Chapter Nineteen – The Bad Day Part I
When a Post Owl dropped McGonagall's rolled-up Daily Prophet onto her fourth cup of tea, she cursed rather loudly, audible to Snape who was sitting beside her, even over the ruckus of breakfasting students. It was cleaned up quickly with a spell, and then when she opened the paper with much shaking and straightening, her mutters became exclamations.
"Oh look, Severus!" She held up the front page for him to see. "Harry's a father again!" For indeed, the headline picture was of Harry and Ginny Potter leaning in to kiss the brow of a tiny infant and then smiling at the camera.
"So it's born then," said Snape ungallantly, and turned back to his own modest mail delivery.
"It? He's a he! And – oh look – they've named him Albus. I'll tell Albus, he'll be delighted. Albus Remus!" she gazed approvingly at the picture for a moment, then frowned. "Goodness, I hope Harry isn't going to name all his bairns after dead teachers."
Snape privately wondered how many children Potter would have to bear before he'd resign to using his name. Fortunately, since he'd survived, he'd never have to find out. "If he'd had – or has - a girl, I understand the plan is to name her Lily, not Charity, so I don't think you have correctly pinpointed his naming convention."
"Ah that's nice. Lily is a pretty name." They sat in reflective silence a moment, then McGonagall hastily added, "Not that Charity isn't. I simply meant -,"
"Lily was his mother. It is an absolutely appropriate name."
"How do you know that? I mean about them naming a girl Lily?" She seemed put out - McGonagall couldn't stand being left out of gossip.
"Professor Snape overhead a conversation at The Broomsticks," said a voice behind them, which Snape knew was Longbottom before he'd even turned. "I was just hoping to have a gander at the picture, Minerva," he said with an even smile, indicating her paper. "Harry sent a Patronus to his closest friends, so I knew it would be on the front page today."
"Oh. Yes – of course, Neville…"
McGonagall handed him her newspaper and Snape could feel the reluctance – he knew how much she hated anyone looking at her paper before she'd finished with it.
"Delightful, delightful," murmured Longbottom as he quickly perused the article, and Snape surreptitiously stared at him. He thought there was something highly suspect about the Herbology Professor. This pretentious, overly-confident sophisticate appeared modeled on Lockhart, a manifestation of what Longbottom thought was the definition of success, but right now he was just faking it until he made it. Why? Where was the real Longbottom? "I hope he brings the youngsters for a visit to Hogwarts," he pronounced, handing the paper back to McGonagall. "I know how much Albus would enjoy that."
"Oh, indeed," said McGonagall. "As you're so close, perhaps you should extend the invitation."
"Perhaps I will," said Longbottom, with a smile at Snape. "Since Hogwarts is becoming quite a family destination, isn't it? In fact, I have your…offspring…this morning, Severus, for Herbology."
"Professor," replied Snape shortly, turning back to his mail.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You can call me Professor."
"Och, don't be all officious," chided McGonagall. "And don't call his child offspring, Neville."
"Tell me, does Servius have any knowledge or experience with horticulture or botany?" asked Neville lightly.
"I imagine he has the average amount for an eleven-year-old."
Longbottom gave an airy laugh. "You imagine? You don't know? Merlin, I would have thought a father would know something as fundamental as that, Severus. Well shall I find out and report back?"
Snape glowered at him. "No need."
"Well…enjoy your day." And Longbottom wandered off, stopping to exchange a few words with a rapturous-looking Diaphne at the other end of the table.
McGonagall held Snape's eyes for a moment, the smile of her face deeply uncertain, but she said no more.
Snape allowed his gaze to fall on Servius. He was the first person he looked for when the Slytherins trooped into the Great Hall. The interest was not returned however; Servius ignored him and kept his attention deliberately focused elsewhere. Longbottom's words still ringing in his ears, truthfully, Snape didn't know if Servius could tell a daisy from a daffodil; he knew virtually nothing about his own son, what he did know would fit comfortably on a chocolate frog card.
The bell rang out, indicating the transition time between breakfast and first lessons. Students and teachers alike began to rise, gather their things, drain the dregs of their coffee or juice and make their way from the Hall. Snape was headed towards to the dungeons for his first seventh-year potions class of the year, and as he walked up the aisle, passing Servius, he caught his son's eye - but before he could make any gesture or sign, Servius looked away.
There were eleven students in his seventh-year Potions class of mixed House denominations and predominantly boys – all of them aged seventeen and very attendant on their NEWTs and futures. When Snape entered the classroom, they were seated and already had their study materials out, murmuring quietly amongst themselves. For those with specific NEWT objectives, they also had learning programmes in their Dossiers which they were now consulting. Eleven was too many in his opinion. His final year classes just before the war had counted closer to six or seven, every one of the students handpicked. Slughorn had been far more lenient. Earlier in the week when Snape had scoured the student files of this class, he found at least three who'd appealed their OWL scores and Slughorn had relented on all of them.
Of the handful of girls, Diaphne was now included in their number, seated up the back, wearing her mediwitch robes and a small pair of spectacles which Snape had never seen before. When he took position up at the teacher's dais and cast his eye over the group, she and the others gazed steadily back.
He read the roll: Ollie Miller had the beginnings of a wispy moustache; Tertius Buckner had a prominent Adams-apple and Connie Stevens in blue seemed ready to bust out of her blouse. They were young adults and when they answered him, their voices were steadfastly mature, indeed Zara Ellis had a slightly impatient air about her, as if she were the one doing the critiquing.
Snape closed the roll-book but remained seated. He didn't need to patrol amongst this group looking for contraband and notes, intimidating the class into learning. In his chair facing them, he crossed his legs and spoke quietly.
"Not all of you will pass this year," he said. "In fact, some of you should not be here."
Consternated rumblings amongst the group. Victor Emerton – he, who according to his file had been responsible for no less than three potions-related explosions in the last six years – sat back with an angry scowl and folded his arms.
"You know who you are," said Snape. "This is a good time to be honest with yourselves. If you wish to leave, there will be no retribution. I will discuss the matter with the Headmistress and your Head of House, and you will be reassigned to another subject."
No one moved or spoke.
"You will have another opportunity after class. Perhaps you need to know more about what this year will mean and why I am offering a dispensation." His voice dropped so low the students leaned forward slightly to hear. "I have a particular style, and it doesn't work for everyone. It is unforgiving. It is indiscriminate. It is remorseless. When you brew a potion meant for the consumption of another, and that potion must perform perfectly a hundred percent of the time, then failure against that standard must be the fault of the Potioneer. Perhaps in the brewing? Was it the selection of ingredients? Or maybe the quality of the ingredients, the application of them, the preparation of them? All of those are decisions made by the Potioneer. Failure on any one factor may result in death to your patient, and the death of a patient is a reflection on the practice."
He made eye-contact with each student in turn, lingering for only a second longer on Diaphne.
"A student with a mid-year failure rate of greater than one and a half percent will be dissuaded from continuing."
"But we have to get NEWTs -," said Connie Stevens hesitantly.
"You are here to become Potioneers! NEWTs will follow." Snape picked up his master copy of Advanced Potions (with amendments in 2002, 2004) and dropped it heavily on his desk. "That book will not make you Potioneers. Neither will NEWTs. I will. But I will not make it easy for you – that you can depend on."
He stood and hitched his hands on the lapels of his gown. "Any questions?"
There were none.
Servius and William were late for their first Herbology class. Hurrying for the greenhouses via the front entrance, they passed Lewis Blake emerging from the Dungeon stairs looking pink-cheeked and woebegone, his Dossier in his hand and rucksack slung over one shoulder.
"What's the matter, Blake?" asked William, and came to a standstill, Servius reluctantly pausing beside him.
"Sluggy's given me a wigging. My Hog Doss grassed on me," answered Blake.
"What for?"
"Taking those bets yesterday!" said Lewis and opened to the page to show them where he'd scribbled down names and odds for the teacher duel. "Course gambling's prohibited. Now I've got detention and the duel is off."
"What did put them in your Dossier for?" said William.
"Wasn't thinking, was I! Now Sluggy wants to talk to the whole House as well. Better than losing points though. Shit, I'm late for Transfiguration. See you guys later."
He dashed off, and William and Servius exchanged looks. "Doesn't mean the duel has to be off," said William matter-of-factly. "We'll just have to keep it secret."
"Will, listen – there's no way in hell the bungholious maximus that is my father would duel Hellmann, not even in secret, I already asked him and he said he wouldn't," said Servius. "He reckoned he wouldn't even win anyway. So let it go. It's not happening. And move it – the greenhouses are miles away."
The lesson was underway by the time the pair found the right greenhouse and virtually crashed through the swing-door to a room of suddenly silent and staring Slytherins and Gryffindors, standing in the walkway between the rows of raised beds and shelves filled with exotic and magical plants. Bizarre looking foliage hung from the roof in baskets and nets, and tendrils of other plants snuck out from the shadowy space beneath the planters. Professor Longbottom, wearing a heavy cotton khaki gardening smock with deep pockets over his patterned jumper, his gardening tools slung in a leather belt, made his way through the group of students from the far end of the greenhouse where he'd been opening the roof ventilators.
"Oh!" he said, walking towards them with a raised an enquiring brow. "Who's this then? Is it Master Snape? And, appropriately, Wait for William."
Laughter from the students.
"Glad you could join us…ten minutes late. Were you troubled, somehow, in finding us?'
"No sir," muttered Servius, confused by the derision. "Sorry we're late."
"Oh well that's alright then." Longbottom glared for a moment, then turned to the remainder of the group. "Please select your plant as we discussed and find the identifying features that inform you if it is a male or female of the species."
The class, with much jostling and bumping, went to a particular traybed stacked with specimens and each student picked up a small, spiky, prickly plant in a black pot, and from there proceeded to the worktable that was located at the front of the greenhouse. At the back of the group, Servius and William waited their turn and by the time they reached the bed, the only plants left were at the back and slightly out of reach. The prickly little plants immediately shied away from their extended arms, and, too fast to see with the naked eye, Servius had a prickle embedded in his hand, just up from his thumb. "Ow! Far out, it just spiked me!"
William had managed to grasp the pot of his plant, and instantly earned three miniscule brown spikes in his hand. With a yell, he dropped his pot and the plant was spilled out on the floor of the greenhouse.
Longbottom came quickly at the noise, and when he saw the dropped plant, which was writhing a little, he said loudly: "What's happening here? Who dropped this?"
"It spiked me sir!" wailed William, holding up his hand.
"Where are your gloves?"
William's eyes widened and he glanced at Servius. "We - we didn't know we were supposed to put gloves on."
Longbottom's eyebrow raised again. "Really? Didn't you happen to notice that every single other student here has put their gloves on? That wasn't very observant of you, was it? Apparently you didn't even notice the plant was covered in spines."
With a quick incantation, Longbottom repotted the plant using his wand and sent it to the worktable. "Finish the class," he said to the pair in far less theatrical tones. "You can see Madam Pomfrey afterwards if there's any irritation."
By the time the class was finished, Servius and William each had a hand swollen to the size of a catcher's mitt.
In the Hospital wing, Diaphne treated them both. Sitting at a small, round table she tweezered out the embedded spikes, applied a local solution and administered a single dose of an anti-venin. "Is this from a prickly plant?" she asked, an eyepiece magnifying the area of William's hand while she searched for remaining prickles. When she looked up at him, one eye was hugely enlarged through the lens.
William was struggling not to cry. He simply nodded.
"Why didn't you wear your gloves?" she scolded. "Everyone knows you don't handle prickly plants without them. You should have come to me as soon as it happened."
"We didn't know," said Servius, massaging his stinging thumb. "I think Professor Longbottom wasn't particularly worried."
"Professor Longbottom has probably been pricked so many times he's forgotten what happens the first time," said Diaphne with a faint smile. "He wouldn't have done it on purpose."
Servius wasn't at all convinced, but something told him he wouldn't persuade Nurse Diaphne otherwise.
They were now late for their first Potions class.
Snape was livid by the time they turned up. He had read the roll at the beginning of the class, and having immediately noticed Servius was not amongst the students, he'd skipped the name. But when he'd read out William, there was laughter, and he looked up, at a loss.
"William Huan?" he asked, and Gryffindor Flavius Murphy said generally to the room: "Guess we have to Wait for William again!"
The comment was meaningless to Snape, but the class snickered and scoffed and he was outraged by the insolence. "Is there something you want to share?" he shouted after a few seconds.
The class immediately succumbed to silence and either stared at him or at their desk, but the whole tone of the lesson was now set. This was his first class with this group, the class on which he might make a lasting impression, the class – if truth be told – he'd fretted about subconsciously for days. Seventh-year with Diaphne had been bad enough, but having Servius in the room with him as he taught had felt like a pending audition. He knew every single thing he did would be scorned, and he'd gotten to the point where he'd decided to pre-emptively come out swinging, exactly the way he'd done with Potter. And here he was, ready to perform, and Servius hadn't even turned up. The humiliation was worse than even he'd expected. He burned – exploded - with resentment.
"Get out your texts!" he shouted, and watched, heat rising up his neck, as the perplexed and slightly afraid eleven-year-olds obediently retrieved their books and opened them randomly on the desks before them. "Put away your wands. You won't need them here. This is potions, potions! We brew, we mix, we blend. None of that requires a wand."
He stalked up the front of the class and back down again, his robes swishing behind him. He'd lost his train of thought. The class watched, their bewilderment reaching him in waves, and for a moment, just a moment, he considered dismissing the entire lot, he was almost too angry to teach. Control your emotions, he thought with a heaving breath. Fasteners and latches in his mind flipped open. He grasped the anger, the black, smoky cloud of rage and shoved what he could into the holds, he occluded this deceitful betrayer of his fear. His fear of rejection.
He was just about in command of himself when Servius and William came skidding into the classroom and drew to a halt when they saw Snape's expression.
"Where have you been?" His tone was low and dangerous.
"Hospital Wing, sir," said William, holding up his hand. The swelling had subsided, but not completely.
Snape looked at the hand then his eyes flicked to Servius, who glared back defiantly.
"Have you a note?"
"Sir?"
"From Madam Pomfrey?! A hall pass? Or did you just assume it would be acceptable to turn up fifteen minutes late and delay this lesson? Is that what they do at Muggle schools?"
Ah, he'd lost it. Snape knew it. He wasn't making sense, he'd lost control. The black eyes of his son had undone him.
The students stared, all of them. Fleetingly he wondered if his best moments as a teacher were behind him. He was syncopated; the students had a predictable rhythm, but he: he had lost his tempo.
William and Servius were still standing and he gestured roughly for them to take their seats, then he strode to the blackboard and with an angry sweep of his wand, displayed the potion they would be studying. It was all theory, there wasn't time for a practical, but the debut he'd planned, the smooth as silk introduction he'd imagined in his head, was ruined. Servius, and the Slytherins whose company he preferred, would be judging him swiftly and harshly.
Valiantly he battled on. When it wasn't Servius's distant and contemptuous eyes he was encountering, there was Amelie's, whose cool disdain emanated from the far corner where she sat alone. He knew, from Slughorn, that she had studied potions at Preparatory School in Germany and that much of the first-year curriculum would be repetitious to her: a fact she was clearly planning on sharing at the earliest opportunity. And lastly, flanking either side of the battle-lines, were the Gryffindors, who knew nothing of Snape's past, at least, surely not? And yet they seemed to sense a blood-letting, and with their noses sniffing the wind, their eyes watching closely, they reminded Snape of prowling hyaenas, on the alert and only too ready to capitalize on a limp; any sign of weakness, any fallibility.
Towards the end of the lesson, he gave the class a short abstract assignment to complete. There followed a blissful fifteen minutes in which heads were bowed and quills scratched away, and Snape took to his desk and rubbed his forehead with his eyes closed and silently talked himself out of a snifter of whisky before lunch. A delicate coughing got his attention, and when he looked up, Amelie Hellmann's hand was raised.
"Yes?"
"May I be excused, sir?"
"What? There's only five minutes of class -,"
"Sir? Please? I've finished my paper."
He sighed. "Fine." He was about to add that she should bring her paper up to him but she had gotten up and scurried as discreetly as possible out of the door.
When the bell rang for the end of the period, several students were still writing. "Two more minutes!" he said. Amelie returned, went directly to her desk, looked at it, looked under it, made a show of lifting books and through her rucksack.
"Time's up," announced Snape, trying to sound neutral and not utterly glad. He stood up at the front of the classroom. "Hand your scrolls into me. Don't roll them, don't roll them they'll smudge. Put the caps on your quills! Pass them up, one at a time please! Pass them up to me."
"Sir!" Amelie Hellmann pushed her way through to the front of the class and stood before him. "My work is gone! I can't find my scroll!"
"Have you looked for it?" was Snape's distracted response, still gathering up assignments being handed to him. It was the words of an adult who has been beleaguered with this complaint a thousand times.
"Everywhere! It's easy to see – my ink is red."
Snape stopped suddenly and looked at her. "Red ink?"
"I like it – wait – what's that?"
Servius was approaching Snape with his scroll, shuffling forwards at the end of the queue of students, the ends of his slightly tortured paper curling upwards. Amelie pointed at it, and then reached over and lifted his paper to reveal the underside. It was smeared with red.
"Where's my assignment!" Amelie cried. "You took it! You took it while I was gone!"
"What?!" retorted Servius, stunned, snatching away his papers. "I didn't!"
"He didn't!" added William, who was standing behind him.
"You were probably cheating!"
The other students had stopped to watch and listen, and Snape gave them all a baleful glare. "Yes? Are you waiting for front-row seats and half-time snacks? Out! Quickly! Out!" There was a scrambling for the exit, and Servius looked as if he was about to leave as well but Snape grabbed the hood of his robe. "Where do you think you're going?"
"Have a look through his Hog Doss sir. I bet my paper is in there," announced Amelie indignantly. Servius wrenched free his hood. He had a cornered look about him. "I haven't got your dumb paper," he said to her, eyes narrowed. "You're trying to frame me again. What is your problem?"
Servius's Dossier suddenly flipped open and spat out a piece of parchment with writing in red ink all over it. It slipped to the floor.
"There!" exclaimed Amelie triumphantly, and stooped to retrieve it.
Servius looked immediately at Snape. "I did not put that in there."
William's eyes were like saucers. "He didn't sir! I would know because…because I was copying off him the whole time."
"You saw that with your own eyes sir," said Amelie to Snape, her voice cool, and she handed him her assignment. "I think this boy might be a liar and also a cheat. For instance, when he tried to blame that hex on me. I have heard he does not want to be here and he is doing everything to get expelled. Did you know, sir, that he was trying to have a duel between you and my father?"
"She's lying!" said Servius. "Ask anyone in the Common Room."
"She is!" confirmed William, nodding.
"Well it is expected for Wait for William to help him," said Amelie. "He does whatever this boy says."
Snape was trying to keep up. He noticed the scalding hot blush of anger and humiliation creeping up the back of Servius's neck – exactly where he got it himself.
When Amelie opened her mouth again, he held up a hand. "Enough. You're dismissed. You too, William. Servius, stay where you are."
"I am telling my father," said Amelie. "This boy will not have any consequences from you." Then she swung around so that her plait flipped from one shoulder to another and stomped out of the room, followed by William, who glanced back with aghast, wide eyes.
As soon as the door was shut, Servius started yelling. "I didn't touch her stupid paper! I did not organize a duel – that was her! It was her idea! She was the one who hexed William!"
Snape turned slowly and went up the platform steps to his desk, where he began organizing the scrolls into a pile.
"You were asking me about a duel," said Snape, not looking at him. "You asked me if I would win."
"The other kids were asking, but it doesn't mean I was organizing anything."
"Why should I trust you to be honest with me, Servius? You haven't given me any reason to think you value my opinion."
Servius was almost frantic and his voice raised a notch. "I knew it! You'll take her side because you hate me! And you're scared of her stupid Dad! So what? What are you going to do? Give me a detention?"
"You lower your voice! You do not take that tone with me!" barked Snape. His adult voice took precedence and he commandeered several seconds of silence. "You were fifteen minutes late and disrupted the entire class. Then the Hellmann's girl's paper just happens to end up in your Dossier. You've shown nothing but contempt and discursion since you've been here…I wonder if she might be right. If you're not trying to get yourself expelled, you're trying to embarrass me."
Servius stared with wide, astonished eyes that revealed he had anticipated his father might come out in his defense. But not so. His open mouth slowly shut and he looked away blindly, unwilling to let Snape witness the uprising of tears. Snape did see them, and also Servius's swollen, inflamed hand when he quickly rubbed at his brow.
"Fine," muttered Servius after a moment. "I don't care anyway. I want to go home. I hate it here."
"Detention," said Snape softly after a chill silence. "In my office, straight after dinner. I will inform Professor Slughorn."
"No! I won't come! Give me detention with another teacher -,"
"You will come as instructed or it will be detention for two nights in a row!"
"I haven't done anything wrong!"
"I am the judge of that!"
Tears were now flowing freely down Servius's cheeks and Snape could see that it was more than simple resentment over a detention. Servius was not the crying type, he had good, high reserves of resilience – this was the culmination of a week of utter upheaval, homesickness, loneliness and dismay at an incomprehensible world. Snape knew that he had made it all immeasurably worse. After today's lesson - in fact, as a result of just about every class he'd taken since the week had begun – he had shortlisted for his old title as least-liked teacher in the school. Another cross he would give Servius to bear.
"Fuck you," mumbled Servius, and furiously scrubbing at his cheeks with the heel of his hand, he stormed towards the door. "And do your fucking soap bubble thing, I don't care!"
But Snape simply watched him go. He felt sick to his stomach.
Classes had finished for the day and the Great Hall had been converted into a mini Exposition, the dining tables having been replaced by over a dozen stalls and booths, each vividly adorned with signs to entice the full complement of students who had gathered. These were club sign-ups, and from banners suspended from the sunny, cloudless ceiling depicting handsome wizards and witches in Quidditch uniform, to the Bloody Baron reciting Shakespeare at the Drama and Performing Arts stall, to Hagrid with his tank full of bowtruckles and a Fwooper in a cage, the teachers and Prefects behind the organization of each club had left nothing to chance in order to capture the imagination of potential members.
The students wandered about the Hall from booth to booth, talking with the Club Teacher or Prefect about their club, its merits, its credit potential, its time commitment or any pre-requisites. Many students already knew what club they wanted to join, and for the senior students it was a simple exercise in queuing up. Even this could be a challenge when numbers were limited.
Since Snape didn't have a club he was hosting, he was leisurely about making his way to the Great Hall after his last class. He'd been in a foul mood for the remainder of the day after first-year potions and had skipped lunch again in order to give Servius some space. But McGonagall needed his assistance in the Great Hall and, having run out of distractions and excuses, reluctantly entered the melee with open impatience.
The chaos was not to his taste. Every student seemed to talk at the top of their voice, in part necessary due to Flitwick's choir occasionally breaking into song, the booming voice of the operatic Baron and Hagrid guffawing. Visually it was exhausting as well. But he stalked around and amongst the stalls trying to maintain a degree of order and control, particularly if a club looked like it might be under pressure.
Two such cases were Quidditch and Dueling. These clubs were proving to be extremely popular. Quidditch was unsurprising – that was bread and butter for Hogwarts – but Snape tracked a long, snaking line of students up to the front of the Dueling booth, spotted Servius amongst them, and observed Hellmann at the front, behind his table, talking to the boy at the front of the line.
"Name? Year? You're in Gryffindor? Have you done dueling before? Nein – alright, I need to you to pass a test before you can join."
Snape watched as Hellmann took Edwin Bartrop slightly to the side of the booth and pointed to a marksmanship stand he had erected against the wall, perhaps seven or eight meters distant. There were three circular, ringed-targets in a row, descending in size. The targets were slowly moving. "To join, you must hit all three using the Assingo charm," said Hellmann. "Und then I can also decide which level you will be in depending on the points you earn."
Edwin seemed to quake a little. It was a big ask for a first-year still in orientation week, particularly since some of the Muggle-borns had scarcely held a wand before the previous Sunday. But the boy swallowed a huge ball of nerves and held out his wand before him. "Point und…Assingo!" commanded Hellmann.
A faint bluish streak of magic emanated from Edwin's wand and a blue mark appeared on the outer ring on the first of the targets. The boy's face lit up and Hellmann said, "Five points, sehr gut. Try the next one."
A further two marks were placed on the remaining targets, earning Edwin twenty points in total and the students watching in the queue politely clapped at his successful dueling entry.
"Here you are," said Hellmann, and gave Edwin a tie-pin with an emblem of crossed wands on it. "You wear this in your tie or lapel to show you are a member of the Duelling Club. And there's the club meeting timetable for your Dossier. Danke. Next!"
There were at least six more students before it would be Servius's turn. Not yet having been seen by his son, Snape discreetly turned and left, opting to return a little while later to see how he fared, and made his way over to the Stargazers club being run by Professor Sinistra.
She too was busy, although the aspiring members were far fewer in number. She had above her stall a free-floating scale-model of the solar system, replete with a dark, revolving night sky, firing comets and astrological signs that moved like little stick figures. On her booth were moon rocks and a jar labelled "Star dust" although the contents weren't terribly prepossessing, looking, to Snape's eye, exactly like the kind of soft grey dirt that accumulated under his bed.
"Professor Snape," she acknowledged with a smile as he approached, handing to a new member a timetable and a pin (this one sporting a star as its emblem). "Are you joining? I seem to remember your knowledge of Saturn's rings being a little on the sketchy side."
He returned hers with a small smile. "No, but I hope that should I need private lessons you might be open to tutelage."
For a second her eyes widened and smile faltered, but conscious of students waiting their turn, she gave a little, slightly uncertain laugh and said, "Of course. All you need to do is ask." She turned back to the Hufflepuff girl at her booth and took down her name on a register.
In a few minutes they had a moment alone, and Sinistra turned to Snape, who stood slightly behind her with his arms crossed, and frowned. "Severus – I had first-year Slytherins this afternoon and Servius was horrible. Do you know why? Has he decided he hates me?"
"Horrible how?"
"Just…you know…grumpy and disinterested and refusing to answer questions I know he knows. Stayed at the back of the group the whole time. I was going to make a fuss of him."
"Nothing to do with you," Snape said shortly, a scowl darkening his face.
"Did something happen?"
"Yes. Something happened."
She waited expectantly, but Snape's furrowed brow was set into the middle distance. After a moment, he seemed to snap out of a reverie and turned his attention to her. "Are you managing here? Anything you need?"
"Uh, no, I'm fine -,"
"Professor Sinistra! I finished my planisphere!" announced Esmae Palmer hurrying up to the booth with her blue and bronze robe flying out behind her, holding her Dossier forth. "Sign me up again. Can I have another pin?!"
When Sinistra turned around again, Snape had gone.
Slughorn's principle method of signing up students to the Slug Club hadn't changed much over the decades, but the objective was now different. The purpose of the Slug Club was to teach Prefects through to seventh-years how to prepare themselves for the adult world, particularly if they would be entering society, in roles of significance or the public eye, intending to hold public office or needed assistance in preparing for higher education (which also, largely, meant tertiary Muggle). He coached in public speaking, speechmaking, networking, interviewing, career planning, time management, presentation, even how to dress formally. His club had contributed to the appointment of several successful civil servants, including to the staff of Buckingham Palace (a point of great pride to Slughorn), a TV sports presenter, a plastic surgeon, several entrepreneurs and even a handful of graduates to Silicon Valley, which reflected entirely on their magical and player skills and not at all at their technical acumen.
But today, when Snape approached him, he was only in conversation with two or three Prefects and looked happy to be distracted. "Ah, Severus," he said, with a tired smile as he absently handed over a pin with a bow-tie emblem to his new member. "I was hoping to catch you."
"Horace?"
"The Slytherins are already at it, I'm afraid. Would you believe they started a bet on who would win in a duel between yourself and Benedict?"
"I had heard something…" murmured Snape, unable to help himself cast a glance over at the DADA teacher, who was in the middle of assisting a first-year with their wand technique.
"I'm afraid Servius's name came up…"
"I don't believe he's behind it. I think it might be Hellmann's daughter."
"It's the gambling that I had to take issue with," continued Slughorn. "Lewis Blake in fourth year wrote them down in his Dossier."
"Did Servius make any bets?" Snape asked immediately.
"No. But there were some sizeable numbers against your name, I should add," Slughorn advised with a wink.
Snape heaved a sigh. "That just means they think it more likely I'd lose. Dueling seems to have taken some profile this year. The rumour is that Hellmann trained a champion."
"Oh no, that's not a rumour," replied Slughorn, eyebrows raised. "The Brockhaus boy was outstanding. I went to Bonn for the finals. Here's hoping Hellmann can produce a champion for Hogwarts, eh?"
Slughorn was interrupted by Connie Stevens, who really needed a larger sized shirt, but Slughorn was masterful in keeping his eyes on her face.
Snape glanced over to the Duelling queue and saw that William was currently attempting the test and Servius would be next. Making his departure from Slughorn, he kept a low profile amongst the crowds of students to find a discreet spot from which to observe, and, as William fired his spells at the targets, he noticed that Servius made several searching glances around the room while he waited, almost missing his friend's successful third hit and cheerful hopping on the spot as a result.
Snape saw Servius shake William's hand, and then William clapped Servius on the back as he stepped forward and answered some registration details for Hellmann. The three targets had cleared themselves of Assingo marks in preparation for Servius's attempt.
Servius took his larchwood wand out of his back pocket – a habit of which Snape was going to have to cure him apparently, even though it should have been the Prefects or Slughorn – and roughly brushed his hair out of his eyes as he squinted hard at the three, slowly moving targets. Some Slytherin boys still waiting in the queue began making encouraging remarks and Servius raised his wand.
"Ready?" asked Hellmann, and Servius nodded.
Snape couldn't look away but he also couldn't bear to watch. He was suddenly gripped with a terrible nervousness on behalf of his son, and recalled how much of youth was made up of tests: academic, sporting and life – so many life tests, tests you weren't even aware you were participating in. If Servius didn't make the targets, he decided he would step in and demand Hellmann give him another go, it would merely be some kind of slip-up, there was no way Servius couldn't hit those things, even if he had only used a wand for a handful of days.
And then Servius fired his first Assingo and Snape held his breath.
A hit. About three rings in from the outer edge.
"Very good," said Hellmann briskly, "Ten points. Fire again please."
Snape could see Servius exhale deeply and raise his wand again, concentrating hard. He fired.
Another hit. William and the other boys gave a small clap – this hit was much closer in, and Snape saw a small smile on his son's face. Snape smiled himself.
"Super. Last one, nice and quick."
The third target was smaller and moving – Snape believed – much faster than the others. Had Hellmann just speeded it up? He'd knock his damn glasses off if he was deliberately making this harder for Servius –
"Assingo!" said Servius and fired, the faint huzzing sound of his wand clear in the sudden quiet. Time slowed. Snape thought he could see the blue light fly through the air, realized he'd not only stopped breathing but also his heart had stopped beating. The target moved slowly upwards – had Servius accounted for the trajectory, had he factored in the time and distance correctly? He closed his eyes…and then there was cheering.
"Sehr gut!" said Hellmann. "Look at that. Forty points. Here, come get your pin."
Servius was grinning and so, Snape suddenly realized, was he. In fact he had clapped, twice, before catching himself, and demurely placed his hands together behind his back. He watched as Servius stuck his dueling pin in his lapel and William danced about him gleefully.
"Next!" commanded Hellmann and the queue shuffled up. The whole thing had taken no longer than five minutes, but Snape may as well have seen his son stand on a podium and accept some kind of medal. He'd just been given a short sharp shot of paternal pride, and the first one was the benchmark that drove parents far harder than the child.