In which Peter (who is not, goddammit, a cubicle drone) sort-of-eats-Severus's-sort-of-food again, this time on purpose. He does not understand how his life has gotten to this point, but his being sure he doesn't deserve it may not mean what you think.
Warnings for implied het, discussions of fpreg and past fairly nasty violence with frostbite, Moody, base treachery most vile (or at least Pesto-Bismal pink), and SLYTHERIN!
Temporary notes: Thanks for everyone's patience while I moved. (eyes pile of boxes) While I relocated. And also thanks to those of you who checked up on me this last week. I aten't dead. I think. So far.
For my information, are people are more likely to read fic on Thursdays or Mondays? My schedule's unstable so it may not matter even if everyone agrees, but if I don't know I can't even consider making the effort. ;)
Question game notes!
Replies to last week—er, month's—questions after the chapter. This week's question theme is on everyday life. Ask any (major-ish) character about any time period covered so far in this arc or in canon, but as always, do not expect spoilers. Or if you think you're getting some, be prepared for them to turn out to be LIES. :D Previous question themes (for Ev and Severus about each other, for anybody about the Houses) are still fair game.
In case it isn't obvious, the quick PM replies are ZOMG first drafts. But, er, if you are a questioner, you have probably already found that it is very, very, very obvious...
Last-chapter notes:
I don't want anyone to get the idea that Evan is (half) as beautiful as Gilderoy thinks Gilderoy is, or that Gildy is slavishly copying him. We're not in outright identity/success theft territory yet. He's a good-looking fella, but Gildy looks to him not because he's Adonis but because he's an only-slightly-older Noble House pureblood of Gildy's approximate physical type, with a/r/t/i/s/t/i/c/p/r/e/t/e/n/s/i/o/n/s a personal style that isn't too much effort to keep up.* Further, he w/a/s/a/t/o/t/a/l/m/a/n/w/h/o/r/e** had a successful social life for as long as he wanted one and was desirable enough to get hit with a love potion by someone capable of pulling it off despite its being completely obvious (which it was. Heirs of families like THAT simply do not go all gooey over ugly, socially maladroit halfbloods from the sticks with no prospects, no matter how brainy. It just doesn't happen without magic on the order of amortentia and imperius. Their mothers make sure they don't even if they feel like it. Gilderoy has been on the wrong end of such maternal precautions, so he knows). Ergo Evan was doing something right. And Gildy, well, he doesn't generate his own ideas. Well. Not his own good ideas…
* Or, actually, any effort, once the shopping has been done. Severus takes more time getting dressed than Evan does (it's the buttons). Gilderoy has embellished. A lot. People who aren't Severus or Gilderoy's hairdresser/boyfriend/tailor probably haven't noticed. Actually, Gildy's boyfriend probably hasn't noticed, either.
** Evan says it can't possibly be whorish if one's mother is (strongly) encouraging one to do it so one can narrow down the field of who one would be willing to marry. Severus says that just makes her one's pimp, but admits, on questioning, that he is unlikely to advance this view where Ev's mum can hear him. Or in fact any witch even remotely related to Narcissa.
That was a lot of note, but it's also the only Sev-an'-Ev you get this chapter. ;p
July Week II: Ministry of Magic, Below London
Peter unwrapped his sandwich with a sigh. He didn't exactly like salted beef with marmite. No one in the world except Sirius liked salted beef with marmite, he was convinced, and Sirius only told himself he liked it because it was the anti-Black. It was just that he'd thought, that morning, that he'd want something for lunch that reminded him of home. Or, rather, the cozy times of feeling like the worst thing that was going to happen to him all day would be the race to find something else to aim bored and restless roommates at before they started picking on him.
Remembering the comparative safety of school was nice, sort of, but also thinking he wouldn't want to enjoy his lunch much the day after yesterday's blood and stinking terror was an impulse he was now…
...Not regretting, actually. What he was regretting was picking pink, cold meat. At this rate, he thought, glumly picking it out and taking a bite of his now marmite-only sandwich, he was going to have to go vegetarian. Looking at red meat didn't make him quite as sick as the thought of poultry, but it wasn't at all appealing. At least no one had ruined fish and chips for him yet.
"Well, aren't you a sad sack," someone said cheerfully, and his sandwich went flying. The bits of it that didn't go down his lungs, anyway. "Eating bread and water in your itty bitty cubelette, what's the matter with you?" she went on as he choked and wheezed, whacking him hard on the back.
"What are you doing here?" he managed eventually. He even managed to make it look and sound a lot more pleased than the words implied, even through the coughing-up-of-marmite.
"Rescuing my fair prince from durance vile, apparently," she said, putting her hands on her round hips and giving him an eyebrow. "Do they make you work through lunch?"
For some reason, he felt accused, and flushed. "Uh, well, no, I…"
"My droneykins is just that conscientious?" she cooed, still with the eyebrow.
"I'm not a drone," he protested. He hoped. He was working for Dumbledore, he'd gotten thirteen people out of danger yesterday, he'd been a Marauder!
But here he was today, he had to admit, eating lunch in his office because he worked for the Ministry and if he went to the cafeteria everyone would give him the stink-eye, like everyone did since the lake. He didn't think the Aurors who had come to him at the lake had told everyone, or anyone. They were professionals. It must just have changed him, permanently, turned him dark in a way that showed up in his magic. Permanently. He just had to resign himself to it: people were going to feel it, maybe forever. Maybe not, a month wasn't really so long as curses and taints went, but…
Lucrezia was looking at him, whiskey-colored eyes through long, dark lashes, her amazingly shiny pink lips pursed. It was a bit distracting. They were so very pale and metallic, not natural at all, and it made them look so plump. It wasn't the kind of look Siri and James would have called sexy. What it was, he realized, was sneaky, because it made him want to snog all the lipstick off and get to her real mouth until it looked soft again, and much darker than that.
"I heard it was all hands on deck yesterday," she said, tilting her head so that a cord stood out in her delicate throat, and added, somewhere between exasperation and a smile, "Gryff."
"Well, it was pretty bad, Lucy," he said lamely. "Giants resist magic; it takes a few people to handle one, and there were a lot of them."
"Mmm-hmm." She regarded him for a moment, and then shimmered forward a tiny step, like a snake. If he hadn't been sitting in his chair at his desk, he would have backed up. "What you need," she decided, tilting her head in the other direction so her chestnut waves washed across her shoulders, "is a pick-me up. Move," she directed, pointing at the desk.
He stared at her. Goggled, probably.
She raised both her eyebrows, a little dangerously. "Yes?"
"In real awake life," he said, a little faintly, "beautiful girls do not come unexpectedly into tubby blokes' offices and—"
This was apparently a right thing to say. Lucrezia had a really knock-you-on-your-arse smile, with only one dimple. She pointed again, with decision, and ordered, "On your desk, soldier." When he had scrambled fervently to do her bidding, she made herself spinnily comfortable in his chair, which he was never going to think about the same way again, and planted her hands on his papers.
Where Pete's other girlfriends had said that his getting drowsy instead of going out like a light afterwards was one of the best things about him, Lucy got so energized that it could be an actual problem. Sometimes he worried it meant he wasn't satisfying her, and sometimes he worried she was an actual succubus. Mostly he just worried he might fall over while she was hauling him bouncily around. Of course, he was used to Sirius, so he was pretty good at not falling over no matter how not-awake he was.
"Where are we going?"
"We're eating outside," she told him firmly. "It's a very nice day. All lovely and warm."
"But my sandwich…!" He knew they hadn't taken it with them. He was rather afraid he might have sat on it.
She scoffed. "That's not food," and dragged him along to what wasn't actually a park, but was, literally, good enough for government work.
The Ministry had long since decided that, as in some political cycles they got the best and brightest and in some they got the people who weren't clever enough to invent careers for themselves, it was a bad assumption that everyone who worked for them was going to be good at apparition. They therefore liked to have the option of encouraging people to take their breaks in the building, and had set up an underground courtyard with the same enchantment on the ceiling as the one in Hogwarts' Great Hall.
That one got a lot of use in the Ministry, actually; if you couldn't turn it on in your office for at least a few hours a day, you knew you were being punished. St. Mungo's had explained to a Minister decades ago about the beneficial effects of sunshine and how much easier it was for people to work in pleasant (but not distracting) environments, and the Ministry liked to get the most out of its workers. If someone's work was done in an office, the office shouldn't make the worker mad to get out of it.
Peter sometimes wondered when sanity had left the building. It had clearly lived here once. There were lingering traces, like less-faded picture-frame-shaped patches in the wallpaper of an old house.
They settled under an old elm tree, and she pulled a sealed package out of a pocket of her robe. When she'd unshrunk and unpacked it, it turned out to be bowls and spoons and bread and butter and a canister of violently pink…
"What is it?" he asked, prodding it in fascination with the spoon. It was exactly the same color as her lipstick.
"Fruit soup!" she said, having some. "Try it, it's so good in summer." Then she rolled her eyes, probably at his expression. "You know, technically gazpacho is also a cold fruit soup."
He poked it again. It was so very pink. "Is this some special high-tone pureblood recipe the rest of us wot not of?" he asked dubiously.
She paused, and suddenly looked guilty. "Nooo…." When he stared at her in dread, she said, or rather admitted, "I got it from a friend."
Fighting the urge to knock the bowl out of her hands and run back to his office for his emergency bezoar, he squeaked—er, demanded, "Lucy, did Snape give this to you?!"
She sighed, aggrieved. "I knew you'd take it like that. Just the recipe, Pete, years ago. He wasn't anywhere near me when I made it, all right? I have it all the time when it's hot."
He looked between her and the bowl, wrestling with himself. "You made it? For me?" She didn't-exactly-glower at him in a clear yes. He braced himself and tried some.
Strawberries and cream and a hint of melon, a touch of mint that worked where it had no right to. More tangy and cool than sweet. Bugger.
"It's good," admitted Peter Pettigrew, traitor to all things Gryffindor and decent.
"Well, of course it is!" Lucy sat back, satisfied. "I mean, all right, some of his Oops I Forgot To Eat While I Was Reading Through Dinner And I'm Too Paranoid To Sneak Down To The Kitchens And This Is What I've Got So What Can I Do With It experiments ought to have been registered as cleaning supplies, psychotropic potions, or lethal weapons, depending, but I wouldn't feed you one of those. What you do is you butter the soft bit of the bread and then you use the crust—"
"Good work yesterday, Pettigrew," someone said gruffly as a broad hand landed on Peter's shoulder.
He nearly spilled his soup, but then smiled gratefully up. "Oh, thanks, Moody." He hesitated, chewing on his lip. "Frank doing all right? He's not going to lose his arm, is he?"
"Nah," Moody grunted, "got to the hospital in plenty of time. Couple'a potions and some bandages with a warming charm; he'll be back at work in two days. Tomorrow, if he had his way, but someone's had a word with Alice."
Peter breathed out. He'd never seen anything like Frank's arm before, although he had again before the day was out. A frost giant had just picked the Auror up by it and flung him into a boulder. His arm and a big patch of his ribs on that side had looked frozen nearly solid to Pete. The worst part was that he'd stayed conscious the whole time Pete had been flying him to the nearest wizarding enclave, banging on doors, begging for floo access.
Everyone had gotten a lot more careful after one or two injuries like that and worse, but the Aurors were going to be significantly short-staffed for a while. So were a lot of Quidditch teams. Beaters and Chasers had shown up in droves, once word had gone out on the wireless, to throw rocks and potions and even just distract giants from the Aurors with fancy flying.
Ministry grunts like Peter had actually taken very few casualties, though, which the Aurors and Hit Wizards probably would have resented if it wasn't because they'd all been running ambulance duty. Up until Bagnold's election this year Headquarters had run regular evacuation drills. Since Moody had been devising them for years and was a paranoid sadist, they hadn't translated too badly to open country with giants stomping around. Pete had already had good reflexes, of course. He might thank James for that, but he wouldn't thank Sirius out loud, or Snape at all.
"Alice the firecracker who's got a cousin named Roland?" Lucy asked.
Moody eyed her suspiciously. Because Moody eyed everyone suspiciously. In fact, when Moody eyed Peter suspiciously these days, it felt good, because Moody was treating him like he treated everyone else. "That's right, Miss. And you are?"
Lucy smiled, and put out a hand. "I'm Lucy, who's dating Peter and went out with Roland and Alice-and-Frank a few times at school."
"…Both of them?" Peter asked, his eyes peeling open, as Moody gingerly shook hands with Lucy, as though her hand might attack him, and only after peering carefully at it, first one dark eye narrowing and then the other. She wasn't wearing any rings that might have, Peter didn't know, been explosive or something. "All of them?!"
She ignored him, asking Moody, "Isn't Alice about to pop?"
"Her baby's due soon, if that's what you mean," Peter said, bemused.
"Oooh," Lucy said, a little wide-eyed, distracted from looking at Moody like he was crazy. Which, yeah, he was, although it was a very useful and competent kind of crazy. "I just bet Frank won't be back at work before she says, then. My friend Cissa went completely mental towards the end, and she's usually calm as glaciers."
Moody eyed her some more, and said, "…Right," and nodded at Peter, and wandered off.
"Of course," Lucy said, grinning wickedly at Peter, "I suppose getting rid of grizzled old wizards by talking baby-baking won't work for you."
"Both of them?" Peter repeated, and he had to admit it really was a squeak now. "All of them?!"
"Well, not Roland together with Alice-and-Frank," she said, blinking at him. "That would have been icky; they're cousins."
Peter very rapidly considered his options. He had the advantage here, he realized, of years and years of watching James and Sirius court and flirt and pull. All he had to do, if he wanted to keep seeing this gorgeous witch (his own size!) who came by like every office fantasy ever to interrupt a grimly tedious day after a grimly horrifying one and then dragged him out for a picnic, was the exact opposite of anything that would ever occur to either of them.
"Okay," he said therefore, equably, and had some more soup.
Lucrezia smiled at him. A different kind of smile, sharp and slow and (it was the only word for it) Slytherin. The hair on the back of his neck stood straight up.
But she said, simply, "Pass." Holding his eyes like a baby bird's, she sprinkled a white powder onto the bread and held it out to him.
She didn't know, couldn't, how lurchingly, sickeningly terrified he was to reach out and tear off a hunk of bread and eat it. It wasn't just that the powder could have been anything, it was so much worse than that. But that was bad enough.
The bread, as it turned out, was just bread. The white stuff was just salt.
It was, humiliatingly enough, Peter's immediate superior who kicked them out of the courtyard for snogging indecently in public, but somehow Pete couldn't manage to feel less than euphoric. Even when all his friends including Remus (!) and Frank (! ! ! !) ragged the hell out of him for the 'Life-Affirming PDA With Some Bird,' he couldn't so much as manage to be embarrassed at how goofy he knew his grin had to look.
Next: Four years later, Lily still remembers Sev's poetry word for word. No, not that kind of poetry, but everyone is disturbed anyway.
Q&A!
Louise (AO3): My next question is for thirtysomething Professor Snape, ahem: what the dickens were you doing for all those years between the wars, before Harry Potter arrived at school?
S: (stares) Er, my job?
Author: You may have to be more specific…
Louise: If our coy friend won't divulge what he was doing after hours or at summers, then we will just have to make wild assumptions. Or mild assumptions.
S: Oh, is that what you meant. There's no such thing as 'after hours' with a teaching job, especially if you have to do housemoth—er, housemaster duties as well and keep the infirmary stocked and do evening rounds because everyone else thinks they're a joke. However, when I have sufficient free time that it can be spent in pursuits that aren't paper-bound, I do like to—
E: Be amazing?
S: Challenge myself and experiment in the stillroom. And of course in summer it's much easier than during term to make it to potions, spellcrafting, and defense-related conferences and events, work on journal articles (one's own and eviscerating other people's), adjust the curriculum to keep up with advances (this seldom happens, but I live in hope), acquire the sort of ingredients that are really bloody expensive if one doesn't gather them oneself, and... generally keep up my... certifications and authorizations... things of that nature. (shifty) As I said: my job. The difference after my other job resumed was that I got not less leisure time but less sleep.
E: And crankier! XD
S: (smirk) Assuming anyone could tell the difference.
Entire Hogwarts Faculty: (flat eyes) WE COULD TELL THE DIFFERENCE.
S: (blinks) Er… right then.
E: (ROFL)
Louise: Also, what would you say are your most and least favorite things about being Head of House?
S: As for favorite, fixing the complete state of what-the-fuckery (pardon my Greek) that Slughorn let it fall into, so that the prefects do not have to do my job for me, the students feel safe, and an underaged twit has to be trying very hard to fail academically even without having their grades fudged because their grandfather's on the Board. It's also convenient that Horace is still around to be used as a shiny reward so I don't have to do much of the networking tedium myself. My least favorite thing is being knocked up in the middle of the night by quivering infants with nightmares and homesickness, as though sleep deprivation in a potions professor wasn't enormously dangerous.
Author: Actually his least favorite things vary by year, but you only asked what he says. (g)
Psyche Girl (AO3): What, really, actually, did make Lily fall in love with James? (Yes, I know these are meant to be Spike questions, but that is by far the most incomprehensible part of your Lily for me - probably because your main narrator finds it incomprehensible too.
Lily: I—well, it wasn't one thing, you know? It was… well, for one thing, after Sev, you have no idea what it meant—well, maybe you do—that he finally started doing some growing up. To see someone who'd been unrelentingly mean turn away from that. And he did it partly because Sirius getting so out of control scared him into seeing where things were going, and partly because he saw it was important to me and why. It meant a lot to me that he changed for both those reasons, that it was for me and because he saw it was right. That he wouldn't have, if he didn't see it was right, even for me, but that because I wanted him to he got off his arse (by which I mean Siri) and worked it out. And when he isn't being mean he's funny and he's fun—er, don't tell him I said that, his head doesn't need re-inflating—and, let's be honest, when he's not being utterly infuriating it is possible to notice he's a quite fit bloke. (g) Sort of bendy, too; Seekers and Chasers are. And he's not complicated. He'd never, never make excuses for two sets of friends to each other. He picks a side and sticks to it, and he says exactly what he means, he doesn't imply things and then go skittering around the edges of a promise. He can be extremely silly, and loud, and corny, but that's a good thing in a father, as long as you can also rely on him, and I can. I mean, he needs stern handling, but he does what he says he'll do and his instincts are basically good, especially in an emergency. Everyone's stupid and selfish and awful at sixteen, but the thing is, not everyone grows out of it. Quite a lot of people I know didn't. At all. Someone who does is sort of amazing.
(Please take note: This is her POV. She's allowed to be wrong. This was not written to change anyone's mind about either her or James, it's just her answer to the question.)
Hwyla (Ffnet): I've come back to the Byronic Hero question just so I can imagine that slit-eyed look again. Does [Severus] do pressed thin lips, too? Sometimes I think he got it from Minerva, but more probably from his mam. Perhaps that look is why in "Boomslang" Minerva ponders about others suggesting she reminds Sev of his mother?
Evan: He does tight lips, but not thin. When he Thinks You Might Wish To Reconsider he purses them, and when he's upset they contract all around but mostly from the sides. It's fairly subtle, though—definitely from his mum—mostly he works from the eyes.
S: My mouth is thin to begin with; it wouldn't be dramatic as it is for McGonagall.
E: (gasp) Spike, have you been looking at the Tartan's lips?!
S: (dry) They are a quite accurate seismometer, so yes, as appropriate.
E: I am shocked, shocked, and very jeal—
S: You do realize the trolls have a running joke about your troll-cousin shagging her?
E: …Stopping instantly. But you're making that up.
S: I am in fact not. It is, indeed, a fanon running joke.
E: …Eeeyurgh…
S: (pats) She also resembles both me and Mam in essential build, a lack of nonsense—
E: (g) Ha.
S: —and hair color.
E: Also Spike was much more polite in her class than anybody else's. Which is to say he only complained about her teaching technique; he didn't actually correct her.
S: Well, I didn't know better than the teacher in her class, because it was hard, because she was failing to teach me in a way I could understand. It wasn't till fifth year I worked out that you have to be able to visualize transfigurations in a way that makes sense to you before you can do it, and that was only because I got so frustrated I completely deviated from her instructions and thought cellular and it worked, which according to everything she'd said to date made no sense!
E: You're sure it has nothing to do with the Dragon Glare?
S: (grumbly) Stupid bloody class, it's as bad as Divination.
E: Mm-hmm, it's definitely the subject's fault. For being unusually tricky. Because Potions theory intrinsically makes sense to everyone who isn't you, right.
S: (blinks)
Ebony (Ffnet): How does Voldemort feel about Hufflepuffs?
Tom: Hufflepuffs? Taken as a group and cliché, anyone would want loyal and hard-working allies. But Lord Voldemort takes each witch or wizard for his own worth. All are welcome, so that they have true hearts that hold the true blood.
Ebony: Do the Hufflepuffs know that?
Evan: (cynical) The ones he wants to recruit do.
HATI (Ffnet): Poor Evan, no crazy? Well, Snape definitely has enough to spare. Although is he insane or crazy? Debate!
James and Peter: Completely insane.
Sirius: Certifiable, nuttersville, really badly needs one of those jackets with the long arms.
Remus: (abstains)
Lily: The whole problem has always been that he's not crazy at all.
Narcissa: I wish it known that I am not agreeing with the mudblood. That said, he isn't crazy, only jumpy, though if he were wealthy enough he would might relax enough to qualify for eccentric in short order.
Albus: A little nonsense now and then... you really should try it, Severus.
Tom: A little mad, perhaps, but under control and usefully so.
Regulus: (g) Definitely mental.
Lucius: Definitely.
Evan: Loony like midnight moonlight mine mine mine you can't have him none of you so go away. Well, Reggie and Narcissa can stay. Lucius, too, I suppose, if he doesn't leer at MY BLOKE's arse. It's a nice one, I agree, but he doesn't like it when you do that, Luke, sorry, because, as mentioned, he's loony and doesn't like being properly appreciated, no, I don't understand it, either, this question was provoked by my not having any crazy. Except Spike. I have him. He's mine. Ha.
Severus: WHEN YOU'RE ALL QUITE FINISHED… (massive eyeroll) All I am is surrounded by idiots. And whoever gave Evan a Stream of Consciousness potion, Black, can tell me which one it was right sodding now before I brew my own version, which will, I assure you, be considerably more potent and administered rectally.
Sirius: (matching eyeroll) That'd happen. Loosen up, Sniv, worked out well for you, didn't it?
Severus: Lucius's odd brain is between him and Narcissa. I have no wish to know about his fantasies. Now I do. This is your fault.
Sirius: …Come to think of it, now I have that image, too.
Severus: (smug) Karma has left roadkill that wasn't me, I feel better now.
Sirius: …Did you just make a car pun? o.O
Severus: Don't be ludicrous, everyone knows I never joke.
Sirius: O.o o.O =.- … I'm changing my vote.
James: What?! To what?
Sirius: 'Totally screwing with us, the evil bastard.'
James: Oh. We knew that.
Sirius: Yeah, but now we know he's doing it for fun.
Evan: (sunshine) See, I told Spike you had more than one brain cell, Siri!
Severus: …Right, I'm taking you home right now.
Evan: YAY!
Severus: NOT LIKE THAT!
Evan: (singing) That's what you say NOW…
Severus: I cannot credit that these so-called people think I am the crazy one. It utterly beggars belief.
Lily: Everyone raised by muggles says that, Sev. Well, usually with less alliteration and archaisms and kicked greyhound pathos eyes and more snickering.
Severus: (sniff) Shut up and slide me the Sudoku, wench.
Lily: (wags a finger) You lost the S-es.
Severus: Yes, well, all the s-synonyms lose the playful connotations in favor of stronger prostitution ones, so I thought I'd better not—
James: Damn right. (arm around Lily's shoulder and looks fierce and manly, other hand on his wand)
Severus: —as Mam would apparate wandless from Lancashire and Look At Me Disapprovingly. What? She'd just know. What?
Sirius: Can I change my vote back?
Remus: (pats him)
HATI: What does Regulus think of the house elf heads?
Reg: Er, well, they're a little er for this century and er, maybe they shouldn't actually be actual heads in the hall anymore? But I understand it. It's like Roman death masks. It shows the living elves that we appreciate them and they'll never be forgotten while the family remains. That's important for them to remember, especially while they're being disciplined. Um, I know they look like hunting trophies, but that's really not what it's about. It's pride for them. Even visitors who come in just for a minute have to see which of them have been the most honored. I've been sort of thinking, though, that maybe if it wouldn't break Kreacher's heart too much we could maybe replace them with statues. Or portraits. Or at least have them bronzed. Because, er, they really do look like hunting trophies and no one understands anymore and it sort of makes a really horrible impression and the visitors don't just look down on the family for it, they pity the elves, so it's sort of a lose-lose situation all around. Only, I think it really would break Kreacher's heart. It's his dream to have his head up there after he dies, and he deserves to get it if that's what he wants... so I don't know...
HATI: In class, do you prefer an intelligent Ravenclaw or a hard working Hufflefpuff?
Minerva: I prefer a hard-working Ravenclaw and an intelligent Hufflepuff. Provided neither of them is too much of a clever-dick, like the Weasley twins, Severus Snape, Sirius Black, or Zacharias Smith, all of whom combined moderate to excessive intelligence with extremely hard work at whatever they felt merited the effort and even more extreme wearisomeness. And one might point out that neither intelligence nor hard work, even combined with a pleasant temperament and biddableness, rules out insanity, inappropriate experimentation, or the inability to limit oneself to the confines of the assignment and keep to the point. Give me a Dean Thomas, Susan Bones, Michael Corner, or Emmeline Vance who'll grasp the assignment in a a reasonable amount of time and simply do it, thank you. Not that the other sorts don't have their respective charms, but I find them much more charming outside the classroom, when I don't have to cope with their essays. I have three jobs and a schedule, you do realize?
HATI: Did the sorting hat give you a choice of houses too?
Albus: (twinkle) I believe my faculty have discussed this at some length as a result of someone else's question. Lemon square, my dear? They've got shortbread on the bottom, they're very good.
To wit...
Ebony: Would Dumbledore have been Slytherin if he hadn't requested differently?
Severus: Yes. Yes, he would. There is no question but that he would. This is obvious to everyone.
Minerva: Severus, really! Professor Dumbledore is the consummate Gryffindor. I shall have to have a word with Binns about covering the Grindelwald Wars.
Severus: The ones where he kept Britain out of the action for 40-odd years for no reason he was pleased to share with the rest of the world and then made sure no one actually witnessed that Grand Spectacular final duel with his old friend, you mean? I'm not criticizing, you understand, it's only that his information-sharing allergy is rather serpentine. I'll stop there but, please note, I don't have to.
Filius: Granted, Severus, but don't be greedy. He could have come to my House, too. Albus is an innovative genius, after all, and a polymath, and a very clever strategist.
Severus: The benevolent man's Moriarty, in fact.
Minerva: ...That was an insult, wasn't it.
Filius: (eyes Severus) (judicious) Only superficially.
Severus: I'm not denying his intellect. But if you want success and respect, which no one denies he did, Gryffindors are those to whom these things are most freely given. Sorting Gryffindor is what any really canny Slytherin would do.
Minerva: (GLARES) Then why didn't you?
Severus: Because you don't teach Gryffs to think carefully before making dunderheaded, glory-grubbing, suicidal decisions, and I wanted to learn to.
Pomona: This is rather a waste of time, chaps. The Hat sent him where it sent him.
Severus: (g) You're just saying that because your House didn't get him, either.
Pomona: (looks between his and Minerva's stress lines and, oh, all of DH)
Pomona: (not unkindly) Just between the four of us, my lad, my House didn't want him.
HATI: Do certain houses get more of certain types of injury than others? Ravenclaws experimenting/Griffindors with quidditch injuries that sort of thing.
Poppy: Oh, goodness, yes. Although it's different with every year in every house as well. For example, Harry Potter and Collin Creevey's Gryffindor classes are all quidditch injuries and burns from Mr. Finnegan and Mr. Longbottom's disasters, and his father's kept coming in with extra limbs and bits in the wrong places or turned to animal parts or vanished or doing unnerving things when they moved. Sometimes I think Severus was dueling as much with Filius and me as he was with the boys. Then, Cho Chang and Luna Lovegood's classes are also mainly from Quidditch, mixed with animal bites and burns and so on, but *their* parents' classes largely had experimental problems. Mostly, in their particular parents' cases, from trying to mix Western and Eastern magical theory, as I recall. They don't mix, just so you know. Completely different way of thinking about everything.
HATI: Do you clean inside the houses?
Filch: Nah, the elves do that. 'Xcept when know it all brats naff 'em off leaving hats under stuff. Then they can fend for themselves till they learn her better.
HATI: Who chooses the prefects and head boy/girl? Do you or do their heads of houses?
Dumbledore: I suppose they would give some weight to an opinion I expressed, but I don't interfere in the way my Heads run their Houses. If I hadn't trusted them with the children's care, I wouldn't have given it to them.
Severus: He expresses opinions ALL THE TIME. And weight certainly is given to them. To give him his due, I don't think he intends to interfere with the decision-making. Usually.
Minerva: No, of course he doesn't. It's natural that he should notice when certain students are doing well.
Severus: It's not natural at all, given he hardly talks to any of them except when w—they're in trouble. Someday they're going to figure out all the way he spies and there's going to be a massive bonfire and then everyone whose ancestors had a portrait burned is going to oh god.
Minerva: Have a cup of tea and cease to be ridiculous this instant or I shall go over the last Gryffindor/Hufflepuff game point by point very loudly.
Severus: (horror, obedience, tea)
