Harry lept through the halls, glad that Snape was still... wherever he had gone, as he had quite the temper about running in the halls (quite the temper about most things, really). He ducked down a few side passages, took a few shortcuts (getting dust all over his robes), and with a bit of grace, he was standing about fifty paces in front of where Zach Smith ought to materialize.
Any.
Time.
Now.
In the meantime, Harry took slow deep breaths, drawing on something that he had relearnt at Snape's elbow - to be able to fight, you needed to be able to breathe. Not that this was a formal duel, or anything.
There! Zach Smith was waltzing down the hall, talking to Justin about something silly that Hannah had done in Herbology. Remembering back to that blasted Pensieve memory, Harry Potter traipsed out of the side passage, trying to look every inch his father's son, with all the arrogance of breeding - and the bigger arrogance of the Boy Who Lived.
Harry knew he'd managed decent like, when he saw the flash of suppressed hatred in Zach's eye. "Smith, my good man, thank you so much for taking over for me! I wouldn't ask, but I've got so much to do - Quidditch is just heating up, it is! I'm sure you'll do just fine in my shoes, don't you dare worry a whit!" Without waiting for Zach to say a thing - he was redfaced infuriated, anyways, it would take him a while, sure as it often did Ron when Malfoy was on a mean streak, Harry Potter strode out, turning around a corner.
It was only at that moment, as Harry was congratulating himself, that he realized he had no bloody idea where Luna Lovegood was.
Around the corner, Luna's clear and icy voice rang out, with a trace of warmth in its usual vapidity, "He's right, you know."
Harry pictured Zach Smith wheeling to glare at Luna. It was easy to picture his reactions, they really were quite a lot like Ron's.
"If you don't want to be living in Potter's shadow..." Harry could almost hear Luna pursing her lips, "How about doing something bigger than what he's done?"
"Bigger than... what Potter managed last year?" Zach Smith, not terribly imaginative under the best of days, asked uncertainly.
"Sure! You know, he never did manage to get any Slytherins to join..." Luna trailed off uncertainly.
Zach Smith's assent sounded just like he'd just nodded, "No, he really never did."
"Hey-" Here Harry pictured Luna grabbing Zach's arm, "Wouldn't it just get Potter's goat if you invited Malfoy to join?" Zach Smith let out a low chuckle, and Luna continued, "You are in charge now, aren't you?"
Harry felt an icy chill at exactly how easy Luna had pulled the whole thing off. He had the funny suspicion that even if he'd managed to convince Hermione, that she'd have had a lot more trouble getting Zach to go along. Harry didn't want to think about it, but he could, and so did, see Hermione flirting it up with Smith, just to convince him that he'd win the girls' hearts by being braver than The Chosen One. Luna didn't need such manipulation. She just laid the points down, and Smith drank them like he was dying in the desert. As Harry trundled his way back to his common room, he found himself wondering if Draco Malfoy would have taken the same bait... Snape'd know, but did Harry dare ask Snape?
Harry Potter woke the next morning with two thoughts on his mind:
First, it was Friday, and that meant Defense against the Dark Arts, again. Four hours per week, because Prof. Snape was combining all the classes.
Second, it was Friday, and Harry hadn't finished his homework.
This led to a flurry of activity, as Harry's fingers flew over the physical password on his trunk.* With a sigh of relief, he pulled out a slate and parchment, and started to scribble. A 100 ways to murder a fellow student? Harry thought, putting his quill to his mouth. With a trace of a frown, he scribbled it out, tore off the piece, and started again. That had been way too ambitious anyway - wouldn't Snape sneer if Harry'd only managed, say, 66?** Harry began to write, starting with the Avada Kedavra. That was the easy one, wasn't it?
And then his mind drifted towards the other unforgivables. Harry was fairly certain that the Cruciatus curse wouldn't kill someone, but the Imperius? That had possibilities. Harry wrote down three, one in which the Imperius was allowed to drop while the person was standing pointe blanke in front of a moving muggle vehicle, a second where the poor victim was told to ingest a poison they couldn't recognize (there was a sidenote beside this about 'why it is important to study potions thoroughly' - it almost felt like brownnosing, but Harry'd actually meant it, so he let it slide).
After ten more murderous spells, Harry scattered sand on his parchment, and stood up. He could hear Ron stirring anyway, and Ron was hardly going to leave him in his bed, working on a homework assignment.
Ron and Harry, showered and combed, spilled down the stairs into the common room as usual. Hermione's face lit up at the sight of them, "Boys!" she cried.
"Food!" Ron responded, grabbing Hermione by the hand and dragging her down the hall, as Harry laughed beside them.
As they sat down to eat (it was Bacon Day, so Ron was competing for how many pieces he could stick in his mouth at once. His record was forty, so he was competing against himself. Malfoy had just as big a mouth, of course, but 'far too much dignity' to ever participate in an eating contest). Hermione ate, as usual, while reading a book. Harry Potter found himself inexplicably lonely, even sitting by his best friends.
Which might explain what happened next - Harry's mind drifted towards Snape's assignment, and he found a few more juicy spells. Without really thinking about it, Harry pulled out the parchment and wrote down a few more spells, along with notations on how one could use Aguamenti to actually murder someone.
Harry was preoccupied enough that he failed to notice the several sets of eyes on him, watching the less-than-studious pupil working at the breakfast table.
"I truly dinna believe it." McGonagall said to Snape, her eyes still trained on Harry and his homework. "Bother's to Betsy that's your assignment he's workin' too."
Severus Snape did not bother to respond to this, but continued eating, his eyes suspiciously well trained on his plate, as he used his peripheral vision to watch the entire room's activities.
Snape's eyes, that missed nothing, large or small, certainly saw Potter's renewed scribbling at lunch. They also saw Hermione saying primly, "That's what you get for not finishing your homework the night before." Harry Potter, still scribbling, forebore to tell her that he had finished his work, and had only found a new idea when he hadn't been expecting one.
Snape laid a soft and silent bet that Potter'd still have fewer items than Granger, despite clearly putting more effort in. At least, from the sight of things, he hadn't done so in Transfiguration class. If that'd been the case, Minerva herself would have put a claw or two in Snape's leg, and nevermind that he needed to be in fighting condition.
His eyes narrowed, as he looked at a Ravenclaw, fidgeting in his seat, stealing sidelong glances at one of Snape's Slytherins. Fool boy, with even more foolish goals, if he'd set his eye on that particular serpentine temptress. She liked to play with her food, and insecure boys like him made a tantalizing treat. Snape made a mental note to deal with her, if she didn't show signs of growing up soon. She was in seventh year, after all, and would soon be out of his grasp. Snape smiled slowly, a plan forming in his head. People had often wondered why he liked Potions so much - the truth was? Potions fixed everything. Eventually.
His sharp eyes found Draco Malfoy, who for once was behaving like a snake and not a boar - quiet enough to not get into trouble with Potter, at least, and Snape privately held that was some sort of Miracle that could be laid at the Dark Lord's feet. Snape idly wondered if Draco would join... Wild horses wouldn't have stopped Snape himself from joining - an adolescent part of him had fervently craved acceptance. The adult he had become had simply accepted that he'd never fit in, and damn anyone for trying to make him.
Weasley was still mooning over all the surfeit of feminine attributes at Table Gryffindor. Snape hoped he could pawn off that particular issue on Minerva, but she was always so tricky to maneuver... And she seemed to think that letting young fools 'get what they deserve' was an excellent plan, even when it meant their comeuppance. Gryffindors always did pride their independence - a luxury Snape beat out of his Slytherins within their first term. Slytherins save each other, Slytherins watch out for each other, repeating the words until even the shiftiest, slyest first year knew that to disobey meant a fate worse than death. Not that Severus Snape had to lift a hand... oh, no. His house would follow his will, and without him saying a damn thing.
Harry Potter was torn between running down to class, hanging back and showing up at the last minute, and trying to see what everyone else was doing. As it turns out, there was a lot of Everyone Elses, so Harry Potter wound up arriving around the middle of the pack (quite literally, as he'd been swept away by the herd heading to DADA, or whatever Snape wanted to call it when the Ministry wasn't looking).
To no one's surprise, Snape hadn't arrived beforetimes. Harry Potter wondered if Snape's habit of precision timeliness was simply because he didn't want to teach the dunderheads for a minute longer than was strictly required. Not the sort of question one ought to ask a Potions Master, not if one valued limiting his consumption of potions to those strictly required for good health.
Everyone stood around (there were no seats in class, which Harry considered a good sign - this was a class that ought to have a heavy practical emphasis, so lecturing was really mostly unnecessary) in groups of friends, which were by and large by House affiliation. Seamus and Dean were joking around with Neville, Ron and Hermione were talking together (it looked like Ron was still trying to sneak glances at Hermione's paper, possibly to steal a few more answers). The Slytherins were gathered in two knots, one male, one female - except that Pansy Parkinson was hanging on Malfoy's arm. Malfoy didn't precisely look happy about this, either, and Harry Potter swore he saw the young man's ears go flat when Pansy called him "Drakey-poo." Harry didn't blame him, that nickname was emvile/em (worse than Won-Won, which Harry'd had the misfortune to overhear Lavender nicknaming Ron in a conversation with Parvati).
Snape slid through the closing door like a silk scarf, sliding between groups of children until he had hopped up on a dais barely large enough for his two big feet. "Class," He began, his soft purr of a voice bringing a seventh of the Hogwarts student body to mirror-smooth silence. "In the main, spellcasting is a solo art. Anyone with a bit of skill can transfigure a parchment into a pen, or vice versa. Charms are even more a lone talent, as sharing your magic with another is a most delicate and intimate act. Far easier, safer, and more reliable to simply cast Aguamenti oneself, assuming even basic capability." Snape's eyes found Goyle and Crabbe at this, who eventually nodded slowly.
This class is different. In a war, one must relie on one's comrades as if they were part of your own body. A shield can cover you, while you conjure birds to attack, or turn the enemies' legs to mush." Harry Potter tried not to take that line too literally, but he was certain his gaze was tinged a little green with nausea. That's what you get when you picture a darkhaired man, torso arms and head, vainly reaching up, trying to stand on legs that were nothing more than puddles. Snape turned and pinned Neville Longbottom with his black gaze. Neville straighened in response, as Snape continued, "As such, we will pair you off to evaluate each other's homework assignments." Snape cast his dire glare around the room, as he solemnly intoned, "I will say this only the once: Teams are not yet fixed. There will be no complaints about the pairings, today or any day. You should consider yourself fortunate to avail yourself of my expertise, when it is available." Professor Snape gave a smug smirk, and began from the top of the list.
As this wasn't Sprout, who would have started by last name, Snape, true to form, started by overall grades. "Malfoy, Granger." He said, and the pair's eyes met in a sudden clash from across the room. Harry's hand tightened slightly on his wand (he hadn't let it out of his hand since the class had started.), as he silently resolved to watch them. Harry found himself paired with Goyle of all people, and his eyes had flicked up to Snape's, wondering what exactly was going on. Was this just an insult? Was there more to it than that? Harry began to read Goyle's responses, and saw that - despite the misspellings - there were glints of real promise on the page. Goyle'd mentioned anaphylactic shock - and that wasn't something on the usual curriculum. Nor was it what he'd expected from the brute of a boy. That was a death subtle and devious... worthy of a true Slytherin. Harry shook his head, embarrassed at himself, for having truly thought that Goyle had been mis-sorted. He was quiet, it was true, and never seemed to be the first at anything. Then again, Harry thought, Snape had truly seemed to hate the Order of the Phoenix, nearly to a one. It was only on rewatch, on watching the entire group falling into petty scraps and scrabbles, that Harry'd figured out what Snape was doing. Harry thought, with a pang in his heart, that he really ought to apologize to Goyle - and yet, instead of an apology, what came out of his mouth was a simple, and genuine, "Nice work." Goyle nodded, still reading Harry Potter's page. When he slowly looked up, he said ponderously, "I don't think our lists had one identical thing on them." Harry thought back, and nodded firmly and reluctantly, "You're right." Slowly, after a minute of looking over his thoughts, Harry continued, "I think that's part of the point."
Meanwhile, while Harry had been reading, Snape had sauntered with barely feline grace over to Malfoy and Granger. As Harry got a look at them, he noticed that Malfoy had turned a color that Harry'd never seen on his face before - a clear, watery blue, pale as ice. His hands, they almost looked like they were trembling. With suddenly sharpening eyes, Harry looked at Hermione - whose face nearly blazed. Shite, Harry thought uncomfortably, she looks worse than when she learned about house elves. This could be really bad. Why did it have to be Snape's class? (Obvious answer: it was Snape's assignment.)
"Miss Granger," Snape drawled, "Are you trying to threaten Mister Malfoy with a homework assignment?"
"No, sir," Hermione said, her ire cooling as she stared at the Slytherin's nearly expressionless face.
"Pity," he started, "You seem to be doing such an impeccable job, unintentional or no." Snape purred, before wheeling and walking on.
Most people had turned away when Snape had tromped off, attending to their own assignments. Harry, vaguely aware that Goyle was - shaking? beside him, still kept a weather eye on Hermione and Malfoy. "Professor," he heard Hermione say in a low, calm voice that gave him a cold shiver up the spine. Professor Snape stopped, looking down his nose at Brown and Parkinson, both of whom looked like they'd much rather be talking about hair products than having Snape look over their shoulder.
"Hmmm?" Snape said quietly, his eye meeting Hermione Granger's for an instant, before returning to looking over the two fidgeting girls' shoulders.
"These are listed as muggle, muggleborn, half-blood, and pureblood. Do I count each use as a quarter?" Hermione asked plainly, her voice still soft as featherdown. Harry's eyes instinctively looked at Malfoy's, but there was a suspicious blankness there - not the triumph that Harry'd been expecting. Whatever Malfoy had meant to happen with this list, he hadn't meant this reaction, it would seem.***
"Yes, that would be wise." Snape said, moving on to where Finnegan was wryly making faces with a Ravenclaw rather than actually evaluating their work.
Harry's eyes flicked towards Goyle, who was looking down at his shoes, and mumbling to himself. Quietly, Harry slipped a bit nearer, hearing the mumble resolve into: "Wasn't supposed to know. It's Snape's class, why can't he grade us himself? Not supposed to be noticed."
Harry smiled a thin, tight smile at that, raised a hand, as if to clap it on Goyle's broad shoulder, before thinking better of it. Instead, he nudged Goyle with his own shoulder, which had about the effect of dropping a feather on a boulder. Still, Goyle looked up, and Harry said, "It's okay. I wasn't allowed to get better marks than my cousin, all through primary school."
Goyle looked at him in more confusion than surprise.
"It's okay." Harry repeated, leaning on the second word and hoping that Goyle would understand. Slowly, a cautious realization seemed to dawn in Goyle's eyes, as he nodded quietly, almost thankfully, at Harry.
Hermione Granger's voice impinged on Harry's conversation at this point (on most people's, really), as she spat at Malfoy, "How do you even know all this? This is all Dark Magic!"
Smirking, Draco Malfoy, in a softer tone that still carried (at least to Harry's ears), "I am my father's son. He's quite the collector you know. I am required to know what he'd like to acquire - and what he's sworn will never cross his threshold."
"I suppose you're looking to gather all the Muggle and Muggleborn hurting ones?!" Hermione said shrilly.
Draco Malfoy yawned ostentatiously, his arms over his head, as he shook his head, "Those are quite a bit less useful in the circles my father is generally in, believe it or not." He shook his head firmly, and said, "He's more concerned with the side-effects on the user, than on who it can kill, maim, or dismember." Hermione Granger didn't have anything to say to that, so into the silence, Malfoy (ever the git) asked, in a state of worried perplexity, "Did you really find a hundred ways to kill someone with a spoon?"
Hermione Granger returned a bright, almost disturbingly cheerful grin, as she nodded.
"I fear the cutlery are revolting!" Draco Malfoy said, still pale, and then (Harry only caught this a moment later) waved his wand inside his sleeve.
Hermione Granger looked down at her skirt, and below, to her now Slytherin green socks. "Why you!" Her hands were trembling fists, as her face turned red as Weasley hair.
Draco Malfoy's eyes glittered with a malevolent gleam, "You can't, can you?" he said softly. Harry palmed his wand, still in his own sleeve, and prepared for this class to actually turn into Defense. Or offense, or something like that.
Draco Malfoy yelped, turning around and looking to see who had stung him with the Stinging Hex. Behind him were two Ravenclaws, a brunette and a blond.
Neither of them, of course, were the issuer of that Hex, though they both were flinging enough small spells between them that it looked believable. No, that was Snape, by now halfway around three Hufflepuffs nearby, who was... discretely trying to suggest to Malfoy to keep order in the class.
It didn't work, but not because of Malfoy. Hermione Granger had taken advantage of Malfoy's distraction to land a solid punch into his cheekbone, sending him down to the floor. Standing over him, still panting, Hermione Granger hissed something at Malfoy that Harry'd bet was "change them back." Draco, hand on his already swelling cheekbone, simply smirked.
In a deadly silent tone that seemed to mesmerize the class, Snape hissed, "If you cannot use words instead of spells, I will take your wand for the remainder of the class." Only, Snape wasn't looking at Malfoy and Granger (the words didn't make sense for that, either) - he was hissing at the two Ravenclaws. "And you will be target practice regardless of your inability to defend yourself."
Both Ravenclaws tried to look guilty and "puppy dog" innocent at the same time, while looking attentive to his words. Harry was certain they wouldn't stray... at least for this two hour interval. A quick glance told Harry that Hermione and Malfoy were both standing, trying to resemble attentive classroom partners, rather than hexing rivals.
Snape's jet eyes searched the class, nodding slightly as he finished. "As you have no doubt deduced during this exercise, it is almost unspeakably easy to murder someone, whether by use of magic, or simply dropping a mallet on someone's head." Snape looked at a few Hufflepuffs, Bones among them, who looked like they wanted to say something about the nature of the assignment, "All questions about morality will be relegated to office hours. Although I will note that nearly every person here has a friend, and if you do decide to go on a murderous rampage, you really ought to watch your back." The slight twitch of Snape's lips meant that he wasn't excluding himself from the vengeance-seekers (was it justice, considering he was a teacher? or merely a course-correction considering he'd assigned them the ridiculous assignment in the first place?), and Harry Potter slotted that alongside Snape's comment from last class about being on your side (the class as a collective whole, Harry now supposed.)
"There's really no need to start a war about it." Snape knit his long fingers together, one atop the next, as he asked, "What is war for?"
Hermione Granger raised her hand, and Harry Potter suppressed a smile. He knew better than to answer the question, but he also figured Hermione had a decent answer. "War is for when talking - politics - has failed."
"Close, but not quite," Snape said firmly, "War is politics by other means. Can anyone elucidate what I mean?"
Hermione, for once, kept her hand down, her teeth working over her lower lip. One of the Ravenclaws raised his hand, "If your arguments aren't persuasive, you can attempt to pound the other person's face in. Or, if magical, you can hex their mouth shut."
"And that works only so long as...?" Snape purred.
"So long as you're stronger than the other guy." Harry Potter responded. The Death Eaters thought they could win by being terrorists, and so they were pretty firm about their strategy.
Snape nodded acknowledgement, wending his way through knots of students as he addressed Potter directly, "So, in this class, am I going to teach you to be stronger than the other guy?"
"No, sir." Harry Potter said crisply, "I can assume the other guy has double my talent, and quadruple my experience."
"So, class," Snape said, turning away from Harry Potter, "What am I going to teach you?"
Gregory Goyle spoke up - his voice sounded like he was speaking through marbles, he spoke so slowly with a voice of stone, "Will you teach us Dark Arts, sir?"
"No, I will not, Mister Goyle. The Dark Arts are unreliable at best, and always alluring - even addictive. Not a single one of you here today could reliably cast one. Harry Potter might manage one. On a really bad day, for the rest of us." Snape's laughter was cold, and Harry's heart sunk as he was mentioned - and then began to burn, with a rage that he hadn't let himself feel for months. It almost, well, felt good. Why couldn't Snape just leave him Alone!
Harry Potter had known, as a first year, that Snape's glare could turn people to stone (even the Weasley twins). He directed a glare at Snape that he hoped would set him on fire.
"The point of this class, ladies and lords, is to teach you to survive. Nothing more. Potter's right when he says you won't be good enough to be a champion, a hero, or whatever nonsense Gryffindor House believes itself capable of." Snape looked over the class, and brightened (only in his eyes) to see that even the Gryffindors were taking him seriously (Brown, in particular, looked daunted). "Try to survive, if you can. I find, if you manage that alone, everything else will take care of itself."
"Now, as this class will be about survival during this war, I'll ask you to determine fields and realms of study. Create a curriculum, if you will. If you are particularly thoughtful or fortunate, I may heed your suggestions." Snape gave them all one last look, and despite the fact that there was still a good hour to his class, he said, "Class dismissed."
Harry Potter didn't move, his eyes burning into Snape's expressionless gaze. Distantly, he realized that Hermione and Ron were looking uneasily at him (and he had enough presence of mind to hope that they were the only ones). Almost as if pro forma, Snape said laconically, "Potter, stay after class." Acknowledging the inevitable, one might say - because it would have taken four horsemen to drag Harry Potter out of the classroom at that moment.
Harry Potter felt the last person**** leave like someone slamming the door to hell shut, although the door closed remarkably quietly. Harry was so angry he was shaking, and he took a deep breath, holding it in, and then letting it out.
Snape's eyes met Harry's, as he nodded firmly. His wand began to wave, drawing intricate lacework spells as he wove True Silence into the weft of the classroom's reality. After a single last gesture, he was done. "I should thank you, Potter, for saving your shouting for after class." Snape said gravely, continuing, "You know how I loathe petty distractions."
Of all the ways to greet a young man boiling over with anger! Harry was daunted, briefly, thinking that perhaps... And then, something shifted in Potter's face.
Quite simply, he didn't care.
"Why?!" He blasted, like a foghorn over a river, "Why did you have to single me out?" Harry said, his anger turning into action, arms gesturing with precise, tight movements as Harry's compulsion to act drove him to start circling Professor Snape.
A third of the way around, he wheeled on an ankle, looking up into Snape's eyes - with teeth bared. "I don't like the attention! I don't want the attention. I don't want anyone thinking I'm the next Dark Lord!"
All the winds deflated out of him, at that thought, as he looked at Snape, and suddenly asked, "I'm not - am I?" The question was quiet, uncertain - and an expression of faith. That Snape, of all people, would be honest - at least in this.
Snape's lips flicked up, for a split second, "I would find that to be rather farfetched. If you held me at wandpoint, and forced me to tell you who in that room would make the best candidate for prospective dark lord, I would have to name Neville Longbottom."
Harry's responding bark of laughter sounded about as split-psychotic as Sirius had on a bad day. "Then why'd you mention me? You did have a reason, didn't you?" Harry managed a look that would have suited Albus better - the 'I know you better than you know yourself' look.
"I always have a purpose. Nearly always have several." Snape said shortly.
"Can you tell me this one, at least?" Harry Potter asked, his anger still sizzling, but he was mastering it, holding it close and turning his voice away from the spitting his anger so dearly wanted.
"I suppose. Easy answers first." Snape said, taking on a teaching mien that Harry was well familiar with from Potions. Simply put, with word and gesture, Snape was saying, "don't interrupt."
"When I said that, what do you think people heard? Do you truly think that Miss Granger or Mister Weasley (indeed any of them) thought that you could use the Dark Arts successfully?" Snape asked, studying Harry Potter carefully.
"Of course, Ron didn't." Harry said, pausing uncertaintly, "I'm... not sure about Hermione. I could ask." This last, low sentence was said in the way that people walked to their own hanging.
"Every single one of your friends," Snape began, "No, even your enemies, and people who have scarcely heard of me, know what an antipathy I have nourished for you. And, from you, as well, I suppose."
Harry Potter looked at him, blinking slowly behind those thick glasses - his eyes slowly widening, "You don't think they'd believe you!"
"Why should they?" Snape said. "Do you want to hear another reason?"
Harry blinked. This would have been enough to satisfy him. But here Snape was, offering him... more. "Yes, sir." Harry responded, suppressing any stray eagerness. He did not want to look like a puppy.
"About ninety percent of the audience wouldn't think anything of what I said. And the other ten percent won't think hard about it today, either. There are, believe it or not, students who look up to me." Snape said.
Harry wasn't sure how to respond to that. Saying something that you expected to have someone think about later... That wasn't the way anyone he knew would think, could think, would plan on happening. "What, do you expect, might cause them to think about your words?"
Snape's lips twitched, again, "Why, they might become fully fledged practitioners of the Dark Arts."
Harry Potter just looked at Professor Snape, with rapt attention, although he was rapidly considering that Snape's knowledge of the Dark Arts was something like an abyss - it was possible to get into it, and barely possible to get out, but it was very difficult.
"Truly black magic is created out of intent. Hatred, primarily, although the truly evil can create vile magic out of unadultered sadism. Chief example among which is the Cruciatus Curse," Snape began*^*, and Harry found himself thinking of Bellatrix Black, her face twisted into a caricature, loathing and repulsion at the fore. "The Ministry of Magic, being a bureaucratic institution, has decided to lump all magic it deems dangerous, unproductive, or is merely afraid of, as Dark Arts."
"True Dark Arts are a different matter entirely." Snape said, "They arise out of helplessness, hopelessness, uselessness. You might term it a survival instinct. Unlike black magic, this is pure resistance to being conquered. At the last, when everything and everyone has failed you, your mind turns to the Dark - and conjures a darkling light."
Harry Potter tried to comprehend this, his mind taking him back to his cupboard under the stairs. He asked himself what he would have done if they'd locked him in, and thrown away the key. Certainly he'd wondered about that very thing, often enough.
"Dark Arts, without exception, are more powerful than what an individual can normally accomplish. They are also highly individualized, and resist systematization with a will of their own." Snape said.
Harry Potter asked the obvious question, but with a good deal more trepidation than normal, "If they're so powerful, why doesn't everyone learn them?"
"First, they're a crutch and a cheat. Nearly everyone will be stronger by taking the long road of building their knowledge and power the ordinary way. Some, like Miss Granger, will be more powerful in the short term, even." Snape said, seemingly unaware that he'd complemented a Muggleborn. His tone was clinical, and it was merely an observation, even if it surprised Harry to hear it from Snape's mouth.
"Second, they're addictive. If the only way you have to survive is to train yourself into that peculiar brand of hopeless, helpless fulminating rage... It starts to become something you seek out. In war, that will, one hundred percent of the time, get a person killed. In peacetime, it is scarcely better." Snape said sternly.
"Thirdly, to push someone, shape them into a mindset where they can use the Dark Arts, is to break them, in mind and soul. Not like using a mace or a sword, this is corrosive, because the Dark Arts run on a sense of betrayal that runs bone deep." Snape said. "I will not teach any of my students the Dark Arts, not if I can find any way around it."
Harry's lips thinned into a line that was the precursor to a smile that never materialized. He had learned, this past summer, the many twists of a Slytherin mind. A determination like that was not easily misled or bamboozled. "Sir, you said that the Dark Arts are unreliable...?"
"I lied." Snape said smoothly, "And I will continue to lie, to prevent students from deliberately trying to maim themselves or their friends in pursuit of power."
"So, why me?" Harry Potter asked directly, trying to understand what was going on, "I'm no mindhealer..."
"No, you aren't. But you've been through enough to want to help these students, and that may be their only saving grace." Snape said, starting to pace, "Make no mistake, I meant precisely what I said in class - I could have you casting Dark Arts spells reliably, within a day." Snape's face tried to smile, but it came out looking far more like a snarl, "It would be easy."
"And yet you say that Neville..." Harry started, timidly, considering his every word.
"Neville Longbottom holds his rage deeply. He's not practiced in quenching it - he nourishes it, it impels him to great deeds." Snape said, looking down at Harry Potter. "You're not angry right now, are you?"
"No," Harry said, tasting the word as it fell from his lips. He really wasn't, he thought, he was getting answers, and this lesson was kinda interesting. Horrible, but interesting.
"That's why young Draco Malfoy tweaks your tail, you know. It's nearly safe - you get upset, he has a laugh, and twenty minutes later it's all water under the bridge." Snape said, "Oh, you don't like him, but you've never liked him, so what harm's been done?"
"If he tried the same with Longbottom..." Snape let his words trail off, and Harry Potter saw an image of Neville's meaty fists beating Malfoy into a pulp, "but he wouldn't, he knows better." Snape's lips quirked, for a moment, as he said, "He's even learnt his lesson with Miss Granger, I believe."
"He hexed her in class!" Harry Potter shouted, seeming more astounded than outraged.
"Testing, always testing." Snape said with a firm basilisk stare. "If he had wanted to choose something more... damaging, he could have, I assure you."
Harry Potter resolutely turned the topic away from Malfoy, whom he really didn't want to be discussing with the notoriously biased Head of Slytherin House. Particularly when said head was likely to have a smooth answer to whatever rough question Harry could formulate. "Have you ever mastered the Dark Arts?" Harry asked, although he already knew the answer. It was a feed, a request for more information.
"I've used them, yes," Snape said lowly, "Mastery's a poor term for a peculiar and individualized branch of Magic, you realize?"
Harry Potter nodded shortly.
"You've heard, I believe, Black say that I came to Hogwarts knowing more Dark Arts than most 7th years?" Snape said crisply.
Harry's mouth tightened, as he nodded. He wasn't even sure why - something about the conflict between Snape and Sirius was... disquieting - itchy, almost.
"Nothing could be farther from the truth." Snape said with a smirk, his voice vehement and low. "The Marauders taught me the Dark Arts, and I was a very good student." Snape had a smugness, a certain satisfaction on his face, that Harry wanted to knock off of it. Instead, he merely fisted his hand in his robes, clutching them so as to not bleed.*~*
"Sir, did all the Death Eaters learn the Dark Arts, at some point?" Harry Potter asked, trying - and, mostly, failing - to summon sympathy for the torturers; the murderers.
Snape laughed, a dark barking boom that crossed the room and rebounded, echoing like a foghorn. "No, not even the Dark Lord would have condoned breaking his men for a bit of power." A shadow passed over Snape's face, and Harry Potter thought he was remembering a memory, "would have, I say. There are now times that I question his sanity."
Harry said, softly, "There are certain times that I question Dumbledore's sanity, sir."
Snape looked at him sharply, incisive eyes assessing truthfulness before nodding, "Hero-worship has always been a Gryffindor game. Inevitably, they wind up disappointed at the end."
"Did..." Harry asked, suddenly thinking that Snape might have looked up to Tom Riddle - as someone who had conquered his sense of hopelessness, if nothing else. The thought froze in his belly, those cruel, snakelike red eyes nearly hissing at him from Harry's own memory.
"The Dark Lord himself," Snape said softly, "And Bellatrix Black."
Harry looked at Snape attentively, and he eventually continued, as he began to pace erratically around the room. "The Dark Lord is not named so because he has a mastery of the Dark Arts, merely because he is capable of wielding them." Snape said, pausing, "It is a warning, just as much as it is a term of loyalty or of simple truth. Because you can't ever truly measure someone's capabilities if they possess the Dark Arts."
"Why not, sir?" Harry prompted.
"Because they're idiosyncratic, and likely to change. I missed the first time I cast a Dark spell, and if I hadn't, the world would have been short a Potter." Snape said with a smirk.
Harry Potter's eyes bulged at the bizarre sense of humor that would lead his Professor to humorlessly joke about his father being dead. His absentee father, who had died saving him. Yeah, that one. Harry Potter found himself remembering Bellatrix Black, pulling her into his memory and spinning her around, "Sir, did the Dark Lord do something to Bellatrix? Did he break her?"
Snape laughed a dark laugh, "No, Potter, she's in love with him. There's absolutely nothing dark about that." Snape said, pausing, "Time was, Bellatrix Black was a wonder to behold, a falcon swift on the wing." Snape said, his mouth relaxing as he remembered, "No, she knew Dark Arts from deep in her childhood, as I suspect did the Dark Lord, though he never talked of his past."
"What, what happened to her?" Harry Potter said, "It's only, she looks so different, acts so different from her sisters..."
"Bella Black stood in front. Whenever her father was in a temper, she was there to take the blow. Her mother, her younger sisters, they all stood aside." Snape said, "She was always strong-willed, but she loved her family dearly, and she couldn't stand to see someone harmed if she could help it."
Harry Potter shook his head, almost unwilling to see the girl, brave beyond her years. The woman had been a crazed torturer.
"Azkaban corrupted and corroded her - not that the Dark Lord's beliefs haven't shaped her beforetimes, you understand." Snape said. "She truly thinks of the impure blooded that they are beneath her, subhuman really." Snape shook his head, "It's the only way she can bear to do it, you see. Shake that belief, and she'd collapse like a pile of cards."
Harry Potter looked at Snape, wide-eyed - he truly hadn't given any thought to how she'd managed to accomplish such feats of raw sadism...if they weren't sadism...
"That was not a request." Snape said curtly, and Harry Potter blinked, only with difficulty shifting himself back to the conversation.
"Bellatrix Black was perhaps the only one of the original cadre of Death Eaters - Knights of Walpurgis that was in any way admirable." Snape said, consideringly, his eyes unfocused, seeming to look into the past.
"Riddle had charm, certainly, and Goyle and Crabbe strength - and Lucius, even then, had a unctuous manner that bent truth as easily as an eagle steals fish." Snape shook his head, "Bella, though - she saw truth through those flinty eyes of hers. And where she saw it, she'd glow like a fire. Righteous and Vengeful at the same time." Snape shook his head again, "I miss her."
Harry stood respectfully silent, his fingers playing against one another behind his robe. Snape was speaking as if the person he knew was dead. And, perhaps, she really was. Certainly, Harry Potter had never seen her like that - tall and strong. Through Snape's words, he could almost picture it, mentally redrawing the mentally deranged person he'd met, as someone who'd been... more.
Harry's thoughts twisted, juked over to Sirius - what, really, had he been like, before Azkaban? Oh, he'd seen Snape's memory, and sure, that was at least a part of him. Lupin hadn't - but Lupin wouldn't, perhaps couldn't, look on his old, dear friend as if he was a shambolic wreck.
"Dangle just a bit of truth to the masses, and let them learn the hard way." Snape said, consideringly, "Yet another reason for pointing you out. Give them the idea that someone can learn Dark Arts - dangle the possibility in front of them."
"Why would you do that, if you don't want them to learn them, sir?" Harry Potter asked, confused.
"Because they might learn it by accident," Snape snapped, his tone harsh but his eyes looking offscreen. Harry wondered if he'd learned the Dark Arts by accident, and then mentally shook his head at himself. Of course he had. James and Sirius wouldn't have intentionally given him power.
"You care, you realize?" Snape said, shaking his head, "Were someone damaged to land on your doorstep - I don't think you have it in you to turn away."
Without nodding, without moving a muscle, Harry Potter stood there, wondering whether that was a Good Thing or not. Hesitantly, he decided it was both.
"Drawing someone back from the edge, pulling them out of the abyss - it's not nearly as hard as you think." Snape said, spinning on his heel, offering over his shoulder, "But it's impossible if you don't care." Snape turned around, spreading his hands, "Someone who's given their heart, their mind, even their soul, to desolation - they have a million ways to slip through someone's fingers." Snape's eyebrows rose slightly, "It takes determination, persistence, even patience, to win them back."
Snape paused, taking a deep breath, quirking an eyebrow as Harry was silent still. "You might wonder why the Dark Lord (aptly named, he of the perpetual ace up his sleeve) doesn't deliberately break his servants, and then reforge them." Snape shook his head, "It's a fate that one who's already shared it wouldn't wish on anyone. Better to be as mindless as the Longbottoms, surely."
Snape let those words hang in the air, and Harry listened, his mind paging back to seeing them in St. Mungos'. They had looked so fragile, so frail - and yet so ... alive. Not like their souls were gone, not shapeless husks. Just...mindless. Staring blankly into the distance, until you almost swore they'd forgot to blink.
"And one more reason," Snape said after a fair bit of silence had descended. Harry tilted his head in consideration, listening. "You weren't just yelling at me once the class had left..." Snape said, looking suddenly at Harry, "Were you?"
Harry Potter considered, and then said outright, in a voice that both objected and assented at once, "Nossir." Snape looked nearly impassively at Potter, clearly waiting for him to explain himself.
"It's not just you, alright?" Potter burst out, and then, collecting himself, "But you just had to complain about me being a - celebrity."
"Oh, brighten up, Potter," Snape drawled, "You needn't have taken that so personally, when you were certainly so ill-acquainted with it, in the first place."
"Did you really have to single me out, though? First day of class and all that? A personal pop quiz just for me?" Harry Potter demanded, his voice rumbling low with suppressed anger.
"Have to?" Snape said, his brow furrowing slightly. "No, lad, I wanted to."
And that statement stopped Harry cold. He simply stared at Snape, silently compelling him to finish his thought. After a lengthy pause, Snape continued. "It certainly was helpful when young Draco Malfoy would come home to his father with all the torrid, lurid tales of Potion Master Snape's quite personal antagonism for The Boy Who Lived, wasn't it?"
Harry's mouth worked slowly, not really saying anything, as if he was chewing on thoughts. And so he was. He hadn't, not really, rethought any of that. But if Snape was who Harry had observed him to be... then he quite certainly had had more than just one simple ToDo on his calendar for that day. And it certainly didn't read "Pick on the new, famous Potter."
"if it's any consolation," Snape said slowly, "You couldn't have done a thing about your celebrity. Even a complete ignoramus would have gotten attention in your shoes. 'Boy who Lives is a Dullard! Board of Directors puts Dumbledore on Trial for inability to teach Boy Who Lived!' The headlines would have been atrocious and repulsive."
"I'm just..." Harry started slowly, his voice gaining momentum as he went, "so sick of people not even bothering to look at me. All they see is what they've been told to see - and that's it. They don't know my favorite move in Quiddich, they don't know when I'm sick, or when I'm faking a smile. They don't see me at all."
"Well, that is something you can fix." Snape said, "If you want to live in the limelight your entire existence." Snape let out a soft snort, "I can think of worse punishments, truly." Snape studied Potter, and then said slowly, "Or, you could consider it a trade. Not living in the limelight ensures that you can have some privacy."
"Yeah, with a hat." Harry said with an impish grin.
"Or Polyjuice, should you ever prove capable of brewing it." Snape said with a smirk. "Be anyone you like, and defy the world to rat you out. Draco Malfoy would have trouble finding you in a crowd, under a different face - you realize that?"
Harry found himself smiling, suddenly, just the thought of freedom, even at the bottom of a bottle, felt liberating. Light at the end of a tunnel, you might even say.
"How's your assignment going?" Snape asked, his voice almost deliberately impassive.
Harry blinked, turning aside from what he'd been thinking about, "Time will tell, sir. I've gotten Smith involved, and he's too touchy to prod too often," Harry had to ask himself if Snape really cared about the assignment, or if his almost disinterested voice was showing his true feelings. If he really cared, well that might have been reason alone to stir Potter up in class. Harry deliberately set that aside. No, there were easier ways to give Harry detention - and more importantly, there were quicker methods to discuss something of importance, which was quite a thing with an impatient cuss like Prof. Snape.
Snape nodded, "Indeed, but I was speaking of your other assignment."
Harry nodded, saying, "I haven't had a chance to work on it yet."
"See that you do, then." Snape said. "And, in the future, try to remember that silencing spells mean that your screams will aggravate fewer students."
Harry blushed, suddenly realizing just exactly how half-cocked he had come into this conversation, "Yes sir." he said, before turning to leave. Snape canceled the spells on the door with a quick clap, and then Harry was outside, the door closed. He found himself breathing heavily... Slowly, he started to trudge up the stairs towards Gryffindor Tower. He really did have stuff to think about, and not just his neglected assignment, that had suddenly had a life of its own, wrapping it's snakey scales around his chest, and giving a warm squeeze - as if to remind him that he still had to do it, and that he wasn't going to forget again.
Harry Potter strode out of the DADA room, heading up to Gryffindor tower before dinner. He wanted a moment to catch his breath, to feel the wind on his face as he stared out at the Quiddich pitch. Sadly, it was not to be. When he got up there, Ron and Hermione descended upon him almost at once. "Harry, are you okay?" Ron asked, not as worried as he'd have been last year, but still looking pretty flustered.
"Harry, you didn't-" Hermione asked, her hand tugging at his robe sleeve. Harry took one look down at her still-green socks (she was too proud to tell anyone else about not being able to change them back... of course she'd undoubtedly told Ron, but that didn't mean a thing), and waved his wand to change them back. Silently. "Oh, thank you Harry!" Hermione said with a firm hug. Harry'd had trouble dealing with her hugs at first, but a good four and a half years of them had inured him to their strength and suddenness.
Harry let out a long-suffering sigh. Friends were great, and all that, but when he'd really just wanted to get away from everything. Still, they had cared, and so he forced himself to say, "I just had some things to say to our favorite Defense Teacher." Harry paused for a moment, and then said, "Or whatever he's calling it these days." At the end, his mouth quirked, as if he was enjoying a private joke.
"Blimey! Harry, you looked like you were right about to deck him." Ron said, still worried.
"Oh, I won't deny that there may have been loud voices used." Harry said with a sugar-slow grin. "Turns out that sometimes you have to yell to get things through thick skulls."
"Oh, Harry! Please tell me you didn't just..." Hermione said, trying to suppress a fit of girly giggles.
"Of course not," Harry said with a smirk.
"Wait, what?" Ron said, blinking.
"I meant my own thick skull, Ron." Harry said, knowing that his comment wouldn't help the perpetually slow boy.
"Oh, okay." Ron said.
"Still, we're glad to hear you're alright, aren't we Ron?" Hermione said, her last three words pointed completely at Ron Weasley.
"How many?" Ron asked, and Harry blinked. Shite. He was actually... normally... dammit, he wasn't going to say he had detention if he didn't.
"None." Harry shrugged, unconcerned. "Guess he forgot." Harry smirked, then raised his eyebrows, and everyone dissolved into a sea of laughter.
At the end, Hermione said primly, "Well, he's certainly given you enough unwarranted detentions, I guess he owes you one."
Harry shrugged, "Figure he'll just assign it in Potions. I'm always behind there, anyway. You'd think I'd have stopped after my owl, but I guess I'm a glutton for punishment."
Finally, Harry was alone, as Hermione and Ron turned back to their usual preoccupations. He excused himself, and raced to the top of the tower, thinking hard on what Snape had assigned him over the summer - splitting his concentration in two - saying one thing and spelling another. It was yet another Slytherin trick - as wily as they come. There was a time that Harry'd have simply assumed that Snape had assigned the impossible, again. But not today.
Today, Harry's wand itched, and he tried thinking of spells that sounded similar. For five whole minutes, and then ten. Shaking his head, he decided this was a Hermione question, and went down to his room to lie on his bed. Tomorrow meant Charms and Transfiguration, and Harry wondered if he should practice them without using his wand. It would certainly be good practice, but it also might be ineffective, and Harry didn't want to seem like he was a goofus.
Everyone else piled into the room a half hour after curfew, and Harry was still awake, quiet, trying to think about whether anything would have changed, if Snape hadn't torn into him the first day of class, his first year at Hogwarts. Reluctantly, as if he was putting down a cherished toy, he had to acknowledge that it wouldn't have changed anything. He'd still have blamed Snape for the Stone (Snape's admittedly villainous air didn't help with that, but Harry'd had decent evidence... even if it had proved inconclusive). And if that was true, well, that meant that Harry might just as easily have started this grudge with Snape, just as Snape had his first year. It felt like something that was bound to happen, somehow. And, perplexingly enough, that made it easier to just let it go.
Now that Harry was observing carefully, he could see that Snape was trying hard to be a good teacher (at least in... Defense). Not that it seemed to prevent him from being harder on the Gryffindors. But maybe, Harry thought, that was just his own bias coming through. After all, Snape could do whatever he wanted to his Slytherins, he was their head of house, and Harry was dead certain that he'd never hear a whisper about it. And he had seen Snape punish Malfoy in class - presumably for inattention to classwork, not hexing another student without permission.
*Like a chinese puzzlebox.
**Rolemaster reference. You're welcome.
***Um, no. Of course he didn't. He didn't know that Granger would be looking at it, because Snape generally grades his own work!
****Granger. Ron doesn't know how to be quiet.
*^*Yes, when Snape was training Harry, he was primarily drawing on sadism to do so. Some people could cast a spell to torture someone with pure intent (zealots primarily - 'I will cleanse your soul'), Snape's not one of them, nor has he ever claimed to be.
*~*he's making a fist. tightly. fingernails can cut flesh easily.
[a/n: Oi. Lotta writing here. Leave a review?]