It Is Difficult Not To Be Unjust To What One Loves (Oscar Wilde)
Potions making was the only thing that had ever run smoothly in Severus Snape's life. Almost from the beginning, he had had an awareness of the subtle interactions between ingredients, the astonishing range of effects that could be produced with only small variations of substances or magic. His nearly preternatural understanding of potions extended to nothing else in his life.
As a child, he had no clue how to handle his peers and as an adult, he no longer cared to try. Relationships confused him; the politics of the most minor interactions irritated him and robbed him of his peace. Teaching seemed to take most of his energy and all of his patience. He neither understood nor liked children; animals shied from him and plants in his care soon withered and died. Still, he was an intelligent man and experience had taught him well. So he had developed no particular expectations from the morning after sleeping with Harry Potter, other than that something would go spectacularly wrong and that Harry would recognize the mistake he had made soon enough.
As expected, he was alone when he awoke. His dressing gown was neatly laid across the foot of the bed, so he shrugged into it, ran fingers through his tangled hair and walked into his sitting room. Where he nearly tripped over Harry Potter, sprawled in a chair and reading a battered copy of "Dragons I Have Known" that Severus had forgotten was still on his bookshelves. The younger man was wearing those ridiculous flannel pajama bottoms and that wonderfully tight, deliciously ripped tee shirt that had started all of this. Whatever Severus had thought he might say melted away in the face of the pleased expression on Harry's face at his appearance. Harry opened his mouth and said cheerfully, "Dobby!"
Severus felt one eyebrow climbing into his hairline. "I can only assume that you were never taught the proper etiquette in situations such as this one, Mr. Potter. In polite society, it is considered courteous to remember correctly the name of the person one has actually bedded."
The bemused expression on Harry's face was all he could have wished. Before the younger man could open his mouth to reply, there was a pop! and Dobby appeared with a large tray of assorted breakfast dishes. He conjured a folding tea table, placed the tray carefully on it, waggled his ears at Harry and disappeared again with a snap.
"Would you care for kippers or sausages, Professor Snape?" Harry said, eyes brimming with laughter.
Hard-pressed not to smile back, Snape seated himself and allowed Harry to pile a plate full for him. Tea was poured and half a cup drunk before he spoke. "You're up early."
He spent the time Harry was chewing and swallowing what appeared to be an entire piece of toast cursing himself for that faint hint of questioning in his voice.
"I always am," Harry said. "I didn't want to wake you. You looked…"
"If you say 'cute', I shall not be responsible for your fate."
"Tired," Harry finished with a roll of his eyes. He hunted amongst the dishes until he found the marmalade pot, then spent the next few moments spooning the orange mess onto another piece of toast. A secret smile played in the corner of his mouth.
"Crafting potions does seem to take it out of me," Snape agreed blandly, then reached for the folded copy of 'The Daily Prophet' that the house elf had tucked under the edge of the tray. When he realized that Harry was watching him intently, he sighed and handed over the Sports section in return for a refilled tea cup. There was peace, quiet and the rustling of paper for the next quarter hour.
So far, this morning after was going according to no plan he had ever experienced; he liked it. Of course, if he had done things as other people did, there would have been no peace this morning and precious little breakfast eaten. One of his eccentricities, and he admitted that he had a few, was that he tended to read the paper from back to front. Thus, he had finished a larger meal than he had eaten in nearly a week before he found himself staring at the front page. Once more, he was being confronted by a picture of Harry Potter glaring wildly at him as the headline screamed beside it,
"Is Fame Any Substitute for Ability?
"In light of recent allegations concerning blunders and poor training methods in the Special Forces unit of the Auror Division, Ministry officials are questioning whether or not former hero Harry Potter was undeservedly placed in command of a team of cadets whose recent accidental deaths have led to the summary firing of Mr. Potter. There had been talk of calling Mr. Potter up on charges of dereliction of duty before Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge took matters into his own hands and dismissed the Boy-Who-Lived before any further inquiries were necessary. Mr. Fudge's generous nature is revealed in the one comment he would allow about the situation; ' Mr. Potter is no longer a Ministry employee and, as a private citizen, deserves his privacy.'
Mr. Potter could not be reached for comment before this story went to press."
There was more inane drivel and innuendo, but, although had made no sound, Harry was abruptly staring at him. He met Severus' gaze and his lips tightened, then he held out his hand. Severus handed him the paper and waited while he read the article.
There was a brief humming sensation in the air before Harry took a deep breath and it disappeared. "You're sure I can't kill him," Harry asked flatly.
"Quite," Snape said. "But there are a host of other options available to us. Be quiet and let me think."
Potter fidgeted with the dishes and flatware but Snape didn't snap at him. The soft clinking was a pleasant counterpoint to Snape's consideration of the most effective interrogation techniques he knew. Something niggled at him and he seized the abandoned newspaper. Skimming through it quickly, he found the factoid that had slipped through his admittedly less-than-stellar morning consciousness. In the Obituary Section, there was a small notation for one …
"Drew Braisethwaite, aged 24, junior clerk at the Ministry of Magic, was found dead outside his London home late last night. He suffered a broken neck as the result of a fall from his broom. Mediwizards suggest that he was flying under the influence of alcohol and lost control of his broom. Memorial services will be held at the home of his parent, Millicent and Geraint Braisethwaite, Misty Moor, Herts."
"The Minister appears to be tidying up his loose ends rather neatly," Snape mused.
A not unpleasant surge of pure hatred poured through him as he considered who the next loose end might be. His heart suddenly thumped painfully in his chest and he once again cursed his despicably weak father. Harry handed him a potion-soaked sugar cube before he had even unclenched his fist. He sneered but accepted the medicine. The constriction in his chest became an unpleasant memory as the unavoidable headache bloomed and Snape and Potter brooded.
Potter was abruptly on his feet again and tossing a handful of Floo powder into the fire. "Ronald Weasley, Ministry of Magic."
Ron Weasley's face appeared in the flames but there was no trademark grin for his old friend. "Harry! Have you seen the bilge they're printing?" The greenish figure waved a crumpled copy of the newspaper. "It's utter shite and we have to do something soon, or…" Weasley broke off and stared for a moment. "How are you feeling? Is everything ok? They didn't find any more poison in you, did they?"
Snape got to his feet and joined Potter at the fireplace. "Weasley, is your Floo secured against eavesdropping spells?"
"Snape?!" Ron Weasley looked flummoxed at Snape's appearance for a moment, then visibly dragged his attention back to the question. "Yes, it's secured against any outside interference."
"That is not what I asked, Mr. Weasley. What about spells from inside the Ministry?"
The other man seemed to flush a slightly deeper green, then he made a decision. "I'm coming through," he said. In a moment, Ron Weasley stood before them, a smudge of soot on his chin and a grim expression on his face. He turned and barked a locking spell at the fireplace before asking, "What's this all about, then?"
"Ron," Harry said, "We think Fudge is moving against me. He's the likely one to have poisoned me and the man he used to do it suddenly died last night."
"Bloody hell," Weasley said, blowing out his breath. "I suppose that explains a few odd things Dad and I have been noticing lately."
It was apparent when he noticed one or two more odd things; he glanced rapidly between Harry and Severus, both in morning dishabille and wearing twin expressions of grim determination. With a slight head-shake to show that he didn't want to know, he said, "What's the plan?"
"That is presumably why Mr. Potter summoned you this morning, Mr. Weasley. We need a plan before Potter simply decides to obliterate the Minister and gets himself sent to Azkaban for his troubles." Snape's tacit acknowledgement of Ron Weasley's admitted strategic talents made him half-smile with satisfaction.
Harry lightly backhanded Snape's shoulder. "Like you wouldn't cheer me on and jump up and down on the bits that were left."
Snape glared at him fondly. "I did not say that. However, I would prefer to outmaneuver that idiot Fudge and see him sent to Azkaban in chains, cheering his downfall all the way."
"You know, you're really creepy when you get that look on your face, Snape," Ron commented. "And now Harry's got it, too!"
"Later," Snape said firmly. "The headmaster is expecting the Minister to tea in…" he checked the mantel clock, "five hours."
"Well, then," said the Auror in Ron, "let's see what we can come up with." His evil grin, had he cared to know, was distinctly reminiscent of the Potions master's own.
Potions making was the only thing that had ever run smoothly in Severus Snape's life. Almost from the beginning, he had had an awareness of the subtle interactions between ingredients, the astonishing range of effects that could be produced with only small variations of substances or magic. His nearly preternatural understanding of potions extended to nothing else in his life.
As a child, he had no clue how to handle his peers and as an adult, he no longer cared to try. Relationships confused him; the politics of the most minor interactions irritated him and robbed him of his peace. Teaching seemed to take most of his energy and all of his patience. He neither understood nor liked children; animals shied from him and plants in his care soon withered and died. Still, he was an intelligent man and experience had taught him well. So he had developed no particular expectations from the morning after sleeping with Harry Potter, other than that something would go spectacularly wrong and that Harry would recognize the mistake he had made soon enough.
As expected, he was alone when he awoke. His dressing gown was neatly laid across the foot of the bed, so he shrugged into it, ran fingers through his tangled hair and walked into his sitting room. Where he nearly tripped over Harry Potter, sprawled in a chair and reading a battered copy of "Dragons I Have Known" that Severus had forgotten was still on his bookshelves. The younger man was wearing those ridiculous flannel pajama bottoms and that wonderfully tight, deliciously ripped tee shirt that had started all of this. Whatever Severus had thought he might say melted away in the face of the pleased expression on Harry's face at his appearance. Harry opened his mouth and said cheerfully, "Dobby!"
Severus felt one eyebrow climbing into his hairline. "I can only assume that you were never taught the proper etiquette in situations such as this one, Mr. Potter. In polite society, it is considered courteous to remember correctly the name of the person one has actually bedded."
The bemused expression on Harry's face was all he could have wished. Before the younger man could open his mouth to reply, there was a pop! and Dobby appeared with a large tray of assorted breakfast dishes. He conjured a folding tea table, placed the tray carefully on it, waggled his ears at Harry and disappeared again with a snap.
"Would you care for kippers or sausages, Professor Snape?" Harry said, eyes brimming with laughter.
Hard-pressed not to smile back, Snape seated himself and allowed Harry to pile a plate full for him. Tea was poured and half a cup drunk before he spoke. "You're up early."
He spent the time Harry was chewing and swallowing what appeared to be an entire piece of toast cursing himself for that faint hint of questioning in his voice.
"I always am," Harry said. "I didn't want to wake you. You looked…"
"If you say 'cute', I shall not be responsible for your fate."
"Tired," Harry finished with a roll of his eyes. He hunted amongst the dishes until he found the marmalade pot, then spent the next few moments spooning the orange mess onto another piece of toast. A secret smile played in the corner of his mouth.
"Crafting potions does seem to take it out of me," Snape agreed blandly, then reached for the folded copy of 'The Daily Prophet' that the house elf had tucked under the edge of the tray. When he realized that Harry was watching him intently, he sighed and handed over the Sports section in return for a refilled tea cup. There was peace, quiet and the rustling of paper for the next quarter hour.
So far, this morning after was going according to no plan he had ever experienced; he liked it. Of course, if he had done things as other people did, there would have been no peace this morning and precious little breakfast eaten. One of his eccentricities, and he admitted that he had a few, was that he tended to read the paper from back to front. Thus, he had finished a larger meal than he had eaten in nearly a week before he found himself staring at the front page. Once more, he was being confronted by a picture of Harry Potter glaring wildly at him as the headline screamed beside it,
"Is Fame Any Substitute for Ability?
"In light of recent allegations concerning blunders and poor training methods in the Special Forces unit of the Auror Division, Ministry officials are questioning whether or not former hero Harry Potter was undeservedly placed in command of a team of cadets whose recent accidental deaths have led to the summary firing of Mr. Potter. There had been talk of calling Mr. Potter up on charges of dereliction of duty before Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge took matters into his own hands and dismissed the Boy-Who-Lived before any further inquiries were necessary. Mr. Fudge's generous nature is revealed in the one comment he would allow about the situation; ' Mr. Potter is no longer a Ministry employee and, as a private citizen, deserves his privacy.'
Mr. Potter could not be reached for comment before this story went to press."
There was more inane drivel and innuendo, but, although had made no sound, Harry was abruptly staring at him. He met Severus' gaze and his lips tightened, then he held out his hand. Severus handed him the paper and waited while he read the article.
There was a brief humming sensation in the air before Harry took a deep breath and it disappeared. "You're sure I can't kill him," Harry asked flatly.
"Quite," Snape said. "But there are a host of other options available to us. Be quiet and let me think."
Potter fidgeted with the dishes and flatware but Snape didn't snap at him. The soft clinking was a pleasant counterpoint to Snape's consideration of the most effective interrogation techniques he knew. Something niggled at him and he seized the abandoned newspaper. Skimming through it quickly, he found the factoid that had slipped through his admittedly less-than-stellar morning consciousness. In the Obituary Section, there was a small notation for one …
"Drew Braisethwaite, aged 24, junior clerk at the Ministry of Magic, was found dead outside his London home late last night. He suffered a broken neck as the result of a fall from his broom. Mediwizards suggest that he was flying under the influence of alcohol and lost control of his broom. Memorial services will be held at the home of his parent, Millicent and Geraint Braisethwaite, Misty Moor, Herts."
"The Minister appears to be tidying up his loose ends rather neatly," Snape mused.
A not unpleasant surge of pure hatred poured through him as he considered who the next loose end might be. His heart suddenly thumped painfully in his chest and he once again cursed his despicably weak father. Harry handed him a potion-soaked sugar cube before he had even unclenched his fist. He sneered but accepted the medicine. The constriction in his chest became an unpleasant memory as the unavoidable headache bloomed and Snape and Potter brooded.
Potter was abruptly on his feet again and tossing a handful of Floo powder into the fire. "Ronald Weasley, Ministry of Magic."
Ron Weasley's face appeared in the flames but there was no trademark grin for his old friend. "Harry! Have you seen the bilge they're printing?" The greenish figure waved a crumpled copy of the newspaper. "It's utter shite and we have to do something soon, or…" Weasley broke off and stared for a moment. "How are you feeling? Is everything ok? They didn't find any more poison in you, did they?"
Snape got to his feet and joined Potter at the fireplace. "Weasley, is your Floo secured against eavesdropping spells?"
"Snape?!" Ron Weasley looked flummoxed at Snape's appearance for a moment, then visibly dragged his attention back to the question. "Yes, it's secured against any outside interference."
"That is not what I asked, Mr. Weasley. What about spells from inside the Ministry?"
The other man seemed to flush a slightly deeper green, then he made a decision. "I'm coming through," he said. In a moment, Ron Weasley stood before them, a smudge of soot on his chin and a grim expression on his face. He turned and barked a locking spell at the fireplace before asking, "What's this all about, then?"
"Ron," Harry said, "We think Fudge is moving against me. He's the likely one to have poisoned me and the man he used to do it suddenly died last night."
"Bloody hell," Weasley said, blowing out his breath. "I suppose that explains a few odd things Dad and I have been noticing lately."
It was apparent when he noticed one or two more odd things; he glanced rapidly between Harry and Severus, both in morning dishabille and wearing twin expressions of grim determination. With a slight head-shake to show that he didn't want to know, he said, "What's the plan?"
"That is presumably why Mr. Potter summoned you this morning, Mr. Weasley. We need a plan before Potter simply decides to obliterate the Minister and gets himself sent to Azkaban for his troubles." Snape's tacit acknowledgement of Ron Weasley's admitted strategic talents made him half-smile with satisfaction.
Harry lightly backhanded Snape's shoulder. "Like you wouldn't cheer me on and jump up and down on the bits that were left."
Snape glared at him fondly. "I did not say that. However, I would prefer to outmaneuver that idiot Fudge and see him sent to Azkaban in chains, cheering his downfall all the way."
"You know, you're really creepy when you get that look on your face, Snape," Ron commented. "And now Harry's got it, too!"
"Later," Snape said firmly. "The headmaster is expecting the Minister to tea in…" he checked the mantel clock, "five hours."
"Well, then," said the Auror in Ron, "let's see what we can come up with." His evil grin, had he cared to know, was distinctly reminiscent of the Potions master's own.