Chapter Two
Harry trudged along the hallway toward the Gryffindor common room dispiritedly. His last day among friends and fellow students before summer break had not really been much fun. Everyone was too busy packing to be able to pay him much attention. He, by contrast, had no packing to do, since he would be going nowhere, and as he drifted around the castle to say goodbyes, he only seemed to get in everyone else's way.
He approached the Fat Lady's portrait with some trepidation. The Lady seemed to get a kick out of making passwords difficult during the final days of each term. She had done the same for five years running, and today's last-day password was no exception.
Before he could even attempt the word, the Fat Lady herself sang out to him with a voice filled with delight. "It seems I shall be seeing quite a bit more of you over the next few weeks." She twisted and stretched, thrusting her ample bosom forward as she smiled.
"Umm... word gets around?" Harry replied uncertainly.
"The poses those poor headmasters had to hold for their official portraits are so stiff and uncomfortable," the Fat Lady said with genuine sympathy. "Those that are hung on Dumbledore's office wall come out to visit frequently. And who can blame them? In their frames, they have to stand there rigidly, trying to telegraph dignity... as though posture could somehow instill honor and scholarship in some future viewer. If that were possible, we'd hardly need professors, now, would we? Besides, the gentlemen enjoy my company." She fluttered her eyelashes and held her goblet like a fan over the lower portion of her face.
"I'm sure they do," Harry replied, hoping his House's guardian portrait would take that as a compliment. He paused to make sure the Fat Lady wasn't about to continue their conversation, then spoke the password. "Antidisestablishmentarianism," he said, and earned a smile from the Lady as the portrait swung back to admit him to his house's common room.
The Gryffindor common room was a comfortable place, and most students sorted into Gryffindor tended to make friends with each other fairly easily. So the common room was usually quite crowded. It was odd, and somewhat depressing, to find it nearly deserted. There were a pair of first years standing under the House banner, excitedly talking about their incipient journey on the Hogwarts Express; three second years playing their last game of Exploding Snap before having to leave - since leaving school would mean losing their playing partners for the summer; and one of the older students sitting near the fire, face buried in a book.
Harry flopped down on one of the comfortably soft armchairs and stayed slumped there, staring into space. He would have to wait to say goodbye to his best friends. Hermione was packing in the girls' section of the Tower, and Ron - who had waited until the last possible moment before starting to gather his things - was dashing about so distractedly, grabbing items from all over his room and throwing them in the general direction of his trunk, that he had sent Harry away to keep from crashing into him repeatedly. So Harry sat sulking, waiting - and totally helpless to escape when he saw Neville Longbottom descending the stairs.
Neville carried his trunk with one hand gripping the folding handle set into the side panel. The trunk itself was substantial, and Neville must have had clothes and books, at least, packed away inside. In order for Neville to carry it so easily, the trunk must have had a lightening charm cast upon it. Harry tried to recall who else might have been upstairs to cast the charm, and couldn't think of anyone. Neville must have mastered the spell himself. Good for him. Most students who worked with Longbottom knew that he had a great deal of magical talent. He became nervous and flustered easily, though, and because of that, he tended to make mistakes. And when someone with Neville's potential made mistakes, those mistakes frequently resulted in spectacular explosions.
In his other hand, Neville held his new toad-carrier, which incorporated many elements of a good terrarium, without a lot of loose items to rattle around when travelling. Sitting on a large rock at the center of the carrier was Trevor, Neville's habitually escaping toad. Perhaps, with Trevor confined to the carrier, Neville might have a more peaceful journey on the Hogwarts Express.
Harry wondered if Neville would even acknowledge his presence, after the summer-job fiasco. He hadn't long to wait to find out. Neville reached the bottom of the stairs, placed his trunk carefully on the floor, put the toad-carrier on top of it, and marched to a spot directly in front of Harry's armchair. "Potter," he said coldly.
Harry had worried that Longbottom would have this very reaction. He sat up straighter, met Neville's eye, and began, "Neville, I..."
"Don't," Longbottom interjected. He spoke quietly, but with such poise and self-assurance that Harry was immediately silenced. 'When did Neville become so mature?' Harry wondered.
"Professor Sprout has informed me of the arrangements for this summer's greenhouse care," Neville reported evenly, not breaking eye contact. "Congratulations."
"Look," Harry said in a placating tone. "Dumbledore..."
Neville stopped him again with the sheer determination in his voice. "However the decisions were made, everyone knows you wanted to stay here over the summer. Whatever arrangements were agreed on, I'm sure that factor was taken into consideration."
'Damn Dumbledore,' Harry thought miserably. 'Him and all his "It will all be my fault" nonsense. Everyone can see exactly what happened, and no one - especially not Neville - will care about the Headmaster taking the blame. It'll all be MY fault.' Which it actually was, he admitted to himself. "Look Neville, I'm sorry you have to go back to your grandmother's..."
It seemed as though this was to be a conversation in which Harry was not allowed to complete a single statement. Neville overrode him again, this time with a touch of anger. "I don't mind my grandmother. I don't really mind staying at her house again. She's practically Mother to me since what happened to my parents was so long ago. If you're going to apologize, that's not what you should be sorry for."
Harry was baffled. "Then what...?"
"I know every plant in those greenhouses, Potter," Neville snarled, raising a finger to point directly at Harry's face. "From the seedlings for the first years to the devil's snare for Defense class. From the hemlock to the foxglove. And even the restricted plants, Potter - which you are going to have to learn in order to get through the summer. Wolfsbane, mandrake, gillyweed... I know them all. And I know what condition they're in now." Unshed tears gleamed in his eyes. "And if you hurt any of them, Potter, I will hurt you. If you ruin anything... then, God help you." He turned to stalk away, leaving Harry helplessly gaping at the spot he had been.
Harry could think of only one way to save this situation - and, from the sound of it, possibly his own life. He stood up and practically shouted, "Neville, Help!"
Longbottom turned quickly and scanned the immediate area for dangers. Seeing none, he glared suspiciously at Harry.
"Neville, please. I didn't ask for your job, and I tried to turn it down when Dumbledore told me I would have to do it. He wouldn't let me, and I knew I was doomed. I need your help."
"What?" Neville sneered. "You want me to take polyjuice and stand in for you?"
"Something like that," Harry replied, and waited for Neville's curiosity to take over. Once Longbottom's sneer had become a questioning look, Harry continued. "I'll need advice - very specific advice - about each and every one of those plants. You're right - I have to learn. But the only way I'm going to be able to do it is to have you tell me what's important and what's not. I'll need to write - my hand hurts just thinking about it, but there's no other way. I'll write to tell you what I see and what I'm doing. You write back to tell me how I'm making an ass of myself, and what to do to prevent any of our plants from being damaged."
"There's always the fireplace," Neville suggested, and Harry felt a great surge of relief. If he could keep Neville on his side, not only would he make it through the summer, the next two years, at least, would be a lot more comfortable.
"Right. I'll floo you every... well, as often as you'd like, that is."
Neville smiled. It was a small, weak, rueful smile, but even that was an extreme change from the expression he had worn only moments previously. "Every day will be fine, Harry. We'll work out a time and all that. Just floo me as soon as Professor Sprout gives you the basic rundown of your duties. We'll go from there."
"Thanks, Neville."
"I'll be talking to you, Harry." Neville collected his trunk and toad-carrier and left the Tower on his way to meet the Hogwarts Express.
Once they could see that they were not going to be treated to a fight, the younger students gathered up their cards and wandered upstairs to get their own luggage. As soon as it seemed polite to stop pretending to read, the last of the others in the room left as well, with a brief wave toward Harry, who flopped back down into his armchair to watch the parade of departures.
When it seemed as though every other occupant of the Tower had already fled, Ron came trudging down the stairs, lugging his trunk - which had obviously not been treated with a lightening spell - and a broomstick. The heavy trunk threatened to overbalance him, making Ron take heavy steps that bounced the trunk on his knees as he descended. Each of the bounces made his broomstick swing toward his face, forcing him to jerk his head out of the way. Harry bit his cheek to keep from laughing out loud - while hanging on to his wand, ready to cast a swift Wingardium Leviosa, just in case Ron fell on the stairs.
The spell was unnecessary, though Ron did thump his nose with his broomstick while setting his possessions by the door. He turned toward Harry with a crooked grin. "O.K., mate. Guess I won't see you around the Burrow this time." He shrugged and shifted his weight nervously.
"I'll miss being there," Harry said sincerely. "But at least I don't have to go back to the Dursleys' at all."
"You might miss visiting my place," Ron laughed. "But Ginny's right furious. She's been practicing privacy spells all term, looking forward to this summer."
"Privacy spells?"
"You know," Ron said with a wiggle of his eyebrows. "Short-range silence, limited invisibility, re-direct attention, go unnoticed. That sort of thing. She thought that once you came to visit, she'd have a real chance to try 'em all out. She's been boiling since she heard you'd be here all summer."
"Ron..." Harry groaned.
"What's the matter," a feminine voice interrupted from the stairs. "Don't you like Ginny?"
Harry didn't answer. He simply watched Hermione walk down to the common room. Hermione had been rather funny-looking in first year, and had gone through various stages of awkwardness as she had grown. But by the end of fifth year, she was... Harry didn't have a word for it. Beautiful? No. Not extreme enough for real beauty. Pretty? No. Her nose was still too big, her face too plain. But she was as self-assured as she had always been, confident, positive, deliberate... and walking down the stairs, dead sexy. She had lightened her trunk, and carried the clumsy box as delicately as she might have carried a purse. Her cat, Crookshanks, wove its way around her feet as she walked, and the girl mirrored some of the easy grace of the cat in the way she moved. Harry watched in silence, happy that she was his friend, but a little disappointed too. Somehow, years ago, they had become friends in such a way that precluded any physical relationship from developing. And for years, he hadn't thought that mattered much. Now, though... "I like Ginny perfectly well, thank you," Harry replied with mock formality. "It's just that, especially after raising Fred and George, I don't think Mrs. Weasley would be fooled for a moment by limited invisibility or a misdirect-attention spell."
"And what's this?" Hermione placed the tip of her finger against Ron's nose, which was already showing the first signs of bruising.
Harry offered an explanation before Ron could think of a reasonable-sounding lie. "Oh, Ron just struck his nose with his broomstick."
Hermione stepped back and regarded Ron with a broad smile. As Ron blushed under the scrutiny, she murmured, "I knew you were glad to see me, but... Ron - you actually hit your nose? You'll have to show me that trick."
"I... uh.... 'll ... bbbe gladto," Ron's stuttering and mumbling only made Hermione's smile warmer. She turned back to Harry with a thoughtful expression. "You worry me, Potter. It sounds like you won't have a minute to yourself if this job is as hard as Neville says it is."
"He's going to help me with it - long distance. I'll floo him, and we'll write. If he doesn't get bored with me, I think I'll just about make it through the summer."
"That's what I mean," Hermione insisted. "There's more to life than just slaving away in some old school building. You need some time to enjoy your summer!"
Harry appealed to Ron. "Is this Hermione? Let's hold her here for an hour and see if the polyjuice wears off. Seriously, I never thought you'd tell me there's more to life than study."
Hermione flipped her hair back and raised her nose into the air in a cutting parody of some of the more fashion conscious - and less intelligent - girls in their class. "Even I can learn... given a good tutor." She glanced at Ron and Harry sighed, unnoticed by either of them. He hoped their romance could progress over the summer. It would be hard to start next year with both of them too wrapped up in each other to pay any attention to him.
--- --- ---
For most of his life it had been the human part of Remus Lupin that had slowed him down. Oh, he hated the Wolf, hated the savagery and nearly mindless ferocity of his animal form. But the Wolf was as quick and sure as Remus' human side was thoughtful and calculating.
When he had been a student at Hogwarts, Remus had been shy and retiring - and for good reason. Lycanthropy was an illegal condition, and had he been discovered by government officials in Wolf form, he would have been killed. He had to admit that most officials in government service, including most aurors, would have been unable to effectively execute a werewolf during a full moon night. But once he had been discovered, it would have been only a matter of time before he was arrested and summarily destroyed. In his youth, it had paid to be closed-mouthed about his personal life.
But he had met friends - good friends who had supported him in the best ways they could. As a human, a young man, and a student, he had studied the three who would become his closest friends for months before starting to feel comfortable with them. He tested them in small ways, talking about magical creatures and weighing their responses carefully to try to detect the common prejudices that could be so dangerous to him. The Wolf had sniffed once and had known that these three would not betray his vulpine nature to the authorities. He had known with a certainty that his human mind could never accept that he would be tied to these three until death or some similar catastrophe separated them. The Wolf had, of course, been right.
Not that there weren't bad times and bad things that happened between the four who became known as the Marauders. Sirius Black's stupid, ugly idea of a joke nearly exposed Remus. If the prank had been completed, Lupin in animal form would certainly have killed Severus Snape. The death would have been unmistakably the work of a werewolf. The most minimally intelligent detective would have discovered the identity of the perpetrator within days, if not hours. Remus would have been executed, and Black would have been responsible for two deaths.
But by that time, it was too late for Remus to turn his back on even that callous a friend. By that time, the Marauders had become, for good or ill, Lupin's pack.
As a human, a young man, and a student, Remus tried to analyze the dynamics of the Marauders' relationships. The Wolf could smell the truth, and knew. Lupin's human mind concentrated on the various attributes of each of the friends: Sirius, physically the strongest; Peter, the most devious; and himself, by far the most dangerous. His logical mind thought about James' sociability, Sirius' cruel humor, and Peter's self-depreciation. The Wolf felt the pack dynamic deep in himself, and was certain. The others could not understand - they had no pack instincts to guide them. But they fell into the proper pattern so perfectly, that Lupin's wolf self couldn't mistake the hierarchy that would govern their relationships for the rest of their lives. Peter was an Omega, barely hanging on to his position in the pack. He would be the most likely to do something taboo, to violate the pack ethos. That ethos would allow James to be insulting and manipulative and tolerated Sirius being cruel and thoughtless. But it demanded a different kind of loyalty from each pack member. And part of that demand placed Peter on the bottom rung of their ladder. Peter may have thought of himself as more perceptive and more politically aware than the others. He displayed feelings of being put upon and misunderstood by his friends. There was, in short, a completely human explanation for all of Peter's behavior, and for the behavior of his friends in regard to him. The Wolf simply understood - that was how an Omega was.
Remus himself was a gamma. If there had been more than four Marauders, the added numbers would all have been gammas. His position represented the body of the pack, the solid members who were not leaders nor incipient outcasts. He took some abuse from Sirius and James because that was his place. They were leaders. He was not. His wolf self understood without question. His human soul felt abused and mistreated, but the deeply underlying instincts of his animal nature kept him in the pack, and loyal to his packmates, whatever their human failings.
Sirius was, for all his bluster and all his physical power, beta. Remus could see that Sirius sometimes behaved like a man in love with James. If asked, he would have declared his respect for and loyalty to James. He deferred to James in many ways, allowed James to choose their activities and make their plans. The Wolf approved of this wholeheartedly - that was how a beta should be. Sirius was James' strong right arm. He was the pack's protector, as well as the pack's bully. And though many people did not understand why Sirius did not date, did not attend social functions, and did not try to make himself more presentable as a polite young man, the Wolf knew without question. Sirius would not waste his time on dating, social appearances, or polite presentation. Because Sirius would not take a mate. Only one of their pack would mate. Only one would bear offspring. The humans thought such a notion was nonsense. The Wolf would be proven correct.
James was their alpha. And just as the Wolf knew without a doubt that James was the one, women seemed to know as well. Every woman who expressed interest in James - and there were many - also had a good deal to say about his faults and shortcomings. He was not 'nice.' In fact, he was crass and rude and demanding and very, very selfish. He was not 'genteel.' In fact, he was spoiled, wasteful, arrogant and frequently downright destructive. He was not 'proper.' In fact, he was disrespectful, rebellious, irresponsible and a developing wastrel. In short, he was totally irresistible to young women. As the Wolf could have told them, James was an alpha, and every woman who felt herself to be an alpha female wanted to be his bitch.
Lily was a perfect example. Too good for James Potter by any human standards, the Wolf could smell the correctness of the match almost from the moment they first dated. People were shocked by the match. They were scandalized. They said it couldn't last. They weren't trusting their noses. Lily and James' connection was deep - as deep as their genes. As the alpha pair, they led the pack, as much as Lily would have preferred to allow the rest of the Mauraders to go their separate ways after school. How could they have? Lily and James were to have a cub. Healthy young marrieds usually did - but even more importantly, alphas were obligated to do so. Lily and James could not feel this obligation in the way wolves could. They talked about family planning, and waiting to have children until after they had travelled the world, and had a chance to enjoy each other's company without a child for a time. The Wolf ignored their prattling. Inevitably, a cub was produced quickly. So Remus became the pack elder to an alpha son. Harry may or may not lead his own pack some day, but to Remus, he was closer than a blood relative from before the day he was born. It wasn't a matter of liking the child, or finding interesting qualities in him - those were human concerns, originating far too high up in the brain to have a full visceral impact. The Wolf smelled the boy, knew he was the alpha's offspring, and became the cub's protector. For Remus, it was automatic, deep and permanent. He frequently wondered how human families ever survived at all, with their relatively superficial bindings of love and mutual concern.
But the pack changed. They hadn't even been out of school very long when the disaster struck, killing James and Lily, jailing Sirius, and sending Peter into hiding. The pack remained, because the cub remained. Harry lived, and was in protective care. He would go to Hogwarts himself once he turned the proper age. Sirius was still alive, though caged - a horrible fate to the Wolf's sensibility. God only knew what had happened to Peter. Dead? Remus saw the evidence. He couldn't argue with it. The Wolf didn't believe it. Still, if Peter were alive, he was gone to ground somewhere unknown, and the rest of the pack would - perforce - be staying in place.
Remus left magical Britain behind. He took himself to London, and for twelve long, lonely years, he lived as a muggle.
He saw movies. He danced in clubs. He got drunk in bars, and sometimes got into fights in them. He rode a motorcycle for a while. Patriotism drove him to buy a Triumph, though the machine vibrated horribly if he drove it faster than about seventy-five kph. It also visited the shop about once per month. After a few repeats of this, he tried to time his shop visits to coincide with the full moon, so the bike would be stranded at the garage when he needed it the least. He gave the bike up and bought a car after a few years. After shopping for something English, he bought a Toyota, which was surprisingly reliable. Patriot or not, he couldn't afford a Jaguar, and his long frame simply did not fit into a Morris. He learned how to be a good city dweller. He didn't bother his neighbors, and while he didn't make many friends, he had no major conflicts, either. He stayed out of jail, kept himself alive by doing odd jobs, mostly as a laborer, and pined for his pack and his magical world. After twelve years, a note from Albus Dumbledore summoned him back to the world he had known, and the school he had loved. He jumped at the chance.
In the meantime, he had learned how utterly stupid the so-called government of magical Britain actually was. They aggressively searched for unauthorized spells, unauthorized underage magic, and inadvertent exposure of muggles to magical phenomena. They sent teams of obliviators out to cover over the most trivial of magical incidents. But for over a decade, he had been a fully active werewolf of London. Had he lived the same life in Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley, he would have been captured at the first full moon. Instead, he ran rampages throughout the London area for years. The Ministry of Magic didn't even bother to check into the reports of his escapades, let alone look for him. It was ridiculous. And they were pathetic.
He had killed people while living in London. He had known that he would, that he would be unable to avoid it. Instead of trying to create some kind of Shrieking Shack for himself, which would hardly have been effective without someone to help him, he had done almost the exact opposite. He chose his victims carefully. He would take the entire month between changes to select the worst individual he could find. He would make sure that when the transformation came over him, that he was within striking range of the target, and that he had pounded the identity of that person into his brain in every way possible - thought, word, visualization... and scent. In one year, he had rid London of a dozen violent criminals. The next year, he chose bastards of a different type. But overall, his twelve years of lycanthropy in the English capital had been something of which he was very proud. He recalled a line from a movie which he had seen in a rather crowded theatre. The line was intended to be slightly funny in its context, but Remus had laughed so long and hard that other theatre patrons had thrown their popcorn at him. He paraphrased it to himself again: "Yes, I killed people... but they were all bad."
Now, Remus walked the streets of the city he had called home for so long with a completely different attitude, and everyone on the street could tell it. The change wasn't obvious in his movements. He didn't strut or dance about. He didn't shout or sing, didn't mug exaggerated expressions at passersby. But people couldn't help but look at him, some with curiosity, some with fear. Swaggering young men glared challenges at him, and were abashed when he disdained them, remaining aloof from their petty territoriality. And women glanced at him, did double takes to look back at him, and in some cases, openly stared at him. He acknowledged some of these with a look, sometimes a smile. There was no need to rush to respond to any of them. He would be attracting such attention from now on. He had become alpha.
When Sirius had fallen through the portal in the basement of the Ministry of Magic, Remus had only thought of how Harry must feel, what Harry must be thinking, how the loss would affect Harry. The Wolf understood that. It was not wise to traumatize a cub unnecessarily. But the Wolf was also trying to tell Remus something else - something that he did not allow himself to hear for months. The alpha had died long ago. Sirius had never taken the alpha position, Remus never knew why. But there was a very powerful reason for that: Sirius had suffered under the dementors. Most people would have become incurably insane from the abuse he had endured while a prisoner of Azkaban. In a way, while others of his age had been maturing, Sirius had regressed a bit under the intense mental pressure the dementors had brought to bear. He had found his greatest psychic defense lay in constantly reinforcing his personality by remembering exactly who he had been in school, combating the dementors' nightmares by being exactly who he had been during the happiest time of his life. Among the strongest memories he had of that time were those of James. So he thought of himself as a Marauder, and obsessed over every memory he could recover of his time with James. This was what had kept him from assuming the role of pack leader. Maybe there was more, as well. Maybe Sirius lacked something within himself that was necessary for leading a pack. But Remus could feel the fact in his Wolf self, that Sirius never ascended to alpha. This was not something Remus thought about or felt emotionally - it was deep in the scent, driven by profound instinct. Especially after the escape from Azkaban, Lupin had waited for Black to take over, to grow up, to lead. Remus would have gladly followed. But Sirius remained only the beta - though higher in rank than Remus, not the pack leader - until he died. Peter had committed his act of betrayal and had been cast out. Given a chance, Remus would have killed the rat. Only Harry remained to keep the pack alive. But that was enough. There was a cub to ensure the future. And Remus, unlike Sirius, did possess the qualities required of a pack leader. He had a different role to perform, now, a different niche to fill. His life would be different - he would be different - because the pack dynamic demanded he be different. He was the alpha.
--- --- ---
Under cover of darkness, Severus Snape apparated to a patch of wildwood, where gorse and bramble tore at his robes and loose soil underfoot threatened to pitch him down into a worse thicket below. He had always hated this entrance, but given the wards he already knew to be protecting the home he wished to enter - and the even stricter safeguards that may well have been placed around it recently - he had judged this path the safest.
Gripping a filthy shrub, he pressed his fingers to the bark on its trunk. He found the correct pattern fairly quickly, though it cost him several irritating, itchy wounds inflicted by the thorns on the bush's branches. Activating the spell that had been set into the plant, Severus let go and stepped back just in time to avoid being knocked over as a trap door rose silently from the ground, exposing a long, dark stairwell leading deep into the earth. The passageway was filled with webs and dust. Severus sighed. He was already covered in dust and soil. Making his entrance covered with cobwebs as well would probably be appropriate, if not particularly comfortable. He raised his wand, murmured "Lumos!" and descended the stairs in a pool of bright, cold light emanating from his wand tip, even as the trap door automatically closed behind him.
It was a long walk through the stone-lined corridor beneath the earth, about fifteen minutes of brisk striding to reach the house from the portal through which he had entered. On the way, Severus tried to think of more compelling arguments or more enticing ways to state his case, but nothing new occurred to him. The success of his appeal hinged on the opinion of a single person, and whether she would consider his advice or dismiss him out of hand depended on nothing more than her whim, which was increasingly untrustworthy under the stress of the past few weeks.
Severus reached a heavy wooden door at the corridor's end, extinguished his wand's light, and pressed the wood in a precise pattern. The door swung wide and Snape entered a richly appointed library, elegantly wood paneled, home to hundreds of exquisitely-bound books. The library was only dimly lit by a few lamps out of sight in another part of the room hidden behind the massive ceiling-height bookcases to either side of Severus' entrance. The room had a raised area immediately in front of the intricately inlaid wooden floor on which Snape stood. It was reached by climbing three broad wooden steps, which were bordered by beautifully curved handrails, cut in an understated curved-top pattern. Standing at the top of this miniature staircase, in full evening dress, one finger delicately resting on the rail, was the lady of the house, Narcissa Malfoy.
"Severus," she breathed throatily. "You startled me."
Snape regarded the woman with disappointment and sadness. So many years of lying incessantly had rendered her incapable of making a single, simple honest statement. She had been waiting for him, that much was obvious from her place and her posture. Narcissa never spent any time in the library if she could be anywhere else, and she never took the trouble to array herself to be appreciated unless someone was going to be able to see her. She had probably been aware of his approach for several minutes - perhaps even from the time he had apparated onto her husband's property. Furthermore, she was quite aware of what he did for Voldemort - and for Dumbledore. She knew he was an expert of espionage and counter-espionage. So she had to know that he was very aware that she had been waiting for him. Under different circumstances, she would doubtless have made up a more convincing lie. But now, she just didn't care. Any lie would do. No matter how transparent, or how useless, anything was preferable to the truth.
"Narcissa," Snape said with a semi-formal abbreviated bow. "How are you?"
Narcissa turned one corner of her mouth upward, but no smile reached her eyes. She moved slightly, only a twist of her shoulders and a tilt of her hips, but she made those movements with the liquid grace that had made her the object of attention of most of the boys in school. Combined with her cold look, the move was almost a parody of seductiveness. Severus knew her well enough to realize that this was intended as a harsh comment upon her marriage, and her life for the past decade and a half. Her voice dripped with scorn. "My husband is in jail, my son is a spoiled brat, I don't own any of the things that have been mine to use because of my marriage these past fifteen years, and I learned today that I am to be under investigation for treasonous activities. How should I be?"
Unswayed by the sarcasm, Severus asked, "Do you know why I am here?"
This time, Narcissa's half-smile became an ugly sneer. "On behalf of the Deatheathers, to kill me and keep me from testifying against Lucius. Or on behalf of Dumbledore, to kill me and keep me from carrying on Lucius' work?"
"That is not humorous," Snape intoned coldly. "There are few people left in this world for whom I care. The only two that are salient to this discussion are Draco... and you."
"Oh, Severus," Narcissa sighed with melodramatic excess. "You've come to sweep me off my feet. How gallant!"
"I have come to get your feet moving again," Snape scolded. "You've dawdled far too long. Britain is not a good place for you to be right now."
"Well, good for me, then," Narcissa replied archly. "Since I'm not in Britain." Snape raised an eyebrow skeptically. Narcissa explained in a snarl that shocked the man. "Britain is a muggle concept. And a poorly-executed one, at that. It's not a country - it's not even a very 'United' kingdom. The Irish Republican Army and the Scottish Independence Movement fight the English Torries while the Welshmen whine that they're being downtrodden...."
"I had no idea you were interested in muggle politics," Severus said with amazement as she took a breath.
With heavy sarcasm, she moaned, "I'm not! Lucius thought that he could conquer the world, and he wanted to know who would be waiting to fight him when he went out to claim it. So it was 'Thatcher this' and 'America that' for years. It makes for a very depressing dinner table, I can assure you. 'Voldemort's plan, Lucius' action,' over and over again. 'Conquer the wizarding world, and the muggles will fall,' repeated until he had convinced himself. He always thought it would be one of the world superpowers that would be his biggest challenge." She quieted, and her eyes focused somewhere far away. "Isn't it a great surprise, then, that his greatest nemesis would turn out to be Cornelius Fudge?"
Severus spoke with a stern warning tone. "It would not do to underestimate the governments of either the wizarding or the muggle versions of the United Kingdom - singly or in concert. Fudge has been in contact with the muggle Prime Minister for at least three years."
"For all the good they can do," Narcissa sneered, then seemed to grow tired of the effort sarcasm demanded. Her shoulders slumped, and she leaned on the stair rail. "It will be easy for them to convict Lucius, and they will then take the easiest way to continue. I'll be hounded until they find something to take away from me. Lucius' estate, first, of course."
"Which is why you need to collect as much of your own fortune as possible before they move on to investigating your assets," Severus pleaded. This would be the point on which his appeal rested. If Narcissa would only choose humility...
Severus' heart sank as Narcissa pulled herself up to her full height and assumed her most aristocratic demeanor. "Take my family's money and run, is it?" she demanded coldly.
To Severus' eye, Narcissa was one of a minority among women - those who looked better after childbirth than they had before. In her long, elegant gown, as low-cut and split-sided as one a teenager might choose, Narcissa looked full, lush and womanly. When she had been the envy of all the schoolgirls, her critics had called her a 'stick with tits.' Now with mature curves, her always-cold beauty was expressed in a somewhat softer mode. With the weathering from hard experience she now showed in her face, she appeared to Severus to be well on her way to becoming a mighty matriarch. And she might well have had the chance to develop into one, had Lucius been successful. She had staked quite a bit on her husband's plans, and she had spent unhappy years staying with him, hoping those schemes would produce results. They had, instead, failed - probably beyond hope of recovery. As it was, there was nothing for her in England, no chance for her unless she left. Snape knew he would have to strike her hard to make her understand. "You took your husband's money and stayed up until now. It's time for a change of strategy. You know that. It will take guts to actually do that."
Narcissa dropped her aristocratic pose. She was tired and frightened. "And where will I go?" she asked dully. "Where on Earth will Narcissa Malfoy not be recognized - and extradited when Corny Fudge gets around to asking for me? Muggle World? What would I do? 'Pardon me Bank Manager, but I have some Galleons I would like to exchange...' Face it, Severus. I couldn't even get started. Wizarding World? I'd be waiting for the aurors all day and all night."
Severus took on his most aloof lecturing manner. He could not afford to allow Narcissa to see the sympathy he felt for her. "I have spoken to some contacts. Beauxbatons would be willing to accept Draco as a transfer student. Same year, same credits, same time until graduation. No questions asked, no contacting Hogwarts, no transcripts or references required. And they would actually prefer it if he transferred as Draco Black. There will be no need to mention the difficulties of the Malfoys. You will be the Blacks, come to la belle France, attracted by the fashion and design of which the stolid English have no concept. You will need your own fortune to live on, and you will have to pay for Draco's schooling. But there will be no transfer fees, no enrollment fee. It was the most I could do."
Narcissa looked alarmingly like a drowning woman being thrown a rope. Much of the composure she had displayed was molded from fatalism - having given up hope, she was not about to look worried. But now, there was a frantic gleam in her eyes. "Where would I ... how do I even look for... what do I ..."
Severus stepped forward quickly to within arms' reach and held out a card. "This is your contact information. You could arrive as much as a week from now, but I would urge you to hurry. If you need to contact your bank, or make other arrangements - especially any legal changes that will allow you to use Narcissa Black as your name for all transactions - I would suggest you do it tomorrow morning. Pack lightly. Travel anonymously. Tell no one. Simply disappear."
Narcissa took the card and reached toward Severus, who recoiled from the proferred touch. Narcissa laughed under her breath. Severus had always hated to be touched, even by a beautiful woman. How did someone like that ever make love? She shook her head and softly said, "Thank you. I will do this. Draco will protest, but he will go. I will be taking the money, so... he will go. I... I would like to do something for you, someday. I don't know what you want, what you need. But I am in your debt. I... appreciate this... Oh, thank you, Severus." She seemed to be on the edge of tears.
Snape half-bowed again. "May I apparate from here, or will I be torn to shreds by your wards?"
"Not mine," Narcissa said thoughtfully. "But Lucius did some work here during his last few weeks of… freedom. I think you had better take the tunnel out. I'm sorry, Severus."
"There is no need to be sorry if you do as I have suggested," Snape pronounced. "Pack now. Business tomorrow. Gone by tomorrow night." He turned and disappeared into the subterranean passage.
--- --- ---
Severus Snape apparated to the point closest to Hogwarts' entrance that could be accessed by magical transportation. Because of the powerful wards surrounding the building and its grounds, the closest location to which one could apparate was far down a long grass slope from the building itself. The apparation point gave the arriving wizard a beautiful view of the castle, the foreshortened perspective making the towers seem taller and the battlements more crenelated, but when one was tired and impatient to be back inside and comfortably at work once again, the view was poor solace for the long climb ahead.
But Snape was used to the inconveniences of apparating to and from the Hogwarts area. Due to his involvement with Voldemort, he apparated more often than any other Hogwarts staff member during the school term. And since he tended to stay at the castle during the summers, while the other staff members left for their vacations, Snape had to deal with the magical restrictions year-round, and never go to enjoy the free and nearly instantaneous magical transportation that many other wizards took for granted.
In some ways, Severus had to admit that this was a good thing. It had saved him from punishment many times. When he was summoned to a meeting with the Dark Lord, he would frequently delay his departure long enough to grab a potion, or some ingredient for one. Often, he would inform Dumbledore of the summons, so that if he were to return injured, medical care could be arranged. And if he did not return, there would be someone who had a clue as to what had happened to him. Most loyal Death Eaters were supposed to drop everything and respond to a summons immediately by apparating to the designated meeting place. Voldemort expected to be able to call for his followers, and begin addressing them without delay, confident that his minions would hear him because they had appeared instantly upon feeling the pain of the summons. This was intended to be practice for the Death Eaters' use as shock troops in the next war Voldemort was planning. In case of an unforeseen opportunity or unexpected move against him by his enemies, the Dark Lord would summon his troops, and send them immediately out to fight. He would prefer to gather his Death Eaters in advance and send them out fully informed of their objectives. But the instant summons would prove very useful in an emergency. Most Death Eaters who delayed - even to pull a robe on or spell themselves dry from the bath - were punished for tardiness. The punishments could range from being assigned unpleasant jobs to suffering painful tortures, so there were few late arrivals in response to a summons.
The exception was Snape.
The Dark Lord knew very well that Severus had to make a long walk out of the castle and across the grounds before he had any chance of apparating. So Snape tended to appear at the back of the crowd once all the other Death Eaters had gathered. This had caused many of the newer recruits to mark him as 'special.' Which, to them, meant 'watch out for this one - he's especially dangerous.' But it had earned him nothing but contempt from the highest-ranking Death Eaters, Lucius Malfoy specifically.
The self-styled 'right hand man of the Dark Lord' was extremely scornful of the special leniency afforded the potions master, and wasted no opportunity to disparage Snape because of it. Severus had bided his time, taking the abuse without response for one reason in particular: Lucius had referred to himself as the Dark Lord's Second-in-Command for years. But Voldemort himself had never confirmed nor denied that assertion. Malfoy was often detailed to pass his Lord's orders on to other Death Eaters. But while Lucius felt this made him the Death Eaters' Field Commander, Severus saw the job more as that of a 'messenger boy.' Lucius had seemed to believe that once the Dark Lord had conquered the world, it would be Malfoy's job to run it. Severus believed that if Tom Riddle were ever victorious, there would be no ruler other than Voldemort. Being Second-in-Command to such a megalomanic who had succeeded in becoming absolute ruler would be nearly meaningless. There would be Voldemort, exalted, and everyone else, subjugated. And no significant rank or distinction in between.
Whether or not Malfoy had been correct in his hopes and dreams seemed rather unimportant, now, however. He was in jail, awaiting trial on a plethora of charges, at least two of which - treason and murder - were for capital crimes. And that brought up a problem, the discussion of which the Ministry of Magic had tried to prevent since the last of Voldemort's wars. Much to the consternation of MInistry officials, the problem had been discussed extensively and publicly since the arrests of Malfoy and several other followers of Voldemort. The problem was extremely indelicate, which lent a certain excitement to talking about it. The problem was this: it is extremely difficult to sentence a wizard to death - because there are so many magical ways to thwart the process of execution.
The traditional form of execution in wizarding England was beheading. Even when dealing with an average-powered magic user, problems immediately arise when sentence is to be carried out. First, the condemned must be kept on the gallows for a full hour, with nothing to drink, so that any dosage of polyjuice might wear off. Then, the presiding officials must beware of illusion. A powerful illusionist could make it appear that he had put his head on the block, when actually he had tucked his chin hard into his own chest and hidden it beneath his glamour. When the axe fell, there would be illusory blood. And the best illusionists could even give their phantom head the semblance of enough weight so that the headman could lift it up to display to the crowd without catching on to the trick. After that, it would be simple. The illusionist would cast invisibility on his own head, and wait for his body to be turned back over to his family for burial. Execution thwarted. Illusionists - especially of that level of skill - were rare, and it was not very likely that one would actually pull off the 'phantom head' trick. But it was the possibility that drove the Ministry mad with frustration.
There was an even more practical plan that, according to Professor McGonagall, had been quite popular during the fourteenth century. The condemned would transfigure some foreign object - usually a pumpkin - into a reasonable semblance of his own head. Then... and this was the truly difficult part... the caster would transfigure himself into a genuinely headless person. His brain would have to reside within his chest cavity, and there would have to be some allowance made for breathing. There were many suggestions regarding solutions to that problem, any one of which sounded quite unpleasant to Snape. When the transfigured pumpkin was cloven from the shoulders to which it had been attached, a very realistic beheading would satisfy the observers. When the body was cast away, the now-headless transfigurer had the choice of remaining headless, and thereby blind and deaf, or of trying to re-transfigure himself back into his old shape. In Professor McGonagall's story, it was this step that actually killed most of those who attempted the ruse.
If beheading was ruled out as a viable execution method, there were few useful choices left. Hanging was hopeless. A well-placed wingardium leviosa cast upon the condemned man's boots would keep him floating safely all day once the trap was pulled beneath his feet. Burning was quite a joke to anyone who knew the spells to keep himself safe from heat (and from actually catching fire) while standing in the midst of flames. And the wizarding world had never adopted the use of technological methods such as the gun, which a firing squad might use, or the electric chair.
Many people had suggestions for alternative methods, some of which were suggested loudly and publicly in places were people enjoyed alcohol. Avada Kadavra led the list, even though the Ministry balked at the legal implications of using an Unforgivable curse to punish someone for using an Unforgivable curse. The next most popular suggestion had been to allow ravenous ants to devour the condemned. This plan had been banned by law due to the lobbying efforts of a large group of kind-hearted English wizards, who felt that it would be cruel to starve the ants to insure they reached the proper level of ravenousness.
None of these arguments reached the real secret dread of the Ministry, though. Their real fear had to do with what happened to a wizard after a successful execution. Especially in the case of violent death, it was comparatively easy for a wizard to become a ghost. The bustling spectral population of Hogwarts itself lent credence to that belief. Muggles were said to assume ghostly form on occasion, but most often, those shades could, at best, deliver vague impressions of their presence. Sometimes, they could only make themselves noticed to especially sensitive people who were watching for them in the first place. A chill in the air, a curtain blowing without wind, some small sound, or even a distinctive smell were among the catalog of muggle ghosts' vocabulary when trying to communicate with the living. By contrast, the ghosts of Hogwarts carried on very understandable conversations, gave advice, an even - in the case of Professor Binns - taught regular classes to the living. The Ministry had a genuine fear of propagandizing ghosts of executed Death Eaters.
Someone who was charismatic and somewhat dashing looking in life - and Severus had to admit that Lucius was such a person - would make a particularly effective public relations ghost. The spectre could preach support for Voldemort - or any other despot like him - without the fear of reprisal that a living man had to consider. Worse, they could do the same for hundreds of years. Many of Hogwarts' ghosts were centuries old and showing no signs of fading away any time soon.
But the approach the Ministry was taking toward the latest group of arrested Death Eaters circumvented both the 'unkillable wizard' and the 'returning ghost' problems very neatly. The crimes that Lucius and the others were accused of had what were referred to as Special Circumstances. In the cases of murder, this generally referred to torture. These Special Circumstances enabled the Ministry to ask for - not just the death penalty - but total eradication of each convicted criminal. The Dementor's Kiss would be applied to those convicted of Special Circumstance capital crimes. A dementor could destroy an individual so completely, literally consuming the condemned's soul, that there would be no chance for a ghost of that person to ever manifest itself. There were many loyal, law-abiding wizards and witches who hated the dementors and refused to countenance their use. There were some who actively campaigned against their being used even as prison guards, although they were the most effective guards in history. But if the Ministry had its way, any organized protests would come too late to save any of the souls of prisoners currently awaiting trial. Cornelius Fudge was already pushing for Lucius Malfoy to be the first to be kissed by the dementors, and the trial wouldn't even begin for several more weeks, at least.
Severus shook his head, disappointed in himself at the sentimental turn his thoughts had taken. He would never offer an excuse for such weakness in himself, but he believed he could pinpoint a reason. This had been a particularly long and stressful night. The fatalistically resigned Narcissa, suddenly desperate once she had seen a glimmer of hope; Lord Voldemort, in full recruitment mode; and the barely sapient Vincent Crabbe, hardly a jewel in Slytherin House's crown at any time, and particularly stupid tonight - together they had drained whatever energy he had retained after a full day's work in Hogwarts' potions dungeon. Well, those people in addition to having to apparate five times, covering most of Great Britain in giant leaps. He hated apparating at the best of times, and multiple apparations were worse. At least he hadn't had to use a portkey. If there had been portkeys involved, this already-stressful evening would not have been worth the effort. If there were ever a night during which he was expected to use five portkeys, he might well apparate himself to America and live as a muggle.
Severus' long meditation had helped him ignore much of the steep climb, and he found himself at the front entrance to the castle more than ready to descend to his quarters and repair some of the damage that had been done to his robes by the hideous brambles outside of Malfoy's tunnel entrance. Once downstairs, he fully expected to be able to reapply himself to working, even without rest. The cool atmosphere of the dungeons soothed him, and his love of potions made it possible to renew himself with work. He turned toward the downward stairs and was interrupted by the unfocused sounding mumblings of an old wizard. Snape wasn't fooled. Albus Dumbledore may have mastered the art of speaking like a homeless muggle, but the last word to describe him was 'unfocused.'
"Ah. Ummm... Severus. How good that you happened by."
Snape sighed in exasperation, but slowly turned to face the Headmaster. 'Worse than Narcissa,' he thought, though he said nothing. 'You know he's lying because you can hear his voice.' Like Narcissa this very evening, it was obvious the old man had been waiting for Severus. But, just like Narcissa, he was constitutionally unable to utter such a simple truth. What was particularly sad was that this old liar was Britain's... and ultimately, the world's... greatest defense against Voldemort - and anyone who, like Voldemort, would enslave and destroy rather than nurture and build. Severus raised an eyebrow and waited for the Headmaster to continue.
"I need to discuss... umm... some things. Things that are better spoken of... ahhh... out of public earshot."
"Would you accompany me to the dungeons, then?" Snape asked politely, trying to steer their footsteps in the direction he wished to go, even if he knew he would not be able to so steer the coming discussion. He had never been able to effectively redirect a conversation with Dumbledore to his own purposes.
"If you could, Severus... It would be... better... if we were to go to my offices."
Snape nodded once, curtly, and followed as the Headmaster strode off toward his private staircase at a very respectable pace, not bothering to use the old man's limping stride he usually employed when he knew he was being observed. Severus was very aware that Albus was much more physically fit than he usually let on. The pose of aged frailty was yet another of the Headmaster's many habitual lies.
Severus scowled sourly. In the years since he had entered Lord Voldemort's service, he had grown intellectually and emotionally. He had come to see the futility of the 'Death Eater' cause, and the complete inappropriateness of Tom Riddle as absolute ruler of anything - the world, Britain, even Hogsmeade. Old Tom 'I am Lord' Voldemort was insane, impractical - and worst of all, had no plan beyond seizing power. His followers all thought they knew his plan. The disproof of that could be effected simply by asking any two of them, separately, what the plan was. One Deatheater would swear the plan was to 'Kill the Muggles.' Another would insist that muggles were to be enslaved. Yet a third would declaim that before even considering muggles, all mudbloods were to be exterminated. Still another believed that it was squibs who were to be destroyed first. The Dark Lord himself simply wanted to be the Dark Lord OF something. The world, if possible; the British Isles if that were as much as his forces could dominate - Hogsmeade if he could conquer nothing else. Once in power, he was likely to have a very impressive throne room... but so far as managing resources, disposing of waste, generating energy, and encouraging commerce, the Lord was more in the dark than any muggle leader of the day.
So Severus had grown, and had seen these things, and had made a desperate decision. He had joined the opposition. And not just any opposition, but the most diametrically opposite opposition that he could find. The opposition led by Voldemort's greatest enemy, Albus Dumbledore, who held within his webs of magical protection his secret weapon, Harry Potter, the Boy who Lived.
Severus had to swallow a lot of his own pride to even consider James Potter's son a potential ally - or even a potential tool. James had tormented Severus in school, and his thuggish friend, Black, had nearly gotten Snape killed. But though he was an undeservedly famous, spoiled brat, Potter did seem to have a positive genius for getting the better of Lord Voldemort. Not only had the boy survived Voldemort's killing curse as a baby, he had thwarted the Dark Lord at least five times in five years. So Severus had finally come to accept the use of the boy as a tool. But the man who wielded that tool? Lying, manipulative Dumbledore? Snape had become less and less sure of his loyalty to that man and his cause as the years had passed. Besides, Snape had joined the Death Eaters in order to follow a vision of a better world, a world based on structure and discipline, in which those who were intelligent, creative and driven would be rewarded commensurately with their intelligence, creativity and drive. Dumbledore, for all his anti-Voldemort efforts, seemed to be bent on making a world safe for mediocrity, in which the average was praised, the ordinary was exemplified, the normal enshrined as the goal to which to aspire. Too late, years into his double agency, spying on Dumbledore for Voldemort and on Voldemort for Dumbledore, Snape realized that he wanted neither of those men's dreams to come true. 'If there were only another alternative,' he mused. 'Another leader, as determined as Riddle, as devious as Dumbledore, as powerful as...' Who? Who could be the exemplar of power that could check Voldemort's excesses and discipline Dumbledore's laxity? He climbed the stairs behind the Headmaster, listening to the grinding as the wall shut behind him and the stair disappeared into the column once again.
"Severus, I have a problem with... security... that will need to be dealt with all this summer, until the next school term."
"Headmaster," Severus said seriously. "The reason that I am at the castle all summer instead of off vacationing with the rest of the staff is that I have far too much work to do as it is to be able to take even the most minimal of breaks. In fact, after the Gryffindor fiascoes of this past term, I have so much repair to do..."
Dumbledore cut off Snape's protests with a rare direct look and straightforward speech. His vaporous demeanor disappeared altogether, and he wasted no time in cutting directly to his own strongest hold over the potions master. "Severus. The reason you are not summering on the beach at Majorca with Trelawney is that you cannot expose your left arm to public scrutiny. If Voldemort's dark mark is seen, people will know that you have been associated with the Death Eaters. The reason that you spend precious little time outside of Hogwarts' wards is that outside of them you would be even more completely at the mercy of Voldemort's summonses than you already are. I appreciate your working to make your classes more effective, but seriously... if there were repairs to do, the house elves..."
This time, it was Dumbledore's turn to be cut off. Snape may serve two masters in a political sense, but neither of those two powerful wizards could begin to perform as brilliantly as Snape in the field of potion brewing. In that light, Snape was the acknowledged authority on all things potion related, and Dumbledore had just tread upon the wrong floorboard when he suggested house elves be employed in the potions dungeon. Snape's voice radiated cold as he flatly stated, "No house elf who has ever lived could return the dungeon's burners to their proper operating parameters after Neville Longbottom has blown up his year's supply of cauldrons over them. I can. And that is only one of the many repairs that I suggest you allow me to get on with before next year's crop of bunglers come in to destroy my working space again."
Dumbledore threw up his hands in mock surrender. "Yes, yes, please, get on with it. You know best, of course. This extra consideration I am asking you to make will hardly take any extra effort at all. Perhaps you will even find some way to turn it to your advantage."
This put Snape fully on guard. Dumbledore could skirt the truth with the best diplomats in the world, but when he turned to lies as bald as this one certainly was, he was always ready to unload something truly awful. If Dumbledore had seen any possible way that Snape could have turned this situation to his advantage, that is exactly how he would have presented it. Instead, he had drawn the unwilling potions master into his office, gently warned him about a security problem, and now boldly lied about Snape being able to see some good from it. Severus gritted his teeth. "What is it?" he asked, not sure he really wanted to know.
"Oh, not that much," Albus said airily. "It's just that we'll have Harry Potter here over the summer, and I'd like you to make sure he doesn't get killed."
Snape stared. He scowled. Finally, in a voice so choked with anger that it was barely more than a whisper, he rasped, "You jest."
Dumbledore looked startled, then confused. He uttered a high pitched 'Hmmm?' then appeared to marshall his wandering thoughts. "Oh. No. Oh, no. I assure you. Potter will be here between terms. He has a summer job. He will be caring for the vegetation in the various greenhouses on behalf of Professor Sprout."
Snape's voice dripped venom. "I had thought that position was to be filled... with someone competent."
Dumbledore smiled. With a kindly twinkle in his eye, he said, "It is... unusual... to hear you refer to Neville Longbottom as 'competent,' Severus."
Scornfully, Snape stated, "I would be pleased to learn that a special decree had been issued to guarantee that Mister Longbottom would never again approach an innocent cauldron with the intent to do it harm by attempting to brew a potion. I am the first to admit, however, that potions are both an art and a science, while successfully making them is a craft. There are few who excel at the endeavor, and many who fail. And many of those find success in other fields. Mister Longbottom seemed to have found his field. I believe it was said that his natural affinity for the subject approached that of Professor Sprout herself?"
"And good for him! Skilled herbologists are as rare as... well... as skilled potion makers, come to think of it." Dumbledore smiled and paused, his focus far away. "This summer, it is Harry Potter who will be in the greenhouses while Professor Sprout takes a long-deserved vacation. And since that is the case, special arrangements must be made regarding security. You, as our greatest expert in counter-espionage, are absolutely crucial to our efforts."
Dumbledore was an absolute master of using the indefinite 'our' - especially when what he really meant was 'my,' Snape thought. "I suppose Potter's summer plans were arranged by you, personally," he said coldly.
"Eh? Oh. Oh, yes. Quite. Arranged them myself, yes. Can't lose the Boy Who Lived, you know. War with Voldemort coming, must keep our weapons in good order. Which is why I have arranged assistance for you in the matter of... ah... preventing our boy's untimely death. This summer, you will be joined by Mister Lupin."
Snape's face flushed dark red. His lips pulled back to expose his teeth. "That. Is. Not. Funny!" Flecks of spittle sprayed as the potions professor shook with rage.
"Nor is it intended to be so. It is what we are going to do this summer. Mister Lupin, who I am very sorry to have lost as a Professor..."
"Animal," Snape growled.
"Lycanthrope." Dumbledore corrected calmly. "And a quite useful individual. We will work together, Severus. We will ensure that the Boy Who Lived... continues to do so. And now I suggest that you get some rest. I have young Harry scheduled to meet with you in your office at nine o'clock sharp tomorrow morning."
--- --- ---
Since this was to be his first day of meetings with the Professors who would determine whether his summer at Hogwarts was a success or a failure, Harry Potter made sure that he was out of bed, bathed and dressed long before eight o'clock. His first meeting would be with Professor Sprout. He was concerned about that one, since the Herbology professor would be giving him his list of duties for the summer. But he feared the second appointment. That one would be with the Potions professor, Snape. The two of them had gotten off to a bad start with one another, and for some reason, whatever Harry did only made Snape hate him more. The thought that it would be Snape who supervised his stay at Hogwarts worried Harry. He could only hope that Remus Lupin would arrive soon to help ameliorate the worst of Snape's fury.
Harry skipped breakfast that morning, at least in part because he did not really know how his meals would be provided in the summer. Would the dining hall function between terms? Or did he have to summon a house elf and order each meal separately? He would have to ask someone... he guessed it would be Professor Sprout, since he imagined that Snape would make him out to be an idiot for not knowing how to feed himself in this place that had, after all, been his home for five years.
And that was the other part of why he had decided to eat nothing that morning. His stomach was none too settled, and there was no mystery as to why. He was nervous and afraid. Nervous about working for Professor Sprout, worried about letting her down, guilty about displacing Neville as her summer helper of choice. And most of all, worried about what Snape would do to him once he realized that Harry was in his power for the entire summer.
Giving himself plenty of time to make his first appointment, Harry walked through the strangely deserted castle, out the main entrance and around the wide grass swathe that surrounded the old stone walls. He had nearly circled around to the back of the school when he reached the path leading toward the Herbology Department, and the greenhouses in which he would be working. Once he arrived at the complex of buildings dedicated to the school's extensive collection of plants, he began peering in through the transparent greenhouse walls. There was no sense in going to Professor Sprout's office first, since she was almost never there. And, as he had expected, in the third greenhouse he checked, there was the professor, feeding some plants.
Most plants were fed by having amendments added to the soil in which they grew. These particular plants were somewhat different. They were a miniature, fast-blooming variety of the giant snapdragons that guarded garden paths against trespassers throughout most of the wizarding world. To feed these, the gardener had to hold a piece of meat just within snapping range of each plant. When the plant responded by snapping its feeding tube out toward the proffered treat, the keeper had to drop the meat and snatch his hand back out of range. It was said that the snapdragon would always go for the dropped piece of meat, instinctively understanding that it had a better chance of feasting on flesh that was falling than it did of catching something that was rapidly retreating. Bandaged fingers among the sixth-years who usually cared for the plants during the regular school term either disproved the theory, or testified to the sixth-years' slowness in snatching their hands out of range. Harry reckoned that he'd learn which it was this summer.
He opened the greenhouse door, stepped inside, then slammed the door quickly behind him to prevent a creeping creeping charlie from escaping into the great outdoors. The creeping creeping charlies were generally well-behaved and slow-growing within a small enclosure. But if any one of them were to get out of the greenhouse complex and root, the entire castle could be covered with creeping vines within a matter of weeks - or even days, in the case of a particularly young and vigorous plant.
Professor Sprout, at the far end of the greenhouse, 'hrumphed' at the door slam, and turned to scowl disapprovingly at the boy who had disturbed her plant feeding.
The Herbology professor was a short, plump woman whose demeanor was usually quite merry. When Harry pictured her face, he generally thought of round cheeks plumped on the corners of her smile, or a round chin under a friendly laugh. Professor Sprout was not smiling nor laughing now, however. In fact, Harry thought she looked positively grim. "Harry Potter," she stated, as though announcing his arrival to invisible onlookers. Harry felt a twinge of apprehension in the way she said his name. Of his regular professors - except for Hagrid, who had taught Care of Magical Creatures during one term - Professor Sprout was the most likely to call him, or any of her students, by first name. She was equally comfortable following Hogwarts tradition and calling him more formally, 'Mister Potter.' Hearing his first and last names pronounced together in such a flat tone made him think he was already in trouble. He swallowed hard and waited for his teacher to continue. "Albus... Headmaster Dumbledore told me you would be here. Well, come on in, then."
Harry already was in, and had already slammed the door behind him to keep the creeping creeping charlie confined. He wasn't quite sure what he should do, so he shuffled toward the professor uncertainly, earning him a look that clearly told him he was being an idiot. He picked up his pace and immediately stumbled over the trailing end of a tripvine. He recovered his balance with a skip and a hop, checked the floor for further obstacles and looked up to see Professor Sprout staring at him. She looked more like Professor Snape in a bad mood than he had ever seen any other teacher look. As Harry drew close to her, the tension of the unspoken guilt within him broke free and he blurted out, "Professor, I'm sorry about Neville. When Professor Dumbledore told me I would be working here this summer, I didn't know what to say."
"Mmmm Hmmm," Professor Sprout murmured in response, studying the boy shrewdly. "Albus... Professor Dumbledore has surprised me, as well." A ghost of her familiar smile broke through, and very gently she said, "Harry, what was it that you asked of the Headmaster?"
With a sinking feeling, Harry realized that he would have to admit to the entire conversation in the Headmaster's office. He could see that Dumbledore's assurances that the entire arrangement would seem to be his own fault would prove groundless once again. "Actually, all I asked was how to properly apply to stay at Hogwarts during the summer... to study. I specifically said that I meant to study my regular subjects, and that I had intended to stay in my room. Or my room and the library. Or wherever the Headmaster thought best. He thought it was best that I be here."
"I see," Professor Sprout said flatly. "He saw a chance to have you over the summer, so my specific request..." She pursed her lips in silence for a moment, then let out her breath, shaking her head. "Well. You're here, and we'll have to do the best we can with that."
Harry felt horrible, more like a burden than a potentially helpful worker. "Please Professor, I know you wanted Neville for the job. And I know that he is really much more qualified. So I got him to help me. I'll be writing with questions, and we'll speak by floo. He said I could talk to him every day, and he would give me advice."
"Oh, that's nice," Professor Sprout said archly. "A daily reminder of his banishment. Still, I don't doubt that you could use the help, and it will be better for the plants if Mister Longbottom can supplement my instructions. I shall have to write and give him my thanks."
"Yes, Professor," Harry replied dully, his heart somewhere near his shoes. In an attempt to win back some of Professor Sprout's confidence by showing some enthusiasm, he asked, "Where do I begin?"
The professor gave him a smile that had none of her usual humor in it. "I would love to show you," she said sarcastically. "But Albus... the Headmaster has you scheduled for another appointment this morning. Considering that you will be meeting with Professor Snape in the main building, downstairs, in the dungeons, you can probably make it on time if you go now. And hurry."
Completely abashed, Harry sadly asked, "When can I come back?"
"Oh..." Professor Sprout waved a hand distractedly. She had already turned back to feed the carnivorous plants as she continued, "Tomorrow. Come back tomorrow morning. And none of this napping about until eight. Be here at seven o'clock sharp. And be ready for a long day of work. I have a lot to show you."
As he backed carefully away, Harry called out, "Yes, ma'am. Seven o'clock. Thank you, Professor." Without turning, Professor Sprout waved absently in Harry's direction. He turned and hurried out of the greenhouse and uphill toward the castle.