Author's note: this is a shortish chapter which doesn't advance the plot a great deal, but delves a bit further into the underlying tensions between Snape and Harry. Well, I like it...
Re: reviews - no, Harry isn't as dark in this story. I'm not really concentrating on Harry though, more on how the others react to him. Was Hermione OTT?? Nah!! Go Hermione!
LOST PERSPECTIVE III : REPERCUSSIONS
By Bellegeste
CHAPTER 5 : LIFE'S A BITCH
"If you have exhausted your exiguous repertoire of expletives, kindly leave my room and take your moulting exuviae with you," Snape said, disdainfully eyeing the clumps of grey hair that smattered his office like down-spikes on a newly hatched vulture.
Lupin looked at the last, tell-tale evidence of his latest transformation, shed in the agitation of the past half hour.
"You'd better get used to it, Snape. This'll be you, one day. If you so much as lay a finger on that boy... I promise, you'll be lying awake through every single full moon for the rest of your putrid, perverted life, waiting and watching - because you'll never know if that is the month that I'm coming for you. One bite, Severus, that's all it takes..."
Snape leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head, at the same time stretching out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles. He craned his head a little, provocatively exposing the throat.
"That, I take it, is a threat?" he asked smoothly.
"You may be his 'biological father' - " Remus spat out the phrase like an unappetising, infected gizzard, "but if you dare to practise any more of your depraved Death Eater tricks on Harry..."
"Dragon's blood! Have we got to go through this all over again? I reiterate: I have no intention of harming the boy. You yourself are far more likely to do so during one of your lycanthropic episodes. Incidentally, are you still finding the Wolfsbane Potion effective?"
Remus nodded in defeat. He knew Snape had him over a cauldron there.
"But what about the 'Therapy', Severus? Is that absolutely necessary? Harry hates the idea. Can't I speak to him instead? He'll talk to me: I've never had any trouble getting him to open up."
Snape drew himself back upright in his chair.
"No, you haven't," he conceded coldly, hating the fact. "The Ministry's decision was final and was only reached after prolonged... ...'negotiation'." He used the word advisedly. "In the current situation of political unrest, anything that will promote Muggle harmony is to receive our unequivocal support. If Fudge's ridiculous health initiative is to have any chance of success..."
"Blow the initiative!" shouted Lupin. "This is Harry we're talking about. He's not a pawn to be shunted around in some Green-paper peace plan for inter-Muggle/Wizard relations! He's not a damn girder to be riveted into one of the Ministry's strategies for societal bridge-building. He's just a kid! Fudge can build more bridges than that Victorian, Muggle chappie - what's his name? - Brunel ? for all I care, but I won't have Harry dragged into it. There must be an alternative!"
"The alternative is Azkaban," said Snape quietly. "The subject is closed. Dura lex sed lex. Now leave and, as I said before, take your furry filth with you."
After Remus had left the room, Snape heaved a volcanic sigh and slammed his fist down onto the desktop. Then he reached into his desk drawer, removed the concealed bottle and poured a slug of golden liquid, filling the glass to the shimmering brim.
X X X
"The teachers have been awfully busy and preoccupied," Hermione continued, chatting as she and Harry made their way down from the common room to the dungeons. She was breezy with relief, now that Harry had agreed to come with her to approach Snape for help.
"There were staff meetings almost every day last week. That's why they've been setting us all these tests and projects and so on - to keep us occupied, so that they can concentrate on whatever it is they're doing. "When the other Houses had to do their stint with the Dranda cubs - you know, it wasn't at all fair : they got to skip lessons all day so they could look after the cub babies; they didn't have to drag them round to lessons like we did..." she was belligerently aggrieved.
"McGonagall seemed to be paying lip-service to the whole scheme - there were none of those dire threats about 'negligence' and losing House points. She let them get away with murder. Ravenclaw spent all day hot-housing the babies with flash cards... Reckoned they'd raised their IQs by several points in just one afternoon. As far as I know, most of the guys in Slytherin got their parents to let them borrow their house elves for the day, so they didn't have to do any of the nurturing themselves. Apart from Crabbe, of course. I shouldn't laugh - it was awful, really. He accidentally sat on his baby and squashed it. Somebody said he tried CPR too, you know, 'cos we weren't supposed to use magic, and he caved-in the entire rib-cage. That's terrible, isn't it?"
By this time Harry, whose recollections of this exercise were of an excessively noisy, smelly and stressful day, was also feeling aggrieved.
"What about Hufflepuff?" he asked.
"They had it even easier, if that's possible. It was that really nice sunny day - well, it was up here; I don't know what it was like wherever you were - and they all wrapped up warm and had a picnic by the lake and spent their afternoon feeding the ducks and trying to spot Merpeople. What a doddle."
Harry could remember that sunny day all too clearly: the day that Snape had reached out to him and they had connected, on a human level, for all of a minute, two minutes at most, before he had recovered enough to repair the barricade, shore up the fortifications. For those precious minutes the dazzling October sun had penetrated even Snape's winter cloud cover. Ever since, Harry had been watching for signs of Spring...
Hermione was fairly subtle in her attempts to elicit information about Harry's week with Snape - the veiled question in the comment about the weather was a case in point. Rationing his revelations carefully like a falconer with meaty tit-bits, he introduced the subject of Braque. He knew he'd have to repeat it all later to Ron, who would be far more interested than Hermione in the unique experience of having slimy lizard saliva up one's nostrils.
"At least Snape's got something to talk to," Hermione reflected, viewing Braque from a more human perspective than Harry had intended. "It can't be much fun being stuck out in the middle of nowhere with no one for company except a deaf house elf."
The words 'Snape' and 'fun' sat together about as well as 'Hagrid' and 'petite'.
"Quig's not so bad." Harry found himself defending the elf. "He gets really animated when he's mad at Snape - gesticulates wildly and jumps around like he's under 'Tarantallegra'. And the way Snape signs is so laid back and precise and, kind of, minimal - it's like watching some extraordinary double-act: he's so tall, and Quig's so little..."
Fond memories? Those were the scariest sort.
Hermione seemed to find Snape's choice of pet unexceptional, pointing out that if he had a garden full of snakes and frogs, what was so unusual about owning another reptile? She had, it goes without saying, already heard of Tuatara and could probably have told Harry a fact or two about their native habitat in New Zealand and their dinosaur ancestry. She was more interested in his name.
"Braque? You mean like the painter? One of the early Cubists?"
You can skip the lecture, thought Harry, I've already had the Modern Art module from Snape.
"I saw some of his pictures when my parents took me round the Tate. Quite powerful. Not exactly my taste, but I can see why they might appeal to Snape," she said, dropping into her intellectual mode.
You can? It's a pity he's not your father then, if you find him so easy to understand.
"Well, they're non-figurative for a start, impersonal, multi-dimensional - he'd find all that attractive; and then there's probably something to do with the way they represent individuality and self-expression – all that defying convention and iconoclasm."
And I thought it was all about violins and stair-cases and bowls of fruit.
"Does he like music?" Hermione was pursuing the artistic theme. "What does he like? - Bach? Mozart? The Hexing Harpies? I'd have him down as a Mahler man myself..."
"I don't know. I didn't ask."
"Harry, you were with him for a whole week? What did you talk about?"
Nothing. We spent the entire time arguing about nothing. I was too absorbed in my abstract, idealistic concept of fatherhood, and too angry with him for not living up to it. I didn't ever try to get to know him properly...
The conversation, which had begun so brightly with Dranda bear cubs, had taken an introspective, compunctious turn. By the time they reached the dungeon steps, both Hermione and Harry had subtly adjusted their expectations of the Potions master.
X X X
Some indecipherable instinct suggested to Harry that, had they entered the dungeon without knocking, they would have found Snape slumped over the desk. It was difficult to say exactly what had given him this impression as, when they walked in, he appeared to be marking essays with his customary poise and energy. It was just a feeling.
"Come in, Harry," Snape said. His manner was unthreatening, approachable even - it might be stretching it to say 'encouraging', but Harry was emboldened all the same - however, on noticing Hermione, it shifted seamlessly into a cooler, more professional gear.
"You may also enter, Miss Granger. What can I do for you?"
When neither of them rushed to reply, Snape took the initiative.
"I assume, Potter, I expect that you are here to inform me that you have reconsidered this morning's precipitate departure from my office."
He gave Harry the kind of look that left him in no doubt that a negative response would be about as advisable as trying to prune the Whomping Willow.
"Sort of," Harry mumbled.
"Do me the courtesy of using the correct form of address, and speaking in grammatical sentences which include the occasional consonant."
Harry felt let down. He had virtually promised Hermione that Snape would behave reasonably, and here he was, as starchily punctilious as ever. Or was it an act, for Hermione's benefit? One thing was certain, as far as Harry was concerned, Snape would never be accused of nepotism. Hermione, however, rose to the occasion:
"We're sorry to interrupt you, Sir, but I need the ingredients for a Potion, and Harry said you would be able to help."
She made her appeal confidently, trusting in her revised opinion of Snape's good-nature and, sensing that, Snape was disarmed. At one time he might have rebuked her priggishness, ridiculed her as an' insufferable know-it-all', but now the artlessness of Harry's faith in him curbed his tongue.
"Which items do you require, Miss Granger? For what purpose is the Potion to be used?"
As Hermione described Draco's use of the 'Pulexio' spell, followed by Ron's impractical solution, a notional smile twitched Snape's lips. He rose and, without consulting any reference book, selected an assortment of phials and containers from a wall-mounted, glass-fronted cabinet, choosing the bottles unhesitatingly, with the assurance borne of experience and expert knowledge.
"A basic erigeronic compound should be sufficient to eradicate flea infestation," he told her, lining up the ingredients. A slim volume, its pages foxed and softened with age and use, slid from a shelf into his outstretched hand. "Refer to page 93; the quantities and method are all there. You may find the odour of Teledu musk unpleasant, but, I assure you, it is equally offensive to Siphonaptera. Remember, the 'wall mustard' must be ground to an extremely fine powder. As you say the Potion is for feline use, I would recommend omitting the Oil of Lavender and substitute Essence of Catmint. Be careful to check the concentration levels by titration before bottling. The small, copper cauldron will be adequate for the quantities you need. You may proceed, Miss Granger. I wish to speak to Potter."
Harry's heart, which had dared to beat normally again at Snape's thorough, if clinical, response to Hermione's request, started to fibrillate. He followed his father to the end of the lab, as far out of ear-shot as it was possible to go without leaving the room, and stood like a young seal about to be flensed.
"How are you, Harry?" Snape asked, coolly yet with a trace of chagrin.
"Fine."
"No lasting damage?"
"No, Sir."
"Because I have just had a visit from your vulpine friend, who seems to be labouring under the impression that I am responsible for certain 'injuries' you may have sustained. For the last half hour I have been subjected to his invidious accusations, and the implication that my parental methods are, at best, procrustean, if not positively ..."
He swung away from Harry and braced himself against the nearest desk, his knuckles pressed hard down onto the graffiti-scored wooden lid, as outrage cracked through his composure.
"On what basis, Potter, does he see fit to question my probity? Potter?" The whisper slipped from his lips, cold and dangerous: a polar bear sliding off an ice-floe into the Arctic sea.
"I'm sorry, Sir. Professor Lupin just jumped to conclusions. I didn't tell him anything."
"I thought I had made myself absolutely clear..." The threatening note had returned.
"You did, Sir."
"You would do well to remember it."
From his cloak pocket Snape extracted a short bottle made of thick, ridged, purple glass. Checking that Hermione was still studiously engaged in her potion-making, he passed the bottle to Harry.
"It is a lotion, Harry. Apply it directly to the skin and it will reduce inflammation, relieve swelling and alleviate bruising. It may save you further embarrassing questions."
And hide the evidence, thought Harry, uncharitably, still sore.
Snape looked suddenly hurt, as though he had given Harry a precious Golden Snidget feather and Harry had swapped it for a Chocolate Frog. He walked briskly to the front of the classroom.
"Finished, Miss Granger?"
Hermione jumped, hurrying to stopper the miniature flagon of crystal clear, periwinkle blue potion. Snape examined it critically, finding it, however, faultless.
"Excellent work," he said, uncharacteristically giving it due credit.
Hermione was not averse to a bit of bridge-building of her own.
"Thank you for your help, Professor. Harry said you were..." she faltered. What had Harry said about Snape? Not much that could be said to his face. She wished she hadn't embarked on the sentence. "He said you were OK," she tailed-off, lamely. That didn't merit a reply, not even his customary, "Indeed?" He hardly seemed to hear her. She looked at him anxiously, on the verge of asking if he were alright. He strode to his desk and sat down, picking up his quill and preparing to resume his marking.
"Potter!"
Harry had stayed at the back of the room and was sitting on the desk, aimlessly deepening one of the etched initials, prising off wood splinters with his fingernails.
"Potter, I do not intend to burden you with the rationale behind my decision, but I must insist on your co-operation in the matter of the therapy. The Ministry is holding me accountable for your behaviour. Now, go away, I have work to do."
He took a large gulp from a glass on his desk.
"Did you hear that, Potter," he called. "I am being held accountable for you!" He gave a strange, bitter laugh. "Sunt lacrimae rerum! What the hell did Vergil know about it?"
X X X
Hermione stared at Harry anxiously.
"Wow! What just happened there? What's all that about the Ministry and therapy? And was that Firewhisky he was drinking?"
"Don't ask!" Harry groaned. He attempted to make light of it. "Forget about all that stuff. You've got the Potion, that's the main thing. What have you got to do with it - shampoo it in? Crookers will go mental. Snape thought the story about Malfoy was funny though..."
"Did he? How on earth could you tell?" Hermione did not want to be side-tracked. "Harry, what was going on in there? What did you do to upset him? Couldn't you have been a bit nicer?"
There was something possessive and almost 'womanly' about her concern for Snape that gave Harry the most ghastly idea.
"Hermione, please, please tell me that you do not fancy my father," he begged, repelled and scarcely able to entertain the belief.
"Of course not! What utter rubbish!" she exclaimed. "I just think you could try being a bit kinder to him, that's all."
"I tried that once," said Harry, "and he went to pieces..."
X X X
"Professor Dumbledore, Sir!" Hermione accosted the Headmaster in the corridor. "Can I ask you something, Sir?"
"Fire away. Though if you want to know my prediction for our entry's chances in the Euro-Wizard Song Contest, that might be rather more in Professor Trelawney's line. I'm afraid I am not Hogwarts' resident musical expert. Madam Hooch, on the other hand is quite another flagon of fish - you should hear her acoustic rendition of 'Wand on the Water'..."
"Professor!" Hermione had no time for the pop scene. "What does this Latin mean, Sir? 'Sunt lacrimae rerum'?"
"Aha! One of the most delightfully untranslatable phrases denoting the quintessential melancholy of the human condition. One can only paraphrase; it's impossible to convey the splendid linguistic economy of the original. Three such simple words..."
"Yes, Sir, but what do they mean?" insisted Hermione.
"Ah, well now, it's tricky to put it into a vernacular that would be meaningful to your generation. Let me see... Ah, yes, I have it. I think you might render it as 'Life's a bitch!' or possibly even 'Everything sucks!' Now who, may I ask, has been introducing your tender minds to such gloomy truisms?"
"Professor Snape, Sir," Hermione replied, disturbed by the translation.
"Was it, by Jove! Well, well. Severus said that? Then there's hope for him yet!"
Dumbledore trotted away humming a strangely familiar guitar riff...
END OF CHAPTER. Next chapter: THERAPY. Harry meets his therapist and he tries to talk to Luna...
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