Author's note #1: I'm surprised but pleased to see that there's still interest in this story. I'm currently on Christmas break, so I hope to spend a lot of time getting reacquainted with it (hence why this chapter is up so quickly). I'm also dropping to part-time next semester, because I don't need a full course load to meet my degree requirements, which will hopefully leave me with more time to work on my own projects. Thanks to everyone for the support!

Authors' note #2: The "would you like me to conjure you a pipe" reference Severus makes is to Sigmund Freud. (I imagine that Severus is fairly knowledgeable about muggle things, growing up in a muggle neighbourhood; and being a spy, he'd probably like to keep up to date about everything, even if it's only out of habit at this point.) Freud started smoking to replace his addiction, can't remember whether to cocaine or heroin. Anyway, it was the pipe that ultimately killed him. Ironic, eh?

Warnings: swearing

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I referenced Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban while writing this.

Making Plans

As it turned out, not only had Black escaped, but so had the hippogriff of which Lucius had arranged the execution. Severus did not particularly care about the hippogriff one way or the other, but he did care that he had to listen to Draco whining about the hippogriff. He'd gotten a letter from Lucius about it, too, demanding any information Severus might have had about the miraculous disappearance of a 100-kilogram flying half-lion beast. Of course, his attention could always be steered back to the beaten path by the mere suggestion of Black reaching his ears. Considering the number of wild rumours flying around the school about the events of that night, mere suggestions of Black were not hard to come by.

Really, it was unbe-fucking-lievable.

He had accidentally destroyed a few of Dumbledore's trinkets in his rage. Taking the rest of the night to brood in front of the fire with a good portion of liquor had not taken the edge off his anger, to the misfortune of Dumbledore's office. A few of the Headmaster portraits had actually ducked out of the frame as some sort of spiky glass orb shattered on the wall nearby.

Dumbledore himself had had nothing to offer but empty platitudes and that infuriatingly, infuriatingly calm grandfatherly attitude.

"I don't think you're really that angry, though," the Headmaster had commented during a pause.

Severus, who had been pacing back and forth, whipped his head around to stare incredulously at the other man. "You—don't—think—I'm—angry?" He didn't think there was a sentient being in the castle who was bad enough at reading emotions to not see how angry he was.

Dumbledore tipped his head in concession. "Well, of course you're angry," he clarified, "but I think you're disappointed more than that."

By this point, they had been through the whole "how could you/let bygones be bygones/it was Potter I fucking know it/sherbet lemon?" exchange twice already, so Severus supposed this was Dumbledore's new approach.

"Oh, are you now an expert in psychoanalysis? Would you like me to conjure you a pipe?" Severus asked with as much sarcasm as he could.

"If Sirius Black got the Kiss, you'd finally feel like you'd proved yourself to be better than your childhood nemesis."

"Ha!" Severus laughed humourlessly. "It's just like you to make this conversation about something big and grand. We aren't talking about my pathological inadequacies, Dumbledore, we're talking about how you aided and abetted in the escape of a convict and are turning a blind eye to said convicts' guilt!"

"We do not know that Sirius is guilt after all. The children said Peter Pettigrew-"

"Pettigrew is dead! He's dead. I do not believe one fucking word that comes out of the mouth of Harry Potter. Speaking of pathologies, the boy is a pathological trouble-maker. Besides, even if he's not guilty of this thing"—of selling out Lily—"he's guilty of something."

Alas, this argument had just returned them to the circles they'd been running all morning. Severus had eventually given in first, knowing they could go in circles all day and Dumbledore would never give him the answers he wanted. "I have an experimental potion that I've left on stasis too long," he'd said, and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

His next order of business, since he did not, in fact, have an experimental potion that needed tending to, was to go speak with his House. There was a secret that had been kept for far too long. Dumbledore would accuse him of being petty, but really, Severus told himself, he had thrown himself in front of three children to keep them from getting mauled. If that wasn't a sign that having a werewolf at the school wasn't safe, he didn't know what was.

"Quiet," he said, and the curious chatter that had risen to a clamour suddenly died down. "I am sure everyone knows that there was an incident on the grounds last night. I do not want to scare you"—any more than necessary—"simply tell you to be careful and reconsider any late-night wanderings in which you may be inclined to partake." He caught Draco's eye, and the boy had the decency to look slightly abashed, his head dipping in a very un-Malfoy-like gesture.

"The truth is," he continued, "Professor Lupin is a werewolf."

Chatter broke out again, accompanied by gasps, as well as shrieks form some of the younger students.

"Silence!"

The noise stopped again. Severus waited until he was sure he had his snakes' full attention once more.

"I have been brewing Wolfsbane Potion for him, but yester day he was… distracted… and forgot to take it. Some students were out after curfew last night, and they almost paid the price for it. You see the necessity of being on alert. It would be a pity if we had a repeat event… next year…." Not that he expected Lupin to still be teaching next year. That was the entire point of this conversation.

The students started talking again as soon as their Head of House dismissed them. Severus smirked to himself as he caught the words "write to my parents" and "mum will be horrified" and "can't believe the risk" amongst the cacophony.

Lupin resigned immediately. Dumbledore had done nothing but sigh "Oh, Severus" and look at him with sadness and disappointment in his eyes. Minerva had had a bit more to say about the Potions Master outing her ex-Gryffindor. Severus had been quiet as she'd chewed him out, and then finally raised an eyebrow and drawled, "Are you done?" His flippancy had rendered the witch speechless, and she'd gone off in even more of a huff. In his defence, all he'd done was inform the students that there was a dangerous creature in the castle and to be careful. He hadn't forced Lupin to quit, not really.

Lupin's resignation was the only triumph that Severus got at the end of the year. He also tried to fail Potter in potions, but Dumbledore stepped in and Severus ended up giving the brat an "Acceptable."

"If you fail Harry," Dumbledore said, looking distinctly amused, "you'll have to give him remedial potions lessons next year. One-on-on."

The Leaving Feat saw Severus even more dour than usual. Gryffindor had won the House Cup again, their Quidditch scores boosting their points enough to come on top. At least they hadn't yet won at the expense of humiliating the Slytherins, as had happened a couple years prior.

All in all, this year's end wasn't that much worse than the year's ends had been since Potter came to Hogwarts. Severus decided that the relief that he wouldn't have to fear for his life next year cancelled out some of the trauma from the fact that he'd almost died this year. Not that he would admit he'd been afraid.

Severus was in the supply cupboard taking note of what ingredients needed to be restocked when he heard the tell-tale pop of a house elf appearing out in the main classroom.

"Misty has a letter for Mister Potions Master Sir!" the elf squeaked.

Severus frowned. It was one of Lucius's elves. Lucius only sent letters by elf when he didn't want to risk the messages being intercepted, although quite a lot of his messages, in Severus's opinion, didn't reflect particularly well on the Malfoy patriarch. It meant that this was something more sensitive than usual, though, likely something blatantly illegal.

"Put it on the desk for me," he called out, unwilling to leave his task half-finished. He suspected opening that letter would be opening Pandora's box.

"Yes, Mister Potions Master Sir!"

Severus emerged from the cupboard a few minutes later and snatched the letter up off the desk. It was a pithy note. The first line made his breath catch.

Dear Severus,

I will not reveal my sources, but I am certain we are getting closer to bringing the Dark Lord back. Maybe not this year or next year, but soon. I am sure he will want to hear all the details of your time playing Dumbledore's lapdog. Until then, I have a proposition for you. I think it is high time to remind the public of the Dark Lord's insignia. What are you doing the day of the Quidditch World Cup?

Lucius