Disclaimer: This is a piece of fan fiction. Harry Potter and all characters, magic, events, royalties, etc., are the ideas and property of J.K. Rowling and whoever she designates to translate them to book, recording or film. I hope you'll enjoy my own take on this particular universe, even though I don't own it and didn't invent it.

Third Chapter: A Trauma Transference

Harry didn't have Potions until the Tuesday after school began, and he agonized all through Monday, wondering if Snape/Lockhart would be able to pull off being Snape/Lockhart/Snape. But the only complaints he heard from the other students were that Snape was especially snarky. Relieved, he looked forward to seeing the performance for himself on Tuesday morning.

True to everything he'd heard, Snape arrived at the classroom with more than his usual dudgeon. He unlocked the door, then entered with a loud "Good-" which Harry interpreted to be the beginning of 'Good Morning, Class!', but which changed to "-Merlin's Wand! Can't you even enter a classroom quietly? Ten points from Gryffindor!"


'Lockhart' had been working on his Snape ever since that nice Harry Potter (shame about him, had all the fame he could want, didn't know how to parlay it at all!) had put the kernel of the plan into his mind. He couldn't wait until Tuesday, when he would have the boy in class.

Now, as he looked out over the assembled students, cowering under his 'Snape' gaze, he let his eyes rest on Potter for just a second too long, to show him that he knew his stuff.


"What did you do now?" Ron leaned over to ask Harry as Snape's glare sat longer than it ought to have, on him. "He's looking at you like you've just ruined a potion, and we haven't even started!"

"Mr. Weasley," came the voice from the front of the room, "Are you seriously asking for detention?"

Ron straightened up in his chair. "No, sir."

"Good. Then, with your permission, we may begin."

The class went along well enough. The lesson appeared on the board, and the students bent to their tasks. Harry noticed that Snape paid just a little too much attention to him, but everyone would think it was because Snape was just out to get him, as usual. When the class was over, Harry feared that he would be held back so the Lockhart inside of Snape could gloat, but he wasn't. He decided he would visit the wizard in the hospital wing later, after dinner.


"How did I do? I must say, I had those students cowering in their chairs," Snape congratulated himself for Harry's benefit.

"Ron thought for sure I'd be getting detention, the way you looked at me."

"Nice touch, eh? I know there is no love lost between the two of you. Though I can't imagine why."

Harry just shrugged. The Lockhart personality would come up with his own explaination.

"It's very depressing to have to come here for meals," Snape went on. "I'm certain I could pull the act off, but Albus thinks it's better if I set a precedent, for when they begin the medication. It'll be wonderful to have my own hair back! I don't see how the man can stand this... this... spaghetti that he's got for hair! It's absolutely vile!"

The expression, meant to be innocent shock, made Snape look even eviller than he normally did. Harry coughed to hide his grin.


The regimine began on Thursday. Snape took his medicine dutifully, but whined that it wasn't cherry-flavored.

"Now, Gilderoy," Dumbledore soothed, "You're teaching Potions now. You know it's difficult to get such a sophisticated potion into flavors."

"I suppose you're right. But if your man Snape was worth his reputation, and it seems to be considerable, he would have provided the means of doing so. Now, if my talents had run more in the direction of Potions..."

Albus sighed and shrugged apologetically at Poppy, who had to suffer through his complaining at every meal.


By Saturday morning, a little bit of genuine Snape began to show back through. A snarl, a covert glare, the odd expression of mistrust when Harry popped his head around the screen to see how he was doing.

"Mr. Potter," he said with reserve as Harry entered the cubicle and sat down.

"How are you feeling, Professor?" Harry asked.

Relief flooded over the face. "Marvellous. But I can't see where I'm beginning to look anything like myself as yet. I shall be utterly relieved!"

"I'm sure you will, Professor."

"Then I can go back to teaching in my usual style, which I'm certain will be of more benefit to the students than this regime of terror that seems to be the norm!"

"It's just his way," Harry said. He was beginning to appreciate Snape's lower key to Lockhart's over-the-top baloney.

"I'm certain that it is. But people like that... Trust me, Harry, they end up leaving one in the lurch to face whatever it is, alone. I remember when I was part of a group meant to study the Yeti in Tibet..."

Harry pasted an interested half-smile on his face and wished Snape would come bursting through and tell him to get out of there.


By Monday evening, Snape and his Lockhart double were having outright arguments together. Harry sat through nearly forty-five minutes of snarling and high-handed jibes before excusing himself to go and do some homework.


On Tuesday and Wednesday, Professor Dumbledore took over the Potions class. He enjoyed being in with the students, but looking at the pile of work to be marked, he recalled all over again why he had been so relieved to have been named headmaster.

On Thursday morning, Snape entered the room, his robes billowing out behind him, his manner brisque and snarly.

"Open your books and review," he snapped. "Begin on page one hundred fourteen, finish at page one hundred fifty-seven."

"He's worse than ever," Ron whispered when Snape had his glare fixed somewhere else.

Harry noticed that it was everything they had done since the beginning of the semester. Snape was back. And with a vengeance.


Severus Snape sat back in his chair before his fireplace and picked up his glass of fire draught. It was Friday night, and he had nothing to look forward to but sleeping late the next morning. His little brush with Fate Worse Than Death was completely over with and life was getting back to normal.

But his near-Lockhart experience had made him slightly nostalgic. Thursday evening, he had gone through the box he kept on his highest shelf and brought down some old photographs to adorn his mantle. He never spoke about any of his sojurns in Eastern Europe and the Orient, but this was his private sanctuary so there was no harm in displaying them. After all, who would see?

"Enter!" he called to a knock at his door. His first impulse was to rush to hide his mementos, but he forced himself to relax. Anyone who would dare come to visit him was no danger to his carefully-preserved personna. He looked up as Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall came in.

"Care for a drink?" he asked, standing up and motioning to the bottle on the side table. They both accepted, so he poured.

"We've come to tell you how glad we are that you're back," Albus said, sitting comfortably on the other side of the fireplace. "And I want to tell you, personally, how much you're appreciated."

"The appreciation runs both ways, headmaster," Snape replied, lifting his glass slightly. There were things that needed acknowledgement no matter how long it had been since their doing.

Minerva walked along the mantle, looking at the photographs. "These are new, Severus," she observed, picking up one and studying it closely. "Is this you? My, how young you were!"

Snape came as close to coloring as he ever would. "Yes, that was from the winter I spent in Bulgaria."

"Is that a Mountain Troll?" she asked, squinting at the caged figure in the background.

Snape coughed. "Yes. They have quite a few of them there."

"I understand that the last of the wild ones were captured about twenty years ago," Albus said, his eyes twinkling curiously at Snape.

Snape took a very large swallow of his drink. "It made quite a splash while I was there," he replied. "But, I doubt if it was the last of the wild ones. I expect there are more..."

"Tell me, have you ever been to Tibet?" Albus asked.

"Er... Headmaster, why the interest in my travels?"

"Oh, no reason," Albus replied. But he gave Severus one last, knowing look before turning his attention to conversation about the school.

When they were gone at last, Severus stood up and turned the lights off in his sitting room. He went into his bedroom to undress. But for a moment, his mind turned to that despicable Potter spawn. He'd told him nearly every tale he'd been preserving, and the boy most likely didn't believe a word of it. Oh, well, if it had been him, he wouldn't have, either. Any more than he'd believed Lockhart...

Just for fun, he decided to drag out the old yellow pair of pajamas, and soon he was swathed in golden silk, sitting in his bed with a hot toddy at his side, admiring, with no little pleasure, the velvet box containing his Bulgarian Royal Cross.