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It was early evening and dinner in the Great Hall had just ended. Hordes of satisfied and chattering children were already beginning to pile out into the corridors. The teachers, however, generally did not leave at the same time as the students, or by the same door. Many stayed a little longer to discuss private matters then exited by either door at the side to their sleeping chambers. One of them left rather quickly tonight.

A tall man with black, greasy hair and a hooked nose, swept down the staircase to his chambers and along the corridor with aristocratic grace. He was in a hurry, for there a lot to be done tonight. Firstly he would mark all the painfully disgraceful essays from his junior classes during Potter and Weasley's detention; then at 9 o'clock he will patrol the corridors and the grounds for a while with Filch, a chance to clear his head and enjoy the peace (or even better - eat the faces off a few unruly students for 'sleep walking', preferably Gryffindors); finally then, he will return to his chambers and snuggle up to the fire with a strong drink in his left hand and a good book in his right. It really was the simple delights in life that could make all the difference. But for some reason, every time he actually looked forward to a peaceful moment in his routine, the Dark Lord or someone else had other plans for him.

Suddenly the teacher swung left into a dead-end corridor and strode to the end. He reached up and twisted an unlit black candle on the wall. The stone bricks behind it melted away, leaving it suspended in mid-air. On the other side of it, appeared a small, faintly lit antechamber which contained only a heavy oak door held together by iron plates, and a rather menacing- looking stone gargoyle lurking in the shadows near the door. This was one of the secret entrances to his chambers and his classroom. As he approached the door, however, Severus felt hot eyes suddenly upon him. Continuing forward, he slipped his dark wand into the mouth of the keyhole, which turned out to be the head of a baby Basilisk centred between two entwined, silver serpents. The two stone-grey eyes smoldered red. Its tongue felt strangely warm.

"venenum necare." At the sound of his deep, authoritative voice, the eyes flashed green with approval and the serpents uncoiled. After he had removed his hand, the weighty oak door swung open noiselessly to reveal the back of his storeroom lined with jars of ingredients, some fresh, others long dead, and a few simmering cauldrons. He knew it was a relatively long way of entering a room, using wards, but then safety and privacy were worth it. Besides, no matter what the other teachers said, he had a lot more to protect than they knew.

After slamming the door shut behind him, the Potions Professor swiftly walked over to the stewing potions and stirred them, adding in bits of this and that each time. The viscous slime in the largest cauldron gradually became thinner and turned to a pale, sickly yellow. Severus' face was dark and grim. It was almost ready, and this was his most powerful draught yet.

'This should keep him satisfied for a while. I dread to think how many Aurors will eventually die in the clutches of this potion. Dying at my hands. And I am supposed to be helping them. Damn this God-forsaken conscience!' the sinister figure realized with shame, as he gazed into the black cauldron. Yes, he does consider the horrible purposes of all the potions he has been instructed to make. And yes, he still does have principles after all these years of pillaging, slaughtering and raping. Except no one could ever understand this. They assume he will always be the heartless Death Eater who was granted the ultimate mercy to be allowed to live on. They would never know what really went on in his head. The memories he was forced to relive every night; the noises of plagued souls, their blood-curdling screams, and the inevitable silence which quickly died in the peals of that hollow, callous laughter. At times his sanity balanced on the edge of a knife. If his chambers weren't so far beneath the earth, the yells of a tormented, unloved soul would echo through the mighty corridors above. Sleep was no time of recuperation from the daily battle for him; it was merely a continued mental struggle that threatened to overwhelm and destroy him. Not that he was mentally instable. On the contrary, no lunatic could be able to sanction off different realms his mind allowing himself to focus and remain in complete control under intense pressure such as he. He had to, there was too much at stake. Not that he in anyway valued his own life. It was deemed worthless anyway. Being a spy amid the most powerful wizards in history left a man awaiting a most excruciating demise each day. And it wouldn't be a moment too soon, either. All that kept him going at times was his loyalty to the one man who believed him, trusted him even, when everyone else would give him the Dementor's Kiss. Albus Dumbledore. He owed his life to this man, and in more ways than one.

It was 10 minutes later that Snape progressed into his classroom and bellowed for 'Potter' and 'Weasley' to enter. As soon as they stumbled in through the door they recognized he was in a particularly foul mood already. Normally he held death in his gaze when he saw Harry, but tonight he was surveying them as if they were two rotting piles of Giant manure and bubotuber pus being shovelled onto the floor of his immaculate room. His face was contorted in utter disgust, and not without good reason.

"Sit." The professor instructed them sharply. "Due to your horrendous behaviour in my class today," he paused with a deadly gaze, "and your continued impotency to actually brew a potable potion, you will write out the correct method for making the Bleeding Potion AND its antidote, 50 times. Then, to prove that you have remembered it successfully, you will brew it. If you fail," his black eyes glistened at the thought, and his voice deepened "well I think we all understand what the consequences of that will be. As I'm sure does Mr. Malfoy."

If Harry hadn't been at the full receiving end of that fierce look, he might at least have smiled inwardly to himself as he remembered the events of his Potions class that morning. It involved a relatively unplanned attempt to interfere with his archenemy's potion, Draco. Not that it needed it; he knew it was wrong even before he tampered with the antidote. It was meant to be green, not turquoise. All he and Ron did was fling a little extra brimstone to his potion when he walked away and say a few words to help it 'mature', when Malfoy returned. Simple. Not at all a shame when Draco's streaming nosebleed went from bad to worse and his perfect skin came out in boils after drinking the antidote. Yet for some reason, Professor Snape ignored all their protests of truth and sentenced them to a week of detentions and 20 points from their house. For this, and much more, even Hermione acquiesced to call him a "chauvinistic pig", which, after definition, was good enough for Ron, who sat with his head already nailed to the desk, scribbling.

After 20 minutes, Harry's hand was aching. He desperately desired some sort of distraction, but could find none except the tip of his quill because every time he lifted his eyes, they met with the remorseless ones of the Professor, who needed no words to signal that looking up was a crime worthy of hanging. Finally he saw Ron rise, crack his knuckles and organize his equipment on the desk, ready to make the potion. All he needed now were the ingredients. But as he watched his companion walk over to the cupboard to collect a hunk of brimstone and a phial of muriatic acid distilled from thestral sweat, they both noticed there wasn't any. 'Oh no! Now what? He always refills his stock at the end of the day', Harry thought. He was about ready to brew the Bleeding potion too.

"Problem, Weasley? Lost your seat? Stop loitering and sit down." Came the sardonic reply from the impassive man perched over a mountain of parchment glazed with red ink.

"S-Sir you haven't...um.there isn't any acid or brimstone left. Sir." Harry felt for his mumbling friend at this moment.

"What?" Snape's eyes shot up and scrutinized the boy in front of him intensely, then he sneered. "Perhaps if you pronounced your words properly instead of babbling them incoherently, you might find that English isn't such a hard language to learn after all."

Ron's knuckles went white and the blood flowed to his face. He knew he wasn't the brightest kid, but he wasn't thick, just nervous. "THERE ISN'T ANY BRIMST-"he began loudly, but was sharply cut off.

"I deciphered your meaning Weasley. Sit down! And 20 points from Gryffindor for taking that tone with me. Let it be the last." That was a quiet but firm warning not to be crossed. "Understand?"

"Yes Sir." Harry gave his friend a look of encouragement as Ron took his seat and waited. The Professor continued hastily scrawling biting remarks on numerous papers, taking no further notice of the two fidgeting children before him, until at last he paused and set his quill into the ink bottle. Leaning back into his chair, he sighed with exasperation and carelessly waved a hand in the air. Harry was curious as to what this God-forsaken man was doing, so watched carefully. His teacher's eyes were shut and slightly focused. Then, after a moment, Ron's face dropped and his arm pointed toward something in the air behind the man. It was a small wooden box that had emerged from the shadows near the storeroom door. Opening his eyes, Severus brought it down to the desk in front of him and unclasped it. Immediately it sprung open, flooding his pallid face with orange light. Slowly he slipped his hand into the box and reemerged with 2 small chunks of rock. Then, with a horribly superior glint in his eye, he looked to the boys.

"Catch." Tossing the two pieces at once in two directions at Ron and Harry, they were caught unawares. Of course the latter closed his fingers around the flying object instinctively, but immediately regretting it; the former, got hit on the head with his piece.

It burned, scorching his skin. This wasn't the rock he had used earlier. It was lighter and radiated more energy. The raven-haired boy let it fall to the ground. His palm was raw. This was not good. How was he going to catch the snitch in the match against Slytherin tomorrow? This was not good. And it was all the fault of that git sitting in front of him.

"Don't look surprised, Potter. You should think before you act. If you'd listened in my class, you would have known you don't possess the ability to touch refined brimstone. It's a pureblood thing. You simply aren't 'pure' enough." The Professor derided, satisfied. His evening wasn't going so badly after all. 'One down, one to go.' And the House Cup was in sight.

After that, things just seemed to get worse for Harry. His hand was aching, but he knew better than to ask to go to the Hospital Wing. His Bleeding Potion was alright, but he couldn't crack the antidote. Several times he tried, but always got a thick gooey blob instead of a watery liquid. 'Screw this. I could be doing some valuable Quidditch practice now. Damn that arrogant, Slytherin bastard. He's doing this on purpose. Ron's right, he is an ugly git.' Harry moaned in his thoughts.

Just then, the dark man to whom he was referring, scooped up the last pile of papers and stuffed them into a drawer. Slowly he stood up, folded his arms and walked over to Harry's desk. The boy was currently examining his method again for mistakes when he noticed a black shadow slide over him. Looking up to meet his professor's face, he met a bizarre sight; it was like the Devil's Redemption. This tall, sinister and malevolent creature of darkness with piercing black orbs, namely, the dreaded Potions professor and Death Eater, was encircled in an ethereal halo of candle light. It was frightening. It made Harry ponder for a split second that this fiend, actually mightn't be all bad. Yet this curious thought was immediately shattered by Snape's eternally mordant words.

"How astute of you to come to such, conclusions. And all by yourself. Must be a personal best, Potter." He seethed, almost spitting out the last word. Then, before Harry could assure himself that he had not said those previous words out loud, the Devil's arms suddenly shot out and gripped the edges of the desk. There was no 'ethereal glow' around him now. He found himself blinking into the fiery eyes of the Abyss. Their faces were inches apart. The air between them became suffocating. The man's pitch black hair seemed to block out all the dim light in the dungeon. In an instant, all the increasingly apprehensive Harry became aware of, was Severus. He could feel the potent vibes flowing from the strong man's body, through the layers of black and jade satin, like a pungent odour. If vibes had a colour, he thought, this creature's would be black, swirled with a thousand shades of hatred, discontentment and powerful, restrained potential hidden deep within, coupled with dark, overwhelming desires tethered to his impregnable mind. Harry, however, couldn't bring himself to tear his eyes away. He was under a spell. Thoughts and feelings swarmed over him that were not his own. They were chilling, painful and dominant. They were Severus'. After a long moment, Harry suddenly he became faintly aware of a loud clatter beyond their connection, and then a soft, cool but unnatural breeze passing between them. Finally he took a breath. Severus blinked, breaking their eye contact, but did not immediately pull away. Instead, he moved slowly closer, until his lips where poised over Harry's ear. Then the man whispered softly, almost inaudibly, words that only he could possibly think had a double meaning.

"Watch your back, boy. Things aren't always what they seem. Especially 'arrogant Slytherin bastards'."

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"I thought he was gonna have your guts for garters Harry! I thought he was gonna eat you alive! What did you do to deserve that? You should be thankful I dropped my cauldron and all that antidote stuff went everywhere. Well, OK, it was really bad for me, but well, there's only so many detentions he can give isn't there?" Ron said to Harry as they quickly walked away from their frightful detention in the dungeon. Wiping his head on his sleeve, the tall, red haired lad continued "That was stressful. Wait 'til Hermione hears. What did you do to deserve that? He said something about 'astute'? You didn't even say anything to him."

So it was just as Harry feared: Snape could read his mind. Crap. Now it was a total of 3 people that could do that, including Voldemort. The latest being the worst. He had decided not to shame himself and reveal to his friends exactly what he'd said about Snape, and that he had completely picked up on his thought, which was a scary thought in itself. He didn't want to frighten them. But even more worrying was that trance he'd put him in. Snape had wanted Harry to get a glimpse of what it was like to be him, and he did. He didn't see memories, but harsh muffled screams and cruel orders had flooded his ears. Words formed in his mind and disappeared before they could be remembered. But worst of all, was the sensation of being dominated by a Death Eater; having Snape's presence all around him, and that close too. So close, it was almost intimate. And yet somehow, it hadn't been revolting to him. It was alluring. 'No!' Harry decided, 'these thoughts have to go, before I gross myself out.'

By the time the boys had made it to their dormitory, they were already scheming ways to sabotage their next Potions class, possibly with the help of Fred & George's 'Inflamous Spitbombs', and Malfoy, the unwitting experimental ferret.

"Ah, think of the possibilities.." And so, with these words, both now grinning boys slipped into the vast expanses of the Land of Nod, filled with visions of Cho or Ms Zirconia, winning the Quidditch World Cup Final or becoming rich and being Head Boy; but lastly, visions of murder, torture and cruciatus curses aimed at a tall, masked and impertinent Death Eater with a deep, luxurious voice, who couldn't explain to the Dark Lord as to why he was smiling when he was late for their meeting.

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