DISCLAIMER: Not mine. I just borrowed for a play during class when I should have been working...
While I did have an idea in mind for a longer story, I lack the attention span to stick with it long enough to actually write said story instead of merely planning it, thus consider this a complete short story instead.
Set in the summer after Harry's 5th year.
---- Letters ----
The Order was Not Happy. The sole exception to this was Professor Severus Snape (who was not really a happy person in the first place) and whose current mood would be far more accurately described as 'bemused' than 'Not Happy'.
The reason for the current atmosphere of doom and gloom among the members of the Order in the Dark and unwelcoming house at number 12, Grimmauld Place, was fairly small, all things considered - about 5'5" to be precise (not that anyone knew his height that precisely as the teenager was likely to be touchy about being on the short side). They were - most of them - very concerned about a skinny teenager with the messiest hair and brightest green eyes imaginable, who was supposed to have sent them a letter yesterday. In fact, the only reason they hadn't gone storming off to his rescue was because they'd agreed to allow a 12 hour grace period. Afterall, the boy could just have some perfectly innocent reason for not writing - having gone out for the day, or had guests for example.
Besides which, the snowy owl that carried letters for said boy had, in fact, arrived with a letter just over an hour ago... but had promptly pecked at poor Molly Weasley when she tried to retrieve the letter, leading to a merry chase by various people, but no success. It was rather embarrassing to admit to being beaten by a mere bird, but thus far all attempts to catch the white- feathered avian and get the letter had been utterly in vain.
Enter one Severus Snape, a tall and forbidding man, who professed (rather frequently) to utterly despise the boy. Upon his entry into the house, the owl had promptly settled on the arm of a nearby chair, and offered her leg to him.
"Finally!" Molly Weasley exclaimed, reaching for the bird.
Hedwig squawked, fluttering her wings and threatening another peck in protest, causing the plump woman to draw back warily. The bird offered her leg to the dark professor again, which is why the man was currently blinking at her in bemusement. The remainder of the Not Happy members were collapsed around the room - Tonks having somehow managed to create a slight pile-up involving at least three Weasleys and a remarkable amount of furniture, while the werewolf clearly showed the strain of the past weeks over in a seat in the corner. Seeing Hedwig's response, Lupin didn't bother to get up, but his unnervingly wolfish eyes fixed unblinkingly on the face of his childhood rival. Arthur was trying to stand, but with Tonks involved, the only result was the addition of more furniture to the pile.
"That is Potter's owl?" he sneered, lifting an eyebrow disdainfully.
"Harry's owl, yes," Molly said crossly, hands on hips as she glared at the bird.
The bird calmly ignored the woman in favour of staring innocently at Snape, and he silently applauded her for her success in flustering the blasted woman.
"Honestly," said woman continued. "I don't know what has gotten into her. She just refused to let any one take Harry's letter."
In Severus Snape's book, first names were an intimacy used only with close acquaintances (he wasn't exactly one for having friends, as such), or those he had to pretend were close acquaintances, which he sometimes thought amounted to the same thing. He wondered how long it would take the stubborn lady to realise he wouldn't be dignifying the Golden brat with such an intimacy any time soon.
"Perhaps Potter instructed her not to," he suggested silkily, although privately he doubted it. The implication would therefore be that Potter had written specifically to him. Given his relationship with Potter, the only letter he'd expect from the fool child would be a howler... which came in a red envelope, not on pale parchment.
He retrieved the letter, and opened it, raising his eyebrow again at contents of the pieces of parchment. It wasn't the first time he'd been proven wrong, although he hated admitting it.
The first sheet looked to be the letter written to Potter, judging by the way it started 'Dear Harry', and for a moment he was utterly confused as to why it had been returned. Taking a closer look, however, he noticed a section of one line had been underlined in a soft grey that wasn't the ink he would've expected. Flipping the top sheet over in his hand to reveal the second sheet behind it, he identified the substance used as being something similar to charcoal. His lips switched in repressed amusement at the smudgy grey marking the page in familiar lines and curves.
"Well?" Molly demanded, hands still on hips with her glare transferred from bird to man.
"It seems Potter has been studying," Professor Snape commented dryly, handing the first piece of parchment over to the plump witch after noticing the words scrawled in grey on the back.
The red-head frowned at the page remaining in the Potions Master's long, slender fingers.
"Just says here he's 'fine, as usual'," she reported suspiciously, reading the handful of scrawled words on her sheet.
Obviously she wanted to know about the other page - and the questioning look from the werewolf said he did too - but Severus didn't feel the least bit inclined to share. Before anyone else had a chance to see the contents of his piece of parchment, it was slipped into a hidden pocket.
"He'll have to do a lot more work than that if he wants to continue potions," he sneered for the benefit of the colleague who had just arrived.
To be frank, he'd expected Minerva McGonagall to arrive a little sooner, but she was still recovering, and was not as spry as she used to be... although, were she not a devoted Gryffindor, there would be times when he'd suspect his colleague of exaggerating the effects of her injuries to a certain extent in order to be underestimated.
"Really Severus," the Gryffindor head of house scolded lightly. "You can't surely be whinging about Mr Potter again?"
He didn't bother to dignify that with so much as a snort or a sneer, however tempted he might have been. He did NOT whinge!
"I had assumed this meeting was called for a greater purpose than to obsess over our little celebrity," he purred smoothly instead, striding towards the other room.
He determinedly ignored the indulgent look he suspected the older Professor might well be sporting. His ego did not want to admit that this might be one of those rare occasions when he was less vitriolic than usual, and Minerva more inclined for forgive any perceived slight to her precious Golden Boy. He had to admit though, the boy's reply to him had been rather... clever, reluctant though he was to apply that word to the brat other than as a negative. It was almost layered enough to be considered Slytherin, although he half-suspected he was reading too much into it. He considered it a discrete form of bragging, both in showing off what he remembered of the potion he'd underlined (and whose infernal idea had it been to suggest that he'd supply the brat with Dreamless Sleep without even asking first?) and in the actual quality of the drawing he'd done. He remembered Minerva mentioning her darling Potter's ambition to be an auror, and considered recommending a career in art instead. The sketch was off a desktop with each ingredient laid out, ready to be prepared, as it would be when the potion was done in class.
If he credited the boy with more intelligence, he might have suggested it as some sort of code - correct ingredients if he was fine, hazardous ones if he was in trouble - but it was far more probably just a fluke. He'd be wasting his time on false alarms before he realised the brat didn't have a clue. However, if they had determined specific elements to be added or to suggest trouble, with a written response if he was being forced to reply by someone...
Bah! What was he thinking? The brat was a Gryffindor, for Salazar's sake! Potter's son and the mutt's godson! Certainly not worth him wasting precious time over...
He did find the sketch oddly endearing though, disturbing as the thought was...
He snorted and shelved the thought with a resolution not to think about it.