Dedicated to Severus Snape for his birthday.
Chapter Six
As he turned the page slowly not to cause any unwanted damage to the rare and ancient potions journal Durmstrang's Headmaster had given him as a welcome gift, Severus tried really hard to ignore the sight the window on his left presented him with.
For one, the day was clouded and grey and therefore there was nothing that should awake his interest in whatever happened outside his new office. He had never cared, so why should he start to in that moment?
But the problem was that before he could overlook the way the sun fought with the clouds, causing a pale and yet smashing luminescence to fall upon the impossibly green grass, the enormous trees and the breathtaking mountains that surrounded the castle.
The school's ground was just as unbelievably wild and harshly beautiful as he had suspected late night when he arrived. The difference when compared to Hogwarts was obvious, and even though the weather was rather oppressing and truthfully discouraging (something that he knew would only grow exponentially worse as they neared the last months of the year), Snape couldn't help but feel quite inspired.
He blamed it all on his damn decision of holding a blasted muggle camera. As it happened, every time he betrayed himself enough to let his gaze move to the window, he couldn't stop but think about all the most precious pictures he could take and the most perfect angles to every single one of them.
It was shameful really.
He had spent months trying to find an inspiration. He had traveled, planned, and in a moment of utter desperation he had gone as far as try to find it as he walked all over bloody London with no real direction. The only thing he got from that was finding the Golden Boy, and letting himself be convinced to do something he knew he didn't need anymore in his life.
In that moment, he didn't know what was proving to be more of a struggle: to get his mind off the amazing journal Antokolsky had gifted him with; or the new, and therefore still weak, and very hard to ignore, urge to get his camera and satisfy the photographer that he had allowed growing inside himself like a damn evergreen.
After the supper the night before, Severus had joined the rest of the staff at Piotr's office. In his opinion it had been a completely unnecessary attempt to sparkle any type of relationship among the professors. In all his years at Hogwarts, Snape could count in one hand the times he actually approached any of his co-workers, except Minerva and Poppy surely, when conversation wasn't absolutely necessary.
He wasn't known for his social skills, never had been and never would be, but for his former student's, and current boss' sake he wasn't particularly unpleasant to anyone. Not even Potter did he berate during those agonizing 90 minutes.
The good thing was that he was able to watch everyone as inconspicuous as possible since they all got his message loud and clear, never pushing for a conversation for long.
He figured that two of the members of the staff were actually smart enough to be intelligible. Truthfully one of them was Piotr and the other was the strawberry-ish blonde he had learned was Sergei Ivanov. Maybe the fact that Potter and Ivanov weren't the best of colleagues, and their interaction never lasted more than 5 minutes of affected politeness, contributed to Severus' surprising tolerance of the Care of Magical Creature professor, but it wasn't something he'd linger on. He had actually found someone other than a Slytherin to be around of and to talk to, that was as far as he could push himself.
One thing he noticed was that indeed Antokolsky and Potter were the youngest professors, the once Boy-Who-Lived being the only one under thirty. Unsurprisingly Snape wasn't the oldest, that position going to Boyd who was nearing his 90's but between Severus and his former students was only Ivanov in his early 40's.
It was, to wizarding standards, a highly young staff. Normally Severus would be the youngest, especially then when he was the only one in his prime age, close that he was to his 50's. It was slightly disconcerting not to be the youngster, he found.
Very refreshing, but still slightly disconcerting.
After that nonsense was dealt with, Snape bid his formal cold appreciation for the welcoming treatment and left to his new rooms.
They were nothing like what he had been used to for years. A very humbling and sacrificing childhood (in more ways than one) had made him utterly adaptable to almost every habitat, and whatever hadn't been molded forcefully by his father, Voldemort sure as hell took care of.
His very own idea of luxury had been forever simplified by many factors – and other people's sadism – so his rooms at Hogwarts had always impressed him greatly. Of course, everything that happened to him after he left the school only strengthened his earlier convictions.
Leaving for the muggle world hadn't changed him in the least, not even when he had control enough over his life to buy his very own residence. His priorities were simple, a bedroom, a bathroom and many shelves for his dear books and journals. The only luxuries he actually allowed himself were a neat and more than adequate lab, where he could brew in peace and in all the best of qualities, and a kitchen. The latest was more a necessity than anything, no more house-elves, no more food appearing out of nothing, which meant Severus Snape had to go back to cooking.
He didn't mind it half as much as he would probably make it sound if anyone bothered to ask him about it.
Durmstrang's facilities were fairly more ostensive than what he was honestly used to though. He had only taken one quarter of his literary belongings, but it was clear that his over 4 hundred books of choice weren't enough to fill the space left on all the shelves in his study, what alone was about trice the size of the one he had had at Hogwarts. His private quarter was ridiculously big too, the bed occupied about one third of the room and it was made of the finest material, everything from the wood to the linen of the bed sheets.
His bathroom was twice the one at his house at London, which was alone twice the size of the loo back at his old school.
But what truly impressed Severus, and he didn't discard immediately as pathetically petty, was his new laboratory. Even though it was under the schools ground, in a dungeon, and connected to his classroom, the room was large and enchanted enough to be perfect for a Potions Master's most eccentric desires, imaginary and ambitions.
It was only after he saw that one room that Snape realized that indeed, taking that job hadn't been such a bad idea.
Stiil, after one night of slight rest, with his most primal instincts still protesting and refusing to make him relax fully, he was beginning to give that conclusion a second thought. It wasn't that Severus had started to dislike his new chamber, even though he was sure he'd never truly feel comfortable with its magnitude, but the fact that he'd only be able to enjoy the privacy of his lab after a whole day with demented dunderheads put a damp on things.
Again he was requested to make an appearance during breakfast, in which he ignored Piotr's pleased smirk and Potter's presence vehemently. He drank his coffee in silence, noticing that apparently the Golden Boy wasn't as fond of innocuous chat at early hours too.
Unfortunately, that didn't apply to some of his other fellow workers, especially Prof. Boyd and the woman at Potter's left side, who he learned was Natasha Feist and whose hair was currently purplish blue. Severus had never had the patience needed to appreciate and endure metamorphmagus' apparent phobia of common sense.
It had been after all the very reason that made his conversations with Nymphadora Tonks absolutely impossible.
And why he was the only one who actually called her by the name she hated, only for the sake of being annoying.
Once he had discouraged Prof. Boyd enough to make sure the man never tried to talk to him before he had taken his first cup, or while he took it and the few seconds necessary for it be refilled and for him to drink it again, Snape pushed his chair back and left with his robes billowing.
As he waited for the incompetents to find their way to his classroom, he finally was fed up with his artistic side enough to enchant the window in his study shut. That done, the ex-Death Eater focused on the lessons he'd give that day.
He'd have two periods with a group of fifth year formed by Brontës and Cottus. After lunch, he'd have another two classes with the Náhrvalrs and Campes' 15 years old prats. Severus hated the fact that he didn't have to waste a long period of time organizing his teaching plan. The sad part of it was that he actually remembered the lessons he had used for over 20 years. Hell, if he focused just a little, he'd actually be able to deliver the same overused and highly intimidating lecture about the OWLs.
He sighed deeply.
As much as Severus refused to admit to himself, he wasn't quite sure that he was ready for that. It wasn't that he was afraid of putting up with those insufferable beasts, but the fact that he could easily bring up the professional and practical memories of the time he had spent at Hogwarts was enough proof that it was still too soon.
Because those memories brought others, that were just as practical and tinged with more professionalism than most would pour into them, in a harsh attempt to avoid any kind of emotional attachment to them.
Be it good, or bad.
Snape had learned as a young man to rip any meaning of every single one of his experiences during those years, so even after over a decade he could look back and feel nothing more than mild irritation and impatience. At least, that's what happened to all the memories he had purposefully dulled out during his hard training with Dumbledore; and with the help of his unquestionable mastery of Occlumency. When that talent was absolutely lapidated, and he had finally learned to relay on it – and only on it – the general desensitizing of his life, past, thoughts and ambitions came naturally.
So much so that Severus couldn't remember the last time he had actually felt anything positive. He knew desire, anxiety, and he knew he could be passionate but mainly because the only feeling he allowed himself to keep at close range was his anger. It didn't mean he was angry, or infuriated, all the time, although he knew that was what most people thought. The thing was that whenever he truly felt something deeply and with unquestionable intensity, it was anger and hatred.
All the other times, he just couldn't be more aloof, more skeptical and mostly unapproachable; in any possible sense of the word.
So what made him think it was too soon; wasn't some sense of dubious nostalgia, or possible hurt feelings. It was the anger, the hatred, all those feelings attached to them that served him right, saved his life at the time and that he didn't want to deal with in such intensity in that moment.
It was ridiculous, and he knew it. There was no use in thinking about that, there was no use in allowing himself to stray and let those thoughts surface, reawake and haunt him again.
In the clear day time.
They already bloody well engulfed him in his sleep, and it was all he was willing to give them.
Better focus on the matter at hand, which was highly defining in itself. He'd start with the fifth-years, OWLs students, and that meant that they were supposed to be – in an idyllic world – 25 percent ready for the exams, and that was an optimistic expectation. Severus, being the skeptic son of a bitch he was, was ready to give the brats the detailed and enlightening information that the large metal-made pot before them was called cauldron.
Fifth-years were important students to pinpoint the efficiency of former professors' presumed teaching abilities. They were half-witted, insolent chits but they should be right in the middle of the scholar pyramid.
They weren't as dense as the first-years, and didn't know one quarter of what any respected seventh-year should to get a lousy Acceptable for their NEWTs.
That meant that in about less than a minute he would find out whether Potter was as incompetent as Snape was sure he was, or if the Golden Boy had managed to surpass even the Potions Master's lowest underestimation.
He knew from Piotr that Potter didn't have a Potions master – just as well Snape's world had made sense again. Apparently the Savior had opted for masteries at Defense Against the Dark Arts, Healing and Charms, regardless he had been chosen for his the Potions professor position because he excelled in the craft and was one of the very few who knew enough to even pose as a half-decent Potions professor.
Antokolsky might have used terms like; "highly competent", "surprising aptitude", "absolute compromise" and "unquestionable success", but in a nutshell Severus knew that was the general idea his Slytherin was trying to convey.
The Headmaster also informed his once Head of House that it was due to Harry Potter that the Dark Arts discipline remained in the school's grade. According to him, the One Who Lived fought teeth and nail for that, going against any Wizarding Ministry or Govern around the world, who at the time of Durmstrang's reopening found that little mockery far too overrated and certainly morbid enough to put it to an end.
It was certainly disconcerting to learn that the very person who almost died, lost many, and was the very human badge of Light, was willing to move mountains to protect a school who could have not brewed Voldemort, but as well as built most of his Death Eating army.
Severus pondered about that, trying to figure out what was the move behind that public marketing stunt, but couldn't find anything. It simply didn't make sense. How someone fights his damn life against something, knowing that his life was maimed, battered, abused and destroyed over and over again because of that one thing, and fought just as determinately to keep it alive when he had the power to vanquish it once and for all?
He didn't ask anything, but that didn't mean he would stop wondering. Surely, Potter wasn't so bright as to have an underlying World Conquering Machiavellian plan under his sleeve.
Anyone else? Hell, yes.
Potter? Not a chance in all of Hades' empire, he was too much of a Gryffindor.
Yet, it didn't bode with all the righteous, arrogant and juvenile personality Snape had had to deal with for years.
Piotr even told him that if it wasn't for the Boy Who Defeated Voldemort, Hogwarts, Beaubaxton or any other wizarding school wouldn't even have DADA classes anymore. Back at that time, little over than 6 years before, the wizarding world decided that forget was better than learn, and everyone was willing to pretend the Dark Arts never existed. To solidify that, they were adamant to destroy any evidence of it, starting from schools' grades. The next step would have been libraries, for in their feeble war-marred minds, all the evil living shells of that abhorring knowledge were dead.
No one had dared to say anything against that seemingly general; and unquestionably optimistic, belief.
No one but Harry Potter.
That only brought Severus back to the same question that didn't leave his mind since then, as Antokolsky calm, and slightly dejected, voice informed him that the former bane of Snape's existence had claimed to be the living proof that DADA classes should be maintained, if not improved.
As for Durmstrang, Potter had then volunteered to supervise the school's plan and teaching methods on the subject, going as far as indicating one of his old schoolmates to the post – and the responsibility – of being the first Dark Arts professor after the Dark Lord's demise.
It had been bold, Severus had to give the prat that, and highly cunning too, for it proved to be an irrefutable offer. Regardless, it had also been foolhardily unplanned and highly stupid. He had always hated that in Potter, that unquestionable mix of Gryffindor and Slytherin characteristics. At least, to Snape's peace of mind, the pathetic Gryffindor trait always won.
Since Piotr didn't know, or didn't want to tell him, the real reasons and the implications of Harry Potter's endeavor, the Potions Master knew that he'd only get the answers to his questions if he ever actually pressed the boy about them.
That was not bloody likely to happen anytime soon, so he did what he always did when something about the petulant brat bothered him; he made himself get over it and ignore it. Besides, he had other things in his mind to focus on.
Like the fact that soon Ernest Hamilton would be in his classroom.
To say that Severus was looking forward to know what Mr. Hamilton really was in an every day potions class was an understatement. It'd be the very first test for the young man, at least as far as Snape's patience towards him was concerned.
Taking in consideration the lad's usual nervousness around him and the fact that he appeared to have heard much about him from Potter, as well as learned a lot during both their encounters, it was likely that Ernest was most certainly terrified of him.
That might as well be true to all the dunderheads, but young Mr. Hamilton had something to prove. He had to make sure that Severus Snape didn't doubt for one sec that he indeed had a brain.
It wasn't a very easy mission; many, many, many had failed beyond chance of redemption. All his plans regarding that year, and how he'd deal with the challenge he had accepted, depended on the next minutes and how Ernest would flare under pressure.
Snape felt a tingling on the back of his mind, something that could be the beginning of a headache, and it would develop into one later that day he was sure, but that in that moment signaled only the breaching of the wards he had placed in his classroom.
Closing the journal, and taking the time to carefully mark the page he had been reading, the brooding man stood and straightened his shoulders. With impatience and dissatisfaction marring his features, and a glare that could make even grown men swallow instinctively, he placed both hands over each door that separated his study from his classroom and pushed them open.
As his wards had warned him, every single one of the younglings were already seated. A quick look made sure that Potter had taken the time to pair them by their houses, mixing them all. It went with the whole idea, plan as the Golden Boy had called the other night, of bringing those chits together and above the houses' rivalry.
With a second glance, Severus knew very well that it wasn't working. Arms were crossed, frowns were visible and muttering was heard. Well, at least it was before every single one of his students took notice of his presence. Then as one they stared wide eyed and fidgeted, looking at each other with an expression that bellied undeniable surrender, even if they were in greater number.
He could have smiled if he really even remembered how.
Without an introduction, the raven haired wizard barked for the student sat near to the door to close it – Stephan Stiano, who jumped so high on his seat that he almost landed on the floor at hearing his name – and without further ado turned his back on them swishing his wand over the blackboard.
'Open your books on page 75' he ordered, without looking at them 'Any of you can tell me anything about the Angelica Archangelica and its magical proficiency?'
Being the sadistic professor Severus had ever been, he absentmindedly moved to his desk, his lanky hair covering most of his face from view as he pretended to check something on the book he had there. From his peripheral vision, he could see only that one arm rose.
'Mr. Hamilton?' he said with contempt, as if the boy had been at fault for not offering the answer before, instead of rightly waiting for permission to do so.
'Suck up...'
Severus heard it. He hadn't been hated for years at Hogwarts for nothing. He could see better than most, hear even better and he actually smelled anything that could result in not only point deductions but also detentions to every single one of his students.
That teasing, mocking hiss wasn't as loud as it would have been from a misguided student who had never dared, or wasn't used to, talk in class. The inflection had arrogance and fear in equal proportions, which meant that the owner of said whisper was used to risk provoking his professor's wrath, all in the name of a good bullying.
He knew that tone of voice far too well; he had used it many times and been on the receiving end many others. As a Head of House, he had allowed it to slide over him unnoticed, or had cut it ruthlessly, it only depended on his mood and the student's house.
New as he was to Durmstrang, he decided to test those adolescents. They were after all the first contact he'd have with the student body, and the first ones to spread all sort of truth and mystical lie about him.
He crossed his arms over his chest, and stared at Hamilton who became slightly flushed in his silent outrage at the offense, as well as desperate to contain himself. That was the reason, Snape gathered, why the boy's voice was slightly strained.
'The Angelica Archangelica, commonly known only as Angelica, is an agent that excites or quickens the activity of the brain, and is a known healing and protective plant. Found mostly in well-watered mountain ravines, on riverbanks, in damp meadows, and in coastal areas of Europe and Asia, it can also be cultivated, but very few are able to do it.'
Impassively the ex-spy listened and watched, wearing the mask that infuriated and terrified his students so. The one that told them that he was just indulging in their imbecility long enough to bite their heads off once they stopped talking, all of that with good cause.
In reality, he was impressed. As the boy went on, he became more and more confident, forgetting quickly the insult and teasing to focus solemnly in the information he wanted to give. That was what was so impressive.
Ernest Hamilton wasn't trying to prove he knew the answer, he was honestly broadcasting the knowledge he had not only absorbed, but actually learned. His tone wasn't the same boring monotone he had heard from many know-it-alls, the mere fact that the young man was giving his answer with his own words, proved that he hadn't merely memorized the information.
He had filed it in his brain, filed it throughout and neatly for later use.
'Its roots, rootstocks and seeds are usually added to healing baths and prove to be highly effective in the undoing of several hexes, curses and spells. It is used in potions as a good, albeit uncommon, innocuous base for extremely demanding recipes that can turn poisonous and addicting if used regularly or in great amounts; such as the Veritaserum Potion.'
For a moment the younger one's amber eyes dulled out considerably as he blinked repeatedly, but his eyelids fluttered instead of widening with alarm and he continued.
'Angelica can also be used in healing incenses, mixtures and the smoking of its the leaves is said to cause visions, although the true nature of these "visions" is unknown, and to this day no one was able to prove that they were nothing more than mere hallucinations.'
Severus raised an eyebrow at the slight curl of lip at the mention of that pretense power of the plant. The lad's disdain for that speculation was obvious and quite amusing. His unabashed sarcasm was refreshing to say the least.
'Nancy boy!'
Again, the same malicious whisper. This time the tone was even lower, but harsher none of the less. The professor knew that inflection very well.
It was the one Sirius Black used whenever he knew that Snape hadn't let himself be goaded enough to give out a wrong answer, therefore saving himself from public humiliation.
The victorious, albeit subdued, grin that appeared momentarily on Hamilton's face – and that remained in his eyes even as he controlled himself and schooled his features again – wasn't new to Severus either.
'Correct, Mr. Hamilton. 10 points to Brontës' he drawled with the same tone that he'd have used to give one of them a detention, which explained Ernest's momentary start.
Snape's next step was to walk imposing around the classroom, between the student's desks, his impressive height even more astounding as he placed both his arms at his back, holding them to his body by his forearms.
Warily every young face followed him unblinkingly, as if waiting for him to strike at any moment, like a vicious and poisonous snake. In Severus' opinion that only proved that they weren't as idiotic as he was prone to believe them to be.
It was a Durmstrang trait no doubt. There was no blinding trust, no unplanned actions, or waste of time on futile strategies. They were wary, aloof and cunning, but most of all deceiving and suspicious.
Of course, the degree of each characteristic changed for every Durmstrang's house, but they were still inherent traits of every single young mind in that school. The scholar program there focused on practical knowledge, everything that would ultimately save the student's life, even if for that another life should be taken in retribution.
As far as Barbro Brontë, Codruta Campes, Narecnitsa Náhrvalr and Ciril Cottus had known, that was a fair enough price to be paid.
'The Angelica is severely dangerous when used in potions, mainly because of its high level of concentrated magical and medical power. That is why it is only used in antidotes for equally severe and powerful potions, curses, hexes and spells that have no real cure or counter-magic invented' Severus announced with an even unemotional voice.
There were a few surprised murmurs, but mostly the sounds he heard couldn't be interpreted as anything more than delightful, even if dubious, interest.
'Today you will do your first attempt at the Strong Will Potion, which is obviously one of the rare potions that require Angelina roots. By any chance, someone know what it is? Mr. Hamilton.'
Ernest almost jumped as his housemate had earlier, but he prided himself of being more in control of his actions and reactions than most people his age. What only inspired his surprise was that suddenly he found himself staring into onyx eyes that bore into his demandingly and frighteningly.
After a few precious seconds, and an impatient glare thrown his way, Ernest straightened and narrowed his eyes thoughtfully as he searched for his answer.
'The Strong Will Potion is used to maintain the drinker focused and with a strong sense of reality, not merely sharpening their mind but also keeping them with a strengthened control over their mental functioning. Its solemn purpose is to protect one's mind from being easily corrupted by disillusion, mind controlling and deceiving charms or hexes, and even other potions', amber eyes darkened again in ill-concealed passion for the subject before he continued 'It's known for being the only possible mean to bring people under the Imperius Curse back to slight awareness and out of the spell's influence for precious moments; enough for them to acknowledge that they are indeed under an Imperius and therefore be able to fight it, or some aspects of it, on their own. In many ways it is much stronger than the Wit-Sharpening Potion, and their brewing process are absolutely different.'
All the response Hamilton got from his professor was a cold nod and a light sneer. There was no way those could be taken as a clear sign of favoritism or appreciation, but somehow Ernest knew that he hadn't wronged yet.
At least, not too much.
With a billowing of robes, Prof. Snape turned his back on him and moved again to his desk in front of the class.
'10 points to Brontës' was all Severus conceded as acknowledgement for the young man's perfect answer 'For the same reasons Mr. Hamilton informed us, this potion is highly important for the warding of one's mind from general damaging hostile magic, especially for the recuperation of victims of mind-controlling draughts.'
Facing the students again, Severus only continued when he was sure that he had their undivided attention. Most of them had family members who had been one of those victims, or had been guilty charged of casting many spells or curses that would need the potion he was going to teach that day.
The importance of the lesson was unquestionable, and the underlying message in their professor's voice was clear to each adolescent before Severus. They all knew that if there was someone other than Prof. Potter who knew the details and the value of such a potion in the battle field; it was the Potions Master before them.
'However' Snape stressed before continuing 'It is not a cure or a reliable counter-action for victims of charm, hexes and curses of the same nature, working thoroughly when given to those who were affected mainly or solemnly by mind-controlling or mind-altering potions such as the Love Potion. As you'll find in your text books – '
Ernest didn't even blink, focusing all of his senses, and his considerable intelligence, on every single word that left Severus Snape's mouth. He managed to keep his eyes into his professor's, even when the older man wasn't looking anywhere near him but still managed to make everyone feel watched.
It was the same with Prof. Potter. Even when the younger teacher had his back turned at his class, they all had a feeling that he somehow knew everything that happened as if he had eyes on the back of his head and acute hearing, added to a breathtakingly certain sixth sense.
From the few personal anecdotes his younger professor had ever allowed himself to give when it came to the Potions Master, Ernest knew that the older man had that same power imbued in him.
Mostly, Harry Potter only ever mentioned his former professor's natural talent and absolute expertise in the craft. Despite the clear tension in the green-eyed wizard's voice whenever he rarely mentioned Prof. Snape's name, it was easy to know when he was talking about the older man. There were a mix of emotions in his tone whenever he gave unusual tip bits as Ernest brewed some draughts and potions, tips that probably had come from Severus Snape at some time. Some of them went against even every book ever written on the subject, but were undoubtedly correct.
The younger man's musings came to an end with a sharp jab on his side. He gasped after air at the sudden pain, but wasn't surprised in the least. It wasn't the first time something like that happened, though it had been a few of years since that had happened down at the dungeons.
The soft and evilly playful whisper in his ear only reinforced what he already knew. Ernest could hear the muffled sniggers at his side. Following an old routine, he felt a warm hand be placed between his shoulder blades, as light brown hair tickled the corner of his eye.
'Trying to get into his pants too, Hamilton?' that known mocking tone poked him, 'What would dear Prof. Potter think if he knew?'
Another barely masked chuckle.
He knew that act too well, far too well for his own liking even. It was 5 years of bullying, mocking, rivalry and personal – if not physical and magical – attacks.
The patting hand on his back belonged to a member of Cottus, Hugo Halo, the second person in that whole school who hated him enough to do something like that. The voice though, belonged to a housemate, the only who could order people around so they would take a piss at Ernest.
The one person who would deliberately plan, execute and rejoice any possible opportunity to cause Ernest pain, humiliation and general anger. Unfortunately, he had to share not only his rooms but most of his classes with Octavian Masson.
'Quite the dungeons' catamite, aren't we?'
Ernest had to give it to the redhead, Masson really was risking his own neck in front of a professor he didn't even know, therefore had no idea if he could charm his way out of trouble or not. Not to mention that Prof. Snape had made it very clear, even if silently so, that he wasn't one to be messed with.
Still, Ernest had to give in that the new professor seemed absolutely unaware of what was going on in that moment. He also didn't seem to have heard the first of Masson's pokes, one that Prof. Potter had always been able to catch, even if there were one or two – or five – cauldrons exploding around them.
It had been a test, and apparently the new teacher hadn't passed. That meant that Masson felt fit to dare on. That was a stubborn and idiotic trait that Ernest had warned his housemate about many a times; the imbecile had no sense of limit.
'Mr. Masson?'
Suddenly the laughter stopped, and the hand that had been rested on his back was jerked away as if burned. Gingerly, Ernest raised his head, trying to get a look of the Potions Master's face.
He was only half disappointed when he found nothing, not that the professor's face was blank, although he didn't doubt it was, but because the older one had his back turned at them. Yet, that didn't make the situation any lighter, in fact, his lowered head and the hand that absentmindedly turned the pages of the book onto his desk, even as he kept his back at his students, only made the tension thicker.
Apparently finally Masson had picked on that little fact too.
'Yes, sir?'
'Do you wish to question Mr. Hamilton's answer?'
A sharp intake of breath was all the evidence Severus needed to grasp on the indignation, anger and apprehension. He had caught on the intense and unrelenting light-blue glares that were sent like daggers into Hamilton's back.
Snape had recognized the boy instantly; he made part of one of the richest Romanian wizarding families, known for ever being involved with the Dark Arts and for their bright, light-blue eyes and the pale ginger color of their hair.
What mostly set them apart from the other redhead wizarding family Snape knew were both the lack of abnormal amounts of freckles, and their astronomical bank account. The Massons were known for an arrogance that rivaled even the Malfoys', and a ruthlessness that matched the Lestranges'.
And a petulance that could surpass that of a Potter.
'No, sir.'
'Do you have any other piece of information that you find so primordial to my class that you see fit to ignore the rest of my lecture?'
'No, sir.'
Snape nodded and finally looked at his students. All of them waited with bated breath, as their schoolmate held himself not to fidget under that bottomless, and yet oppressing, gaze.
'So you don't have anything remotely enlightening concerning Angelica Archangelica, or the Strong Will Potion, to share with me and your classmates?' the professor asked, his eyes pinning the younger man.
'No, sir' was the barely discerned answer.
Severus was sure that the boy was gritting his teeth, but that never had bothered him before. It was a very common reaction, one that he had seen many times a day for years.
With purposeful strides, he placed himself in front of his desk, knowing that from that position – and thanks to his height – every single one of those dunderheads could see him and be sure that he was watching them back.
'Then you, and the rest of you, will refrain from talking unless spoken to by me. I do not know what must have been your former professor's policy but I do not tolerate any noise in my classroom. At all' the Potions Master waited to see undeniable understanding in every face, holding Octavian Masson's stare until the boy nervously looked away before he continued 'The potion is detailed in your books and the process of its brewing is explained on the blackboard. You've got little over than one hour in your hands ladies and gentlemen. I suggest you start at once.'
Harry was reaching for the baked potatoes when the sound of angry scratching of wood caught his attention. Without warning, black robes fluttered in the corner of his eyes, but he didn't stop what he was doing and continued to pick his fair share of food without a word.
He always thought the first day to be the easiest and the hardest every year. It probably was an echoing reaction to his school years that were equally good and bad. Harry loved to teach, as he used to love to go to school and learn more about magic, but still it wasn't a solemnly nice experience, or a completely unpleasant one.
Before, going to Hogwarts meant being away from the Dursleys again, and being closer to everyone he cared about, as well as staying at the only place he saw as home back then. And yet, it meant facing the Boy-Who-Lived title and everything that came with it, as well as having to deal with Malfoy, Snape and the reality of the approaching war more so than ever.
Of course, as a professor he didn't have to deal with such things, but although the problems and blessings had changed, they remained.
At Durmstrang, Harry felt at home too. He didn't have Ron or Hermione there, but he had friends, he had his students, he had responsibilities, and he made a difference. He loved his place at London, but when he was there he missed the work, the castle and the people. But at the same time he had to deal with his great load of paperwork, his students' developing personalities, tantrums, whining, arrogance and general annoyance on a daily basis.
That year was even more stressful because he was taking another course, he had a different responsibility, but it was unquestionably no less important. He had avoided the Dart Arts position for years, and a part of him resented Blaise for leaving so abruptly.
Harry loved teaching Potions, and he valued it very much, that being the reason why he had been so adamant about only giving up his position if he found someone apt to take it. Obviously, he didn't have a Master on DADA for nothing, and he prized the subject just as much.
His decision to take Dark Arts, while Snape took Potions, hadn't been an easy one. Harry had half expected the older wizard to opt for DA, especially because of his everlasting ambition for the spot back at Hogwarts' day. But Piotr's letter, informing that Severus Snape accepted the position as Potions Professor had brought that theory to the ground.
Antokolsky had assured him that in the letter he had sent to the reformed Death Eater, both positions were subtly being offered to his choosing. Mostly because as a Slytherin, Piotr knew how competent Snape would be at both.
But the ex-spy chose Potions.
In a way, Harry could understand, for he himself avoided DA for a reason. He had been the one to fight for the subject to remain in the schools' grade, knowing that it had saved his life many a times, but that didn't mean he was anywhere near ready to actively work with it.
Blaise had been of great help, offering himself for a job he didn't need, doing so only because Harry needed someone he trusted at Durmstrang.
Harry knew that Zabini never fully understood why he didn't assume the role himself, but the Slytherin had accepted his half-arsed excuses for it.
He knew the value and importance that DADA had had in his life and many others', and he was adamant not to take that knowledge from anyone at all, but Harry wasn't willing to deal with the Dark Arts again, even after so many years.
It had changed his life in several aspects and he hadn't been sure he was strong enough to face each one of them again, on a daily basis. Still, everything had gone upside down when Snape accepted the job, and he had no other alternative but to give in.
It was that or leaving Durmstrang altogether, and the latter had never been an option.
When the heavy sound of the oak chair abusing the stone foor finally stopped, Harry replaced the bowl back on the table. Focusing on the jar of pumpkin juice, as he filled his goblet once again, he allowed himself to acknowledge his co-worker.
'Snape...'
Unsurprisingly, a groan, and possibly a sneer, answered his polite attentive tone. He had to control himself not to grin; Harry had never expected Snape to be so susceptible to his presence. He was surprised when he actually got an answer as the older man busied himself to place small portions of food onto his plate.
Piotr had told him that their former professor threatened to kill the house-elf that dared to mess around his plate. Harry figured it was part of a Potions expert 's paranoia. Since he had finally learned that he appreciated the craft, he had the same preservations about who touched or got near what he was about to drink or eat.
'Potter.'
Harry read in the annoyed, albeit cold, inflection Snape had given to his surname that the older man wasn't in a horrid mood. If he had been, the Potions Master would have ignored him completely.
Hell, the greasy bastard wouldn't even have been there to begin with.
'How was your first class?' Harry asked nonchalantly nice, not really bothering to wait for an answer as he began to eat.
It took a while, a great while, but proving Harry's suspicion right, Snape grudgingly answered with his usual irritated impatience.
'Just like they have and will always be.'
'How many cauldrons exploded?' the green-eyed wizard asked barely able to conceal his knowing smirk.
'Three' Snape growled out with a finality his former student was bound to ignore.
'That's good...'
'I'm sure you think so.'
The younger wizard leaned back on his chair, holding his goblet as he took a measured sip and swallowed the food he had been chewing. Harry knew his voice gave his thoughtfulness and amusement away, but he didn't really mind it as his eyes swam over his students' heads.
'Well... In my first class I managed to explode the cauldron myself...'
The sound of clattering got Harry's attention, and when he looked over at his side he was surprised to see Snape watching him for the first time. The contempt in the other's eyes was very much obvious, but didn't put him out much.
It was annoying, but Harry had had it worse from the man.
'And you hold this memory with such a bestial pride that you had to tell me about it' the sarcasm leaked profusely from each word.
'It helped' Harry shrugged, clearly letting Snape's comment slide over him 'I had their attention ever since... And I've learned to study the potions before teaching them; no matter how uncomplicated the potion might be...'
'Took you long enough to understand the obvious, Potter. Unsurprisingly so' Severus drawled, as he swiftly pushed his chair back without another word.
Harry rolled his eyes as the older man got up and left with his robes billowing. As much as the old bat had always accused him of being overly dramatic, Snape had always indulged into theatrics himself. Harry could almost call the other a hypocrite if he didn't fully understand what Snape meant.
He snorted and reached for his goblet, allowing himself to taste the pumpkin juice, as his mind went over his lesson plan for the next classes. He still had about 20 minutes, more than enough time for dessert, and the pudding did look highly inviting. Harry couldn't help a small snort, as the clear image of Ronald Weasley shoveling abnormal amounts of food down his throat suddenly appeared in his mind.
Harry was so absorbed in that, unfortunately for Hermione, not quite childish memory that he couldn't help but start when all his senses screamed for his attention, making him tense and his magic tingle softly defensively about him as the small hairs on the nape of his neck stood on end.
It wasn't until a low, lazy and irrefutably belittling voice reached his right ear that he realized why he suddenly felt the absurd impulse to dig for his wand. Years had passed since he was caught off guard like that; his magic and body had adopted Moody's words as indisputable truth. That same constant vigilance became second nature to him since he was 17 years old, incrusted as it was in his very core for it had saved his life more than once.
The irony of who was putting it to test, and even managing to fool it, didn't miss him.
And it most certainly didn't please him, but there was no way around it. He knew that voice very well, better than he knew many, and there was no way he could mistake that magical signature.
'Don't fool yourself, Potter' Severus Snape was purring in his ear, low so only he could hear but no less unforgiving for that 'They didn't pay attention at you; they were just waiting for you to explode your cauldron again.'
Before Harry could even attempt to answer, the Potions Master was already gone.
With an annoyed frown, and a flush of irritation, he pushed his chair noisily and stomped out, ignoring Piotr's flashing grin and forgetting all about the pudding.
After lunch, Severus found himself with another free period before his two last classes. He took the time to ponder about what had happened in his first class at Durmstrang, and how it had worked.
All things considered, he doubted it could have been better. For sure Mr. Masson, his friend and any other Brontë and Cottus fifth-year wouldn't try anything during his classes again.
Snape was determined to make the rest of the fifth-years absorb the message as well, and he knew it'd be enough to get word to every living soul in that school that Severus Snape wasn't a person or a professor that responded well to insubordination of any kind.
That first day had helped him make a decision he'd been considering for some time involving Ernest Hamilton. The boy's ability to comprehend details about ingredients and the process of potion-making was in no way compared to the irrefutable talent the young man had for brewing.
His Strong Will Potion had been absolute correct, and could have very easily been flawless if it weren't for the boy's nervousness and his uncontrolled perfectionism. He knew how to manipulate the ingredients just right, seemed to have a natural ability to identify them as well. His senses were well developed, although the young man clearly needed help to sharp and focus them.
He still had much to learn, and seemed more than merely interested in each lesson. Young Mr. Hamilton had though a problem with confidence, and he obviously wasn't one who could disassociate himself from any kind of distraction.
Especially the self-promoting, sneering, rich, redheaded bully type of distraction.
In Severus' opinion Ernest wasn't a complete failure, but still required a lot of guidance. It was more than most his students had ever proved themselves capable of.
That was the reason why he extended the power of his wards to the hall, not wasting his time in putting the journal aside when the tingling announced him the approach of the blonde young wizard.
'Mister, Hamilton.'
Snape saw the boy jump visibly, before his head whipped around, in a way that ought to make him sore for the rest of the evening, only to find his new professor standing before the Potions classroom's door.
The young man's eyes were slightly wide, and focused completely in his unreadable black ones after a quick perusal over his own younger self. Severus couldn't help but smirk inwardly, and appreciatively, at the fact that Ernest was smart enough to make sure he wasn't completely at fault before even daring to look Snape in the eyes. If he hadn't been sure before, that certainly made Mr. Hamilton's intelligence and healthy cautiousness very clear.
'Prof. Snape...'
He had to give it to the boy, his voice was remarkably steady and he didn't even appear to be shaking, although his eyes did stray to the left for a second as he assorted any possible escaping routs, should he even need them. Severus allowed himself another inward grin.
'I'd like a word with you in my class' he announced, more than anything, as he turned on his heels and purposefully got back into the classroom.
Ernest's eyes widened to the size of saucers as he frantically tried to ignore the stumped and fearful whispers from his fellow students. Quickly, noticing an order when he heard that no-nonsense tone, he followed his new professor into the class he had spent his second and third period at.
It was a good thing because Snape hadn't stopped talking, sure that he'd do just that.
'I noticed that you have indeed a very reliable, albeit crude, ability when it comes to my subject, Mr. Hamilton.'
One, maybe two, seconds of hesitation before the other got hold of himself again. Severus sneered lightly at the younger one's constant, but slight, slip of control.
'Thank you, sir.'
With a wave of hand, Snape managed to dismiss the gratitude and at the same time motioned the boy to sit on one of the seats from the first row of desks. Hamilton complied quietly, his eyes following the older man's movements, as Severus sat behind his own desk. The older man didn't waste his time with useless suspense, he immediately broached to the topic.
'Your former professor has told me about your aspirations concerning Potions, is he correct to tell me that you'd like to master your technique?'
'Yes, sir, I'd like that very much' the hopeful darkening of amber eyes contrasted with the unemotional answer that Severus received. The once Head of House placed both his elbow on the wooden surface, leaning forward slightly.
'Are you willing to have extra lessons and do extra demanding homework everyday to achieve such goal?'
'Absolutely, sir' again, Ernest managed to keep his anxiety out of his voice.
'Including on weekends?'
'Yes.'
'And excluding any misguided devotion you might give to other less important extracurricular activities? Like Quidditch for example?'
Hamilton's lips twitched as Severus leaned back on his chair, and he was sure the lad was trying to keep what could be taken as a smile, or a curl of lips, from his face. For the first time, the dark man couldn't be sure of which one his student was trying to hide.
It should have unnerved him, but it only reinforced his decision.
'I don't play, Professor, and I'm not an avid fan.'
'Very well' Snape conceded and held Ernest's eyes for a long time before he continued 'I need an assistant, Mr. Hamilton.'
The boy's brow furrowed in mild confusion, as his eyes turned honeyed with excitement, but still he didn't even try to interrupt his professor. If anything, Severus was sure the young man would wait for him to elaborate, instead of jumping into conclusions as most his age would.
'If you want the position, it is yours' before the blonde young man said anything, he added warningly 'But do take in consideration that I expect nothing more than absolute and undivided compromise.'
It was a dismissal, and they both knew it. That was why Snape turned his attention to the parchments over his desk and the vials of sample he had before him.
'Yes, sir.'
Ernest realized in that moment that he was going to be tested, many times. There was no knowing if he would step over the line, because he was sure that the man before him wasn't one to explain every rule in the game. If he played nice, he'd get what he wanted, he was sure, but he wasn't sure if actually sticking to niceties would take him very far.
The mysterious older man was offering to turn a dream into reality, something that not even Prof. Potter had been able to give him. Ernest knew that Severus Snape wasn't the type of man that pitied anyone at all, let alone enough to give out privileges.
That had been made clear that morning, and Prof. Potter hadn't told him anything that would contradict that first impression.
It was a clear offer, an honest deal that demanded nothing from him that he wasn't already more than willing to give. Still, Ernest couldn't help but be wary. The man didn't know him, had met him twice before becoming his teacher, and had only talked to him two times.
He didn't doubt that one lesson was enough for someone of Prof. Snape's caliber to notice if one of his students had what was demanded to become a professor, and even a Master. False modesty wasn't one of Ernest's traits, it had never been. He knew that he was exceptional at potions, had always known it, with the same certainty that he had always known that he'd never make part of his house's Quidditch team.
He knew that if there was anyone in that school that could be remotely prepared to take an expert tutoring on potions, that person was most definitely him. In the end, that was what it came to, wasn't it?
What mattered was the fact that he was the best choice, the only choice, and that the best Potions Master in Britain thought him worthy of tutelage, without asking for his soul in return.
Because he was sure that if that, his soul, was what Prof. Snape wanted, he wouldn't waste time in demanding it. Nodding to himself, Ernest took hold of his bag before standing and taking a deep breath.
'Professor?'
'Yes, Mr. Hamilton?'
For a moment, he was sure he had ruined everything, but then the realized that despite the harsh tone, his professor hadn't demanded him to leave, and he still hadn't been hexed. That gave Ernest the strength he needed to calm down, and keep his voice steady.
'When may I start, sir?'
The quill in Snape's left hand stilled, although his head was still lowered and his eyes focused on the parchment before him. With a deliberately lazy movement, he reached for the inkwell, slowly dipping the tip of his quill in it, and taking his time to bring it back to its former position.
'Today. 7 pm sharp. Here.'
Ernest nodded his acquiesce, not bothering to hold back his blooming smile in that moment: one, because Prof. Snape wasn't looking at him, and two because he simply wouldn't be able to hide it even if he tried. His inflection though didn't let his emotions show.
Not much, anyway.
'Thank you, sir.'
Severus shook his head in mild chasten, as he heard Hamilton's barely contained excited pace as the boy forced himself to walk instead of run to the door.
Bloody adolescents and their excessive energy.
'Mr. Hamilton.'
The steps halted abruptly, the apprehension so thick that made the younger one's magic cackle.
'Don't be late' was all he said before the boy left, his magic still cackling but this time for a whole different reason.
Author's Note:
Boring chapter, I know, but necessary.
The given name for Durmstrang's founders weren't made up:
Narecnitsa, pl. Narecnitsi were Slavic fate-fairies, sorceresses who appear around newly born children and foretell their fate. As for the others: Ciril is a Slovenian name, Barbro is Swedish and Codruta is Romanian.
The information you find in this chapter about the plant called Angelica and its medical properties and use, as well as general information about it; were not made up.