, "I suggest, Headmaster, that Potter is not being entirely truthful. It might be a good idea if he were deprived of certain privileges until he is ready to tell us the whole story. I personally feel he should be taken off the Gryffindor Quidditch team until he is ready to be honest."
McGonagall's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Really, Severus, I see no reason to stop the boy playing Quidditch. This cat wasn't hit over the head with a broomstick. There is no evidence at all that Potter has done anything wrong."
Dumbledore turned his gaze from the students to the squabbling teachers. "Innocent until proven guilty, Severus." He then suggested to the still agitated Filch that Mrs. Norris could be cured as soon as Professor Sprout's mandrakes matured and a Restorative Draught was prepared.
"I'll make it," Lockhart interjected, unable to resist stepping into the line of fire. "I must have done it a hundred times. I could whip up a Mandrake Restorative Draught in my sleep..."
Snape turned to him with icy contempt. "Excuse me, but I believe I am the Potions master at this school."
Seeing imminent battle between all three professors, Dumbledore wisely dismissed the students back to their dormitories. Filch left after them.
As soon as the children were out of the office, McGonagall ignored Snape and Quidditch and turned to Dumbledore. "Do you think it's true about the Chamber?" she asked, and her voice sounded worried.
"I do not know, Minerva," Dumbledore answered. "I would think it more likely a prank were it not for the cat."
"What's the Chamber of Secrets?" asked Snape, and noted the look of relief on Lockhart's face. Happy that he didn't have to be the one that asked.
"It is a hidden chamber supposedly created by Salazar Slytherin before he left Hogwarts. Legend says it contains a monster. No one has ever been able to locate it."
"Then it could be a hoax."
"Oh no, Severus," McGonagall whispered. "It was opened at least once before, in my seventh year. A muggle-born girl was killed."
Lockhart was clearly drinking all of this in. "Ah, the Chamber of Secrets. I've thought before that I should put my sleuthing talents to good use by coming here and discovering it. I've done similar things, most recently the hidden caves of Samarkand…"
"Thank you for your hospitality, Gilderoy. I am getting rather tired now, and shall wish you good night. Pleasant dreams. And to you also Minerva. Severus."
Snape and McGonagall left with Dumbledore after wishing Lockhart good night. As Snape reached the stairs down to the entrance hall, Dumbledore stopped him. "Would you come up to my office for a moment, Severus?"
"This will not take long," continued Dumbledore as they entered the office from the griffin stairway, "I merely wanted to give you a 'heads up' on this Chamber of Secrets business. Something you really need to know."
"And that is…, Headmaster?"
"A couple of other students you know were at Hogwarts when the Chamber of Secrets was opened the last time. Hagrid was one."
"Hagrid was a student here? I didn't know that."
"A long story. Perhaps he will tell it to you sometime."
"And the other?"
"Tom Riddle."
Snape felt as if the room had suddenly turned cold. "Did he have something to do with it opening."
"I cannot prove it, but I believe so."
"He came back last year after the Philosopher's Stone, and now the Chamber of Secrets is open. Are they connected?"
"I do not know. But you, of all people, should be aware of what is happening. You stand to lose more than anyone if he returns. I understand he is unforgiving and has a long memory."
Snape returned to his rooms in a somber mood and had trouble sleeping that night.
Thus it was that November opened in a haze of unfocused anxiety. Only Gilderoy Lockhart seemed convinced that everything was not only explainable but under control. As an extra strain on already frayed nerves, the first half of November brought the year's first Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Slytherin.
Until Halloween night, Snape wasn't dreading this first match. Now, with the specter of the Dark Lord's return and the memory of the previous year's match, he was wondering if Potter would once again be attacked. This time he would be prepared. He even planned to bring a pair of binoculars to search the crowd with. Just in case.
The night before the match, Draco Malfoy sprang the next piece of information on Snape.
"My father's coming to watch my first game. He said to tell you that he looks forward to a little chat."
"And when exactly did he tell you this, Malfoy?"
"Last week. Sorry. I forgot to mention it."
Snape met Lucius Malfoy when the latter apparated to the Hogsmeade gate and escorted him onto the grounds. It was more than a decade since they'd last seen each other. The seven year difference in their ages that had once made the adolescent Snape the follower had become unimportant. Malfoy had grown more reserved and Snape more self-assured in the intervening years.
"Narcissa asks to be remembered to you. She holds a fondness, it seems."
"As do I. Tell her I think of all of you often."
"So tell me, how is this son of mine shaping up on the Quidditch field?"
"He has talent, at least in practice. We'll see today how it translates into open competition. I must admit I am a bit leery of his temper. He needs to keep it under control to focus more."
"Draco isn't one to let others walk over him. We've taught him to put himself forward and not take second place to anyone. He'll be fine. And just send this down to the kitchen," Malfoy added, referring to the house elf he'd brought to valet for him. "He knows what to do."
Snape presented Malfoy to the staff at lunch. Lucius was deferential to Dumbledore and respectful to his former teachers, principally McGonagall and Flitwick. He greeted Lockhart with the politeness due to the latter's fame, but without any invitation to familiarity. In sum, he was the perfect patrician.
Alone at a side table, the two reminisced for awhile, then allowed the conversation to touch on more recent events.
"The Ministry is actually conducting raids to find so-called 'dangerous' artifacts." Malfoy was almost, not quite, complaining. "Now take a family like ours. We have quite an extensive collection, really museum quality, of historical items and personal memorabilia. You would think that something of that intrinsic cultural value might be exempt from some of the new rules, but no. They must examine everything from the point of view of its potential harm in the hands of a psychopath. Hardly a responsible attitude, I'd say."
"I should probably check my own things as well. All very ordinary and commonplace, but one never knows what the Ministry will see as a threat."
After lunch the whole school made its way down the hill to the Quidditch pitch. There was a special electricity in the air since not only were Gryffindor and Slytherin particular rivals, it was generally known that the two Seekers, Potter and Malfoy, despised each other. The students were expecting action.
Snape settled next to Lucius Malfoy in one of the boxes and the game began. The Slytherin team shone on the new brooms, and Snape quietly asked Malfoy if he would mind meeting the team afterwards so that they could thank him for his generous gift. Malfoy agreed with well-bred condescension.
Then, suddenly, one of the bludgers began to misbehave. Instead of shooting around randomly, it seemed to target Potter almost exclusively. From a potentially painful nuisance, it had transformed into a dangerous missile. After a few passes, there was no mistake. The bludger was after Potter.
This is like last year. Last year it was the Dark Lord working through Quirrell. Where is he now? Snape focused on the bludger to divert it with a counter spell and got the shock of his life. Nothing he could do had any effect on the bludger at all.
In disbelief, Snape concentrated all his mental energy on the ball. He didn't dare try to simply destroy the thing because it was flying in zigzag patterns around the fourteen players. There was too much risk of hurting one of the students. Instead he tried for the core of the ball itself.
What Snape touched in the center of the bludger was a power so strong that it threw him back like a physical blow. He tried again, and was tossed back again. No one was that strong. No wizard in the world had that kind of power, and Snape was now very afraid.
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Dumbledore had tea set out with biscuits and scones. He motioned Snape to sit and poured a cup, insisting that Snape relax for a few minutes before reporting on the afternoon's events.
"Has Lucius left yet? I do hope his visit was enjoyable." Dumbledore's inquiry was more than mere politeness.
"It would've been more so if Slytherin had won. He's with Draco now, touring the grounds and talking. Probably reviewing every teacher and student in the school. Draco will see him out to the gate. Is Potter's arm all right?"
"It will be. Madam Pomfrey is getting up a party to tar and feather Gilderoy Lockhart. I understand there is a waiting list. But the less said about that the better. Now, tell me what happened."
"There isn't a lot to tell." Snape said. "When the bludger went crazy, I thought about destroying it, but there was no way to get a clear shot. So I tried to countercurse it. I was slapped down and tossed back like a rank amateur. Closed out completely. Don't smile. That's never happened to me before. I mean never."
"You have never directly taken me on. Nor, despite last year's Quidditch match, have you ever directly taken on… You know, Severus, we are going to have to decide on something new to call him. I respect the fact that when I say his name it causes you pain, yet I cannot say something like 'You-Know-Who.' I long ago grew tired of the name Moriarty. Since it appears we are again going to be speaking of him regularly, we really have to resolve this."
"How about 'Riddle'?"
Dumbledore looked at Snape over the rim of his glasses. "Most interesting that you should suggest that. Take him back to his school days, before he began to acquire power. Do you know that when you were in school I worried that you might become like him?"
"I was never like him, sir!"
"At eleven, he was not like him either. Two boys from traumatic childhood situations – yours was actually worse than his – both interested in the Dark Arts, both gifted in unique yet similar ways, both with a, shall we say, unconventional moral compass… Oh you had us worried for a while."
"When did you stop worrying about me?"
"I have never stopped worrying about you. My worries simply changed their focus. It was, I believe, your second year, when you started stealing telescopes out of the Astronomy classroom. No boy interested in the Apollo moon shots was going to try to become a Dark Lord."
"I was interested long before my second year."
"Ah, but I did not know it because you were not stealing telescopes."
"Yes, that was for…" Snape stopped. He knew both of them remembered who that was for.
"Right," continued Dumbledore, "You have never directly taken either me or Riddle on. What you felt today with the bludger, would you expect to feel that if you were locked in a confrontation with me?"
Snape considered this question for a few moments, trying to recreate in his mind the exact sensation he'd felt when thrown back from the bludger. "No, I don't think so. It wasn't really like a very, very powerful wizard. It was something different. Something more alien."
"Did I understand that Lucius brought a house elf with him?"
"No. I mean, yes he did, but no that can't be it. Lucius wouldn't try to win a Quidditch game through magic. He'd expect Draco to do it through superior skill. And if Draco didn't, it would be between him and his father. Draco does a lot to try to please his father."
"But this force you felt. Could it have been a house elf?"
"I don't know. I know they're powerful, but I don't have any direct experience of one. You know, if that was a house elf, if anyone ever tries organizing them against us… we're in trouble."
The following morning was Sunday. Normally it was a day to relax and take things easy, especially for the teachers not assigned to supervisory duties. Today, however, there was a note under Snape's door asking him to come to the staff room before breakfast.
When they'd all crowded in, Dumbledore explained. "Last night a most unfortunate incident occurred. One of our first year Gryffindor students was discovered on the stairs petrified in the same manner that Mrs. Norris was attacked. He is in hospital now. We must all accept the fact that the message we received on Halloween was not a prank. The Chamber of Secrets has indeed been opened."
"Such a pity I wasn't there with the boy when it happened," piped up Lockhart. "I would have been able to – Ow!"
"I am sorry, Professor. Was that your foot? So crowded in here." Professor Sprout looked angelic as she smiled sympathetically up at Lockhart. On the way out she was quietly but warmly thanked by several teachers, Snape among them.
"So there really is a Chamber? I thought it was a myth."
"As did I until Halloween, Pomona." Snape nodded towards McGonagall. "Minerva knows as much as anyone, I'd guess. She was a student here the last time it was opened." Sprout immediately scurried after McGonagall to question her.
The next few weeks saw an upsurge of interest among the student body for any information about the history of the Chamber, defensive spells, protective potions, and all kinds of good luck charms. The teachers kept running across signs of, and trying to control, a thriving black market in bogus items, and poor Professor Flitwick was constantly fielding questions about amulets.
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Thursday, December 10, 1992 (the day after the full moon)
The afternoon lesson was with the Slytherin and Gryffindor second years. It was Snape's least favorite group since the bumbling incompetence they'd shown in their first year stayed with the class into their second. Class with them was an unending exercise in disaster prevention.
Snape was on edge more than usual since the class would be making a potion with a potential for being dangerous. Swelling Solutions were useful for examining things that in their natural state were too small to see clearly, but also tended to get splashed on careless students. The greatest concern was swallowing any of it, as that would swell the tongue and the muscles of the throat, a possibly fatal situation. Snape always had plenty of the antidote, Deflating Draught, around just in case.
The lesson was going about as expected, which meant that most of the students were doing a miserable job, when one of the potions on the Slytherin side of the room simply, well, exploded. Snape was luckily on the Gryffindor side checking Longbottom's potion when it happened, and wasn't hit by any of the messy solution, but the Slytherin students were showered with it.
Panic-stricken students were screaming and blundering around the room as noses, ear, lips, fingers, shoulders, began to swell. There was danger that in the pandemonium other cauldrons would tip over. Snape was on the Slytherin side instantly, pulling students away from the goo and trying to restore some calm. Typically, the Gryffindor students were laughing.
There is no way the potion could have exploded on its own. Someone caused this deliberately. "Silence! SILENCE!" Snape yelled over the chaos, and the Slytherins, used to his presence and voice, did in fact quiet down. "Anyone who has been splashed, come here for a Deflating Draught." As students lined up for a dose of the antidote, Snape glared at the Gryffindor students, whose continued mirth infuriated him. "When I find out who did this…"
The offending cauldron was Goyle's. After treating the last student, Snape walked over to it and with a ladle fished out what was obviously the remains of a Filibuster firework. Someone on the Gryffindor side had tossed it into the cauldron with the intention of harming Slytherin students.
Cold with anger, Snape swept the room with his gaze. Potter's face in particular caught his eye, for the poorly concealed smirk that tried to hide a glint of triumph. Looking directly at the guilty face, Snape said in a tone barely above a whisper, "If I ever find out who threw this, I shall make sure that person is expelled."
"Severus, Severus, calm down. You do not know it was him. You have no proof."
"You didn't see his face, Professor Dumbledore. I don't need more proof than that. He threw that firecracker into that cauldron with total disregard for the safety of other students."
"Really, Severus," McGonagall spoke for the first time. "It doesn't sound like Potter at all. I know he has a certain disregard for rules, but I've never known him to be malicious."
"Like you never knew his father to be malicious? Shall I entertain you some time with tales of the things he used to do when the teachers weren't watching?"
"Are we talking about James or about Harry?" Dumbledore watched both teachers with undisguised concern.
Focus. Focus. This isn't about the past. It's about now. "Headmaster, do you realize what would have happened if any of that liquid had gotten into a student's mouth? Have you ever seen a case of anaphylactic shock? We might very well have had a dead student on our hands. This was not a harmless prank. In all my years as a student and a teacher I have never witnessed such disdain for the safety of others. Not even Fred or George Weasley, not even Sirius Black, has ever done anything that callous. That boy is evil."
"Evil is a strong word."
"He needs to be disciplined."
"Do you have proof that it was his firecracker?"
"No."
"Did you or did any other witness see him throw it?"
"No."
"Then while I understand your being upset at what happened, I cannot discipline Potter. We do not know that he was the culprit."
Snape and McGonagall left Dumbledore's office. Snape felt sick, and it must have shown in his face.
"Are you going to be all right, Severus. It must have been horrendous."
"I have two students in hospital, Minerva. Pressure on the retinas may have affected Goyle's sight, and Zabini has a dislocated shoulder. Your precious charges were laughing about it."
"I'll speak to them all, right now before supper if I can. But I really don't think it could have been Potter."
A little less than a week later, McGonagall approached Snape about a completely different matter. Coming over to his place at supper Wednesday evening, she stood behind him and Lockhart and said, "Refresh my memory, Severus. Isn't it true that you used to teach defensive tactics to…"
"Minerva! That's really not something… Would you excuse us for a moment Professor?"
Taking McGonagall by the arm, Snape steered her into a corner. "What are you doing? Do you think I want that idiot knowing all about my past? It's bad enough that some of the students spread rumors. And where did you learn that anyway?"
"I have my sources. And I just wanted to put a bee in his bonnet. Do you know what he's asked Dumbledore? For permission to give dueling lessons. And he's looking for a sparring partner."
"Oh really?"
"Would you like a chance at him? One that he sets up himself? I've just been doing a bit of ground work for you, laddie. Setting out the bait, as it were. You've got to reel him in on your own."
Snape and McGonagall returned to their respective places. Lockhart was now all eager curiosity. "Teaching defensive tactics? Not as in personal combat, was it? I'm quite a dueler myself, national competition, you know."
"It was a long time ago, and on a very small scale. I doubt I'm in your league at all."
"Well then you really must help me out. The Headmaster has asked me to set up a little dueling instruction to arm the students in their own defense. I could use an assistant to help me demonstrate some of the moves and spells. I'd be very careful not to hurt you, of course. Wouldn't want to have to find a new Potions instructor now would we?"
"When would this take place?"
"Tomorrow evening after supper."
"Agreed. I'll assist you in the lesson."
For the rest of the evening, McGonagall and Kettleburn were making book with the other teachers on who would 'win' the next day. Odds were running seven to one against Lockhart by the time everyone went to bed.
The notices went up Thursday at noon, and by eight o'clock Thursday evening the Great Hall was packed. Lockhart had arranged for one side of the Hall to be set up like a stage and personally called to accompany Snape to the ground floor. Lockhart had chosen robes of a deep violet, but Snape eschewed robes completely, finding that they hampered his movements. In their place, he wore his usual black Victorian trousers and frock coat, which flattered his slender frame, yet didn't overemphasize the fact that he was two degrees to the wrong side of skinny.
The students parted for them, as the Red Sea parted for Moses. Far more to the point were the teachers, who lined the walls behind. Who among them doesn't want to see Lockhart taken down a peg? Snape couldn't think of one.
Lockhart advanced to the center of the stage and raised his hand for silence. "Gather round, gather round! Can everyone see me? Can you all hear me? Excellent!" After a plug for his books, he continued, "Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape."
Snape stepped forward. The students were quiet, except for applause from Slytherin, in which the teachers joined.
Lockhart was now grinning from ear to ear. "He tells me he knows a tiny little bit about dueling himself and has sportingly agreed to help me with a short demonstration before we begin. Now, I don't want any of you youngsters to worry – you'll still have your Potions master when I'm through with him, never fear!"
Snape was concentrating on the upcoming exchange. Lockhart will only give me one shot. After that, he'll back away as quickly as he can, so the one shot has to be good. For some reason he was reminded of the fencing competition at the Barcelona Olympics that summer. Olympic wizard dueling. That would be nice.
They faced each other on the stage, Snape nodding curtly and Lockhart giving an extravagant play-actor's bow. Then Snape stood with balanced ease as Lockhart noted proper stance and wand position, adding "Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course."
Despite both temptation and provocation.
"One – two – three..."
There was no rule in competitive dueling that forbade casting two spells simultaneously. Snape's wand came down almost lazily, with classic extension, as he called out, "Expelliarmus!" while at the same time nonverbally casting a Rikhno spell. The results were everything McGonagall could have wished for and more.
Flame seemed to shoot from Snape's wand as Lockhart was lifted and flung backwards off the stage, to hit the wall behind him and slump clumsily to the floor. His wand went almost straight up in the air and fell back among the students. The beauty of it was that both spells could have been blocked easily with one simple shield.
Slytherin erupted in cheers, and so did the teachers. "Oh, well done!" cried Pomfrey, and Sprout was positively bouncing.
Snape waited calmly as Lockhart staggered to his feet, his hair disheveled and clothing disarrayed for the first time since his arrival at Hogwarts. "Well, there you have it," he said, as he returned unsteadily to the stage. "That… was a Disarming Charm – as you see, I've lost my wand – ah, thank you, Miss Brown." He was eyeing Snape warily now, as if conscious for the first time that he may have seriously underestimated an opponent.
Snape returned the stare without trepidation. This oaf couldn't read the back of a breakfast cereal box.
"Yes, an excellent idea to show them that, Professor Snape, but if you don't mind my saying so, it was very obvious…"
Snape let him babble, then gently dropped his wand arm into dueling position again and raised his eyebrows in invitation. Lockhart's reaction was immediate.
"Enough demonstrating! I'm going to come amongst you now and put you all into pairs. Professor Snape, if you'd like to help me..."
Snape moved quickly. It was the perfect opportunity to test Malfoy's progress and to gauge Potter's abilities at the same time. Potter was automatically looking at his friend Weasley, but stepping lightly down from the platform, Snape intervened.
"Time to split up the 'dream team,' I think," he said, though he doubted the boys would understand the reference. "Mr. Malfoy, come over here. Let's see what you make of the famous Potter."
"Face your partners and bow!" called Lockhart. As if this was a dance. He can't ever have fought a real battle, not the way he behaves.
Lockhart cautioned the students to try disarming each other only and began, "One… two… three..."
Malfoy got his spell off before the count was finished, but though he hit Potter, Potter was not disarmed. He retaliated not with a Disarming Charm, but with a Rictusempra that brought Malfoy to his knees choking with laughter. It brought back unpleasant memories for Snape. Better here than in Herbology next to the flesh-eating plants.
Snape started forward to intervene, since they were only supposed to use disarming spells, when Malfoy from his doubled up position on the floor managed to gasp, "Tarantallegra!" and the next instant Potter was hopping around like a mad Irishman doing a jig.
Snape struggled to hold back laughter as Lockhart started frantically screaming "Stop! Stop!" Gad, this reminds me of me and his father. I wonder if we looked that silly while we were hexing each other.
Realizing that Lockhart was incapable of handling the situation, Snape stepped forward and cried out "Finite Incantatem!" to the whole group. All combat stopped as the spells dissipated, all except for the fight between Granger and Bulstrode that had nothing to do with magic.
After establishing a semblance of order, Lockhart said, "I think I'd better teach you how to block unfriendly spells." He glanced over at Snape, seemed to remember the spells he'd not blocked before, and hurriedly continued, "Let's have a volunteer pair – Longbottom and Finch-Fletchley, how about you..."
That did not suit Snape, who now wanted to see more of what Malfoy and Potter were capable of. "A bad idea, Professor Lockhart. Longbottom causes devastation with the simplest spells. We'll be sending what's left of Finch-Fletchley up to the hospital wing in a matchbox. How about Malfoy and Potter?"
Lockhart agreed, and they moved the action to the center of the Hall, clearing away the students from behind the two duelists in case of wild shots. Lockhart started to show Potter a defensive move, but was so nervous he dropped his wand. Snape closed his eyes and turned away, his hand over his mouth. When he looked again, the other teachers were laughing, too.
Bending down to Malfoy's ear, Snape whispered, "This time wait until three. You jump the count, you're disqualified. If Potter actually does what Lockhart tells him, you'll win easily. Send him something to block, but not too powerful."
The boys exchanged nods and glares, and Lockhart counted three. This time Malfoy waited, but was ready with a spell well before Potter. Shouting, "Serpensortia!" he shot a long black snake from his wand that thudded onto the floor of the Hall and glided threateningly toward Potter. Students screamed and fell back, and Potter froze on the spot as the snake raised its head to strike.
Snape started forward. "Don't move, Potter," he said, "I'll get rid of it…"
Lockhart beat him to it. "Allow me!" he shouted, and promptly shot the snake into the air. When it came down it was hissing wildly, striking the air at random and slithering toward Finch-Fletchley.
Snape started forward again, then froze as completely as Potter had frozen facing the snake the first time. Potter was advancing on the snake, focused and radiating a menacing authority, and he was talking to the creature. Talking to it in its own language. Hissing commands that the snake heeded, for it turned to him and bowed forward on the floor in submission.
This isn't happening. This can't be happening. Parseltongue is an hereditary gift. James didn't have it. Lily didn't have it. I know of only one wizard of our age… Forcing himself to remember there was still a dangerous snake in the Hall, forcing himself to move forward, Snape raised his wand and destroyed the viper in a puff of black smoke. The shocked witnesses were beginning to mutter ominously, and Snape realized he was watching Potter's movements as if mesmerized.
Potter's friend Weasley grabbed him by the robes, and he and Granger pushed Potter out of the Hall.
McGonagall hurried over to Snape. "What just hap…" she started.
"I have to talk to Dumbledore," was Snape's response.
Dumbledore sat quietly at his desk as Snape paced the office in undisguised agitation.
"He's a Parselmouth! A Parselmouth! How can that happen? He isn't a descendant of Slytherin, is he? James wasn't a Parselmouth. Not that anyone knew. Lily certainly wasn't. Does it skip generations? That would mean James…"
"You really do have to try to calm yourself, Severus. This is not healthy."
"Healthy! We may be harboring a second Dark Lord here at Hogwarts and my pacing isn't healthy?"
"Now I really must insist that you sit down, Severus. Harry Potter is no second Dark Lord, and you are working yourself into an apoplexy. Sit… That is better. Now, I need to tell you a story. It is a story about three boys, and I do not know the end of it yet, but I know enough to get started.
"Each of these boys was born into a different generation in a different part of England, but against all odds they have met and know each other. Their lives are now entwined. They were all dark-haired and thin, all with lonely, isolated childhoods, all viewing the world as a hostile force against which they had to fight for survival. All with unique gifts of power and defense. All with, as I have mentioned before, a rather unconventional moral compass."
Snape shook his head. "I'm not sure this is a story about three boys. I think it's far more likely to be about just two."
"And yet the third boy is the catalyst that brought the other two together."
"I'm not proud of that. And what has this got to do with Potter being a Parselmouth?"
Dumbledore paused and considered Snape for a long moment. Snape refused to meet his eyes and ended up staring out a narrow window. Finally Dumbledore spoke. "Which is it that frightens you more? Being like Riddle or being like Potter?"
"I'm not frightened."
"No of course not. You just came up to pace a hole in my carpet because you are so contented with life. But I have still not resolved your first question. Here it is. I do not think that Potter was born a Parselmouth. I think he became a Parselmouth when he and Riddle touched each other eleven years ago. I have no details. Does that help?"
Snape still wouldn't look at Dumbledore, but the answer merited reflection. "Yes," he replied. "It does. I should probably go now. It's getting late."
"Very well. Severus, I know that you do not want to talk about this, yet at some point we shall have to. I am fairly clear about the roles of two of the boys, but the role of the third is a mystery to me. I know he will have a role, though, and I should very much like to find out what it is. Good night, Severus."
"Good night, Headmaster."
Hagrid dropped by the next morning before breakfast. "Dumbledore says I need to check on ya."
"Dumbledore is wrong. I don't need checking."
"That's what I told him. Ya don't need checking. So I'll just sit here for a few minutes so 's I can tell him I checked."
After a moment, Snape spoke. "Hagrid, how well do you know Potter?"
"'Bout as well as any. Better'n most."
"Do you see any resemblance between him… and…"
"Naw. Not a bit of it. You were always so independent. Never wanted t' share a plan, never wanted help. Worst thing ever happened t' you was when ya was forced to admit ya couldn't handle it by yerself, that ya needed someone t' back ya up. Potter now, he wants t' share, wants friends, hates the idea of being alone. He's eager for support and plays best on a team. Night and day the two of ya are in that respect."
"Did you know Tom Riddle?"
"I did. Not someone I want t' talk about. But you ain't a bit like him either. Ya got too much sense of balance. Someone tips ya into a stand of Venus Flytraps, ya sets bats on him. Riddle now, he'd kill the person. No sense of proportion. No balance. You draws lines and sticks to limits. Riddle, he didn't know the meaning of limits."
Hagrid stood and stretched. "Well, I got t' go now. I'll tell Dumbledore I looked in, but ya didn't need no checking. See ya at breakfast."
"At breakfast, Hagrid."
As Snape walked through the entrance hall to breakfast, he noticed it was snowing. Not a gentle, sifting snow, but a dark swirling storm, almost a blizzard. That meant the students would be stuck inside most of the day, which frequently meant trouble.
Professor Sprout was announcing that all Herbology classes were canceled. Lucky her. She has an excuse to cancel class. What kind of excuse could I come up with? We're too high to flood…
The best thing about breakfast that morning was that Lockhart was not talking. He kept glancing at Snape as if he were trying to complete an assessment, and a couple of times he opened his mouth, but he never actually said anything. Maybe I should toss him against a wall more often.
Morning classes were normal, except that there was an inordinate amount of whispering going on in the icy Potions classroom. From what Snape could catch, it was more about Potter and the snake than it was about the dueling. Not at all surprising, under the circumstances. Snape would be doing the same thing in their place.
Just before lunch time, Snape was once again making his way to the Great Hall when he was stopped by a flustered McGonagall, who pulled him toward one wall and away from the students.
"It's happened again," she whispered fiercely. "Another student's been petrified. And Sir Nicholas, too!"
"Who?"
"The Hufflepuff boy, Finch-Fletchley. The one the snake almost bit last evening. The one who found him was Potter. He's up with Dumbledore now."
"And Sir Nicholas?"
"His aura's gone out. Dark as coal."
"Where?"
"Fifth floor corridor."
Hagrid was crossing the hall and saw the two talking. "Are you telling him about Justin?" he asked McGonagall.
"When did you hear?" McGonagall asked.
"'Bout an hour ago. I been up t' Dumbledore's office. Harry's all right. Dumbledore knows he didn't do it."
"Hagrid," said Snape quietly. "Why do you have a dead rooster in your hand?"
"Oh, that. Somewhat's been killing them. This is the second. I need permission t' put a spell around the coop t' keep off the varmints."
Snape never ignored the warning bells. Last year it was dead unicorns. Now it's dead roosters. This means something, but what? "I'm going up to the hospital wing to talk to Madam Pomfrey."
"What about lunch?"
"I'm not hungry."
Dumbledore was there as well, talking with Madam Pomfrey about the four patients. "Ah, Severus. I was thinking of interrupting your lunch, but you seem to have read my mind. What do you think of all of this?"
"I wouldn't want to steal Professor Lockhart's glory. He is, after all, the Dark Arts instructor."
Dumbledore stared down his glasses. "Do not be cheeky, Master Snape. Come, look at them. What could have done this?"
There were no marks on the bodies, just straightforward paralysis. Dumbledore pointed out the slight hardening of tissue as well as the stiffening. "It seems to be a mild form of Petrification. I am not familiar with it."
"Gorgons and cockatrices petrify, but it's a full petrification, nothing like this." The warning bells rang in Snape's head again. "Did Hagrid tell you about the roosters?"
"Yes, he did. Do you think it is connected?"
"Basilisks die when they hear roosters crow. But that would mean a person helping the basilisk. And in any case, basilisks kill. They don't paralyze or petrify."
"Is there anything such a creature would not affect?"
"Weasels. Weasels are immune to basilisks, and have been known to kill small ones."
"Come to my office again, Severus. I need to talk to you."
Once up in the Headmaster's tower office, Dumbledore wasted no time. "Have you ever summoned a patronus?"
"No. I've never tried. I'm not sure I could."
"Why not?"
"You need to concentrate on a good memory. A very strong good memory. I have a little trouble coming up with one."
"I'd appreciate it if you would start working on it. It takes a while to develop the skill, and the time may be coming when you will need one."
"Professor, what happened the last time the Chamber was opened? McGonagall said a muggle-born girl died. What did she die of?"
"That is the problem. She did not die 'of' anything. She simply died. The results were a little like an Unforgivable Curse. No marks, no trauma, just dead."
"That sounds more like a basilisk. Why are our victims being petrified? And not full stone petrification either, but this halfway state that I've never heard of?"
"I cannot answer that. I do not know. But the idea that a person may be involved, killing roosters to protect this monster, that disturbs me greatly, especially in light of what happened last year. I really would like you to work on summoning a patronus. If you need my help or advice, let me know."
"Yes, Professor."
That afternoon's Potions was with the Slytherin and Gryffindor second years. Potter stayed in a corner with Weasley and Granger while the rest of the class gave them a wide berth. Snape found himself constantly glancing at the boy, wondering what else he might be capable of besides Parseltongue, and trying to see if there was anything in him that reminded Snape of either the Dark Lord or himself. Get a grip on yourself. You're losing your concentration on this.
That evening after supper, Snape settled in his small room to consider the patronus problem. A powerful memory of something positive, something good, something happy. Nothing came. There were good memories, but either they were weak, or they were tainted with an inseparable sorrow and guilt. Nothing. Nothing to summon a patronus with.
Snape went to bed and was trying to drift off to sleep when one powerful, unspoiled memory did surface. He was a teenager in Lancashire with his grandmother, Nana. They were kneeling beside a dying muggle boy, a boy who'd fallen from a roof. Nana gripped him and told him, 'You have the gift! Use it.' And he looked into the boy's unconscious eyes and saw the ruptured spleen, the spleen that Nana could witch to health again with her healing powers.
I saved a life. Snape ran it through his mind over and over again. Was there anything that sullied it, that stole its cleanness? And there wasn't. Not even Nana's death at the hands of a muggle mob, because now he knew they'd been under an Imperious curse.
Snape made no attempt to summon a patronus that night. He needed to bring back the memory, to relive it and conjure up all the feelings he'd had at that moment. When the memory was full-grown and vital inside him, then he could try the summoning.
An underlying doubt still gnawed at him. Why is Dumbledore so sure I'll need this?
The Christmas break started out very quietly, for most of the students were only too glad to leave Hogwarts for a couple of weeks. Having little work and few duties, Snape spent a lot of time by the lake, hidden from the Castle, trying the patronus charm.
At first it didn't work at all, and he was afraid that his best memory was still not good enough. The relief he felt the morning he produced his first small, wispy Patronus was immense. It's only a matter of time, now.
Christmas Eve was the turning point. Snape worked all afternoon and into the evening. The sun had set, it was time for supper, he was cold and hungry. His little wisps of cloud were growing larger and stronger, and beginning to take shape.
Then, just as he told himself it was finished for the day, just as he extended his wand and cried, "Expecto Patronum" for the last time, it happened. The cloudy patronus assume a shape, shadowy and indistinct, yet nonetheless an animal he could identify.
I wonder why that one. Snape returned to the Castle for supper in a pensive mood.
"Fawkes?" said Dumbledore that evening in the Great Hall as they lingered after supper. The Hall was so empty of students that there was no trouble finding a spot to speak privately over an after-dinner glass of port. "Are you sure? I was not certain it would be possible."
"I don't know why not. It's not uncommon. I'm still trying to determine what it means."
"Loyalty, of course. It's one of the greatest symbols of faith and trust we have."
"Really?" Snape was puzzled, but the Hall was warm, and he was comfortable. There were worse ways to spend Christmas Eve than debating patronuses. "I was thinking more of cleverness, intelligence, resourcefulness…"
"Well there is that, too, but above all, loyalty. It is an excellent sign."
Snape took a sip of the port before he said, "And then, of course, the color."
Dumbledore looked puzzled so, a little embarrassed, he added, "The red hair, you know."
"Yes, indeed. She had red hair. I fear that is something that you would be more likely to think of than I. There is also the element of renewal, regeneration…"
"I'm afraid you've lost me there, sir."
"What is there more obvious about a phoenix than its death and rebirth? That should be the first thing…"
Snape laughed, something he did so rarely that Dumbledore stopped in mid-sentence. "No, sir. Not Fawkes. A fox – f-o-x – little wild hunting dog, you know. Tally-ho and all that."
It was Dumbledore's turn to laugh. "We have been talking at cross purposes, have we not? Still, I wonder… might there be something to the fact that your patronus's name is a homonym for my phoenix? As if the reality were hiding, knowable only to those who had the code. A little like you eleven years ago, concealing your true loyalty behind a guise of cleverness. Fawkes the Fox. Now I see what you mean about the red hair, too. It is closer to her color."
"So what can we say about foxes? What does this patronus mean for me?"
Dumbledore thought for a moment. "Able to live almost anywhere, tend to be nocturnal, solitary hunters, wide variety of hunting techniques adapted to prey, very cat-like, often blamed for the depredations of weasels and polecats, hunted for sport, passionately defended by animal-rights types… what have I left out?"
"So I'm doomed to be alone, survive by my own cleverness, be hunted mercilessly for things I didn't do, and be defended (probably posthumously) by a group of fanatic nut-cases."
"All the while being secretly faithful, but having your loyalty known only to those who have the code."
"I'll take it. Pass the port."
Later that evening, in his own rooms preparing for bed, Snape thought again about his patronus, his animal avatar.
Foxes are clever and adaptable. I'll have to check, but I think they're monogamous, so the loyalty aspect is there. They're an icon of sport hunting, but also the epitome of destructive pillage. I wonder if Dumbledore is right about the fox/Fawkes connection. That would be interesting.
He went to sleep and dreamt of foxes. He also dreamt of Lily and the Apollo moon shots, but wasn't sure when he woke if the dreams were connected or not.
Christmas Day was quiet and peaceful. Snape spent a little time in the afternoon working on his new patronus, then played cribbage with Flitwick. After supper he settled down to read another of his mysteries. He'd gotten to the fourth book and was trying to work out how a corpse still in rigor mortis would have a loose knee when there was a preemptory knock at the door.
It was Filch. "Madam Pomfrey needs you in the hospital right away."
Since Filch either didn't have or refused to divulge any other information, Snape followed him out immediately. Filch left him in the entrance hall. At least I wasn't already asleep.
Madam Pomfrey met Snape at the door to the hospital wing. "It's the Granger girl," she said quietly.
"Another petrification? Shouldn't you have sent for McGonagall? It's her house."
"Not petrification. A hex."
Snape started to smile. "Isn't that for Gilde…" he began, but thought the better of it as Pomfrey's face turned murderous.
They entered the hospital dormitory where Granger was sitting on the bed. She was probably dejected, though it was hard to tell since she had the face, paws, and tail of a cat. She looked up at the sound of footsteps, then quickly back down again when she realized who it was.
"Good evening, Miss Granger."
"Good evening, Professor."
"Do you happen to have any idea who hexed you like this?"
Granger shook her head.
"I hope you'll excuse me, but I'm going to have to examine you." Snape lifted the girl's chin to check her eyes, and began a murmured litany of instructions. "Open your mouth a little, please. Tilt your head so I can check your ears. I'm going to push up your sleeves to look at your arms. Now we need to remove your shoes. Don't worry, Madam Pomfrey will check the tail later…"
"Miss Granger," Snape said when he was finished. "I do not believe that you don't know who hexed you. You've been transformed by Polyjuice Potion. You would have had to drink it, and since it's quite a disgusting concoction, you would have noticed at once. Did someone give it to you, or did you make it yourself?"
"I made it myself, sir."
"Considering how long it takes to make, you must have started shortly after I mentioned it in class. Do you remember that it was an example of a Potion that could only involve humans and must never be made from animals?"
"Yes, sir. I got the cat hair by mistake."
"So you were trying to turn yourself into someone who owns a cat. I'll leave it to Professor McGonagall to find out who, and to determine your punishment, though the fact that the spell is permanent when worked with animals ought to be punishment enough. Don't worry," Snape continued at the sight of her stricken face, "there is an antidote potion, but it takes nearly as long to make as the Polyjuice Potion does. You're going to have to stay here for the next month. Unless you want to attend your classes as a cat."
Granger shook her head. Silly girl. At least when she decided to do something foolish it was also something relatively harmless.
Snape turned to Madam Pomfrey. "I'll start on the antidote right away. There really isn't anything else to do but wait and watch her diet very carefully. If she starts craving mice, let me know immediately. I'll keep you informed of the antidote's progress. Well, good night, Madam Pomfrey. Good night, Miss Granger."
Back in his office, Snape cleared off an area well away from any drafts or heat and began setting up the cauldrons and ingredients. It was a foul-smelling brew, which would make his office and private room unpleasant for a while, but there was no place else to make the antidote. He couldn't do it in the classroom for fear one of the students might contaminate it, or worse, drink it.
The initial setup took a few hours, and it was three o'clock in the morning before Snape finally got to bed.
The next morning Lockhart eased into his seat at breakfast with a face all careful sympathy. "They say that Miss Granger has been confined to the hospital wing. You wouldn't happen to know why? The dear girl is a great fan of mine."
Point against Granger. Unless there are two Grangers. "She seems to have developed a slight gatanthropic tendency."
"Oh. Uh… yes. It isn't the contagious kind, is it?"
Snape fixed his attention on his kipper. "Not as these things go. The usual precautions, of course. Face mask if you get within ten feet, latex gloves when you handle her homework. Nothing out of the ordinary."
Lockhart studied the backs of his hands. "No special symptoms, what?"
"No, no. A perfectly normal progression. Fur, pointed ears, whiskers, retractable claws, tail… The very first thing is that a couple of days before full onset, the eyes start to turn yellow. Would you excuse me for just a minute? There's Professor McGonagall, and I needed to tell her something."
At the center of the table, Snape bent next to McGonagall's right ear. "You and I are ostensibly discussing a cough syrup I'm making for you, but in about five minutes I want you to tell Sprout to talk to Lockhart on the way out and casually comment that his eyes look a little yellowish this morning. I'll explain later."
McGonagall nodded. Sure enough, about five minutes after Snape sat back down with Lockhart, she got up and moved next to Sprout.
As soon as Lockhart pushed himself away from the table and started down the Hall, Sprout also rose. They met halfway down the center aisle, and she stopped him with a friendly greeting and began to chat. Snape had already shifted his seat to join McGonagall and Flitwick and fill them in on the details.
Sprout squinted and looked at Lockhart quizzically. Lockhart went white and bent down closer to her. Sprout peered into his eyes and nodded emphatically. Lockhart searched frantically in his pockets and pulled out a lady's cosmetic compact with a mirror. He studied his reflection with increasing nervousness as she patted him tenderly on the arm, then he turned and fled from the Hall.
The instant Lockhart was through the doors, Sprout raced for the table. "Give!" she cried as she hit Snape with her hat. "Give, you wicked, evil man, you! What did I just do?" while McGonagall and Flitwick dissolved in helpless laughter. Snape explained.
When she was able to breathe again, Sprout asked, "What was the word you used?"
"Gatanthropic. A gatanthrope is a werecat."
"And look at the man! Grave as an undertaker. Not even the decency to twitch the corner of his mouth. You are dangerous, Severus Snape!"
"Ah Pomona! You don't know the half of it. Lass, how much do you already know of what he and James Potter used to do to each other when they were in third year…?"
Snape left McGonagall and Flitwick to fill Sprout in on more details of his nefarious past and headed upstairs to the hospital wing.
Life was more serious for Poppy Pomfrey and her charge.
"There's a full moon on January eighth. I'll be able to gather the last ingredients then, and a week later the antidote will be finished. It is powerful medicine, and you'll only be able to take small doses at a time, though if you prove amenable to the treatment they can be frequent. That way the condition will clear up sooner. If you need me for anything more, Madam Pomfrey, you have only to ask."
"Thank you, Professor."
On the way out to the stairs, Snape ran into Lockhart, who was coming down from his rooms on the second floor, heading for his classroom. When he saw Snape, Lockhart stopped.
"Yes, there you are, Severus. Look, old boy, could you do me a bit of a favor. I seem to have taken a bit of chill on the liver, what. A holdover from that time I caught malaria while chasing down hoodoos in a Louisiana bayou, and malaria does keep coming back, don't you know. Think I might have a touch of jaundice. Would you mind checking? I'd just hop along to Madam Pomfrey in the hospital, but she has… uh… other patients to care for."
With somber professionalism, Snape gravely inspected Lockhart's eyes. "Well, now that you mention it, there may be a bit of yellowing to the whites, but I rather thought they'd always been that color. I really think you should talk to Madam Pomfrey about it, though. It is her area of expertise."
Snape left Lockhart in the first floor corridor, torn between his hypochondria and his fear of contagion. Lockhart brings it on himself. Perfect example of the North Carolina Equine Paradox if you ask me. On the other hand, Sprout may be right. Maybe I am just wicked and evil.
The last week of December was Snape's normal time for taking a midyear inventory. With no classes and almost no students, he could work for hours undisturbed. He started with the classroom, where supplies had been depleted from use in potion making and had to be reordered, then moved to his office.
Inventorying the office was more of a formality, since the ingredients there were seldom touched. Snape was nonetheless very careful to keep up-to-date records since so many of them were poisonous.
Working his way methodically through the shelves, Snape checked flower, leaf, stem, and root supplies, then reached the area where animal products were stored. The small jars were minutely calibrated to measure the normally small amounts used in potion making. Some of the things in the office were quite powerful.
Halfway down the list, Snape stopped. He was short of powdered bicorn horn. He checked it a second and a third time, but there was no mistake. The jar was short by two grams. Working more slowly now, he continued his inventory, and was not really surprised to find that a similar amount of shredded boomslang skin was also gone. Both the bicorn horn and the boomslang skin were needed for Polyjuice potion.
It's all coming together. This was why a Filibuster firework was tossed into Goyle's cauldron. It did its job – it kept me busy. The girl stole my supplies with the help of an accomplice, probably Potter, to make Polyjuice potion to turn herself into someone with a cat. I wonder if Potter turned himself into someone, too. But who? And why? It was Christmas Day, so the number of people they could choose from would be small.
The first thing to do was make up a list and then scratch off the names of those it could not possibly be. If he could figure out who, he might be able to figure out why. When questioning students, it always helped to be able to tell them things they thought they'd kept secret. It made them think you could read their minds.
It turned out to be surprisingly easy, especially since Crabbe and Goyle had been discovered sleeping in a broom closet later on Christmas Day. Snape suspected the cat owner was Millicent Bulstrode. He called Malfoy into his office.
"I need your help, Draco. You remember that Crabbe and Goyle were, shall we say, a little under the weather at Christmas? We're trying to find out if they've been into things they oughtn't. Do you recall any time during that day when they were behaving a bit… strangely?"
Malfoy did. He recounted an odd little conversation in which the two had seemed to sympathize with Arthur Weasley and Colin Creevey, and hadn't remembered previous conversations about Slytherin's heir and the Chamber of Secrets. He seemed to feel that it made sense that the two may have been imbibing something, since Crabbe had complained of stomach ache as well.
After Malfoy left, Snape thought carefully about what he'd said – and hadn't said. Insulting Weasley and Creevey, and the two couldn't go along. But they wanted information about the Chamber. Which means they didn't open it. Time to talk to McGonagall again.