Harry wasn't nearly as excited for Draco's DA lesson as he could have been. He hated Potions.
It was exacting, it didn't lend itself to his brand of creativity, and he loathed them!
So when Malfoy conjured Potions Desks, and silver knives, Harry wished they were sparring with the knives. That, at least, would be something he'd get some use out of.
Slowly, people filed in, students taking their places at the desks. In its way, it was brilliant. It might even, if Draco was especially lucky, manage to kill Smith's whinging. We should be so lucky.
"I'm sure you're all wondering," Draco Malfoy began, with that infuriating smirk - that Harry, in a sudden flash of insight, realized concealed a well of nervousness. "Why you should be studying potions, when we're preparing for war."
There were mutterings all around, and a general sense of agreement, along with a sense of attentiveness.
"In this war, most of you will not be fighting Gryffindors. True?" Draco's eyebrow rose, as his eyes flicked over the class, making eye contact with those who looked the most truculent. Staring them down, where necessary. Harry wanted to take some notes, just on how Malfoy was teaching.
"A proper form of Slytherin treachery is poison." Draco Malfoy stated, baldly. Ron's jaw fell open at that. Hermione's too. Harry wasn't nearly as surprised, if only because he had actually considered rat poison at the Dursleys. "You need to know the symptoms. Recognize it before it happens, where you can. Do you really want to miss a battle because you're stuck vomiting until the last dregs of your meal are out of your system?"
"Sure, potions will heal you, and that's a valuable skill to know." Draco Malfoy said, "But that's something I could teach a quarter of this class. You all need to know poisons and antidotes." Draco Malfoy's grey eyes flashed, "Or did you think Hogwarts was safe?"
Harry caught the moment when the Gryffindors, as a collective whole, realized exactly what security holes the Weasley twins had exposed. That they'd exposed them in front of all and sundry. And that it was quite likely that some enterprising Slytherin had taken notes.
"Today, we will start in preschool." Draco Malfoy snapped, "I doubt most of you have been taught this." His grey eyes found Longbottom, "You especially, Longbottom. I've seen your knifework."
Draco Malfoy was exacting, Harry was soon to learn, as he learned how to find the right angles of the knives - and more importantly, how to strop and sharpen the knives themselves.
The damnedable thing of it was? Malfoy was right. He hadn't learned it - he even thought Hermione was picking up tricks.
There was a reason Malfoy was the best at Potions, apparently.
Harry hadn't realized just how busy his days had gotten, until he finally got a chance to relax. His potions work wasn't due for another three days, and for once, Flitwick and McGonagall had managed to not assign homework at the same time. Furthermore, Snape's homework was apparently confined to some sort of ruddy extra credit, that only people who hadn't gone through the doors had to do. Ron had gone on at length at the unfairness of having homework that Hermione and Harry didn't have. (Harry rather thought Ron was just upset that he had to do an entire 10 page essay On His Own).
Harry'd eaten dinner early, having half-skipped lunch to finish off a 'paper' on Divination. He didn't normally have an appetite like Dudley's...
Hermione had tried to glare him into eating brussel sprouts, but at the point where Harry had started to have his fight each other, Hermione had said that he was interrupting people trying to have a decent dinner. Hearing that, Harry had stood, bowed, and strode back to the common room, letting a soft smile cross his face after he was out of the Great Hall.
In the common room, Harry had a book open, although he was watching a falcon circle the tower. When the common room door slammed open, Harry looked over with concern. There was a third year there, as white as a sheet, with his hands shaking. Harry stood, half-approaching, and asked, "What's wrong."
"S..S...snape!" the third year said, quivering like a leaf.
Harry squatted down, so he was at eye level with the child (I'm extremely glad I'm no longer that size, he thought quietly). "What happened?" Harry said, wanting to pat the kid on the back, but realizing that the kid might react poorly.
"I... I was talking, to a friend. In private. She was just about to finish the one about the Hippogryf and the Wyrm, when Snape countered my spell."
That, was unusual, Harry thought. Most of the time, people eliminated spell energy with Finite Incantem - it was like the rush of stillness after a thunderclap. Countering a spell required knowing exactly what it was, and sending "reverse sound waves" to cancel out the magic. It was both extremely advanced, and a really weird thing to do to a third year.
"Why did he do that?" Harry asked aloud.
"I don't know, but..." The boy fidgeted, suddenly. "He leaned into our, now canceled, privacy bubble, and asked, 'Where did you learn that spell?' " The boy seemed twitchy at this.
"What was the incantation to the spell?" Harry asked.
"Muffiliato." the boy said.
Harry frowned - that was one of Snape's personal spells, one that he'd learned this summer. Not one that Snape, or anyone, really, would teach a third year. "Where did you learn that spell?"
"My third year defense book," the boy said. "Snape's going to want it, isn't he?"
Harry fought back a warm smile, looking serious instead, "Did you tell him you learned it from there?"
The boy shook his head emphatically. "I can't learn defense without my book."
Harry said, "We'll take care of this together. First, can I see your book?"
Shakily, the third year nodded, pulling out his dogeared book. Harry opened it, finding - in Snape's spiky, slanted hand, the notation that this book was Property of The Half Blood Prince. It was kind of relieving, in a way, to see that even Snape could trump up some reason to pretend to glory, when he was thirteen. Properly ridiculous, sure, but relieving.
"Do you need this particular copy, or will any one do?" Harry asked.
"To study? I'd work with any copy." The boy said, starting to twitch again. "But Snape wants to know where I learned the spell..."
Harry considered, for a silent moment, and then flashed a gleaming smile at the boy. It wasn't a nice smile. "You can tell him I taught you the spell, if he asks, alright?"
"You'd do that, for me?" the boy looked up in wonder.
"I'd do it for the book - provided I can get you a newer copy," Harry smiled, "And because you're a Gryffindor and they stick together." Now all Harry had to do was get Hermione to part with her old DADA textbook. Piece of cake.
Suck on this, old man. Harry thought. If Snape wasn't going to talk with Harry, well, then he wasn't getting his damned book back. And he blasted well deserved to not see hide nor hair of it, for putting that poor third year through a near breakdown.
Harry half suspected that he could dance on the Gryffindor Table in a tutu during Breakfast, and Snape wouldn't so much as glance at him.
Either way, today, I win.
With an incident like that, it was no surprise to Harry that he entered the RoR grinning broadly.
He was spoiling for a fight.
Not for pain, nor inflicting pain.
Just... one of those days when everything feels like it's clicked together right. And it looks amazing.
From the instant Draco caught sight of Potter's face, he was on his guard. The sheer level of joyous energy radiating from Potter ought to be illegal. Draco knew it would be harshly punished in the Slytherin Common Room - one should be elegant, composed, and contained.
Potter, at the moment, exemplified House Gryffindor at its finest.
Exactly the time when House Slytherin hated it the most, of course.
Slytherin was inclined towards a sneering chuckle at Gryffindorian antics at the best of times (which was when they were losing the Lions scads of points).
This, though? This level of energy was almost charismatic in its pull.
Well, Draco Malfoy drily informed it, in the confines of his own head, you picked the wrong wizard.
Draco sent a shimmering blue spell towards Harry's feet - who quickly shielded. Unfortunately, not quick enough. the shield shimmered into view around Potter AND the spell.
Then Draco did a dirty trick - he yanked the spell away from Harry - who was already trying to jump Straight Up (acrobatics might be his specialty on a broom, but...).
With the shield still extant, the spell started to zig and zag, flying from one side of the shimmering ball to the other.
Potter screamed when it touched him, as if Draco had used something simply dark. No, he'd used something that was more of his own invention - lust, love, heartbreak, bound into one charm. Hm, Draco thought, it wasn't supposed to cause screaming.
Draco dropped the spell, hoping that Potter would be crying, or seething, or anything other than that gloriously unfeigned true happiness.
It was as if Potter didn't understand what he was doing-
Potter's scream broke - it didn't cut off, but it changed into a full on belly laugh. "That was fantastic!" Harry laughed.
fuck it all.
Even Granger and Weasley gave Potter odd looks as they came in. Did the Terrible Trio truly not know every member's personal business?
It wasn't as though Potter was unhittable in this sort of mood.
No, it was worse.
He was unstoppable.
You'd cast something on him, even Stoneskin, and he'd simply - keep going. It was infuriating, and what was worse, Draco was aware that it was Potter's mood that was causing this.
... and...
Potter was fighting too well. Disturbingly well.
Draco was going to have to fight below the belt. While Granger and Weasley were interacting with Potter, Draco scrawled a short message on two strips of parchment.
Then he grandstanded, striding forward and pushing both Granger and Weasley apart. In the process, he landed both of those strips inside their collars.
Were he looking behind himself, Draco might have noticed them both reading the notes (strategically cued in their hands), Granger's face transforming into a bloodthirsty grin, and Weasley's face looking confused, but still thinking.
"Well, well, well, what the hell are you on?" Draco Malfoy said with a heavy sneer in his voice.
Potter belted out a laugh, "Absolutely nothing at all!"
"You must be taking something," Draco said, sputtering out a laugh, "how else can you be laughing?"
The look Potter shot him was of blank incomprehension.
Draco looked insouciant. Relaxed, casual. It was a practiced look, and he knew he did it to perfection. "People are dying, out there. Screaming, even. Being tortured. And here you sit, doing nothing about it." Draco knew, without looking, that Granger and Weasley were looking at him, a bit warily.
Potter shook his head, in negation. "Not my problem," Harry shot back. "I'm ready. And I'm learning." Potter took a deep breath, almost as if he was meditating. He smiled a cocky smile, and grinned, "Besides, I can already whup your ass."
"That remains to be seen," Draco said, switching fluidly into battlestance.
Draco hadn't been holding back in practice. Holding back implies that you are trying to go easy on someone else. It was a calculated insult, and Draco thought they'd moved past that.
But Draco had placed some limits on his own behavior; so had the others, though probably with less critical reflection. Granger, in particular, with her impulse to be good in the eyes of authority figures, was most likely to have adopted their rules. Weasley seemed like the type to have taken 'fair fight' to mean a particular set of things, and that he'd simply explode if someone used the Wrong Thing. He too thought his rules were obvious.
Potter, though, it was clear, had fairness issues. That lay at the heart of his interactions with Snape, who was prone to picking on the Gryffindor. Any Gryffindor, really, but Potter bore more of Snape's tongue than Dean Thomas did, despite being at roughly the same skill level.
"What makes you so special?" Draco snarled, his wand busy casting and undoing Potter's spells.
Potter even took that with good grace. He raised an eyebrow, and smirked out, "Magic." And then Potter struck.
Draco actually managed to stop thinking about anything except sparring for about the next five minutes. Potter, when he was on, was really That Good. And Draco had never really liked being in pain, or being made to look like a fool.
About five minutes later, they were both breathing heavily, circling around each other. A detente, one easily shattered.
Draco wanted to sigh. He wanted to seethe, or bury his head in his hands. But, fuck, Potter in this type of mood was bloody dangerous.
He didn't have time for any of that.
Slytherins lived and died by their words, by subtle language of the hands or face.
But Draco? Draco was dealing with a Gryffindor.
Almost at an instant, Draco could feel the plan forming around him, like glass armor. Like a coiled snake, Draco struck without a thought.
Potter sent a Stupefy at him, Draco jumped to his side, letting his headlong momentum continue to carry him towards Potter.
Potter sent out an Expelliarmus, and Draco let him take the wand. This plan doesn't require it anyway.
Potter's eyes briefly rested on Draco's wand, nestled in his hand. The next moment, Potter was directing a brilliant smile at Draco.
Who promptly punched Potter straight on the nose.
Potter went down onto his rump (Draco hadn't been running that fast), and laughed warmly.
No. Draco thought, and he dropped an elbow straight into Potter's solar plexus, as they both hit the ground in a tumble of limbs.
Potter was hitting Draco, he was pretty sure - Adrenalin was keeping him nicely numbed. But Draco had never been one for free hits, so he kept hitting Potter, until Potter finally howled, "Malfoy, what the fuck was that for?"
Draco stood, bowed, and said stiffly, "You weren't yourself. Did no one teach you that any emotion, in a fight, can be a weapon? If you do not wield it yourself, someone else will wield it against you."
"Is that what you did?" Potter's green eyes blinked up at him.
"No," Draco Malfoy said, glad that his voice was too steady, "You were wielding it too well."
Draco diverted his eyes to the other two Gryffindors. He found himself relaxing, minutely. Weasley had caught what Draco was doing. Draco wasn't about to be hexed senseless. "Weasley, would you be so kind as to get the Headmaster? I suddenly find myself with a few too many inconvenient memories."
It was easy to dismiss Ron Weasley, Harry thought. He was the playful, happy one of their trio. He wasn't terribly studious, and was obsessed with a doomed team in Quiddich.
But there were times.
And this was one of them.
Ron took the words right out of Harry's mouth, "I can never tell what he's thinking about, when he puts that formal stiff-face on."
Harry chuckled, saying, "I know what you mean. It hides everything. Is he upset? Hurt? Completely placid?"
Hermione said, "Not that last. He's relying on a ... basic, trained protocol."
Ron and Harry both looked at her.
"He's... better at communicating, normally. He doesn't generally sound like that, right?" Hermione said.
The boys nodded.
"And it's generally safe to assume that he's hunky-dory while playing Quiddich, isn't that so?"
The boys nodded.
"Then this is a learned behavior, designed to wall people out from whatever emotion he's feeling." Hermione said.
Ron asked, "Yeah, but why?"
Harry slowly found his voice, "Because it's inconvenient." In the moment, Harry was back at the Dursleys, suppressing his rage at Dudley having slammed his hand into the hot pan - and the ensuing sizzle. Worse, Vernon had come down looking for bacon.
Ron nodded slowly, "We've seen him angry, and joyous - but only when you'd expect that."
Hermione said slowly, "When his audience expected it."
Harry nodded, "He's playing to the crowd, and when he has a "Bad emotion" he just walls it off." Harry had entirely too much practice with that. But the Dursleys had wanted him silent - Malfoy switched to being the Perfect Pureblood Ponce.
Ron nodded, "Still doesn't mean we know what he means by it."
Hermione said, "You could just ask him, you know?"
Harry spoke up, suddenly vehement, "No, we can't."
Ron continued, "He's right, you know, he'll have been obliviated."
Hermione nodded, "Maybe next time?"
Harry looked at his watch, and said, "He'll be back soon. We'd better get practicing."
Surely enough five minutes later, Malfoy burst into the room, asking, "What did I miss?"
Severus Snape was woken out of a sound sleep with his left arm burning. With a curse, he rustled under his pillow, pulling out the death eater robes, and, taped under his bed, the Death Eater mask, silver-white and cold. He threw on the robes, concealing the mask until he was out of Hogwarts.
His mind scrambled for what this could be about, in particular, while he strode up the dungeon corridors. In his warm baritone, he sang:
I walk a lonely road
It's the only one I've ever known.
Don't know where it goes
But it's home to me and I walk alone.
For once, Snape's incautious feet fell like those of elephants, booming as he strode at full pace, faster than most trots, his death eater robes whirling behind him. And Lucius wanted to know why my teaching robes were linen. Silk will always remind me of death, and never my own.
Snape heard the soft yelp of Fang as he walked past Hagrid's hut, heading towards the Forbidden Forest. In the night, caressed by the blue moonlight, Snape thought of it as a peculiar sort of home. Like the kind with a dozen knives in the kitchen, well sheathed in a knife block.
As soon as his feet passed the wards, he apparated away with a crack. Up in a tower, someone softly lit a candle.
Snape kept his mind repeating the song inside his head. It was a useful concentration-piece, a focus. Lucius was there, of course he was, it was his house, and Lucius wouldn't miss an audience for the sun and stars. Lucius was attended by his normal gaggle of followers - people too green to know his nature, for the most part. Lucius was like Lucifer, silvertongued and superficial. He'd just as soon throw someone to the wolves (werewolves in this case), as he would rescue them.
Severus Snape knew the meaning of charm, and even used it on occasion. But here, he preferred to contrast himself with Malfoy. His allies (never followers) knew him as a right devil - word the contract just right, and Snape would stick to it. The foolhardy Death Eaters died early, and the brash ones (like Bellatrix) thought they could stand by themselves. But the ones with an air of caution, of menace, of studious standoffishness - they stood with Snape.
The door to the Dark Lord's throne room opened, beckoning them inside.
Harry wakes up from a dream - straight into a vision.
All around him, death eaters in masks kneel. The lowest ranks press their heads to the floor, while his Inner Circle kneel to one knee, as is their right. "What news do you bring me, my loyal followers?"
Harry shakes himself out of the frame. He is not Lord Dark Lord. This is not him.
Then comes panic. The sheer and utter terror that Riddle's gonna feel him, gonna turn around and strike him down - would that drive him crazy? harry's not sure. He thinks his brain goes white.
As his brain lifts out of the peafog, eh's suddenly getting an inspiration. If he doesn't want to be there, he can always hide in the mazy fog.
What am I doing? Harry thinks, cross with himself. He goes back to being a cloud - except, better than that, a glass pane, over the sky.*
Harry was breathless, cold - but watching, listening. Like the man in the moon.
Harry heard Lucius Malfoy's low and steady drawl - which somehow came across as much more masculine than Draco's ever did, no matter that the man was an absolute poppinjay. "I have had limited success at subverting and swaying the Aurors," Lucius said, "But I have some promising news about the Magical Creatures department. Apparently they can track all the halfbreeds and werewolves."
"Increasing surveillance by the hated Ministry might turn more to our side," Lord Riddle said.
Lucius bowed, "I shall see it done."
Harry woke with a scream that seemed far louder in his head than aloud. He was relieved about that, Ron might have woken and wanted to know what was up.
Harry looked out the window. It was still dark in the fall falsedawn, though Harry swore he'd seen glints of rising sun... when he was there.
Had he really just inhabited the Dark Lord's Mind? body? Harry wasn't sure there was much difference.
He shook in his bed like a leaf
I don't think he noticed me... But, if he did, how would I tell? Who would I tell?
And that last question was the hard one.
This hadn't been a planning meeting, nothing of material interest.
Except for Harry's unwilling participation.
That, that was very noteworthy.
Harry stood, dressing in his jogger's pants before tossing on a heavy-duty robe and cloak.
He knew he was supposed to tell someone.
That wasn't the problem.
Harry didn't have problems with telling someone.
Not any more, at any rate.
The problem was a little simpler and a lot more difficult.
Harry pounded down the stairs of Gryffindor tower, still thinking.
Who to tell?
Snape wasn't talking to him (and might not have even made it back yet - this seemed like something that could wait, but... how was Harry to tell, truly?). If Harry knocked on his door (nevermind the time of night), he'd have it slammed in his face. Hell, even during office hours.
Harry had the sudden inspiration of having Hermione tell Snape.
That was both ridiculous and entirely un-Gryffindor.
Plus, Snape would murder him.
Harry started to circle the castle, thinking in the dim light, taking the circuit slower so he didn't fall and break something. No one would be out for hours (excepting Snape returning, if he wasn't back already.)
Harry paused, running in place. I don't want to see Snape returning home. I'd get detention just for existing. Again.
Harry continued thinking about whototell, as he turned around and started jogging back. It's really too early to be awake.
Last year, there would have been no question - Harry'd just tell Dumbledore. But, this year, Harry had a sneaking suspicion that Dumbledore would order Snape to teach Harry Occulumency. That hadn't worked the first time, and Harry rather thought that a pissed-as-hell Snape was likely to be an extraordinarily poor teacher at the Mind Arts.
No, Harry couldn't tell Dumbledore.
He'd have to write a letter. And make two copies. He'd slide one letter under Snape's office door (no one but him would find it, as no one else entered his office, even for office hours). And he'd leave the other with Hermione, with explicit instructions to open it if he disappeared without notice.
By the time Harry, sweaty and bedraggled, had made it back to Gryffindor Tower, he was badly in need of a shower.
And so it was, that Ron woke to Harry, in a bathrobe, writing a letter. "Oi! Whatcha writing?" he asked.
"A letter" Harry responded, trying to think of how to explain this to Ron.
"To who?" Ron said.
"Hermione. Just as a failsafe." Harry said, missing the calculating look in Ron's eye.
Last night, Snape had caught that angry glare that Potter had thrown like a lance at him. He didn't react, though he recognized the look.
Fuck off, old man.
It didn't take legimency to get that. Not when Severus Snape had worn it through most of his teenage years. His mouth had wanted to smirk, and he'd wanted to say to Potter, "Better get used to it, laddie."
Words and looks that would never cross his lips. Not so long as the war continued, at any rate. Not in public, never in private. It was one thing to be a drill sargent to Potter - giving him one shard of understanding? of sympathy? Not in hell's darkest depths could he afford that.
Yesterday, that look had anger, and rejection - and it was blessedly cool. Like a fresh-forged decision that sat well on the teenager's mind.
Today, Severus Snape sat at the High table for breakfast. Minerva twittered and Filius responded with glee. But Snape's eyes scanned the Hufflepuff table slowly - out of the corner of his eye, he could see Potter.
That look never boded well.
That was the look of someone putting pieces together, a sort of inward looking disbelief, "How could I have been so stupid to have missed it?"
Snape recognized that look - not from James, or Lily. It was one he'd worn, the day before the incident under the Whomping Willow.
And the entitled brat was staring at him, with that look on his face.
Potter had obviously put something together. Or only thought he had. Either way was ridiculous, and worthy of scorn. Snape wanted to snarl at Merlin and God above, "Now what?"
Because it was fucking obvious, if time had taught him nothing, that an adolescent with such a look on his face HAD TO dig deeper, had to learn more.
Any knowledge of Snape was dangerous, and Snape truly believed that anything that Potter might put together, true or untrue, would have to be obliviated. Idly, he fingered his wand under the table, sipping coffee black as sin.
Harry had hurried to breakfast, knowing that Snape liked to be there early. harry wanted to have eyes on the man, to at least visually inspect him.
He needn't have bothered, truly.
Snape was there, looking right as rain.
Harry knew his eyes burned, as he glared at Snape. In truth, he knew it wasn't Snape's fault Harry had just assumed. Over and over again. No, it was Harry's own fault, but he couldn't very well glare at himself, now could he? Maybe he should just conjure a mirror. Staring at Snape this much couldn't be healthy.
At least, unlike staring at Malfoy, people were unlikely to conclude that Potter was in love with Snape. Oh, that would just take the cake, wouldn't it?
Harry let the slightest trace of a smile grace his lips, as he leaned backward.
Still, Harry dredged up summer memories... there had been at least seven different instances (he'd stopped counting, and was remembering them by other landmarks) when Snape had shown up, looking drawn. Thin.
Not skeletal, nothing that ... concerning.
At the time, Harry had chalked it up to Answering Tom's Summons.
If that wasn't the case...
What the bleedin' hell had Snape been up to? And, for how long?
Harry mentally shook himself. He did not have a blessed right to the answers to these questions. These were dangerous questions, that he really ought not to be asking, even inside his mind.
But inside his mind was safe, mostly speaking.
He had learned his lesson.
He was not going to ask these questions, not to anyone.
With a sigh, he leaned his head into his hands. Not asking just meant the questions were going to squirm around in his mind, restless and unceasing.
Harry hurried from breakfast to Defense, aware that Snape had probably found the letter Harry had given him.
Harry felt reasonably sure that if Snape was feeling spiteful (not to mention impractical) enough to just burn the damn thing, he'd do it in front of Harry. Yanno, to emphasize the futility of conversation with someone who isn't listening.
He hadn't wanted to have that happen in front of the rest of his year. Particularly the Slytherins, with his luck, someone (hopefully not Malfoy, his rumors tended to last longer than others. it was a loathsome gift) would decide that Harry was sending Snape a love letter, or something else equally ridiculous.
No one would guess the truth, so there was some cold comfort in that.
Of course, now that Harry had arrived at the seemingly empty Defense classroom (Snape was using red ink at his lectern), he was thinking better of his life decisions. Snape hadn't burnt the letter, no. Nor did he seem interested in discussing that third year and the mysterious potions book.
No.
Snape was simply grading. As if Harry wasn't even there.
Now, Harry Potter had grown up being ignored - no, that wasn't right. He'd grown up wanting to be ignored, considering being ignored to be a good thing. Harry stood there, watching Snape - he let his eyes defocus, practicing his breathing and meditation. He was not going to be upset. Snape had every right to not pay attention to a student there early (though heaven help someone who arrived late to Snape's class).
Pansy Parkinson arrived to class next, stalking in like a panther, her hips swaying softly. Her everything was soft, smooth - and dangerous. Like a poisoned rose.
Any opportunity for Snape to talk with Harry, as Harry and not Potter the Talented Defense Student (or Potter the Hopeless Fool, his mind sardonically supplied), had vanished.
Harry Potter started a quick kalisthenics routine, stretching and bouncing and throwing in a few kicks and punches for good measure.
"That looks well," Pansy said, "Care to teach?"
Harry looked up, not at Pansy, exactly, but at Snape, whose eyes were still marking the paper... except his pen had stopped. In the twenty minutes Harry'd watched him, the pen hadn't stopped once.
"You wouldn't want to learn," Harry said, lying through his teeth. "But, I suppose. Class is about to start, so maybe ask me later." Harry'd said the last three words in a tone that implied he meant their Defense Study sessions. He hoped she got the point, but knew that any point she got, other than Talk In the Middle of Defense Class, was likely to be okay.
"Can anyone tell me why one shouldn't use the Unforgivables?" Snape's eyes raked the class, settling on Susan Bones, who had her hand in the air.
"They're illegal, sir."
"Ah. The proper, ministerial, response." Snape sneered, "There are a thousand curses and hexes that are illegal, most of which you can find detailed in the Hogwarts library - even the darkest, should you manage a pass into the Restricted Section. It's ritual magic that the Ministry has most persecuted."
Snape drew a breath and continued, "Why are these three curses ones you should not rely on?"
Rely. It was a word that Harry Potter knew well, and he instantly knew what Snape was talking about. It wasn't the illegality, but the difficulty of the spell. I wonder if anyone else figured it out?
Hermione raised her hand, and Harry tuned her out, already knowing that she'd be saying these are the three that will send you to Azkaban, no questions asked.
The question went around the room, Neville and Seamus and Dean trying to answer it, along with Anthony.
Finally, it was Greg Goyle who raised his lumberous arm.
"Yes?" Snape asked brusquely, which was still a sight above the consideration afforded to Gryffindors.
"The Unforgivables... well, they're hard to cast, sir." Goyle said.
And, because it was Greg Goyle, whom most people didn't know had any feel for magic at all, everyone laughed. Everyone except Harry and Hermione. She knows what it's like to be bullied, and laughed at.
Soundlessly, Snape snarled at the class, teeth on only one side of his face flashing. Then he revealed spiders - great big hairy things. Poor Ron. Harry thought sympathetically. Snape wouldn't be doing this to him if he'd known. It's one thing to want to grind my bones for bread but Ron's... just been persistently Ron.
"One at a time, you will approach the spider given to you. I warn you, these tarantulas are quite poisonous. Then you will cast all three of the Unforgivables on it. Since you think it's so funny that one of mine finds them hard to cast, I defy you to do better."
Harry didn't need to think, not really, after that display of verbal venom. No one, if they knew what was good for them, would be actually casting those spells today. The non-Slytherins because they didn't want people thinking they were turning evil, and the Slytherins because, well, they didn't want to be known as That Bad.
And so it went, with the most interesting thing about the class being Snape's persistent goading. "Is it hard for you, Mister Finnegan?" The pretended sympathy was worse than his normal acerbic humor.
Until Snape came to Hermione Granger, who he asked, "Miss Granger, would you like to demonstrate for the class?"
"I would not." Hermione Granger said, "Two of those spells are immoral, and I won't be a participant to degredation.'
Snape's eyes flicked to Harry.
Oh, what the hell. "I agree with Hermione. If you must watch me destroy the spider, I'll make use of other means." Harry felt his mouth curl into a broken sort of smile, "After all, if I can't crucio Bellatrix Lestrange, who murdered my Godfather in cold blood, who else can I kill?"
*Potter flies. I acknowledge that this is a silly metaphor for someone who is indoors. Potter thinks in outdoor terms (or in closet terms).
[a/n: I wrote up a chapter for the "in progress" version of this tale, then had to delete it completely. Give me a review for encouragement's sake? Good or bad, I don't care.]