Hi, I'm back, thanks for the review Funness. Anyone else reading this, take
the hint and review.
Disclaimer: "First thing we do: let's kill all the lawyers." Or at least send a plague on those who would sue us lowly fanfic writers. JKR owns Harry Potter.
Just don't listen to me...it's safer.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------
"A professor," Peter repeated blankly. "You want me to be a professor? Of Occlumency?"
Dumbledore's smile widened. "Naturally," he said, "your stoic personality would be perfect for dealing with the 'insufferable masses' as I have heard the student body called."
"If you put me in front of a class, the term 'student body' would end up having a slightly different meaning by the end of the day."
Dumbledore laughed. "Don't worry. You won't be teaching anyone you hate. I was trying to get Harry to learn Occlumency last year, but it didn't really work out..."
"Yeah," Peter muttered under his breath, "I think I noticed."
Dumbledore glanced at him briefly, but continued as if there had been no interruption. "Professor Snape," he said, "was hardly the suitable teacher. Harry did not trust him and therefore didn't believe him. Plus, I can't imagine that Professor Snape made it any easier on Harry."
"What makes you think I'll be any better?" Peter asked, stalling.
"Between you and me, Peter, I think that anyone would be a better teacher for James Potter's son than Severus Snape."
"Point taken, but will I only teach Harry?" Peter said, moving on.
"Not unless you feel that is all you are capable of," the headmaster said, and there was something in his voice that made Peter realize he was going to have to suck up and be capable of it whether he wanted to or not. "Otherwise, I would like you to teach three others, maybe more if the need presents itself."
"Let me guess," Peter said, "Ron and Hermione, obviously, and...er...Neville."
Dumbledore nodded.
"Professor Peter," the boy tried it out on his tongue. It didn't sound half-bad.
"Now then, there isn't a single professor here known by their first name. We can't allow you to make an exception," Dumbledore said.
"Well what would you have them call me? Professor Black? Professor Lestrange? Professor Lestrange-Black? No matter what name you choose, people will have me pegged for a criminal's son." Peter asked, laughing at the absurdity of each suggestion. Especially the hyphenated one.
****
That night at dinner, Peter wished he hadn't brought up the whole name thing as Dumbledore announced, not with out a tone of vast amusement in his voice, "May I present to you our new teacher of the new subject of Occlumency...Professor Padfoot jr."
"You evil, evil man," Peter hissed as he sat down at the staff table for, Dumbledore had promised, one time and one time only.
Professor Padfoot jr.! Of all things possible, but then Peter supposed that he shouldn't be too surprised. If the headmaster was strange enough to put a not yet sixteen-year-old boy in charge of an obscure branch of magic to teach four kids and pay him a real professor's salary to match, then a name like Padfoot jr. was probably a daily occurrence.
Naturally, the rest of the school was a little more perturbed by the fact that someone their own age, not far from it, or younger than it had just been granted the status of professor. The disgruntled mutterings were impossible to miss even by the deafened standards of Dumbledore when it came to such things. The rest of the staff looked hardly more pleased.
Dumbledore sighed and launched into a very long explanation (which, in most aspects could barely have been less truthful, on why Peter was the *perfect* candidate for the job). No matter about the lies, there would be a thousand rumors to match it by morning, especially if the Slytherins had anything to say about it. Finally, thankfully, Dumbledore either decided that he had explained things enough or gave up trying.
Peter started eating far more than he had ever eaten in his life in an attempt to keep from looking at the crowd staring at him. Finally, he looked towards the Gryffindor table and quickly located Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Mary. Mary was laughing at him silently, and she gestured wildly, "Look to your left..."
He did so obediently. To his surprise, such that he spilled the soup from his spoon, he saw one of the professors staring at him with the barest expression of loathing that he had seen since, well, since the last time Voldemort had looked at him.
"Snape?" he mouthed to Harry and the others.
They nodded vigorously back.
Great, he thought, just what I need! A teacher who hates me on principle! I love my life. Strange, how one can be sarcastic even in one's thoughts. No matter, I just hope I never have the excuse to actually talk to him. Peter shuddered involuntarily. Usually, people hated him because, well, he was Peter, not because his father happened to be Sirius Black. He was annoying enough by himself without throwing heredity in the mix.
He stole away from the staff table as soon as he felt that it was proper. Instead of heading up to Dumbledore's office, he went to his own office...with adjacent sleeping quarters. (His password was "Chaucer.") He had the nagging suspicion that half the reason that Dumbledore had granted him a professorship was to clear the headmaster's desk of random students.
Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Mary knocked on the door about two minutes later. He opened the door with his wand and smiled to himself when it didn't blow up. Mary gave him a little grin, but the others were oblivious to what had just happened. Peter had, incidentally, cast his first purposeful spell. That was probably a first for *anyone*, to become a teacher and then perform magic.
"Hello, Professor Padfoot jr.," Ron said, trying and failing to keep from laughing. "Can we call you Snuffles jr.?"
"No, you bloody well can't," Peter snapped back a little more forcefully than he had meant to.
Ron looked taken aback. "Sorry," he said, "but it is kind of funny."
"Yes, I suppose it is, but...I don't know...forget it. Just, only call me by my lovely new name if you absolutely have to. Peter works fine. I won't take off House points for disrespect."
Ron suddenly interrupted, "That's right; you can take off house points!"
Peter nodded. "And give detentions. I'm a professor in every way except that you need an invitation to join my class. I'm like a NEWT course without OWLs."
Harry and Ron looked at each other and rubbed their hands together gleefully. There was some sort of conversation going on in the gleams of their eyes.
"And you say you can't speak Short Speak!" Mary cried. "What's up?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Ron said.
"Yeah, if Peter can take off points," Harry said.
"Then we can get back at the Slytherins for that bloody Inquisitorial Squad they had going on last year," Ron finished gleefully.
Peter nodded understandingly. "I don't think Dumbledore'd be to pleased with it, though, all things considered. But, you know, if Snape takes off two hundred points because Draco hit you with some jinx in the hallway, I'd be happy to reciprocate the favor."
Ron looked sort of dreamy eyed, staring aimlessly around the still- empty room. "You know," he finally said, "it's true what they say. Power corrupts. I like it." [A/N: this is not a sign of things to come about Ron's personality so don't go jumping to conclusions. Lemmings know that this is bad for the last few seconds of their lives.]
"I'm still not just going to take off points for the sake of their existence, but be sure to mention if they do something..." Peter said, finally conceding.
Hermione, meanwhile, had been inspecting the office quite closely.
"Are these your books?" she said after Ron stopped his happy plottings.
"No," Peter said, "I own nothing but a couple pairs of clothes and my wand."
"Weird," Hermione said absently, running her hands along the spines of shelf after shelf of old and tattered tomes. "Why would a professor's office come equipped with muggle literature?"
Peter fairly leapt from his chair and hurried to the bookcases. Yes, Hermione was right, of course. They were *all* muggle books. He looked through the conveniently alphabetized rows and found what he was looking for.
Inside the front cover of *David Copperfield* was a short note from Dumbledore.
Dear Professor Peter Padfoot jr.,
Enjoy. I still feel that is my fault that you have had precious little chance to do just that, so this is my way of apologizing. Not nearly good enough, all things considered, but it is all that is in my power to do.
Prof. Albus Dumbledore
Hermione gave a gasp and pointed to some handwriting on the title page that was definitely not the headmaster's. It was Charles Dickens's signature.
"The man is insane," Peter cried, as he found that a good half of the books were so blessed. "This must have cost a fortune!"
Hermione promptly grabbed a thick volume and began to read. "You have no idea," she said to no one in particular, "how much I miss reading fiction during the school year. Wizard fiction rots."
"Not true," Ron said indignantly, "Marvin the Mad Muggle rules."
Peter gave Hermione a sidelong glance. "I see your point," he said as he curled up in his chair with a dusty copy of Hamlet.
****
The next morning found Peter and Mary asleep over their books, and, in their opinion, that was a very good thing. Only with heavy reluctance did Peter traipse up to Dumbledore's office to see about his so-called "teaching schedule."
In the end, it was decided that, as it had been last year, regular Hogwarts classes would take precedent over Occlumency. Peter's lessons would be held at night, which gave him a whole eight hours with nothing to do but read and wait for Harry, Ron, and Hermione to get out of class. Not, he decided, that this was, in any way, shape, or form, bad.
Somewhat elated by the prospect of the day ahead, and, he felt almost ashamed to admit it, feeling a good deal of pride at the thought of being a professor, Peter strolled lazily back towards his office. Naturally, he still kept his hand tightly clenched over his wand, but that was just natural paranoia.
As it turned out, he ran into, not Draco or one of the other Slytherin students, but Snape himself, just outside of the potions classroom.
He might have felt safer running into Voldemort, factoring in the look Snape gave him. Harry, Ron, and Hermione, as well as the usual motley crew of Gryffindors and Slytherins, were congregated out in the hall waiting for Snape to let them into class. Harry gave Peter a meaningful glance that could not be mistaken for anything other than "run like hell and bolt your office door."
But Peter was not about to heed that warning. Whether he realized it or not, he was just the slightest bit arrogant about the fact that not even the Dark Lord had managed to cow him. He certainly wasn't about to mar his perfect reputation by turning tail on a potions master, no matter how vindictive he might be.
"Well," said Snape, finally getting over the shock of seeing his nemesis's son pop out from around the corridor, "the other boy who lived? Does he have a scar too?"
Now, thought Peter furiously, what am I supposed to answer to that? I have plenty of scars, just probably not either of the ones he is thinking of. In the end, Peter went with what always worked. He said nothing just stared back at Snape with what he hoped was considerably less hate.
Harry whispered to Ron, "Oh God, he's challenging Snape to a staring contest."
"We're going to be here all day, mate," Ron muttered back, watching the scene unfold with interest.
There was a long pause, perhaps a minute or two, in which neither party said anything. Although it has not been officially proven, that minute or two was also probably absent of blinks.
"Professor Padfoot jr.," Snape uncharacteristically broke the silence, "tell us, are you very much like your father?"
Peter barely paid attention to that jibe. He had heard enough bashing of his father in his lifetime. Since he had never met the man, he did not know what "being like his father" would mean.
Apparently, though, Snape was determined to tell him.
"Are you foolish, boy?" he said. "Are you stupid and rash? Are you quick to anger, and in your anger even more idiotic?"
"No," Peter said softly, "I am not." It was the truth. Experience dictated that an absolute truth was the only thing anyone should dare to say in such a situation.
"Your father was. That is why he is dead," Snape continued.
It looked as if this was getting more of a rise from Harry than it was from Peter. Ron instinctively grabbed onto the back of his friend's robes, though Harry's fists had only begun to clench. Peter, however, again lapsed into silence. It was not an angry silence, as far as anyone could tell, just absence of any kind of reaction. It was a bit like insulting a wall. Snape tried a different tactic.
"How kind of Dumbledore to harbor you, don't you think? Do you even realize that he is using you, that he really wishes that you didn't exist because than the danger that evolves because of you would also disappear? Or are you just happy to bask in the lies that you have created in your mind? Dumbledore has helped that along a bit by giving you that 'professorship.' Perhaps it makes you feel useful for now, and not just a weapon waiting to be used. I suppose you are glad there is something he can pretend you're good at."
Now, it was time for another one of those truths, Peter knew intuitively.
"I am good at Occlumency," he said very clearly.
He let Snape dig his own hole.
"I suppose you imagine that you are better than *me*," he whispered threateningly.
Peter shrugged. "You said it, not me."
Then he waited for what he knew was coming. Reformed or not, Snape's personality had once given him the Dark Mark, some of that still remained, and Peter *knew* how to deal with Death-Eaters. Sure enough, Snape pulled out his wand and said, "Well, there is only one way to find out."
"Be my guest," Peter said and took a very deep breath.
He closed his eyes and floated away into the fantasy worlds of muggle fiction. When Snape's Legillimency spell hit him, he barely felt it. It sort of slid around him, like water going around a rock. He let it flow for a while, enjoying the peacefulness of having a cleared mind, then forced the flood of magic slowly back towards Snape's mind. He saw a few glimpses of random memories (Snape was able to stop him from seeing any one snatch at once) and then stopped the spell. On his own terms, he might add, when he had never even taken out his wand.
Peter allowed himself a slight grin of triumph.
After another thirty seconds or so, Snape turned away and marched into his classroom.
"Professor," Peter called after the retreating figure, "a moment, sir."
Snape wheeled around and stared with the essence of impatience.
"I am not a Marauder, sir," Peter said. "I have never been one nor will I ever be one. I am not my father, sir, neither, incidentally, am I my mother. I am myself, Professor Snape, and if you wish to hate me, then by all means do so, but do so on the grounds that I am my own person. The same goes for Harry. We may look like our fathers, but we are not them. Do not continue a feud onto the next generation, sir. That is how wars start, by hereditary hate. With all due respect, *that* is foolhardy, sir."
Peter knew better than to give Snape a chance to respond. It would take a little while, he hoped, before the potions master would realize he had been insulted. He had spoken incredibly politely, nearly reverentially, and the honey-coated words softened what was actually said for a few seconds. In that window, Peter had put fifty feet and a corner between the two of them.
He hoped it wouldn't have any unnecessary repercussions for him or any of the Gryffindors.
****
Potions class, Harry found, was both considerably worse and considerably more fun after seeing Snape beat at his own game. Although he managed to round off fifty points from the Gryffindors by the time the bell rang, Peter's confrontation had been priceless.
For once, Harry was almost looking forward to Occlumency. If, that is, he could out-calm Snape.
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A/N: I hope that you, too, are looking forward to Occlumency. That's the next chapter! Please be kind and review, or be mean and review, whatever. Just don't be indifferent!!!!! (Incidentally, Discworld novelist Terry Pratchett says that the surest sign of madness is using five or more exclamation points. He. He. He.)
Disclaimer: "First thing we do: let's kill all the lawyers." Or at least send a plague on those who would sue us lowly fanfic writers. JKR owns Harry Potter.
Just don't listen to me...it's safer.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------
"A professor," Peter repeated blankly. "You want me to be a professor? Of Occlumency?"
Dumbledore's smile widened. "Naturally," he said, "your stoic personality would be perfect for dealing with the 'insufferable masses' as I have heard the student body called."
"If you put me in front of a class, the term 'student body' would end up having a slightly different meaning by the end of the day."
Dumbledore laughed. "Don't worry. You won't be teaching anyone you hate. I was trying to get Harry to learn Occlumency last year, but it didn't really work out..."
"Yeah," Peter muttered under his breath, "I think I noticed."
Dumbledore glanced at him briefly, but continued as if there had been no interruption. "Professor Snape," he said, "was hardly the suitable teacher. Harry did not trust him and therefore didn't believe him. Plus, I can't imagine that Professor Snape made it any easier on Harry."
"What makes you think I'll be any better?" Peter asked, stalling.
"Between you and me, Peter, I think that anyone would be a better teacher for James Potter's son than Severus Snape."
"Point taken, but will I only teach Harry?" Peter said, moving on.
"Not unless you feel that is all you are capable of," the headmaster said, and there was something in his voice that made Peter realize he was going to have to suck up and be capable of it whether he wanted to or not. "Otherwise, I would like you to teach three others, maybe more if the need presents itself."
"Let me guess," Peter said, "Ron and Hermione, obviously, and...er...Neville."
Dumbledore nodded.
"Professor Peter," the boy tried it out on his tongue. It didn't sound half-bad.
"Now then, there isn't a single professor here known by their first name. We can't allow you to make an exception," Dumbledore said.
"Well what would you have them call me? Professor Black? Professor Lestrange? Professor Lestrange-Black? No matter what name you choose, people will have me pegged for a criminal's son." Peter asked, laughing at the absurdity of each suggestion. Especially the hyphenated one.
****
That night at dinner, Peter wished he hadn't brought up the whole name thing as Dumbledore announced, not with out a tone of vast amusement in his voice, "May I present to you our new teacher of the new subject of Occlumency...Professor Padfoot jr."
"You evil, evil man," Peter hissed as he sat down at the staff table for, Dumbledore had promised, one time and one time only.
Professor Padfoot jr.! Of all things possible, but then Peter supposed that he shouldn't be too surprised. If the headmaster was strange enough to put a not yet sixteen-year-old boy in charge of an obscure branch of magic to teach four kids and pay him a real professor's salary to match, then a name like Padfoot jr. was probably a daily occurrence.
Naturally, the rest of the school was a little more perturbed by the fact that someone their own age, not far from it, or younger than it had just been granted the status of professor. The disgruntled mutterings were impossible to miss even by the deafened standards of Dumbledore when it came to such things. The rest of the staff looked hardly more pleased.
Dumbledore sighed and launched into a very long explanation (which, in most aspects could barely have been less truthful, on why Peter was the *perfect* candidate for the job). No matter about the lies, there would be a thousand rumors to match it by morning, especially if the Slytherins had anything to say about it. Finally, thankfully, Dumbledore either decided that he had explained things enough or gave up trying.
Peter started eating far more than he had ever eaten in his life in an attempt to keep from looking at the crowd staring at him. Finally, he looked towards the Gryffindor table and quickly located Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Mary. Mary was laughing at him silently, and she gestured wildly, "Look to your left..."
He did so obediently. To his surprise, such that he spilled the soup from his spoon, he saw one of the professors staring at him with the barest expression of loathing that he had seen since, well, since the last time Voldemort had looked at him.
"Snape?" he mouthed to Harry and the others.
They nodded vigorously back.
Great, he thought, just what I need! A teacher who hates me on principle! I love my life. Strange, how one can be sarcastic even in one's thoughts. No matter, I just hope I never have the excuse to actually talk to him. Peter shuddered involuntarily. Usually, people hated him because, well, he was Peter, not because his father happened to be Sirius Black. He was annoying enough by himself without throwing heredity in the mix.
He stole away from the staff table as soon as he felt that it was proper. Instead of heading up to Dumbledore's office, he went to his own office...with adjacent sleeping quarters. (His password was "Chaucer.") He had the nagging suspicion that half the reason that Dumbledore had granted him a professorship was to clear the headmaster's desk of random students.
Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Mary knocked on the door about two minutes later. He opened the door with his wand and smiled to himself when it didn't blow up. Mary gave him a little grin, but the others were oblivious to what had just happened. Peter had, incidentally, cast his first purposeful spell. That was probably a first for *anyone*, to become a teacher and then perform magic.
"Hello, Professor Padfoot jr.," Ron said, trying and failing to keep from laughing. "Can we call you Snuffles jr.?"
"No, you bloody well can't," Peter snapped back a little more forcefully than he had meant to.
Ron looked taken aback. "Sorry," he said, "but it is kind of funny."
"Yes, I suppose it is, but...I don't know...forget it. Just, only call me by my lovely new name if you absolutely have to. Peter works fine. I won't take off House points for disrespect."
Ron suddenly interrupted, "That's right; you can take off house points!"
Peter nodded. "And give detentions. I'm a professor in every way except that you need an invitation to join my class. I'm like a NEWT course without OWLs."
Harry and Ron looked at each other and rubbed their hands together gleefully. There was some sort of conversation going on in the gleams of their eyes.
"And you say you can't speak Short Speak!" Mary cried. "What's up?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Ron said.
"Yeah, if Peter can take off points," Harry said.
"Then we can get back at the Slytherins for that bloody Inquisitorial Squad they had going on last year," Ron finished gleefully.
Peter nodded understandingly. "I don't think Dumbledore'd be to pleased with it, though, all things considered. But, you know, if Snape takes off two hundred points because Draco hit you with some jinx in the hallway, I'd be happy to reciprocate the favor."
Ron looked sort of dreamy eyed, staring aimlessly around the still- empty room. "You know," he finally said, "it's true what they say. Power corrupts. I like it." [A/N: this is not a sign of things to come about Ron's personality so don't go jumping to conclusions. Lemmings know that this is bad for the last few seconds of their lives.]
"I'm still not just going to take off points for the sake of their existence, but be sure to mention if they do something..." Peter said, finally conceding.
Hermione, meanwhile, had been inspecting the office quite closely.
"Are these your books?" she said after Ron stopped his happy plottings.
"No," Peter said, "I own nothing but a couple pairs of clothes and my wand."
"Weird," Hermione said absently, running her hands along the spines of shelf after shelf of old and tattered tomes. "Why would a professor's office come equipped with muggle literature?"
Peter fairly leapt from his chair and hurried to the bookcases. Yes, Hermione was right, of course. They were *all* muggle books. He looked through the conveniently alphabetized rows and found what he was looking for.
Inside the front cover of *David Copperfield* was a short note from Dumbledore.
Dear Professor Peter Padfoot jr.,
Enjoy. I still feel that is my fault that you have had precious little chance to do just that, so this is my way of apologizing. Not nearly good enough, all things considered, but it is all that is in my power to do.
Prof. Albus Dumbledore
Hermione gave a gasp and pointed to some handwriting on the title page that was definitely not the headmaster's. It was Charles Dickens's signature.
"The man is insane," Peter cried, as he found that a good half of the books were so blessed. "This must have cost a fortune!"
Hermione promptly grabbed a thick volume and began to read. "You have no idea," she said to no one in particular, "how much I miss reading fiction during the school year. Wizard fiction rots."
"Not true," Ron said indignantly, "Marvin the Mad Muggle rules."
Peter gave Hermione a sidelong glance. "I see your point," he said as he curled up in his chair with a dusty copy of Hamlet.
****
The next morning found Peter and Mary asleep over their books, and, in their opinion, that was a very good thing. Only with heavy reluctance did Peter traipse up to Dumbledore's office to see about his so-called "teaching schedule."
In the end, it was decided that, as it had been last year, regular Hogwarts classes would take precedent over Occlumency. Peter's lessons would be held at night, which gave him a whole eight hours with nothing to do but read and wait for Harry, Ron, and Hermione to get out of class. Not, he decided, that this was, in any way, shape, or form, bad.
Somewhat elated by the prospect of the day ahead, and, he felt almost ashamed to admit it, feeling a good deal of pride at the thought of being a professor, Peter strolled lazily back towards his office. Naturally, he still kept his hand tightly clenched over his wand, but that was just natural paranoia.
As it turned out, he ran into, not Draco or one of the other Slytherin students, but Snape himself, just outside of the potions classroom.
He might have felt safer running into Voldemort, factoring in the look Snape gave him. Harry, Ron, and Hermione, as well as the usual motley crew of Gryffindors and Slytherins, were congregated out in the hall waiting for Snape to let them into class. Harry gave Peter a meaningful glance that could not be mistaken for anything other than "run like hell and bolt your office door."
But Peter was not about to heed that warning. Whether he realized it or not, he was just the slightest bit arrogant about the fact that not even the Dark Lord had managed to cow him. He certainly wasn't about to mar his perfect reputation by turning tail on a potions master, no matter how vindictive he might be.
"Well," said Snape, finally getting over the shock of seeing his nemesis's son pop out from around the corridor, "the other boy who lived? Does he have a scar too?"
Now, thought Peter furiously, what am I supposed to answer to that? I have plenty of scars, just probably not either of the ones he is thinking of. In the end, Peter went with what always worked. He said nothing just stared back at Snape with what he hoped was considerably less hate.
Harry whispered to Ron, "Oh God, he's challenging Snape to a staring contest."
"We're going to be here all day, mate," Ron muttered back, watching the scene unfold with interest.
There was a long pause, perhaps a minute or two, in which neither party said anything. Although it has not been officially proven, that minute or two was also probably absent of blinks.
"Professor Padfoot jr.," Snape uncharacteristically broke the silence, "tell us, are you very much like your father?"
Peter barely paid attention to that jibe. He had heard enough bashing of his father in his lifetime. Since he had never met the man, he did not know what "being like his father" would mean.
Apparently, though, Snape was determined to tell him.
"Are you foolish, boy?" he said. "Are you stupid and rash? Are you quick to anger, and in your anger even more idiotic?"
"No," Peter said softly, "I am not." It was the truth. Experience dictated that an absolute truth was the only thing anyone should dare to say in such a situation.
"Your father was. That is why he is dead," Snape continued.
It looked as if this was getting more of a rise from Harry than it was from Peter. Ron instinctively grabbed onto the back of his friend's robes, though Harry's fists had only begun to clench. Peter, however, again lapsed into silence. It was not an angry silence, as far as anyone could tell, just absence of any kind of reaction. It was a bit like insulting a wall. Snape tried a different tactic.
"How kind of Dumbledore to harbor you, don't you think? Do you even realize that he is using you, that he really wishes that you didn't exist because than the danger that evolves because of you would also disappear? Or are you just happy to bask in the lies that you have created in your mind? Dumbledore has helped that along a bit by giving you that 'professorship.' Perhaps it makes you feel useful for now, and not just a weapon waiting to be used. I suppose you are glad there is something he can pretend you're good at."
Now, it was time for another one of those truths, Peter knew intuitively.
"I am good at Occlumency," he said very clearly.
He let Snape dig his own hole.
"I suppose you imagine that you are better than *me*," he whispered threateningly.
Peter shrugged. "You said it, not me."
Then he waited for what he knew was coming. Reformed or not, Snape's personality had once given him the Dark Mark, some of that still remained, and Peter *knew* how to deal with Death-Eaters. Sure enough, Snape pulled out his wand and said, "Well, there is only one way to find out."
"Be my guest," Peter said and took a very deep breath.
He closed his eyes and floated away into the fantasy worlds of muggle fiction. When Snape's Legillimency spell hit him, he barely felt it. It sort of slid around him, like water going around a rock. He let it flow for a while, enjoying the peacefulness of having a cleared mind, then forced the flood of magic slowly back towards Snape's mind. He saw a few glimpses of random memories (Snape was able to stop him from seeing any one snatch at once) and then stopped the spell. On his own terms, he might add, when he had never even taken out his wand.
Peter allowed himself a slight grin of triumph.
After another thirty seconds or so, Snape turned away and marched into his classroom.
"Professor," Peter called after the retreating figure, "a moment, sir."
Snape wheeled around and stared with the essence of impatience.
"I am not a Marauder, sir," Peter said. "I have never been one nor will I ever be one. I am not my father, sir, neither, incidentally, am I my mother. I am myself, Professor Snape, and if you wish to hate me, then by all means do so, but do so on the grounds that I am my own person. The same goes for Harry. We may look like our fathers, but we are not them. Do not continue a feud onto the next generation, sir. That is how wars start, by hereditary hate. With all due respect, *that* is foolhardy, sir."
Peter knew better than to give Snape a chance to respond. It would take a little while, he hoped, before the potions master would realize he had been insulted. He had spoken incredibly politely, nearly reverentially, and the honey-coated words softened what was actually said for a few seconds. In that window, Peter had put fifty feet and a corner between the two of them.
He hoped it wouldn't have any unnecessary repercussions for him or any of the Gryffindors.
****
Potions class, Harry found, was both considerably worse and considerably more fun after seeing Snape beat at his own game. Although he managed to round off fifty points from the Gryffindors by the time the bell rang, Peter's confrontation had been priceless.
For once, Harry was almost looking forward to Occlumency. If, that is, he could out-calm Snape.
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A/N: I hope that you, too, are looking forward to Occlumency. That's the next chapter! Please be kind and review, or be mean and review, whatever. Just don't be indifferent!!!!! (Incidentally, Discworld novelist Terry Pratchett says that the surest sign of madness is using five or more exclamation points. He. He. He.)