Author's Note:

This chapter's probably a little less exciting or a little less light than all of the other chapters.  But I feel that it's justified in the context of the situation—after all, how many times do things turn out differently than we expected?  I hope that no one is really disappointed.

It's been taking me longer to update because my life's been pretty…confusing lately.  Let's just say that this V-day, I'm not going to be celebrating it with anybody.

::sigh:: There must be a reason why slash writers don't meet their perfect matches.  95% of us are women, and the most likely the other 5% are gay!

______________________________________________________________________________________________

The Spells We Know

by Galae

Chapter 5:  The Constitution of the Quest

            So.  That wasn't such a bad way to end it. 

At least, that was how Harry chose to look at it. 

The most important conclusion he came to that night, after staring at the ceiling for five hours, was that Snape neither killed him nor rejected him.  It was only when the wee rays of the pink-fingered Dawn came creeping upon the horizon, that Harry realized yes, sleep might be a nice thing.

He did realize as well that he took extra care in how he dressed the next day.  He was aware that he slid into his chair in Potions with his eyes fixed on his teacher.  Who ignored him as perfectly as if he had on his Invisibility Cloak.

Maybe it was Harry's nervousness.  Or maybe it was just his determination to get him, no matter how much it took.  But he was a little louder in class, a little more sociable, a little merrier and just a little more vivacious.  And he continued being loud, sociable and vivacious throughout the week.

It happened on Friday.  "So I was sitting there, right, minding my business, and all of the sudden, this ball just whams into me, bam!  And I almost fell off my broom.  That was the first time in two hundred years that a Snitch had run into a Seeker.  Of course, Wood—"

"Mr. Potter."

Oh.  Whoops.  Harry lifted his head up slowly, even though he hardly needed to.  He had memorized that voice in his sleep.

"Professor," he whispered.

"If you used just a fraction of your raconteur skills on your potion, you might find that you will actually pass this course," Snape said, his lips curved into his usual sneer.  "I suggest that you at least keep up the illusion of trying."

Ouch. 

That was the major turning point.  Harry realized that no, Snape would not be attracted to a mindless gab, however popular he is.  Or else Snape would have gone for Seamus Finnigan years ago.  No, he needs to stop pretending.  It's uncomfortable, it's fake, and Snape could see through it in an instant.  Snape was probably laughing at his stupidity right then and there.

But what Harry could do, was prove him wrong.  "I suggest that you at least keep up the illusion of trying?"  Hah!  He'll show him. 

Ron and Hermione were amazed about the turnaround that Harry made in the next two weeks.  At least, Hermione was amazed and Ron was grudgingly approving.  "Harry, you're turning into Percy!" the latter blurted out one day.  Harry looked up only briefly from the book he was reading, in order to give a glazed smile.  It was Hermione who gave the greater reaction.  "Really, Ron," she had said reproachfully.  "You're acting like it's a bad thing."

His glasses had attained the tendency to slip down the bridge of his nose.  He was reading quite often now.  Even though Harry had no way of showing off his newfound enthusiasm for learning (without sounding like a prat), he still continued.  Because he had finally understood what it was about.  Knowledge, that which had been the stage scenery to the play about his life, had taken the spotlight. 

Of course, he still had fun.  Being halfway smart didn't have to take up your social life.  Harry was reasonably surprised to find that he had the capacity to do much academia.  Mathematics, which was so crucial to Potions, he developed a fondness for.  Harry saw it like a puzzle, almost, a puzzle in which you held all the pieces in one hand, but one that you had to put together. 

The next Potions test that Snape gave out, he did well.  In fact, he beat out everyone in the class, even Hermione, who shot him a surprised but not distasteful look.  It was the first time he had ever emerged first in a class. 

In the midst of the whirlwind of change, though, Harry had also found himself observing Snape.  Well, more like observing Snape observe him.  The first few times their eyes met, he had looked away quickly, as if somewhat ashamed of being caught.  But then he steadily worked up the courage to hold that fiery gaze for a little longer.  Snape's eyes were inscrutable, of course, but just the sight of those eyes on him was enough to make him tingle.  So, he had not forgotten.

But neither had he forgotten his promise to take as much time as he needed.  Harry had started counting the number of days that had passed.  Thirty-one days.  Thirty-two days.  By the thirty-third, he was starting to worry.  Oh, what was the matter with that man?  Was he that unattractive?  Snape was going to reject him.  Of course.  All his efforts were in vain after all.  Snape was merely choosing an appropriate day to do the task.

It was one unbearably long Potions class.  Snape neither sought him out nor avoided him.  The formality in which his professor treated him was stifling.  It got to the point that halfway through the lesson, Harry wanted to jump up, grab him, and scream, "What is the matter with you bastard?"  Well, either that, or give him a long, slow fuck.  Suddenly, the latter seemed more attractive.

"Mr. Potter," said Snape, as soon as the class was dismissed.  "I wish to see you after dinner, please."

"What's wrong with that Scrooge?" Ron muttered.  "You've been the model student for the last three weeks!  He's going to give you detention for that?"

Harry could barely keep his grin from exploding.

He knocked on the door, trying hard not to recall what happened the last time he stood there, doing the same thing.

This time though, the door opened on the first knock.  So.  Snape remembered.  Harry swallowed.

"Come in."

He went in.

Snape had somehow swept into his armchair, and was now sitting pensively on it, one hand propping up his head.  It was such a calm position that Harry believed, for a fraction of a second, that he was intruding on something, that the opening of the door was something of his imagination.  But he bit his lips and walked to the other chair.  He sat down.

"So," Harry began.  But he didn't know what to say next.  All the time he had spent imagining what he would do—namely, feign coolness, be eloquent, and look the man in the eye—was lost.  Snape was staring into the fireplace, and he found himself unable to look at anything else either.

"Yes," Snape agreed.

"Hmm."

Silence for a minute.  It was so thick that you could cut it with a knife.

At last:  "You came."

"Of course I came," Harry said.  His tone was more resentful than he intended it to be.  Oh, God, does he always sound this childish?

Somewhere off to his left Snape rustled.  "I didn't think you would."

Okay.  Now where's the articulate reply to that?  Nothing, he found.

Another rearranging of fabrics.  He wondered if that's what Snape would sound like when he's . . . no.  Bad thoughts.  Bad, bad thoughts.  Harry shut his eyes and tried to prevent a blush from stealing over his cheek, however unlikely it is that Snape was looking at him.

"I've been thinking," Snape said aloud.

Harry bit back a snarky reply and tried to keep his heart from exploding.  "And?"

Silence.  Oh.  That can't be good.  Breathe, Potter, breathe.

"I was right.  You do have the capacity to do well in Potions, if only you had paid attention all these years."

Disappointment flooded Harry like icy water.  Was that all this is about?  His academic achievements?  Granted, Harry was proud of them, but still . . .

"Oh," he found fit to utter.

That was when he felt a pair of eyes looking steadily upon his face.  He turned his head slowly, lifting his face until he met that gaze.  They weren't that far apart.  In fact, Snape's chair was only a few feet away. 

In the light of the fire, Snape's eyes were not hooded or cloudy, but almost a delicate, chocolate brown.  Harry was mesmerized by their color.  It was like a watercolor brown—the tint was there, but it was somehow clear and diaphanous in the way they reflected the light.  Why hadn't he noticed it before?

"I asked, Mr. Potter, if you would like to help me with some potions."

"It's almost . . . therapeutic," Harry admitted as he chopped up the lacy cricket wings.  "Almost like a Muggle video game.  Gruesome, but therapeutic."

"I am convinced you would know," Snape said archly.

"I'm not the one who makes potions for a living."

"You forget, Potter, that teaching middling neophytes like you is my profession."

"I'm no—"  It was utterly futile.  He was putting up a good fight, but he's going to need to expand his vocabulary greatly.

A glimmer of a smile twitched around Snape's lips.  "It is not a terrible insult, Potter.  It sounds worse than it is."

"Is that what you do everyday, use huge words that don't mean anything but sound nasty?"

Snape made a little sound at the back of his throat.

Instinctively, Harry knew he had heard it before.  Why, yes, the time that they kissed.

He swallowed. 

Ugh.  He now officially needed a shovel to dig himself out of the gutter.

"You may go now."

"What?" Harry asked.  He had been so caught up in his work, in being there, that he felt like he was wading in a dream.

Snape pointed to the absurdly austere clock on the wall.  "It is almost eleven.  It would not be seemly to keep you any longer."

"Oh, I don't mind."

"I didn't ask whether you minded, Potter," Snape said, lip curling a little.  "I merely said it would not be seemly."

His reputation, Harry thought sulkily.  "I don't want to go," Harry said.

"Potter."

Oh no.  Harry girded himself up.

Snape took a little step closer.  Just a tiny fraction of a step, but still, Harry's heart accelerated.  There was a glimmer of a sad smile on Snape's face, and he unconsciously licked his lips as they look at each other. 

Then Snape's hand reached out, and with two fingers he touched Harry's face. 

As soon as it came, though, the touch was gone, and Harry stared at him.  His face burned where those cool fingers had grazed, and his heart fluttered with joy.  His professor was still looking at him with that quiet, regretful smile on his face.  Harry turned mute.

"Go, now," Snape said, softly.

Harry cast his eyes downward and nodded.  He walked away from Snape.

            Then, in an unmistakably ironic tone, Snape called, "I didn't think you'd come."

Harry turned around.  Snape was there, he was leaning against the worktable, and Harry felt lightheaded.  "I wouldn't have missed it for the world," he suddenly blurted out.

"Hmm," Snape said.  "And whose world would that be?"

Silence.

After Snape turned around once more, Harry went back to his dorm.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

R.E.V.I.E.W.

Please.

I can't come up with any artistic pleas for reviews anymore.