The day of the Gryffindor/Slytherin Quidditch match, Hermione ducked into the library to pick up a book for Charms that Professor Flitwick had recommended for her. The match started in fifteen minutes, but the library would be closed after the match, so she hoped she could get the book in time and get back to the dormitory to bundle up against the raw early March chill.

Madame Pince had just handed her the book when she heard Professor McGonagall said half-jokingly, "Severus, are you coming to see your young ruffians flattened or not? It begins in ten minutes!"

Snape gave her an almost sheepish look, closed the book he had been intent upon, and picked up a sheaf of notes he had taken. He handed the book back to Madame Pince, and said with a bit of a smirk, "Don't be so sure, Minerva. This is Slytherin's year."

"Perhaps we should make you librarian after Madame Pince retires; goodness knows you've lived here the past week!"

"Research," Snape said shortly, stuffing his notes into his pocket. "If I have nothing to do until I return to teaching Monday, I might as well try to do something useful."

Hermione turned to leave, but not before she heard Professor McGonagall say quietly, "It's good to see you back on your feet."

She took a look at Professor Snape. His newly grown hair didn't look greasy at all, and his mended teeth were actually fairly white and straight. His crooked nose was straight. Madame Pomfrey had worked her magic quite well to reconstruct the utter ruin of his face. He was actually halfway attractive, if he kept it up. Don't even think like that. That's disgusting! She shuddered, half at the idea, and half at the memory of him pointing his own wand at himself, ready to utter the Killing Curse. What had changed so utterly in a week that he now seemed driven by a quiet determination?

Well, it was none of her business, but if his mood were improving, perhaps he would be amenable to a Potions research project after all. She made it to the dormitory, winding her Gryffindor scarf around her neck and hurrying towards the Quidditch pitch.

~~~~~~~~~~

Snape found his place in the stands, thinking with a wince that his newly-healed skin was thin still indeed, and that he was feeling the cold quite acutely. He pulled out his wand, and muttered a quiet Warming Charm, immediately relaxing.

His research had indeed been productive. It would take a good deal more work, but all things pointed to success thus far. He smiled a little to himself, as the players flew onto the field.

Malfoy had taken ill today; Snape thought it was rather Draco's version of a tantrum and a refusal to be beaten by Harry Potter yet again. The reserve Seeker, Meridia Aquila, was playing today. She was in all honesty better than Malfoy, but politics had gotten Malfoy on the house team, and politics kept him there. Slytherin had never been a democracy, and never would be.

He gave a faint curl of his lip at the cheers for Harry Potter. The boy had talent at Quidditch, as had his father. But he also had James' arrogance, his disregard for study and rules. Why should a sheer accident of little talent with a broomstick make any man above the law? Indeed, he saw almost nothing of Lily in him except for those green eyes. Why on Earth should one boy be lionized by the wizarding world for the stupid luck to have survived Voldemort's attack through no action of his own, but through his own mother's sacrifice? He was a boy, just an ordinary boy.

He settled into his seat, ready as usual for the spectacle of three-quarters of the school cheering Gryffindor. One would think after years of being soundly beat by Potter they'd be queuing up to finally beat him at Quidditch.

The score wavered back and forth, with first Gryffindor, and then Slytherin pulling ahead. Aquila scanned the sky, green robes billowing in the stiff breeze. Potter was right on her tail, both frantically searching for the flash of gold in the sky.

He began pondering his studies of the past week again, analyzing what he still had to find out before the idea could be reality. One slip, one hasty omission, could be deadly. He was nothing if not a meticulous, thorough man, and even the part of him that compelled him to finish the task as soon as possible to rejoin the fight recognized the need for it to be done well.

There was a sudden roar around him, he wincing as it resounded through his still-sensitive ears. "Sir!" Blaise Zabini shouted, an enormous grin on his face. "We've won!" The Slytherin stands had erupted into a flurry of cheers, back slaps, and general elation.

And indeed it was Meridia Aquila holding her fist up in triumph, the Snitch firmly grasped within. Potter looked positively aghast at the idea of a team's reserve Seeker beating him when their main Seeker was a bumbling idiot. This was their first victory over Gryffindor in six years. Perhaps he should find some excuse to throw Malfoy off the team: Heaven knew there were enough of them that he could pick and choose. He no longer had to court Lucius Malfoy's favor, after all. He then allowed himself a smile. Minerva now owed him twenty Galleons.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Gryffindors were filing somewhat dejectedly back towards the Great Hall for dinner. Hermione saw Professor Snape at the back of the crowd exiting and slowed her step. She studied him, noting in amusement that even his scarf was black. You'd think a little color wouldn't kill him. "Are you feeling--all right now, sir?" she asked tentatively. She hadn't spoken to him since that day in the hospital wing.

He gave her a brusque, impatient glance. "Miss Granger, you needn't have any worry that I shall pull out my wand and turn it on myself. A bit of momentary foolishness: I was not in my right mind. Isn't there an injured rabbit nearby that perhaps needs your tender Gryffindor ministrations?" he asked cuttingly.

She refused to be daunted. She had seen him broken and bleeding, and he wasn't fooling her with his act. "The rabbit couldn't need half as much help as you."

"Five points from Gryffindor for your cheek," came the flat reply. "Considering that Slytherin has just won the match and the Quidditch Cup, I caution you not to lose too many points if your precious Potter wants the House Cup again this year. Though Heaven knows," he added almost bitterly, "it will find its way to him in any case. It always does."

"That's not fair--" she protested vehemently. They had earned that Cup every year, and worked hard for it. She wasn't about to let him insinuate Gryffindors were favored and catered to.

"Oh, really? What about getting just enough points at the last moment your first year to award it to Gryffindor?" he said in obvious disbelief. "I fail to see why everybody worships the ground he walks on. He is an arrogant, lazy little brat, whom everybody adores without him earning one whit of it."

"Maybe if you got to know him, you'd find he was a decent person," she said through gritted teeth. Harry made her want to smack him sometimes, but Snape had no call to insult him. After all, he was her friend, and Snape was overstepping his bounds. "Do you know every summer his relatives take away his magical things, lock him in his room, treat him like a prisoner? He deserves some kindness!" she snapped.

"There are others," he said blandly, "who are equally deserving of pity at this school, and I do not see anyone falling over themselves to accommodate them. If you have nothing better to say, Miss Granger, I bid you good day. I thank you for your assistance in my mishap, however, and if you still wish to do a research project this fall, I accept." With that, he turned and stalked off.

"Others deserving pity--does that include you?" she shouted after him, seeing his shoulders stiffen at the words. He didn't turn, though, and she headed to the dormitory, feeling an odd sense of both having lost and won something in the exchange.

~~~~~~~~~~

Snape sat at the desk in his quarters, staring at Tosca who was noisily eating a mouse she had caught earlier in the day. He'd have to send her with a message to an old friend in regards to his new project.

His plan was perfect, though. Voldemort would never suspect a thing from aimless Severus Snape. That was the Dark Lord's weakness: he underestimated the enemy with regularity, so consumed by his own power that everybody else was dismissed as a weakling. That was why Lily Potter had defeated him.

He shook his head, regretting his words to Hermione Granger. It was a weakness he never should have exposed. But looking at even Potter's own year, the "poor orphan lad" wasn't the only one who had brutally lost his parents. Brian MacKenzie in Hufflepuff was an orphan courtesy of the Dark Lord, as was Titania Viridians of Slytherin. Those and countless others--and even that hopeless prat Longbottom in Potter's own house. The Aurors had botched the Memory Charms of the night his parents had been tortured quite badly. Rather than removing his fear, he was instead nearly a Squib and afraid of his own shadow.

He kept hoping that his constant attentions on Longbottom would toughen the boy up--he wouldn't last one minute against the Death Eaters as was, and every teacher knew that an unspoken part of their duty right now was to be preparing these students--these children--for war. They would need every fighter possible against the dark forces. But even the other professors were growing frustrated with Neville. Frank and Marie Longbottom had been incredibly skilled, and he wondered idly if their son would have acquired the same power if not for the Aurors' mistake.

Sending children to do the job, he thought bitterly. This is what we have come to. Sighing, he turned back to the thick, dusty tome upon his desk, quill at the ready to record anything of interest. He was better served by work, not by sitting around sulking. At least he had a few more days to get as much as possible done before returning to the nitwits in the classroom. It's March now, he thought. I should be ready come summer. Ready to resume his place in the fray.