AN: I don't own Harry Potter. Proper author's note at the end.
Chapter 3
They have Defence on the first day of classes. He can't stop himself from glancing up at the head table as McGonagall double-checks his OWL scores. Snape is scowling over a cup of what Harry knows is coffee strong enough to strip paint. He looks away when Snape meets his eyes with his usual, impassive expression on his face. He wonders if the professor is nervous. He's certainly nervous himself, although he isn't sure why. He and Snape have some sort of understanding now, even if it's only evident in private, and Slughorn seems harmless enough, and nothing can be worse than Umbridge was the previous year.
McGonagall clears him for all his classes, even potions, because Slughorn's standards are lower than Snape's, which he thinks may have something to do with Snape's dislike for his former Head of House. Despite his doubts over his current chosen career path, he decides to take Slughorn's class. You never know when it might be useful, he figures. He snorts at the thought. Between Snape and Hermione, he might become a responsible student.
"What?" Ron asks, eyeing his own timetable and looking torn between being horrified at getting stuck taking potions for another year and elated over their three free periods.
"Nothing, just a stupid thought," he says.
After breakfast, Hermione rushes off to Ancient Runes, while he and Ron return to the common room. Hermione is already fretting by the time they meet up with her again, enroute to the Defence classroom.
"We've got so much homework for Runes," she says, "a fifteen-inch essay, two translations, and I've got to read these by Wednesday!"
"Shame," yawns Ron.
"You wait," says Hermione with a reproachful look. "I bet Snape gives us loads."
It becomes immediately clear that Snape is going to maintain his bat-of-the-dungeons reputation, despite the new position and new location. The curtains are drawn, and candles light the room. Snape has hung what appear to be muggle-style photographs of people sporting gruesome wounds, screaming and contorting in pain.
He glances around at the faces of his classmates. Most of them are looking a bit sick. He's willing to bet Snape is enjoying himself, despite his secret reluctance to take the job.
"I have not asked you to take out your books," Snape says, moving to stand at the front of the class with his hands braced against the desk. Hermione drops her copy of Confronting the Faceless back in her bag. "I wish to speak to you and I want your fullest attention."
He goes on to insult both their former Defence instructors and the abilities of the students themselves. Harry wonders what Snape would think if he knew about the DA. As far as he knows, the actual nature of the group got overlooked amidst the Minister's attempt to arrest Dumbledore, and nobody thought to follow up during the chaos that ensued.
Snape leaves his desk and begins to slowly pace the perimeter of the room.
"The Dark Arts are many, varied, ever-changing, and eternal. Fighting them is like fighting a many-headed monster, which, each time a neck is severed, sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than before. You are fighting that which is unfixed, mutating, indestructible."
This part doesn't seem like an act. Granted, Snape is so good at acting that he knows he probably wouldn't be able to tell either way, but he gets the sense that Snape's impassioned speech is entirely sincere.
"Your defences," Snape continues, "must therefore be as flexible and inventive as the Arts you seek to undo. These pictures give a fair representation of those who suffer, for instance, the Cruciatus Curse, feel the Dementor's Kiss, or provoke the aggression of the Inferius."
He gestures to photographs of a shrieking woman, a blank-faced wizard slumped against a wall, and a bloody mass upon the ground in turn.
"Has an Inferius been seen, then?" asks Parvati in a high-pitched voice. "Is it definite, is he using them?"
Surprisingly, Snape answers her without ridicule. "The Dark Lord has used Inferi in the past, which means you would be well-advised to assume he might use them again." He makes his way back to the desk. "Now, you are, I believe, complete novices in the use of non-verbal spells. What is the advantage of a non-verbal spell?"
Predictably, Hermione's hand shoots into the air. Snape makes a show of looking around, clearly planning to call on Hermione only if he has no other choice. Harry raises a tentative hand.
"Mister Potter," Snape says with a raised brow.
"Um, you can catch your opponent off-guard?"
Snape's lip curls, but despite his disdainful expression, Harry thinks he can see a shadow of approval in the man's eyes. "A simplistic description, but correct."
For the practical portion of the class, Snape divides them into pairs. Unbeknownst to Snape, most of the class learned to cast the Shield Charm from Harry as part of the DA, although they never tried it non-verbally. Typically, ten minutes into the lesson, Hermione manages to repel Neville's Jelly-Legs jinx without uttering a single word. Harry can't help but feel irritated when merely mutters, "Hm," and moves away. Any other professor would have awarded points.
Snape comes to observe Harry and Ron, who is turning purple in the face in his attempt to jinx Harry without speaking the incantation. Harry has semi-relaxed his stance, secretly thinking that the attack is likely never to come.
"Pathetic, Weasley," Snape says after a while. "Here, let me show you…"
He turns his wand on Harry so quickly that Harry reacts instinctively, all thought of non-verbal spells forgotten as he yells, "Protego!" The charm is so strong that Snape is knocked off-balance and bumps into a nearby desk. The whole class is staring at them now.
"Do you remember me telling you we are practicing non-verbal spells, Potter?" says Snape, scowling.
"Yes," Harry answers stiffly.
"'Yes, sir.'"
"There's no need to call me 'sir,' Professor."
The words escape him before he knows what he's saying. Several people gasp, including Hermione.
"Detention, Saturday night, my office," Snape says, not missing a beat. "I do not take cheek from anyone, Potter… not even the Chosen One."
It shouldn't bother him, not when he knows Snape has a cover to maintain, but the moniker riles him, especially when he knows that Snape knows he hates it. "Don't call me that," he snaps.
"Would you like to make your detention an all-weekend affair?"
He grits his teeth and says nothing.
"I thought not. Now everyone get back to work."
Their last period of the day is double Potions. When they arrive at the corridor, they see that there are only a dozen people progressing to NEWT level. The class includes Malfoy, who is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, as if he's already bored. Harry thinks that he'll take any excuse to keep an eye on Malfoy; then, he remembers that Snape told him to stay out of it. But old habits die hard, and he is still fiercely curious about what is going on with the blonde Slytherin.
Unlike the classroom under Snape's instruction, which was always so clean at the start of the lesson it was practically clinical, the dungeon is already full of vapours and odd smells. They pass three large, bubbling cauldrons on their way to take a table, which they end up sharing with the only Hufflepuff in class.
"Now then, now then, now then," mutters Slughorn, "Scales out, everyone, and potion kits, and don't forget your copies of Advanced Potion-Making…"
"Sir?"
"Harry, m'boy?" Slughorn peers at him through the fog.
"I haven't got a book or scales or anything-nor's Ron-we didn't realize we'd be able to do the NEWT, you see-"
"Ah yes, Professor McGonagall did mention. Not to worry, my dear boy, not to worry at all. You can use ingredients from the store cupboard today, and I'm sure we can lend some scales, and we've got a small stock of old books here, they'll do until you can write to Flourish and Blotts…"
Slughorn strides over to a corner cupboard, and after a moment's foraging, emerges with two battered-looking textbooks. He distributes them to Harry and Ron, along with two sets of scales that look equally ancient.
"This is even worse than the usual second-hand books I get," laments Ron under his breath as Slughorn moves away. The book does look terrible, the cover having been clearly ripped off and reattached with muggle Sellotape. It doesn't lay flat because the pages inside are wrinkled, as if from water damage.
"Here, I'll trade you," Harry offers. He exchanges Ron's damaged copy with the one Slughorn placed in front of him. It is also old and worn, but at least it isn't literally falling apart.
"Really?" Ron visibly perks up, although he tries to hide it. "Thanks, mate."
"Any time."
At the front of the class, Slughorn is now asking someone to identify the contents of one of the cauldrons. Hermione's well-practiced hand hits the air before anybody else's; Slughorn points at her.
"It's Veritaserum, a colourless, odourless potion that forces the drinker to tell the truth," she says, and Harry is reminded of Umbridge demanding Veritaserum from Snape the previous year.
"Very good, very good!" Slughorn says happily. "Now, this one here is pretty well-known… featured in a few Ministry leaflets, too… who can-?"
Hermione is once again quickest, but even Harry recognizes the mud-like substance in the second cauldron. It would probably be impossible not to recognize the foul stuff, having brewed it (or rather, watched Hermione brew it) in a lavatory in second year. Hermione also continues to correctly identify Amortentia, a love potion, in the third cauldron. When Slughorn asks for her name, he inquires whether she is related to Hector Dagworth-Granger.
"No, I don't think so, sir. I'm muggleborn, you see."
Slughorn beams. "Oho!" he exclaims, looking like the cat that caught the canary. "I'm assuming this is the muggleborn friend of whom you spoke, Harry?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, well, take twenty well-earned points for Gryffindor, Miss Granger," says Slughorn genially. "Now, it is time for us to start work."
"Sir, you haven't told us what's in this one," says Ernie Macmillan, pointing at the final cauldron, smaller than the others, the contents of which are splashing about merrily. It's the colour of molten gold, and large drops are leaping like goldfish above the surface, although none splashed over the cauldron's brim.
"Oho!" Slughorn says again, and Harry gets the distinct impression that Slughorn had deliberately neglected to explain the final potion purely for dramatic effect.
"Yes. That. Well, that one, ladies and gentlemen, is a most curious little potion called Felix Felicis." Hermione lets out a gasp, and Slughorn smiles. "I take it that you know what Felix Felicis does, Miss Granger?"
"It's liquid luck," says Hermione. "It makes you lucky!"
That grabs everyone's attention like a bullhorn. Even Malfoy, who has been slouching in his chair, straightens faster than lightning.
"Quite right, take another ten points for Gryffindor. Yes, it's a funny little potion, Felix Felicis…"
When Slughorn announces that the student who brews the best Draught of Living Death will receive a vial of the rare luck potion, the excitement is palpable. There is a scraping as everyone draws their cauldrons towards them, and some loud clunks as people begin adding weights to their scales. Other than that, though, the class is silent, heads bent dutifully over textbooks as they take on the proffered challenge. The last thing he notices before beginning his own potion is Malfoy furiously chopping valerian roots, as if his very life depends on it.
AN: I have returned from my unplanned hiatus. Thanks for your patience. I finished up my first year of grad school, moved, and started a new job; I plan to resume regular updates again now that I've settled into a routine. (For anyone who is also following Blood of Abel, those updates will resume not this Thursday coming but the next.) I know this chapter is a bit awkward in its structure, but it was a difficult one to decide where to cut. Next week, we see more of Snape and his interactions with Harry.