It took until ten minutes before class was over, before Snape's eyes flicked up from the book he'd been perusing (not reading. You'd have to turn a page to be reading for that long).*

"Potter," Snape said mildly, "That will be a dozen detentions with Filch for amusing yourself by torturing the rest of the class."

"Anyone who's dared cast a hex in this classroom today will have double the inches on your assignment." Snape's tone was still mild. "Potter, you'll have triple."

"Any miscreants currently in my classroom should flee for the hills at the earliest opportunity." Snape said, "Diligent students may take the last ten minutes to pry knowledge out of my brilliant mind." Harry began to stand up, taking his cue from Goyle, and Snape suddenly snapped, "Not you, Potter. Remain behind."

Oh, as if that wasn't ominous.

Ron and Hermione shot him sympathetic looks (even Sue Bones did, strangely enough).

Five minutes after class had ended. two minutes after the last Ravenclaw had left. Without looking up, Snape said simply, "Your detentions will be with Filch. He requires them to start at 6pm." Still looking down at his book, Snape's lips quirked up, as if he'd read a particularly funny continues.

That was during dinner! Harry'd have to leave early. It sent a queer pang through him, just the thought.

Harry nearly bit his lip through, trying not to bite back at Snape. That never helped, never ever, and Snape was mad at him now. No need to make things worse.

Dinner was full of people exclaiming about how unfair Snape was to be targetting Harry, again. Apparently nobody's noticed that Harry'd started it, which just made Harry feel weird agreeing about Snape being a bastard (which he was), and completely unfair (which he wasn't, in this particular, unexpected, case). Harry tried not to look uncomfortable, and tried to peek over at the Slytherin table. Maybe someone had seen? Maybe not? They were supposed to be working, and Goyle had been. Even Crabbe, who loved to loaf and not do work, particularly where people could see (Harry assumed, as he always did turn in the homework. Although it was perfectly plausible it was merely copied wholesale from Malfoy's. Harry wouldn't have thought that last year - it would have been a foreign concept, treating Slytherins as just another House.)

Time was, Harry had thought that the worst professor to have steamed at you, was Professor Snape.

That time was yesterday. This morning even.

Today, Harry was rapidly learning that the worst person to have angry with you was Filch, particularly when he was the one assigning detentions.

The privy, the loo, the Water Closet.

Whatever you wanted to call it, they stank when they backed up. And Hogwarts hadn't always had working plumbing.

Filch, even, laughingly had scathingly said, "Don't complain, boy. I've still got composting toilets from two hundred years ago for you to clean! So don't whinge."

So, it was good to know things could be worse. It was much less good to hear the description of maggots and other twisty crawly things wiggling their way through and on human feces.

Harry thought he might vomit just from the description alone.

And he was going to smell like shit for the rest of the day.

He felt a brief stab of pity for the caretaker, who had to do this, and he really didn't blame Filch for wanting Harry to do this.

Harry still grumbled, though, "You've just got it out for me, for ruining your floors, even though you didn't need to clean them afters."

Filch grinned, a craggy, yellowed thing, "Of course I'm angry, you fool boy." Harry rather liked that form of address more than simply "boy." He knew better than to tell Filch that though.

Instead, Harry schooled his face into innocence, and asked, "Shouldn't you be taking it out on Snape? It was his orders and his assignment!"

Filch smiled a smile that Harry'd never seen on the man's thin face before. It was sad and sympathetic. "Can't punish a man who's too busy punishing himself."

That did not sound like Snape. Snape had a dark and fey humor about him. He wasn't always sad, or angry. Yes, his humor was black as pitch, and had that subtle stickyness to it, but he was not truly dour and gloomy all the time.

Harry had work to do, and even though he knew Defense in the evenings was important, he would do it next week.

Really.

It wasn't like crises popped up every week, now did they? No, it was more like yearly, Harry thought wryly. Break the stone, Kill the Basilisk, Save Padfoot, Survive the Tournament, Upbraid the Pink Abomination...

So he'd probably even manage what he was promising. Honest!

But, tonight, he wanted to find the right Weasley product. He was up to the middle of the first week of this year, surely he'd have it done by the end of the night.

Well, he would if he didn't go to Defense.

So, Harry set about playing sick. It was easy enough to look half off his food at dinner (and to not pay attention to anyone, excepting Hermione and Ron). Standing up middinner, bending half over the table, and covering his mouth was a good touch, Harry thought. He'd run off to the bathroom, and halfheartedly told Ron, "I'm fine." in that tone he always used when he was "sick but not dying," which really just meant "Not the Infirmary AGAIN!"

By the time Harry'd made it back to his dorm, it was near-empty. Gryffindors were at Defense, and nobody'd really spared the thought to wait for a sick Harry.

Just as planned.

Harry darted up to his room (never wise to linger), and started scrutinizing the Twins weird scrawl.

Harry nearly nodded off once or twice ( he really needed to get more sleep), but about ten minutes before the Gryffindor Grouse hit, Harry found it. Cloying Clods, of all things. They were designed so that older brothers and sisters could give one to a small child, and the child would be quiet by virtue of their mouth being stuck together. They also happened to taste like mud this week, hence the clod. But that wasn't why Harry'd remembered them. He'd remembered the side-effect, that occurred right after - insatiable hunger. He'd thought, at the time, that Dudley would have exploded if he'd gotten one. Yes, Harry would admit, he was rude, but at least he didn't go around putting his fists on Dudley.

Finally! Harry thought, pulling out some blank foolscap. I have a letter to write.

Harry had composed half a dozen different letters to the Weasley Twins. This was important, and they didn't generally do important. They did mischief, and chaos, and deeds that were crazy after the fact. So, Harry needed to make this count. And, to persuade the Weasley Twins, you had to be both clever and fun.

Harry had eventually (over an inkwell's worth of ink) decided on the excessively formal. For a boy with holes in his pants and tattered trous, it was a funny thing. Snape would have sniped, An Arrogant Thing, but that would be why Harry would NEVER use this formality with the crotchety, disagreeable old Potions Master.

Dear Terrible Twins,

In my time of need, nay of desperation, I write to you, for you have the answer to my most fervent prayers.

I have read in your missives of multifarious experimentations, large and small, bright and black.

What I have need of is one of your more recent creations - the Cloying Clods. For I have a most devious prank, tuned towards one of the least light-hearted personas within this house of learning.

That is, if they still have the side effect of leaving one with a voracious, nigh unsatisfiable appetite?

I should be happy to offer you a berth in my quarters, should you have need of one after such a long journey from London.

Make haste to me, the schemes I weave are intricate, and the planning must be done beforehand.

Your silent partner,

HP

Harry folded it up again, knowing that Hermione could have added much more folderadoo, but that it would sound more authentic with Harry's relative inexperience. And that the Twins would have conveyed whatever he'd wanted, even if it was half the shop and all the stock of Peruvian Darkness Powder. Perhaps he could get Ron to write to the Twins, asking for some basic supplies? Pranks might not be Harry's expertise, but everyone was looking a bit strained, and perhaps a bit of laughter might come in handy...

Everyone else was fast asleep in their beds by the time Harry slipped up to the Owlry. He didn't especially want to explain to Ron what he was doing writing Ron's brothers.

Harry woke the next day to run. Circling Hogwarts was different than running from Dudley - he'd always needed to be aware, because sometimes Piers was hiding somewhere, or Chuck or Mark, on occasion. And the older boys would trip him just on general principle.

So it wasn't that he was unaware... but here, there was a certain sense of peace and quiet, even if Snape might jump out of a bush at any moment. Harry wished he would, but it was a futile wish, and Harry knew it from the start. You didn't get anything from wishing, life had taught him that.

So he sent is feet plunging on, while he spun thoughts out like spirals of stars, glimmering on the midnight blue velvet of his mind.

It was one thing to have the motive. Motives were cheap, Harry'd found. Oh, how he'd wanted the Dursleys to like him. Hadn't ever really helped, truly. They'd just gone on hating him. He'd been a lot younger than he was now when he'd ripped the desire to be cared for right out of his chest.

Harry would, hopefully, have the method - he knew he could count on the twins, as much as anyone could. They owed him, already. But they weren't exactly the most methodical experimenters... Perhaps he'd have had a quicker answer if he'd simply have asked for something to cause an insatiable appetite? Live and learn, Harry thought, his body beginning to burn.

The opportunity? That would be substantially more tricky. Harry continued his next circuit, his mind on Cloying Clods, not the clods on the ground. He was lucky he didn't trip to be honest.

It was Thursday, Snape thought his eyes raking the Great Hall. His eyes caught Potter's, sharpening as they raked over the boy. Harry Potter's eyes looked down nearly immediately. Not a glare then, but an inquisitive look Good. Let him question all he likes, just keep his bloody mouth silent or I'll stitch it together with unicorn tails, so help me God.

Snape's eyes kept moving, resting briefly on Granger and the boy Weasley. They were behaving as usual, so it was probably safe to assume that Potter had gone back to his usual form.

Snape's eyes flicked over the Hufflepuffs, finding the usual Smith's pomposity, and Ernie's effervescent rolling of the eyes. If I could ever manage to be so pleasantly sarcastic...Snape thought with a petty jealousy.

The Ravenclaws were in fine form today - arguing over whether the world was actually flat or round. Snape knew the Muggleborns had the right of it, but it would hardly do for him to chime in, now would it? Some secrets were better off hidden - at least that was how the proverb was writ. Snape had amended that to Keep all secrets that ye may, for time is still a flying. And all the secrets you speak today, tomorrow will see you dying.

Snape's eyes scrutinized the Slytherin table - the only one he was quite allowed to look at so closely. Not that Minerva or Pomona would say a word - they'd learned the hard way that Snape intervened. Or, Snape thought charitably, they'd simply learned that he'd brook no opposition to simple nosiness. When Pomona had first raised an objection, Snape had simply said, "It's my job to know about all the petty little schemes the students are brewing. Or have your wits gotten so befuddled with age, that you've forgotten your duty to those who might ensnare themselves like a cat in a ball of yarn?" Pomona had sniffed, said "Well, I never! The cheek on you is appalling!" and had stalked off. But she'd never harangued him about his observations again. Occasionally, he'd have a word with her - about a particularly puissant Hufflepuff (any other kind was no trouble at all), that was bothering one of his Slytherins. And she listened, and to the extent teachers could, intervened. Perhaps a class project, or a prefject position - something, anything to steer a Hufflepuff away from a Slytherin who was becoming Bothered.

Malfoy looked tired, and Snape suppressed a vicious little smirk. Of all the things to come out of this merry farce of a year, Draco Malfoy was entirely too caught up in schemes to be at loggerheads with Harry Potter. And vice versa.

Snape had too many other irons in the fire to spend his time acting as nursemaid to two boys who really ought to know better.

Rivalries were one thing, but they ought to end at the Quiddich Pitch, not be carried throughout the school year and used to exude testosterone at a rate heretofore unheard of.

Hermione had finished her reading at breakfast, and so as she sat down for lunch, she was pleasantly surprised to see Harry was back. He'd been... off. Not "bad" off, just ... sort of missing. Hermione ached to figure out what was going on, but she didn't have any clues at all, other than Harry having disappeared. Generally when he was up to something mischevious (and thus worthy of "don't tell Hermione"), Ron would be involved, and she knew how to milk Ron.

Harry had paid strict attention in Potions class, At least in part to make certain Snape wasn't trying to destroy the entire classroom and everyone in it. That would be uncharacteristic of him, but Harry had learned that Snape was both made out of contradictions, and prone to projecting false images. Harry was dead certain that Snape was truly angry at him, and that meant that all previous bets were off. Particularly all assumptions made about the way Snape would behave while angry. He wasn't screaming, throwing things, or waving a strop.

In Harry's other classes he'd tried a different strategy. The Dursley's had never been much for Harry thinking at all, so he'd learned ways to let himself think, to be creative without them finding out about it. It was like he'd put a sentinel down, ready and able to respond ... dully. The Dursley's had never needed anything more complicated. Most teachers were the same way. All he needed to do was manage the incantations - no matter if he muffed the movement. Sixth Year Spells were hard, or at least Flitwick continued to think so. Questions could be answered by rote, or with a blank look of incomprehension.

All the while, Harry thought. He needed something foolproof. He could count on the twins, at least for this. Spun right, they'd do most anything for a prank. And Pranking Snape? That was like dangling succulent fruit in front of them. He'd have his cloying clods, and probably twice as many as needed.

That is, once he told them who he was pranking.

But that wasn't the tricky part. The tricky part was twofold:

First, get close enough to jam the candy into Snape's mouth. As Snape was inconveniently tall, this was remarkably short range.

Second, get Snape to open his mouth. The easy way to do that was to "rile him up" - he'd always shown a certain flair and consistency about yelling, and that would have to do. No, there was something that was harder... but perhaps more rewarding indeed... Stunning Snape with something oddly shocking. Yeah, that would do it, Harry thought, Leave Snape with his mouth open wide too - make an easier target than if his gums were flapping.

At dinner, Harry was flipping through his potions book, looking for a potion that could be corrupted easily. There needed to be some presumption of "I made a mistake..." Plausible deniability, even if Snape himself would shred the whole concept to pieces in his billowing wrath.

After dinner, he went to the Room, finding Hermione inside, trying to spell words in the air. At the last, her '"n" came out looking suspiciously like a "u"

Harry, leaning against the wall near the door, laughed, "What's a chickeu?"

Hermione turned around, half in the air, coming down on both feet - a solid stance, her 'wand' in her hand. She took three deep breaths before she answered his question. "Obviously a misshapen duck! With a wattle and spurs!"

Harry laughed at that, longer than it probably deserved. He was still laughing when Ron came inside. Ron smiled, one of those free smiles that Harry and Hermione never really seemed to have - Hermione could do glee, and unreserved delight, sure, but Ron had this level of nonchalance that neither Harry nor Hermione ever had.

Draco Malfoy entered on cat feet. No, not literally. Harry was watching the door, or he wouldn't have known. Malfoy flung a spell directly at Harry's scar (he was probably just aiming between the eyes - that had to be a coincidence, right?). Harry flicked out a Protego, shielding Ron and Hermione at the same time.

"Dangerous in a fight, that," Draco said, almost in a hiss.

"More dangerous to lose allies because you didn't do what you could." Harry said with a firmness that simply felt right.

"Let's go," Draco said. He didn't give the Gryffindors time to switch sides, so it was three against one. Draco was holding his own, if barely, seeming to slide between spells.

"How is he doing that?" Harry hissed.

"I don't know," Hermione said, "Ask him, not me."

It was good advice. "How are you doing that?" Harry called out.

"Later," Draco growled, fighting closer to them.

Harry had a sudden idea - Malfoy was using maneuverability...

Aquamenti would take care of that. Harry cast it behind Malfoy, and just a split second before Hermione got a spell off. Malfoy tried to sidestep, but stepped on a far slipperier surface than he was expecting. He slid down, nearly at their feet, his teeth bared as he hissed a stunner right up into Hermione's face. Harry tried to loom over him, using Accio to nick Malfoy's wand, but the impact of it slamming into his hand sent him down on one knee as well.

Ron was laughing at all of them, Hermione, with her hair for once pin straight, and Malfoy and Potter both dripping on the floor. Malfoy moved towards Granger first. He was halfway there when Ron rasped out, "Hermes Trimegistus." The three of them were suddenly tall and straight, standingupright, their hands clasped in each other's - including Hermione who was still unconscious. It was passing strange.

Ron danced a bloody jig. "I won! I won, for once!"

"Try doing that on a real battlefield, ya git." Malfoy growled, the silvery smile he sent after taking most of the sting out of it.

"Already have," Ron said, giving Malfoy of all people a goofy grin, "it works like a charm."

After Ron woke Hermione, she started in on them getting properly refueled after exercise. Eventually, Harry was able to get a word in edgewise, calling for Dobby to bring them some meats and sweets.

As the food was whisked away, Hermione and Ron started to bicker - again. It was perhaps a sign of how comfortable they were. Harry'd never be that comfortable, not with anyone. He was naturally more guarded than that. Showing weakness just... wasn't in him. He supposed that was why the Sorting Hat had wanted him for Slytherin. He wasn't a natural liar, far from it. But he did guard his secrets dearly.

Ron and Hermione walked out of the Room, still bickering. Harry was nearly on their heels, but - instead of leaving, shut the door neatly, turning around to look at Malfoy.

Malfoy's steel grey eyes looked back. He had his poker face on, but Harry was suddenly sure of Malfoy's curiosity. No one stared at someone else with that much intensity except if they were trying to riddle something out.

"A Poker face doesn't work if you're so obvious about it, you know..." Harry said, clipping his consonants deliberately, even as he said the words slow as honey.

"You wouldn't have said that two years ago." Draco Malfoy smirked.

"There were a great many things I wouldn't have said two years ago," Harry said, trying to turn facts into a threadbare fantasy. He didn't want to look like someone who'd... just recently woken up from a deep dream, even if that was the actual truth. He'd rather Malfoy think he was newly talkative, newly engaging. Harry knew a lot about watching silently - he wanted to keep Malfoy's image of him, prior, to be the person who watched you carefully enough to stab you in the back - not the affable gent who didn't bother even paying attention.

"What will you say today, I wonder?" Draco Malfoy's voice was casual, nearly light. It was a deliberate stance, deliberately masking his interest. Harry wasn't sure quite why he was doing so, of course - Harry knew Malfoy was interested. Maybe... habits were hard to break?

"I need your help," Harry said firmly.

"What are you offering for it?" Draco Malfoy smiled smugly.

"Bit greedy, aren't we?" Harry cut back, raising an eyebrow.

"Alright, what do you want me to do?" Draco Malfoy said.

"In three weeks time, we'll be creating a ..." Harry explained.

Draco's mouth nearly hit the floor. "You want to prank SNAPE? Have you lost your mind?"

Harry shook his head, and perhaps something about the intensity behind it leaves Malfoy speechless.

Draco looks at Harry, that sort of searching stare that Slytherins do so well and often. "This isn't just a prank is it?"

Harry shrugged, eloquently, his eyes steady.

Draco nodded, "For a favor of my choosing, I'll help."

Harry said, "A favor of roughly equivalent value, and not something that'll get me in major trouble."

Draco nodded back, respecting Harry's conditions, "Okay."

Harry let Draco leave the room first, summoning a sword and swinging it in a wild full-circle around himself. It was starting to seem like this might actually work.

Order Meeting Saturday.

After the last Order meeting, Harry had been exasperated. It had seemed the height of stupidity to not have Snape's insight.

And then Harry'd been informed that Snape was listening to the entire meeting.

That had been deflating.

But that didn't change certain matters of solidity - The Order Meetings were bloody boring. If Harry and his friends hadn't worked their arses off to get into the meetings in the first place... he'd have recommended skipping them. But no, they'd been so determined to be Full Order Members... Now they were eating their own words, and having to smile through it all.

Maybe Hermione was learning oodles of useful information. Harry really ought to ask. Belatedly, Harry's guilt caught up with him - why wasn't he learning as much as he could? Order meetings were fantastic opportunities (even he didn't believe his own poppycock, but he was going to try).

That left the problem of how early to arrive. Harry'd arrived early, before, because it was interesting - watching Snape set up - camp I guess you'd call it. Watching where everyone else sat. The rest of the younger order members arrived later.

The Twins! The twins were coming. Oh, gods above! Harry thought. I can't be explaining what scheme I'm running, not just after an Order Meeting!? His face! Oh, my god, I have to stop this from happening!

Harry knew he was often not on time for Potions class (and the rest of the classes, really). But, this time he was going to arrive nearly late, intentionally. That just sounded wicked, and not in a "this is awesome" kind of way.

Maybe he could get Hermione to help him? Harry thought hopefully, before the reality that Hermione was always on time reasserted itself.

Harry had to arrive just in time, and leave as quickly as he dared.

He couldn't stop the niggling feeling that Snape was going to keelhaul him in front of the entire Order. Not that Harry didn't deserve it.

Harry had a sudden burst of inspiration. Hadn't Draco created a room where others could create what they wanted? Harry would create a door, and a place to hide behind it. Then, right before the meeting officially started, he'd emerge.

What could go wrong with a plan like that?

Harry was at the Room early. 8am sharp. The meeting was at 1pm, a truly odd time for something important. It wasn't the evening, and it wasn't break of day. Probably Dumbledore's idea. He's always so busy... But maybe it was Sirius or Snape - Sirius because it was his house, and Snape because nobody can stand him before noon, anyhow. I wonder if he's actually more genial towards students? Maybe, if you take into account the Order having his mortal enemy-ies in it. Remus and Sirius can't have done his temper much good, even if Remus knows how to hold his tongue.

He walked inside - the room was odd, kind of grey and formless. A nameless distance away, there was a door. Harry went to it, and entered, standing in a small place (no bigger than my cupboard at home) and closed the door. As he did, he could almost feel the edges of the door disappearing. At least he still held onto the handle, or this might have been a dangerous place to get back from.

Harry, rather belatedly, pictured Ron and Hermione searching the entire castle for him, and then telling Prof. McGonagall, who would charge through the entire castle, a battleaxe in flight, trying to find her lost lioncub. And, because Harry was stuck in here, it wouldn't work. This was probably the last place anyone would think to look for him. Well, perhaps excepting Snape and Malfoy. Malfoy, because he'd been the one to show Harry how this worked, and bugger it all if the bloke didn't like peace and quiet a lot of the time. You'd never catch him in the library - he ghosted through there, walking up to get a book and leaving as quickly as could. Harry only really knew about it, because Harry walked the castle when he wanted to think. Malfoy liked high places, tiny little perches in half a dozen towers. Not generally the Astronomy Tower, but most of the others. You could tell when he'd been at the North Tower, because he'd have the faint whiff of Trelawney about him. And Snape? Snape seemed the type to sulk, to want lack of perception to aid him in disciplining his own mind. Malfoy had mentioned a time when Snape had been out of control. Seriously, out of control.

It was actually slightly bothersome, to think that all those times Harry had been terrified for his life - or worse, expulsion, that Snape had been entirely under control. Maybe that was why Dumbledore hadn't seemed to take him seriously? No, that doesn't seem right.

Snape strode in first, at a quarter to twelve - he looked double-wrapped, like he had two sets of robes on; it was almost, but not quite, enough to mask how thin he still was. "Melody," He said, and a house elf appeared. "Potato Leek soup, and some warm sourdough." Leave it to Snape to like even his bread sour.

Snape ate quickly, and Harry tried not to stare too obviously at his hands shaking. Was that nerve damage? Harry wondered, nonetheless.

Snape had finished eating, finished even twiddling his fork around. He stood, vanished the plate, and retreated back into a long shadow in the corner. He put that there himself, damn his rotting hide, Harry thought with some amusement, hadn't realized that was intentionally put.

Snape started a lonely melody -

Home is behind
The world ahead
And there are many paths to tread
Through shadow
To the edge of night
Until the stars are all alight

Mist and shadow
Cloud and shade
All shall fade
All shall fade

Harry hadn't ever thought about Snape singing before, not really. He was a hard man, with armor made of shattered glass. He didn't seem the type. And yet, listening to the song, Harry found it fit. Snape had a voice that was like molasses while singing - not particularly deep, but well flavored, and dark as anything. It held a surprising amount of warmth, too. Rough shod, a bit like a hug from Hagrid. And wasn't that a thought.

Snape seemed out of smugness, just tired, leaning against the wall, as if everything was just a bit too much to bear. "Attending these meetings is like dancing without a partner. Not nearly as effective, and I still have to watch for punches. If there's one thing to be said for the Dark Lord's service, at least there I have dance partners!" Snape sniffed nearly soundlessly, "Still, I suppose there's something to be said for Gryffindor muddle-headedness. They'll dog through, long after everyone else is rotting in their tombs." Snape shrugged, almost awkwardly - which just brought home the fluidity that Snape had made his own. "After all," Snape's mirth seemed broken, like a shattered windshield, as if another strike would send glass everywhere. "There's always another Gryffindor."

Harry had a sudden, disquieting thought. Is he talking to me? Or is he just talking to himself? Harry didn't want Snape to know he was there, observing. It felt ... invasive. Like Snape had been willing to let down a shield or two, just for the price of no one looking. I hope he doesn't know I'm here.

Dumbledore came in, just then, before Harry'd properly had time to consider coming out. Properly had time to consider if the old spy had known he was there, and had decided to be talkative. The uncertainty twisted in Harry's guts. "Severus, come have a seat at the table! Would you like a lemon drop, or some tea?"

Snape said curtly, "You never have the tea I like." Without changing his position at all, Snape said, "I'll stand. I'm comfortable here."

"Oh, well, if you insist." Dumbledore said, "Only I did conjure this table, and these chairs, and it would be such a shame..."

"There's always one less seat, and you know it."

Dumbledore sighed, "Only at your insistence. You always conjure your own..."

Snape smirked, the look in his eyes like icicles dripping wet, "That way I can be sure you haven't... done anything."

Dumbledore looked at Snape, in the shadows where he was difficult to get a read on, "I've done too much in my long life. Many things I'd rescind, if given half the chance."

Snape smiled, a smirk that grew to fill his face. "Fewer things than I have, I'd wager a griffin on it."

Dumbledore chuckled, "I'd take your money, and you know it. How many regrets do you have, of things not done on my orders?"

Snape said quietly, "Why, those are the only things I regret." It was strange, to hear a knife being wielded so skillfully, in Snape's own hand. You'd have expected it to come out in a fury, or be a pointed observation, or something designed to hurt. It wasn't. It was a simple statement of fact, and that made it hurt all the worse.

Dumbledore didn't show it, his poker face rivaled Snape's when he needed it to - and didn't it say something, that Dumbledore didn't want to admit that Snape's words hurt?

Hermione and Neville came in next, Neville excitedly laying out some plants. They seemed unaware of Snape, and Harry thought there was good odds of Neville overturning his chair when Snape made his presence known.

Remus drifted into the meeting like a wolf on a shaggy moor - gray blending in with the brown gorse. Snape let his eyes pass over Remus - or at least that's what Harry assumed he was doing, leaning in the shadows like that. Vance and Shacklebolt arrived nearly simultaneously, moving towards where Snape was - until his venomous voice diverted them to less quarrelsome lodging. Minerva McGonagall strode in, tartan flashing from within her dark robes, and scanned the room. Her eyes met Snape's, and she nodded slightly, swiftly striding around the table to wind up in a chair beside Snape.

McGonagall said, "Five galleons that Potter beats your whole team."

Snape sniffed back, "You don't have Potter this year, Minerva. Are your wits leaving you faster than your cat hairs?"

McGonagall said, "Apparently. Your robe's still black after all."

Snape said, "How is your new seeker this year? The rumor I heard had her losing the snitch on the playing field."

McGonagall laughed, a hard one that wasn't amused, "Stuff and nonsense. You know that's as impossible as anything."

Snape said, "With a Weasley, who can tell?"

McGonagall continued, "Will Malfoy bid the snitch come to his hand, with all those lordly manners?"

Snape sneered, "Have you not noticed those falling away? His tutors did a substandard job to begin with."

McGonagall said, "In another year, he may even be able to pass for human!"

Snape said, "How long did it take for you to manage that one, Felicity?"

McGonagall continued, "Two years after the transformation. I've also developed a fascination with killing snakes and skinning them."

Snape smirked, "You didn't have that before the transformation?"

As the quarreling continued, Harry slid out of the door he'd been inside - he didn't escape Hermione's "Oh! Harry, there you are! I was trying to remind you of the meeting, but... you made it!" Harry sent her a grateful smile, as he grabbed a seat across from Snape, and then did his best to not look at the man. Snape had been trying to hide, Harry didn't want to draw more attention to him.

Mad-Eye Moody came in by throwing open the door so loud it boomed. This had the effect of silencing all conversation except whatever Nonsensical Quarrel was going on between Snape and McGonagall. Moody took a scan around the room, his wand drawn, and then he smiled. Unlike Snape, who rarely showed even devilish delight, Moody's smile was craggy, and often seen. It was a smile of victory, most often.

Moody came over, grabbing the seat beside Harry. Harry's eyes flicked over at Moody, Don't look at him. What's he doing over here?

Moody didn't pay much heed to Harry's quandary. Instead, he leaned over, and said in Harry's ear, "What the hell did you do to Snape, there?"

Caught, Harry looked over at Snape, who was sending a deathglare at Moody. Or Harry. Likelier Harry. Awkwardly, Harry shrugged, unwilling to explain to Alastor Moody, paranoiac in chief, exactly what had pissed Snape off so much. Actually, Harry wasn't sure he could explain it to Moody, who'd probably say cattily, Isn't Snape friends with the Malfoys?

Moody responded to Harry's shrug, "You have him madder than a nest of Nagas!" Harry was honestly rather horrified to see how ... approving ... Moody was of this new development. "Why I haven't seen him this mad since Black-!"

Harry turned slightly to Moody, asking a sudden question, "How'd you get him to cool off?"

Moody roared a laugh, which got an even deadlier death glare out of Snape, as Moody clapped Harry on the back, hard. "Don't suppose I rightly know. I like him better mad, you know? Never had call to try calming him down."

Great, just great, Harry thinks, I'm sitting by the crazy madman who wants Snape this nettled-angry. And thinking about how mad Snape was at him, was making Harry's stomach twist in knots. Hope I don't vomit in the meeting.

The Terrible Weasley Twins entered next, nearly the last people to arrive. They sat beside Harry, and started making faces at him. This was being normal tomfoolery from the twins, so Harry didn't pay it much heed. However, he noticed - almost in passing - Snape's eyes losing a bit of that death glare. Did he not want Harry talking to Moody? Wut was that? Was he concerned, that Harry might learn something? Other than Moody's deliberate noninterference with the Black/Snape verbal donnybrooks. Which, seemed obvious, now that Harry thought about it. Even when they'd been reduced to listening at the door of Order Meetings, they'd always been able to hear Black and Snape standing off.

Harry suppressed a loud laugh that wanted to emerge from his throat, as the far twin decided mimicking Snape's current glare (complete with batwings flapping around his ears) would be the best use of time and magic.

Mrs. Figg, still smelling of cats, was the last through the door. She had so many pages of papers in a box... And every single one of them had cat hairs attached. Harry had known she was some sort of lawyer (paralegal?) when he'd been seven and had seen her working, but it was all too easy to forget that the Old Cat Lady actually had a competent head on her shoulders.

"Order!" Dumbledore belted - it was easy to forget that, when he tried, Albus Dumbledore could boom his voice in a manner that Snape never quite managed. Snape was one for the quiet, leather and shadow voice that commanded attention in the classroom. Dumbledore's general tones didn't command respect, they merely asked for it. So everyone (including the twins) bounced at the noise, falling silent as there were thumps on the seats.

Molly Weasley took the floor, more reporting on gossip than on anything substantive. Harry knew it was important, but really didn't need to know how many cats Mrs. Frobisher had acquired, or really why Mr. Silv needed more clothespins. Harry sent a quick, darting glance at Snape, who'd crossed his arms, leaning back against the corner of the room (that Harry would insist, if asked, that Snape had created simply for that purpose alone). Snape looked surprisingly like a Raven, with one beady black eye trained on Molly, as if she might drop something shiny entirely by accident. Or, if one were of a more morbid bent, Snape looked like death itself, newly crawled out of a grave. He wasn't leaning on that wall by accident.

Come to think, Harry thought, by now having nearly discarded paying attention to Molly, Snape leaned up against things more than anyone else Harry'd ever seen, and that included Draco Malfoy, who'd practically turned leaning into an artform! I wonder if he did that before his first bout of the Cruciatus Curse, Harry thought grimly. Probably not. Snape's 'predisposition' to leaning meant that nobody marked it as weakness.

Tonks' stories about the Aurors, and their rumors, were a merry lot of fun, but not much information, as far as Harry could tell. Snape sent her a glare when she told a story about mixing up two potions and nearly causing an explosion instead of healing her superior. I bet she was just as clumsy in class as she was at Grimmauld.

Art Weasley's report was more gossip, interspersed with Muggle digressions, "Did you know that eklitricy comes in two forms? One straight and one that rhymes?" Harry was honestly confused as to why nobody'd bothered to interrupt. Didn't anyone here have something important to get back to?

Mrs. Figg's report was dry and bookish, but at least she understood the value of conciseness. It covered her inspections of various children born as the seventh month dies.

By the end, Snape jeered and sneered, "Albus, surely you can't think this a good use of resources..."

Albus gave that soft grin that said he really, really did. "Of course it's imperative," Albus said, "We must find the baby mentioned in the prophecy..."

Snape, looking unflappable, said, "Or?"

Albus continued, implacably, "Or Tom wins."

Snape sneered, "We may not be able to defeat him without the Promised One, but do not mistake that for letting him win." Snape raked his bright gaze, confident, controlled and perfectly furious at the entire room. He then crossed and uncrossed his arms, which really did look a little like a bat's wings flapping - if, that is you didn't notice his fists.

Snape's own report, this time, was as entertaining as his discourses on The Art of War** - Pieces seemed to leap to life - Snape's discussion on the goings-on of Lucius Malfoy alone took over half an hour, and that was with Snape confessing dryly that he still hadn't much of a clue what Lucius had been doing. Snape had further discussion of the Dark Lord's priorities. Alarmingly, Snape had been asked to detail Hogwarts' defenses. Harry exchanged a look with Hermione on that.

"Traitor, crawl back to your hole!" Moody jeered.

Snape turned, leaning over the table - Moody tensed, ready to leap to his feet with wand in hand. He said coldly, "They say it takes a traitor to know one."

Moody snorted, "Ain't no doubt of my loyalties."

Snape looked smug, "As you say, I suppose I wouldn't know either." With that scrap of wry humor, Snape swooped out of the room with a flourish.

Harry tried to pull his attention back to the meeting. It didn't work, necessarily, but he tried his damnedest. What he mostly understood was the strain on everyone. The sense of a fighting retreat. The line he remembered most was Shacklebolt's "Travers won't listen to a blasted thing I say anymore!"

Moody's cackling laughter had followed, "I told you he'd bend, not break."

And that was the problem, wasn't it just? They didn't have enough resources, and the Dark was pushing at all their weak points. Snape had even said that Lord Voldemort had been looking at invading Hogwarts. Was that even possible? Harry thought, It had to be. Snape's not preparing us for a war we'll reach years from now.

Hermione gave a brief report about "Dumbledore's Army" (blessedly ignoring the idea that there were Slytherins, Death Eater among them). She used a whiteboard, drawing figures and signs. Harry hadn't told her that they were essentially helping Snape continue to teach when he was ... indisposed. Harry vaguely thought he should, and then vaguely thought he shouldn't. How was he supposed to tell her how he knew this? Wouldn't she just lecture him for having a go at Professor Snape again? And that's if she believed him.

After the meeting, Harry found his broomstick and took off. Something was bothering him, as much as he didn't want to be bothered by it. Snape had said with perfect sincerity that he wasn't a traitor. That was an odd thing to contradict someone on. They all knew it, didn't they? Dumbledore's spy. Harry had a sharp recollection of Snape being cackled at by Bellatrix last year - she fully believed he was a traitor.

Yet, Harry could easily see Snape saying, My side is comprised of me alone. I look out for myself, you nitwit. Harry didn't believe that, as far as he could throw it.

Had Snape been lying? What was the point to lying about something... so obvious? What was the point in telling the truth if it wasn't?

Harry got off his broom with questions still swirling like the wind a half mile high above. He headed for his dorm room, to get a quill and parchment. He had an unassigned homework assignment to do. Not that harry would expect a grade.

**No, harry's not read the book. Snape capitalizes while speaking, though.

*peruse sounds like the type of word Snape would have used. Repeatedly, in the classroom. Harry's not incapable of remembering words, just doesn't go out of his way to pick them up.