Author's note: Another fairly short chapter, dealing with Snape's antipathy towards Neville. Just so as you know, the Harry Potter Lexicon suggests that Neville comes from Lancashire, so I have built on that. (My Grandmother did too!) If it's all a bit confusing so far - that's how Harry and co feel as well!

DECK THE HALLS

By Bellegeste

CHAPTER 4: POTIONS AND PARKIN PIGS

Wednesday 18th December

"So, is that a 'yes'?" Harry whispered urgently. "Your parents are OK about it? You go home for the weekend and then Floo down to my - er, Snape's - house on Monday, the day before Christmas Eve. The 23rd? Yes?"

Hermione shushed him with a frowning shake of her head, but it was too late - Snape was already stalking across the dungeon towards them. He seemed to be treading somewhat cautiously, watching his feet.

"Mr Potter!"

Harry braced himself. During school hours Snape made no concession to the fact that Harry was his son. There was absolutely no question of preferential treatment. If anything, he was even more critical of Harry than of the others, more exacting. An outsider would not have been able to detect any appreciable improvement in their relationship. Only Harry sensed the difference: the severity was still there; the malice was absent.

"Yes, Sir?"

"Are you under the fallacious impression, Potter, that your preparations for the coming vacation take precedence over Potions? No? I see. Have you, perhaps, already mastered this part of the syllabus during a period of independent, extra-curricula study? Laudable indeed! No? Have I, then, in a fit of unwonted, seasonal generosity, accorded you special dispensation to discuss your Christmas plans with Miss Granger? NO? Then, you will DESIST! You will pay attention, and you will not speak unless spoken to. Is that clear? Fifteen points will be deducted from Gryffindor."

Snape seemed more than usually tense, thought Harry. In the past he, Harry, would have seethed at the rebuke, however deserved, scoffing at Snape, slating him as a mean-minded, vindictive bully. Those thoughts still surfaced, but now they bobbed in Harry's mind amongst a flotsam of understanding: factors other than personal animosity could cause Snape to be snappy - the nightmares, the gnawing pain of the Mark; being buttonholed at lunch by Trelawney; perhaps he'd simply had a long day. It was, after all, the last lesson of the afternoon.

"I'm sorry, Sir," mumbled Harry, meaning it.

"Very well." Snape's voice had that 'I'll deal with you later' tone which Harry was growing to know and dread. It would almost be preferable to be bawled out again in front of his friends than to explain himself in private. Still, he had to broach the joyful subject of Christmas sometime. Hermione was convinced that Snape would regard her visit as an unwelcome intrusion, but Harry wasn't so sure - he suspected that the presence of a third party might be a relief to all concerned.

Snape had turned to address the whole class.

"An investigation into the circumstances surrounding Longbottom's mis-concocted potion yesterday, and analysis of the residue - "

Behind a poker-face, Draco paled.

" - leads me to suspect…"

Jaw clenched, chin uplifted in self- defence, Draco practised his denial.

"…a case of, as yet unidentified, biological contamination," Snape announced.

Draco allowed his heart to beat again.

"I shall, therefore, be taking stringent measures today to eradicate any possible source of pollutants. I shall shortly be making a thorough inspection of all your equipment - cauldrons, utensils, containers and all ingredients from your own personal supplies. I expect them, of course, to be in scrupulous condition. Anything less is unacceptable."

He glowered at them.

"At the end of the lesson you will also hand in your brewing journals for auditing. But first, I intend to conduct a personal inspection. Potions protocol in this class is lamentably slack. At NEWT level there is no excuse for sloppiness. It will not go unpunished."

He surveyed them like a Regimental Sergeant Major on parade, reviewing the troops, picking on trifles that even he would normally have let pass without comment.

"Parkinson! Nail varnish is not permitted – and that shade of green is particularly unpleasant. Remove it at once. Abbot! I suggest you revise chapter 1 of your first year text-book, if that is not too arduous a task, in which it clearly states under 'Basic Regulations' that jewellery should not be worn. The one exception to that rule being…? You don't know? Why does that not surprise me? Elven White Gold, Miss Abbot. Or am I mistaken in my assumption that we are dealing with a baser alloy here? No? Take the ring off.

"Longbottom!"

Snape eyed the boy in disbelief. Could this unprepossessing, podgy, witless simpleton be responsible for the problems bedevilling the school? It seemed hardly credible. But then… Snape's carping gaze fell to Neville's shoes which bore the traces of another happy morning spent in the herb garden.

"True sons of the soil, Longbottom, may take a perverse pride in displaying their earthy origins. You, however, can lay claim to no such agricultural antecedents. This super-abundance of dirt can only testify as to your inexcusable disregard for fundamental cleanliness… Next time try wearing pattens…

"What passes for good practice in the covens of Pendle, boy, may fall well short of what is deemed acceptable by Hogwarts' standards. Now, let me examine your bag."

Neville reluctantly nudged his satchel towards the Potions Master. Draco tensed. Snape tipped out the contents: a jumble of battered books, quills, ink in several inedible colours, bottles of ingredients and a rather enticingly aromatic, fat paper bag. He pounced on this latter, opening it up with an exclamation of triumph. A selection of flattish, currant-filled pastry cakes and crumbly, brown animal shapes tumbled out onto the desk.

"Explain yourself, Longbottom! Even you must know that no food is allowed in the lab!"

Had this been an impromptu raid for illicit 'tuck', Snape would have counted the haul as a moderate success. In the present circumstances, though, he considered a bag of buns to be something of an anti-climax.

"My gran sends them." Neville fidgeted uneasily. Mentioning his grandmother in the master's hearing was not recommended - it would be many years before Snape would live down the ignominy of Neville's solution to his Boggart's Snape-like appearance. In fact, Snape had heard the incident described so many times, so graphically - the story was an especial after-dinner favourite of Dumbledore's - that he felt as though it really had been him wearing the green robes and fox-fur scarf. A musty 'memory' of lavender-water, mothballs and Palma violets, mingled with the stale, vinegary smell of stuffed vulture clung in his nostrils.

"Ah, the redoubtable, Lancashire matriarch! Your 'gran' sends them, does she? By racing-pigeon?" Sarcasm may have soothed Snape, but it was lost on Neville. The boy blundered on.

"Well, Sir, they're Chorley cakes and Parkin Pigs. My gran bakes them herself, and sends me a batch every fortnight or so, in case I get peckish."

"Peckish?" Snape repeated, his nostrils curling in disgust.

"Sir. The Pigs are more traditionally associated with Plot Night, er - Guy Fawkes' Night. They're a kind of oatmeally ginger-cake, Sir. My gran always eats hers with a cut of Wensleydale. They're awfully nice. Do you want to try one, Sir?" Despite his nerves, Neville gave a homely, honest answer, returning Snape's gaze steadily.

"Silence!" Snape was beginning to realise that what he had taken for slowness in the boy was rather a stolid independence, a rough core of individuality at odds with the more flashy demands of school convention. It might be possible to drill some sense into him, given time. But not today. "Longbottom, you must try to rise above the cotton mill mentality. Destroy these cakes!"

"Could I save them for Trevor? He loves them," Neville asked, courageous in the line of fire.

"What? Trevor? Oh, for Merlin's sake! If you must. Feed them to that apology for an amphibian you call a toad. At least he's not a whippet!"

Standing awaiting her turn, Hermione listened indignantly. Why was Snape being so horrid to Neville? It was unfair to mock his background - it wasn't as though he had any choice about where his family came from. She was starting to regret agreeing to Harry's request. Did she really want to spend Christmas in the same house as this nasty man?

Her questioning look collided with Harry's apologetic shrug. There was something more than spoiled potions at stake here. Why was Snape so uptight today? Why hadn't he just flicked his wand and exploded Neville's cakes on the spot - it wasn't as though he had Trevor's gastric interests at heart? And since when had he had that habit of running his fingers through his hair from temple to ear, as though feeling for something…?

Snape picked up the last of Neville's glass bottles. Several desks away, Draco held his breath. So far Snape had been unable to find fault with any of the ingredients - the phials were tightly stoppered, their contents correct, corresponding with the easily legible labels, which were clearly written though in a painstaking, childish hand.

"Shark Lily - grated rhizome." He read. The bottle bore the previous Sunday's date, as did all the others in the batch that they would be using in the Calming Draught that afternoon. Madam Pomfrey always liked to get in extra supplies of the Draught at times of stress or excitement - exams, Hallowe'en, end of term and so on. It was quite traditional for Snape to get his NEWT class to assist in the preparation of the pre-Christmas batch.

"This is blanched, I take it?"

"Of course, Sir. Professor Sprout did it herself." Neville sounded horrified. Short of actually using some in a potion, there was no way of checking. Snape studied him intently. He could detect no deception in the boy whatsoever. It was most frustrating - he'd been so sure that Longbottom's possessions would yield some sort of clue. It would have been satisfying to have all his objections to the boy validated by proof of incompetence.

Professor Dumbledore had called an emergency staff meeting that lunchtime. The situation was deteriorating. What had begun as an isolated Potions accident was multiplying into a spate of mysterious, inexplicable incidents. Reports of mis-magic had been coming in from all over the school. Some classes seemed more badly affected than others. Professor Grubbly-Plank had noticed nothing out of the ordinary, whereas Professor Flitwick, alarmed at the way even a straightforward Wingardium Leviosa was causing problems, had made his students sit for the duration of the lesson with their hands on their heads.

Professor Lupin was cautiously optimistic that the worst was over - his classes had calmed down and passed uneventfully. Professor McGonagall, on the other hand, after another morning of dismembered Crups, was showing signs of strain.

The staff, accustomed to extraordinary phenomena at the best of times, were, on this occasion, baffled. There was no evidence of a culprit, of a plot, of malicious intent or any logical sequence - they were all equally victims. No individual was manifesting any symptoms of illness, apart from shock and anxiety, and these were a reaction to the events not the cause. There was no common denominator to link any of the occurrences. They were not confined to any one class, or House or year group.

But a worrying trend was emerging: at first it had seemed that pupils and staff were affected by a loss of magical focus - hadn't they all been attributing the mistakes to poor concentration, forgetfulness or a misguided sense of humour? As the day progressed, however, the reports became more specific: a brick wall had materialised in one of the Third floor corridors, completely blocking the way to the library; Hufflepuff had entered their Common Room that afternoon to find the ceiling covered in vivid green aphids, exuding a citrus-scented sap, surprisingly attractive as it dripped from the rafters like fresh, lime-bright droplets of Springtime. Peeves had enthusiastically alerted them to a freak and extremely localised tropical whirlwind, which had knocked over the giant Christmas tree, and dragged down all the curtains in the Great Hall, sweeping them into the centre of the room in a pile of shredded fabric.

None of the staff, not even Snape, had dared to suggest that Peeves might be 'jumping on the bandwagon'.

More seriously, Professor Sprout had not been seen in the Castle for over twenty-four hours. And then there were Snape's roses…

xx x

In the dungeon, Boot, Brocklehurst and Malfoy passed muster - just - even though there was a dead spider in Boot's cauldron and Draco had dirt under his fingernails and had been sent to wash his hands.

Hermione already knew what Snape would say to her - and he did.

"Hair!" The single word sliced the air.

OK, so she was having a 'bad hair day' - or a couple of consecutive bhd's – but what was she supposed to do about it? Her rampant tangle didn't normally frizz up this badly unless it got wet, but today it was, admittedly, out of control. Perhaps there was a lot of moisture in the atmosphere. Come to think of it, her robes had felt a little damp when she put them on this morning. She had tried to bring the obstinate curls into line with two velvet scrunchies and several elastic bands, but they had simply pinged off.

"Miss Granger!" Snape had been hovering over her like a kestrel. Now he dropped for the kill. "That - " He indicated her unruly mane. "is a fire hazard, a health hazard and a public nuisance. If you want Pre-Raphaelite Potions, you are in the wrong dungeon. Either cut it, or control it. Invest in some Sleekeasy's. And," he added in an icy aside, as he passed on towards Harry, "you have cat fur on your robes. You will eradicate all evidence of that animal before entering the classroom, or I will take steps to eliminate the problem at source."

Hermione's hackles were up now - no one threatened Crookshanks!

"Mr Potter!" Snape's voice was again acid with outrage. "Are you trying to be funny? How dare you come into my class dressed like a filthy house elf who has spent the morning cleaning out grates! What is the meaning of this?"

Confused, Harry glanced down at his robes. His right side was thickly dusted in a trail of grey streaks, leading up to his pocket. Instinctively he reached for his wand, but encountered nothing but a gritty handful of charcoal and cinders. At the same time he felt a vicious, jabbing pain in his fingers, palm, wrist, the back of his hand. He must have winced.

"Potter?" Snape demanded. "What's wrong? Show me your hand."

Unwillingly, Harry proffered his right hand for inspection. The skin was crazed with countless deep scratches, and puncture wounds welling blood red berries which mingled with the ash, caking his fist in a congealing, granular paste.

His father's eyes narrowed in concern and he touched the boy on the shoulder.

"You must get that seen to at once, Harry," he said quietly. Then, brusque once more, "Granger! Go with Potter to Madam Pomfrey - and get a haircut while you're about it!"

Damn! A second serious potions accident in as many days. His reputation for classroom safety would be in tatters. Another hand injury too. That ranting fool Trelawney hadn't said anything about a plague of injured hands!

"Alright! Show's over. Back to work," he growled, sending the six students who had all edged forwards to get a squiz at Harry, scurrying back to their desks.

Oh no, thought Draco, anticipation whetting his lips into a slippery grin, the Show's just about to start…

End of Chapter.

Next Chapter: LET SLEEPING DRAGONS LIE. Chaos in the Hospital Wing. Neville's disaster is Draco's triumph - either way, it's a headache for Snape. Is Neville less stupid than everybody thinks?