I rustled through yet another reference book, continuing to feel unsettled by the mere presence in the same room of Potter under the influence of Pollyanna potion.

I looked up at him thoughtfully. He was wandering aimlessly around now in a fit of restlessness. This was irritating, naturally, but it was easier just to let him get on with it. It was certainly preferable to his attempts to engage me in conversation. Or demonstrate his magically induced affection for me.

His eyes, I noticed, were beginning to look rather glazed. I searched them optimistically for anything resembling lucid thought. I did this in most Potions classes, of course: and usually I was able to discern at least some faint flicker of intelligent life.

Not this time. I thought rapidly.

The only 'quick-fix' antidote I could find would stop the euphoric daze, but cause emotional instability. And if the grinning maniac genuinely was depressed, this could well plunge him into the depths of despair. Of course, he deserved this to happen after pulling such an imbecilic stunt. It would serve him right.

The more complete cure would take twelve hours to brew. But that would mean me putting up with him in the meantime. Hmm. Potter happy-happy? Or Potter in the depths of teenage misery? Both he and I were at least more familiar with the latter state, I supposed.

As I pondered, I realized that he was ambling towards the door.

"Potter!" I said sharply. "Where are you going?"

"Oh," he said, "Just going for a bit of a walk.. might go say hi to Dumbledore, you know…"

Ah. A blissful vision rose before me. Yes; let Dumbledore deal with his little Potter protégé on a potion high.

Except I knew Dumbledore wasn't here. But most of the other teachers were. And Potter wandering around the castle would surely manage to bump into at least some of them, roused out of their nests by the vacation alert system informing them a student was loose in the corridors.

For a few precious moments, I beheld a beatific vision. I saw Potter trying to smooch McGonagall, planting a nice wet kiss on her bony cheek….attempting to be upbeat around Sybill Trelawney, predicting world peace and universal happiness (oh, how her eyes would goggle in disappointment)… and crushing little Flitwick to death in a fit of spontaneous affection…The ghosts and the portraits would giggle and gossip about it for weeks…

The humiliation. Almost I smirked. If the ghost of James Potter ever ventured into the halls of Hogwarts, would he not cringe to see his nearly-grown son making such a complete, utter and absolute idiot of himself. I dwelled fondly on this beautiful prospect. Potter would never get over it.

He still had that foolish grin on his face as he turned the door handle, all set to waltz off into the public eye. I noticed with some disquiet that he did not seem able to focus quite correctly.

I sighed and succumbed to my nobler self.

"Potter," I growled. "Stay where you are."

He blinked. "Do you want me for something, Professor?" His voice was slightly slurred.

"No!" I snapped. "I most certainly do not. Sit. Over there. Out of my way. And read this."

I threw him a book. He opened it, and began to hum, tunelessly. I considered shutting him up, but at least while his throat was occupied making discordant noises he couldn't actually talk to me.

Under my suspicious gaze, he seemed to get less euphoric and more dopey. I judged it safe to leave him sitting there while I assembled various potions ingredients in an attempt to rescue him (yet again) from the consequences of his own stupidity.

I was just carefully chopping parruva roots when I heard him utter a soft cry.

Now what? I stalked across the room and regarded him grimly, hands on hips. He was stroking the scar on his forehead in a puzzled manner. He looked surprised.

"Hurts," he mumbled: not in complaint, but rather in vague and wondering tones.

I frowned. From everything I had ever heard about this precious scar, he should be experiencing significant distress by now.

I speculated: perhaps the magically induced euphoria of the potion was overpowering his body's normal defence mechanisms – which would include pain, anxiety and stress.

I was abruptly alarmed. What if the magical hold of the potion on Potter's emotions had reduced his own defences to an extent that Voldemort was able to gain access to his mind? I had no idea how the peculiar link between Potter's curse-scar and the Dark Lord actually worked: I was not even sure that Dumbledore did.

"Potter," I rapped out, urgently, "what do you see? Do…are you seeing any visions?"

"Visions," he repeated, dreamily. A smile still played around his mouth as he sank back in his chair and gazed abstractly at the ceiling. The book on his lap, I noticed, was upside-down. "Visions," he said again, in a slightly more alert tone of voice.

Damn it! Was he having a vision from Voldemort or not?

Was Voldemort watching me even now through those magically hazy green eyes? Cold fingers tapped my spine.

I hesitated. But I needed to know. Legilimens, I thought silently, as I moved closer and probed Potter's mind.

Nothing: or almost nothing. He gazed back at me with bemusement, but no sign of distress. I picked up just the slightest sense of floating.

Potter's inability to master Occlumency was legendary. I knew he had not managed to learn the skill from Dumbledore either, because secretly I had been pleased that Dumbledore had not succeeded in teaching Potter where I had failed.

I tried again. I was not quite so good at Legilimency as I was at Occlumency, but still, I had never before had any trouble whatsoever tapping into the incoherent prattle of Potter's emotional stream of consciousness.

Only now: nothing. A very faint sense of laughter caught on the breeze, or a quicksilver fish flashing almost unnoticed through the fingers. That was it.

It was like trying to capture water in a bucket made of mesh.

Interesting. I could only hope the Dark Lord was similarly masked from entering Potter's head. Although, by all accounts, he had departed quite rapidly last time he had tried to set up residence in Potter's body anyway. For once, I found myself in some sympathy with Voldemort. Teaching teenagers was bad enough. Sharing head-space with one… no. Please.

Potter ceased rubbing his forehead, and began humming again.

His wide and increasingly glazed eyes turned towards me. I remembered with some foreboding that using Pollyanna potion for extended periods can have quite negative effects on the mind: panic attacks, confusion, and acute anxiety. And the stupid boy had made it double strength; for all I knew, he had taken double dose as well, just to be on the safe side. With Potter, who could tell?

I returned hastily to my workbench, and threw the temporary antidote potion together with as much speed as I could muster. As was necessary, I put in three drops of Potter's original mixture. (Gods, the stuff was strong.)

I advanced on Potter with my steaming brew.

"Don't want that," he said, rolling his eyes upwards to contemplate the ceiling.

"I do not care," I informed him, "what your preferences might be. You will drink it."

I thought I heard him mutter something which could just possibly have been "make me".

He closed his eyes, and continued to hum. It was evident he did not number musicality among his limited array of talents.

I pounced on him and forced my bottle into his mouth, tipping his head back by his hair. He gagged and struggled. I was almost sure this was not the way Madam Pomfrey got her reluctant patients to take their medicine, but the model I had was from a childhood memory of experimenting with potions on my cat.

Only nice potions, of course. I had preferred my cat to most human beings. But "Let's play potions" never did become one of her favourite games. And although I happened to think purple fur looked quite charming on her, she had appeared to disagree.

"Drink," I advised Potter again.

He succumbed. He lacked a certain strength of will at the moment, and I was quite determined he should take it.

The effects were not quite instantaneous. Fascinated, I watched the emotions chase across his face as he returned to lucidity. Bemusement. Realization. Anxiety. Horror.

His expression stuck on "horror".

"Well, Potter," I said silkily. "Welcome back."

I had every intention of enjoying this moment. He had barely been at Hogwarts any time at all, and already he had managed to cause me trouble and inconvenience. I expected him to be thoroughly chastened.

"Professor," he said faintly. "I- "

He looked quite white. Then green. Then -

Oh. I had been here before, hadn't I? Puking Potter was no stranger to me. I grabbed a basin and shoved it under his face. Just in time.

"Thanks," he mumbled.

Where was Voldemort when you wanted him? Harry thought.

Why wasn't he dead? Life would be so much more pleasant if he were dead. Instead of sitting there throwing up while Snape watched with a mixture of fascination and disgust.

"Sorry," he said miserably. Snape was now holding out a cloth for him. Harry took it with gratitude and wiped his mouth; he watched as Snape Vanished the vomit, but prudently left the basin close by.

Harry was grateful for feeling sick. It meant he could bury his face in his hands and pretend he wasn't there, Snape wasn't there, and all of this was just some terrible dream….

"Potter," Snape said commandingly.

Harry grunted, refusing to look up.

"Potter!"

Reluctantly Harry lifted his head. Snape placed a cool hand on his forehead and examined his eyes, which unfortunately meant Harry's you're-not-here and I'm-not-here ruse was blown out of the water. He was almost sure Snape was smirking.

"Hmph." Snape appeared satisfied with what he saw. "That does seem to have done the trick. You will need to take a more complete antidote when it is ready. What I have given you is temporary; it will not thoroughly counteract the effects of what you took. You may find you have rather less emotional control than normal."

Snape looked as if he found the notion of Harry having 'less emotional control than normal' to be beyond the realms of the possible.

"Thanks," Harry said again, in a small voice. Memories streamed over him. "Oh, Professor Snape, you're so kind to me. How sweet." "Professor Snape, your eyes aren't really black, are they.."

Harry could feel the flush of shame sweeping over his skin. "Can I go and lie down for a bit?" he asked.

Anything to get out of the same room as Snape.

"If you wish," Snape said to him. "I will need to brew your next potion." At great personal trouble and inconvenience, his body-language said.

"Right. Thanks."

Harry fled. He dived into the spare room and flung himself face-down on the bed with a groan of despair. Hot waves of shame and embarrassment pounded over him.

Get me out of here... I want to leave... I want to go home, ran through his head.

The fact that he actually had no home hit him once more with all the tenderness of a runaway troll.

The emptiness followed.

I nodded my head in satisfaction. The potion was brewing. When ready, it should cleanse the effects of the magical and chemical cocktail Potter had imbibed out of his system. Really, the boy had no sense at all. Pollyanna potion was practically never used in healing, it was so volatile in its effects. Even when taken at recommended dosage.

I pondered the two significant facts to emerge from Potter's little adventure. His scar was indeed hurting again, as it had not done for over a year. Coupled with the Dark Lord's recent attack on me through the Dark Mark, that was disquieting news. It seemed to indicate that Voldemort was experimenting with ways to get at Potter and myself through the brands that tied us to him.

The other interesting point, though, was that Potter had actually succeeded in Occlumency. He had not known what he was doing, and I had no intention of feeding Potter mind-bending potions on a regular basis in an effort to reproduce the effect. But still, it was a breakthrough of sorts. Potter's mind worked so very differently from my own, it had always been extremely difficult to communicate the skill of Occlumency to him. This gave me something to go on.

I was absorbed in my work, so I did not give much thought to Potter. I supposed he was hiding in his room while he came to terms with his embarrassment.

I was, in fact, simply pleased to have him out of the way so I could finish some experiments which had been at critical stages. I dismissed a nagging sense of unease about him; I was expecting the boy to be miserable after what had happened, and he was undoubtedly wallowing in self-pity. I did my best to put him completely out of my mind.

I suppose I do see now that this was a mistake.