To Snapesfavorite just to show my appreciation for the amazing woman and writer she is.
Chapter Seven
It was only five past one in the afternoon and Severus' head was already throbbing. The sad thing about it was that he wasn't really surprised with that. Poppy used to say it happened because of his perpetual lack of responsibility when it came to his eating and sleeping habits, her main point being that he didn't do either one of those like a remotely healthy person should.
In Snape's opinion it was chronic. He had tried to tell the medwitch that he had those headaches ever since he was 4 when he had realized that the world was dominated by dunderheads, but Poppy never listened.
Yet, after such a long time, he couldn't help but remember the old witch's words. It was quite true that he hadn't ate more than one meal a day, or slept more than 3 hours a night for over three weeks, but Severus knew very well that that wouldn't kill him anytime soon.
His body was more than used to the bohemian type of life, Snape couldn't remember a time when he actually had 8 hours of rest. Well, at least not willingly, for when you're stuffed with sleeping draughts and had been put into a magical coma to heal your body back to life it didn't really count as a relaxing experience, now did it?
There was the inevitable fact that Severus was in a dreadful environment again; and had to deal with exploding cauldrons and intoxicated whelps on a daily basis. It was enough to give any men a killing headache.
Well, that or psychotic tendencies.
Thanks to his unwavering appreciation of and mastering on self-control, Severus could successfully squash any sudden homicide impulses. After all, he hadn't throttled the Weasley twins in six years, and had never told Dumbledore to do a biological experiment involving a new digestive method for the old coot's beloved lemon drops. He also hadn't spiked Minerva's bowl of milk with Firewhiskey, and he had courageously managed to keep himself from laying a finger on Harry Potter for several years.
Clearly, that only proved what a balanced man he was, despite people's belief that he was prone to tantrums or anything abysmally disgraceful as that.
Besides, taking in consideration his options, Snape believed he was having it good. For once he was actually able to focus completely in all his long dated researches and experiments.
Rather he admitted or not, the students weren't completely useless and most of the time they at least had some idea of what he was talking about.
Still, those weren't the reasons why he was missing most of his meals, or sleep. The fact was that Ernest Hamilton's tutoring proved to be more than worth his time. Surely the boy had a clear inclination for potions, something that was extraordinary in itself, but Severus had had to be sure that young Mr. Hamilton really had what it took to become a Potions Master.
That was why Snape took great pleasure in testing the young man's grasp on each special trait inherent to the job.
First, and foremost, it was the patience. The first evening, he had seen the excitement clear in Ernest's eyes; the boy's body was taut with anxiety. An anxiety that only grew with each passing second, with each seemingly innocuous activity he was told to do.
As the days went on, and there was no change in that apparently boring routine, the boy obviously learned that nothing would go as he expected during his extra classes.
The other traits were instinct, concentration, perception and control.
Ernest excelled in ones and was rather lacking in others, but Severus realized that it was enough. With each victory, that the boy wasn't even aware he achieved, Snape deemed Ernest Hamilton intelligent enough, talented enough and interested enough.
He doubted Mr. Hamilton would ever really hear any outward encouragement from his mouth, but then again that was one of the older man's most specific and effective ways to test his pupils.
Draco Malfoy had failed mostly because of his inability to work without any kind of flattering feedback, but then again, Lucius' son had had completely different aspirations and ambitions in life.
Shaking his head on his way to his classroom, Snape pushed those memories to the back of his head, until it was late at night and he had an open bottle of brandy at reach.
He still had half a little more than half an hour before fourth period, and Severus wanted to take a look at the books he had collected at the library when he should have been eating ham and carrots.
The ex-spy had banished most of the volumes to his study, but a couple had been magically disposed at his desk down at the dungeons.
Severus' head gave a dull throb at the prospect of another 3 different groups of annoying children. It was Thursday, which meant he had only classes with first, second and third years.
All day long.
He groaned in annoyance. Adolescents were bad enough, but at least sometimes they were intelligible, children on the other hand had the horrible inability to restrain themselves. That only resulted on half of the class sniffing and tearing out with no particular reasons, just because the little chits couldn't take a critique.
Already envisioning his bottle of brandy, Snape raised his left hand to rub the left side of his temple, trying to sooth some of the pressure in his skull so he could go through the next hours without a nervous breakdown.
No such luck, apparently the gods wanted to do nothing more than test his virtues that day. It was the only reason Severus found to explain the sight of a severely agitated Harry Bloody Potter standing in front of his classroom, clearly waiting for him. Snape looked around instinctively and realized that there were already a few students about.
From the looks of it, they were a growing number of seventh-years, all of them probably going to their Dark Arts' class that also took place at the dungeons.
Even down at there Potter haunted him; the only good thing about it was that their classrooms were at complete opposite sides of the corridor and until then the Slytherin had never even had a glimpse of the Golden Boy.
That meant that something had happened, something remotely important or serious for the Savior had actually moved his arse to wait and confront Snape outside the ex-Death Eater's current classroom.
And in one of those moments of pure clarity, with one of those breathtaking epiphanies, Severus knew he wasn't going to like the conversation that was looming in the horizon. Before Snape could simply bully Potter out of his way, the younger wizard took advantage of his second of hesitation and mild confusion.
'May I have a word with you, Professor?'
Of course not, was on the tip of Severus' tongue, it really was, but as soon as he opened his mouth to deliver it a horde of young girls suddenly appeared.
It was one thing to be unpleasant to Potter when they were alone, or when they were with other adults, but it was something absolutely different to be disrespectful to another professor in front of their students. Snape had many flaws, but unprofessionalism had never been one of them.
Potter's eyes told Severus that the younger man knew this very well, and the once Boy-Who-Lived was using that to his advantage.
With a martyred air about him; Snape growled a "yes" that pretty much sounded like a "no", as he got inside his classroom with Potter at his heels. It was obvious that The Savior was pissed off, and Severus didn't like the fact that he had no idea of what had happened this time to set the brat off.
Brat, surely, for Potter was nearing his 30's but doubtfully would ever grow up. Tall he was surely, and he most certainly wasn't the scrawny adolescent he had once been. The young man had a lithe built now, it was a Quidditch player built, obviously. A Seeker's built to be precise; not imposingly broad but deceivingly unimpressive.
It didn't change the fact that Golden Boy had never really managed to look tad older, war-worn or remarkably intelligent. At first sight, and second and third, Potter still looked like the almost 20 little prat he had been when Severus had last seen him, and in the older man's opinion it was just quite fitting that the younger man's looks clearly reflected his everlasting psychological immaturity.
Yes, Boy-Turned-Man-Who-Lived seemed slightly more sophisticated, self-restrained and a little bit less idiotically pathetic than he had been 12 years before, but Snape figured that even Longbottom had managed to grow a pair of bollocks after everything they had gone through. What was a very good example because even if Frank's son had indeed become a mediocre man after a bloody War; that was as far as the boy would go, despite Severus' incessant efforts to tough up the miserable whelp.
With an inward suffering growl the once Head of House stopped in front of his desk and turned around to face the bane of his existence as the doors slammed shut and a soundless, albeit strong, Silencing Charm was cast.
Snape's crossed arms over his chest and raised eyebrow furthered the impatient and disdainful look Harry had grown up with as his former teacher stared down at him, even though they had the same height.
Without a word, but a glare that spoke volumes, the older man waited for the flood of inanity that Snape clearly expected to pour out of Harry's mouth.
The Potions Master was sourly disappointed.
'Are you bloody insane?'
Harry didn't even bother to blink or soften the hard look in his eyes as he demanded an answer for a rather ludicrous question. He knew that pissing Snape off wasn't the best strategy that he could possibly use in that moment; or any other really, but Harry was too fed up to let it slide.
The older man uncross his arms, his eyebrow lowering and furring, face molding itself into another mask Harry was quite familiar with, too. It was a look that had been followed by astronomical house point deductions and severe detention assignments.
Even though there was no way Snape could do any of that in that moment, the look was still very intimidating, mostly because this time they both knew that the Slytherin didn't have to contain his indignation and anger by following a school code for punishment. Snape could just hex Harry to the next century as he had threatened to do many times before.
'I beg your pardon, Potter?' Severus drawled menacingly as he took a step towards the square-shouldered green-eyed wizard before him. Wizarding World Hero or not, co-worker or not, no one would talk to Severus Snape with that tone.
Following his Gryffindor blind bravery, fueled with the certainty that he was absolutely right and Snape undoubtedly wrong; brought forth the same defiance that Harry had displayed instinctively to every point deduction and detention assignment the professor had ever thrown his way. He stood his ground, his eyes growing fiercer and darker with resolution.
'Do you have any idea of what you're doing?' Harry hissed, refusing to budge 'He didn't sleep at all! Again! Because of that stupid-' he shook his head before continuing, closing the distance between them, his accusing green glare burning 'He could have injured himself! Or someone else! Do you have any idea of how it'd absolutely destroy him, if he ever – Even if it was an accident! Or with magic!'
Severus blinked. Oh, there it is, he thought sarcastically, the asinine yak.
'Potter' he cut ruthlessly the imbecilic babbling 'Articulate and do think before you open you mouth.'
At that, Harry started. Damn it. He hadn't done that in years, jumping unselectively from one angry thought to the other without even noticing that he wasn't making any sense at all. He wasn't like that anymore. Damn it.
Taking a deep breath Harry crossed his arms over his chest and clenched his jaw tightly so his mouth wouldn't get the best of him again, as it used to several years before.
'Are you giving Ernest extra potions?'
Harry expected another sign of barely contained hostility from Snape, he had after all just barked at the man, but as he waited for an answer Harry realized that the bottomless eyes narrowed and the pupils shrank, but he was almost certain it had nothing to do with him. Harry was far too knowledgeable on the many facets of Severus Snape's anger to mistake that thoughtful and slightly annoyed expression for anything else.
'Ah - I see, Mr. Hamilton has informed you of our accord,' it was a simple unemotional conclusion, not a question.
'Accord?' Harry sneered 'You've been keeping him awake 'til after midnight for over two weeks, giving him a ridiculous amount of extra homework that he only finishes half an hour before his first classes every day, and you call it accord?'
Just like that, the former Death Eater's features rearranged themselves in a scowl. For a moment, Harry thought Snape would go into that thoughtful zone he had allowed himself to be months before at Harry's place at London but Harry was sure that the sarcasm and aggressive tone in his voice managed to prevent that.
'You told me that Mr. Hamilton desires to become a Potions Master,' again it was merely a fact, not a visceral attack, and that caught Harry off guard.
He narrowed his eyes suspiciously and groaned in the back of his throat. He had always expected a logical Snape, but an insult-free logical Snape was rather disturbing.
'I did but that –'
Severus waved a dismissing hand, with that imposing posture he sometimes had that made people want to cast an Unforgivable on him.
'I am sure you are an utter stranger to the concept, Mr. Potter' he curled his lips in contempt as he turned his back on the younger man, moving towards his chair '... but ordinary people must sacrifice to succeed. Accomplishment demands hard work, time and a lot of patience to be achieved. At least, it does to everybody else but you.'
Harry watched as Snape fluidly sat behind the professor's desk, his lecture tone full on, as well as that hint of condescension that the older man had always managed to keep in his voice whenever he was talking to, or about Harry.
The same condescension that had always made Harry's blood boil in his veins.
'Don't give me that, Snape' Harry grounded through clenched teeth 'Don't you even start-'
'That being' Severus continued, reaching for his quill and ignoring Potter completely 'Mr. Hamilton is quite the normal teenager and will have to learn all the above. Since he does seem to have all the qualities necessary, I have chosen him to assist me and be my apprentice. It will demand a lot from him, but I am sure he will match the challenge.'
Harry was so immersed in his appalling need to hold himself not to initiate a screaming match, as well as fighting against that childish urge to strangle Snape, that he missed the true meaning of the man's words completely.
He wouldn't catch on that off-hand appraisal 'til much later that day, what explained Harry's unrelenting irritation in that moment as he focused on the Snape's hint that Harry could possibly doubt Ernest's abilities. Again, Harry did something he hadn't done in a very long time; latch on the wrong bit of information.
'I know he will, I just-'
Severus really didn't know why the brat even tried. Surely, after years under his tutelage, even someone as mentally challenged as Potter was able to learn that there was no discussion when one had no arguments?
Especially a discussion with someone like Severus Snape, which explained, and justified really, the way he continued to ignore the young man completely. The Slytherin reached for another seventh-year pathetic essay and began to grade it.
All it took him was the first paragraph, there it is… another irrefutable Troll, he thought as he added his usual personal scathing comment. As Severus belittled the dunderhead, he found fit to voice a very obvious fact, successfully interrupting a very irritated Harry Potter.
'Don't you think for a minute that I need your consent for any of my actions, Mr. Potter' black eyes met green eyes fully 'They will never be any of your concern.'
Focusing again on the essays in a clearly dismissing tone, Snape waited until it was clear that Potter wouldn't leave without a fight to add with a barely concealed smirk, and amusement in his tone.
'Now, Professor, if you'd be very kind as to leave' he looked up, and facing a rather impassive looking Potter with blazing green eyes, Severus pointed his quill at the closed door behind the younger wizard 'I have a group of third-years waiting to get in, and I'm sure you wouldn't want me to hold them here after hours on your account.'
When he got in the classroom, the first thing he saw was the many vials a group of third-years had filled with a sample of the Skele-gro they had brewed and handed out to their professor at the end of the class with some predictable trepidation. Prof. Snape had the habit of warning every single year, every day; that those who had wronged the most would be taking their own potions in their next class.
It wasn't particularly an experience any of them wanted to go through. Only Ernest Hamilton was sufficiently confident about his potions, not much that it had no mistakes, but more that even if he was indeed called to take it, very little could happen to him.
His brewing could not be perfect, but he certainly wouldn't suffer with any collateral damage, besides Ernest doubted he'd be sorted to such a practical learning. So far he had managed to get every potion right, be it a mere Hair Raising Potion or something as complicated as an Invigoration Draught.
It was the proof that his extra tutorial was paying off. Surely, Snape wasn't the nicest professor, or human being, Hamilton had ever met but that was beyond the point. The man was a real genius when it came to Potions, and he was actually a much better tutor in one-o-one lessons.
Prof. Snape was even more demanding, but not nearly as unpleasant, which had been a very welcome surprise. His professor's ways had never really bothered Ernest, he was sure that he'd have been disappointed if Severus Snape was anything else but ruthlessly brilliant and an absolute snarky, sarcastic bastard.
There still had to come a day when the older man was satisfied with his work. For weeks all Ernest had been allowed to do was rearrange then man's ingredient shelves repeatedly. Two long weeks were spent with that, first alphabetically, then following their expiring date, their magical proficiency and many other selective orders.
Anyone could have thought that Snape was merely trying to psyche his student out of his ambitions, but Hamilton knew better. Every night, he'd pay complete attention to what he was doing, memorizing and absorbing the information he gathered during those nights. To make sure he didn't miss anything, Ernest would redo his job, messing the order he had spent hours organizing and fixing it again.
That was the main reason why he rarely ever left the dungeons before midnight, and after each night, he still had to write a complete research on each ingredient, such essay based on the precise order he had been requested to follow night before. It was especially during those late hours doing homework that Ernest learned very unusual and fascinating things about each substance Prof. Snape had stored.
Another thing that left the young man floored was the clear trust that the Potions Master had in him. Hamilton knew that if there was something that not many in that profession allowed was for someone to get close of their personal storage, or even their very own cauldron, let alone their private lab.
It had been two nights in a row that Prof. Snape had led him into the incredible laboratory connected to the Potions classroom. The room was a complete different lab than it had been for Prof. Potter, even though one went through the same warded passage to get in. Ernest believed that as many magical rooms usually did, and laboratories had to be magical, it changed to accommodate the personality and need of their owner.
The changes hadn't been drastic, for a few rules had to be followed to maintain the top quality and the best conditions for brewing, but little differences were easily spotted by Ernest, mostly because he had spent a lot of his free time there. The cauldrons, or any other utensils used by Prof. Snape was neatly and even neurotically organized. The older man was much more obsessed with order than Prof. Potter had ever been, although Prof. Snape used more of his senses and instincts to brew, while Prof. Potter's ways followed a pattern of the unquestionable logic and strict methodology.
Still, it was just as enlightening and amazing to watch Severus Snape working as it had been to do it when Harry Potter was immersed in his work.
'Sir...' Ernest asked warily when he got close enough to his professor's desk. The older man didn't take his eyes from the samples before him as he scribbled something on a parchment.
'Mr. Hamilton,' Severus said as form of greeting before adding in a nonchalant way '... tell me, do you sincerely want to become a Potions Master?'
A sudden pang of fear made Ernest's gut turn ice cold, getting him sick for a sec. There was more than the usual impatience in Prof. Snape's voice; Ernest could detect something that sounded alarmingly like a subdued threat.
Immediately, the young man started to desperately think of anything he could have done wrong. Maybe he had organized the ingredients badly? No, Ernest was sure he had done as he had been instructed, just as he had always done since taking those extra classes.
He also hadn't faulted when it came to the essays he had to deliver; he double checked every list he handed over. Ernest made sure as well that everything had been cleaned perfectly, and put away precisely where they belonged. Then what? What had happened?
He took a deep calming breath, and tried swallowed through the lump that was quickly forming in his throat.
'Yes, sir'
Don't embarrass yourself, Ernest berated himself, don't ruin everything.
'Indeed?' Severus asked firmly, his bottomless eyes locked in his student's for the first time as he put his quill away, reading every single emotion that flashed briefly in those amber orbs.
The boy nodded once and clearly, palling considerably as he closed his hands over his bag and books until his knuckles were white. He was clearly rooted on spot, his eyes grown to the size of saucers as the Ernest frantically tried to keep them in a less frightened size. The younger one cleared his throat before answering evenly, though with a strained voice.
'I have always loved potions, sir.'
Severus moved around the desk, and he crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at the boy in a clearly chastening way, and mild disappointment coloring his tone.
'And you told me exactly 15 days ago that you are willing to accept my teaching, regardless of the fact that I want nothing more but total commitment.'
'Yes, I did, sir.'
Ernest's voice croaked lightly, and he cleared his throat yet again. He had learned that any sign of childishness would get him nowhere in life, that any weakness shown would only be used against him. He had promised himself in a very young age that he would never give people ammunition to use against him. They already had many in their disposition.
'I must tell you, Mr. Hamilton, that one of the reasons why there are few Potions Masters is that secrecy rules our profession' Prof. Snape's words pierced Ernest's despair induced haze 'We are here to brew what it is need, to those who need it. We don't ask questions, we don't mind anyone or anything; our only concern is to learn; experiment and better. Do you comprehend me, Mr. Hamilton?'
And just like that, a breathtaking wave of relief coursed through the boy's body. He hadn't done anything wrong then, at least not really. Secrecy, Prof. Snape was talking about secrecy, and if there was anyone in the world that understood that concept it was Ernest.
It was obvious that the older man knew that very well, or else they wouldn't have that conversation. Yet, that didn't explain the professor's earlier tone. Ernest hadn't told anyone about his mastering tutelage, mainly because if Masson ever found out he'd do something to ruin that too. Ernest hadn't even told Franz, and his black roommate was the closer he had ever had to a friend in that school.
Prof. Potter had assured him that Prof. Snape wouldn't appreciate if he ever knew that Ernest was telling other people about his extra lessons, at least not until the older man himself allowed him to do so. It had been a very reasonable advice, and one he had been following without question for almost 3 whole weeks.
And then it all made sense.
Professor Potter.
The younger professor had been unusually irritated during Ernest's latest Dark Arts classes, especially after Ernest lost his concentration during a pathetically easy practical exercise. It was ridiculous really, how could his lack of sleep be affecting him after only a few days, when he was more than used to stay awake all night for weeks on end?
Not to mention that his reactions to the full moon would get him too sick to fall asleep, days prior and after the transformation.
Probably it was because Ernest never had actually focused on anything during those nights, and he ended up tiring his system with the uncommon demand of thought process but it was nothing he couldn't get used to really. Ernest had nightmares for years now, and insomnia was inherent to him already.
But he had never talked about those with Prof. Potter, had he? Hell, he had never even mentioned his nightmares to Mike, so why talk about them to his professor. Ernest could handle it, he always could. He was much better with that arrangement; at least now Ernest was doing something during all those hours, something other than thinking or remembering the nightmares.
'Yes, I do, sir' Ernest answered with a resigned sigh as he nodded his understanding of what was being discussed.
Severus noticed the way the tension evaporated from the boy's body, even Ernest's magic signature; that had dulled itself out considerably with apprehension, was now slowly recovering its potency.
When his apprentice blinked twice, his darkened amber eyes going back to their original color, Snape knew that the boy indeed comprehended what he was talking about. He gave the younger one a stern look, uncrossing his arms, before he continued.
'Nothing' Severus said limpidly and firmly before stressing 'Absolutely nothing that is done or said in here, during these lessons will ever leave this classroom and laboratory, Mr. Hamilton. If I find out that you have commented, whispered, hissed or talked in your sleep about anything you do here and all the things I will teach you, I shall never teach you anything other the dull and obvious program I am forced to follow in my everyday class' Snape said in a tone that didn't invite anything but complete compliance 'Are we understood?'
'Yes, sir' Ernest nodded once and resolutely, making sure that his acquiescence was obvious in his eyes and voice. He knew his professor was right to lecture him, he shouldn't have said anything to anyone.
It went against the trust the Potions Master had so begrudgingly given him.
Severus didn't reply as he moved back to his chair. Taking hold of his wand, he waved it without saying a word, opening the door that led to his personal laboratory and personal storage. Snape reached for a vial filled with a hideously dark green substance, a poor attempt that didn't even get close to the fluorescent yellow shade of an effective Skele-gro.
'Now organize these concoctions' Snape said without looking up and gesturing absently at the door of his private storage, that had opened with a flick of his wand 'This time I want you to put them away in the alphabetic order, but following their main ingredient' he instructed, before adding in an afterthought 'Did you study the potions?'
Ernest started at the curious tone his professor was using. The night before, second night he had gotten access to the laboratory, the Potions Master had told him to write essays about the draughts and potions that the first ten ingredients he had researched about were used as primordial base. He had already known some of those concoctions, what didn't mean much because at least seven of the ten ingredients were very commonly used and therefore were the most important agent to more than one single potion.
Not to mention, that he still had about 48 ingredients to go, before even attempting to get to the letter B.
Still, never before had the older man asked if Ernest had done his homework, not even when he was writing essay after essay about every single plant, animal and magical creature known to the Wizarding World. Of course, despite the many hours of hard work Ernest had handed over every inch of parchment requested, and had received them graded every night before going back to his dorm.
That was why he couldn't understand why Prof. Snape would feel the need to ask him about something the both of them knew he had done. Even though he didn't quite understand, Ernest wasn't about to leave his teacher without an answer, Severus Snape rarely asked a question without some purpose for it.
'Yes, sir' Ernest replied, trying to figure out the catch behind the seemingly innocent inquiry.
Severus nodded, rolling the same horrid green sample in his hands, and mentally listing every single ingredient the third-year dunderhead that had handed it over had failed to add, added without any real need or added more than it had been specified.
'Good' Snape said nonchalantly, as he dishearteningly studied another vial 'Because you'll start brewing them once you're done with the storage. The ingredients are where you left them, in date order, I'd presume.'
Ernest froze where he was for the second time that evening, but this time it was in an absurd attempt to stall his excitement and anxiety before all of it bubbled its ways out of his body in the form of a maniacal laughter.
Finally he'd start working on a cauldron!
Ernest had understood the importance of his theory lessons but to really start his brewing practical lessons was all he had been itching for ever since he had accepted the older man's offer.
Not trusting himself to speak without sounding like an incoherent unintelligent child blinded by giddy happiness, Ernest only nodded and went about doing what he had been ordered to do.
'Mr. Hamilton?'
The boy started and turned around abruptly, making Severus shake his head lightly in mild amusement.
'Professor?'
Snape extended his hand, looking pointedly at the impressive roll of parchment still tugged inside the blonde's bag.
'The homework' he smirked at the boy's light hesitation 'You won't need it for you have already studied it.'
Harry rubbed his eyes, feeling shockwave after shockwave of pain trying to pierce its way out of his skull through his eyeballs. That damn headache was tormenting him since the previous day.
More precisely it was making his life a living hell every since that fiasco of his conversation with Snape. Conversation was a very loose word to use for that encounter, he snorted to himself ignoring an inquiring look from an over confident fifth-year.
Harry shook his head and focused on the young men and women before him. Since the Dumbledore's Army back at his own fifth-year, Harry had developed the ability to notice every single wand movement before and around him.
It was a handy for his profession, and it had been even more than merely handy in the battle field, when one had to be precise despite of what was going on around them. He knew that, and he pushed his students on that regard as well.
'Franz, I have told you many times not to move your hand so fiercely. It isn't the force of your movements that will improve the power of your hex', with a weary sigh he gestured to get every single adolescent's attention, and rubbed his left temple twice before continuing 'Class! You are forgetting that what makes a hex, curse, spell and even a charm efficient and powerful is focus. You have to truly want to conjure them up, or else you won't be successful. Now, try again!'
And just like that they were chanting their hexes and charms in front of a mirror again. When Blaise first came up with that idea, Harry had thought it preposterous, and when the Slytherin actually institutionalized it in his classes, Harry had thought it ludicrous. But as the days went on, even Harry had to give it to Zabini that it had indeed been a brilliant idea.
To put the younger students in a real duel had proven to be too dangerous; a third-year almost lost his head when he was paired with a rather quiet but highly vindictive second-year he had been bullying for months. Unaffected by the accident, Blaise had been adamant about giving them practical classes, reminding Harry that that was why he was there anyway.
"Give me a bloody break, Potter" the black young man had drawled after a rather lengthy screaming match between the two of them because that debacle "If you wanted me to bore them into oblivion with theory you had better told me that before I agreed to do this. For one, I wouldn't have accepted it, and second you can find someone else more fitting for the job." Before adding Blaise had adopted a mocking thoughtful mask "Too bad, good old Umbridge is locked up at St. Mungus; she'd have been bloody perfect for what you have in mind."
That had been enough to win Zabini free reign when it came to his teaching techniques.
Cunning, bloody Slytherin, Harry thought viciously now with a deceiving subtle twitch of lips.
It had been a complete failure at first, but Blaise was persistent and he didn't back down when anyone else would. The Slytherin had set his foot down, saying that those little chits were still too embarrassed to take the work seriously because of infantile inhibitions, and claiming that he himself had earned his Master on Charms thanks to that very method, one he had learned from one of his mother's many husbands. Harry always pointed out that it had been easy for Zabini to adopt that method because Blaise had always been a narcissistic, vainglorious little creep.
Blaise would grin, winking at him, and purring happily "With a reason, Mr. Potter, with an unquestionable reason."
'Urgh!'
The sudden loud groan of pain got Harry's attention. He had decided to continue the "Mirror Practice", as Zabini had labeled it, admitting that it was one of the best methodologies ever created. It was the perfect way to teach that type of magic; even though the name didn't change the Dark Arts lessons at Durmstrang were focused on the defense and protection against it. What many didn't understand was that no one could fight against something they didn't know, in that sense he always supported practical lessons instead of pure theory.
Young minds only absorb what they saw as useful, and what they knew would actually work. Besides, making them all test the curses and hexes on themselves first was a good enough way to discourage their later use on someone else.
That first contact more times than not provoked deep disgust and abhorrence towards that type of magic, and the focus changed from immense curiosity to complete devotion for all means to avoid and counter-act dark attacks.
Unfortunately there were always a couple of students showed a proclivity for the Dark Arts, and as Harry had when Blaise taught, he approached these students and tried to serve as guide. His main goal was try to keep these few exceptions from falling for the allure of the Dark Arts and therefore keep them from losing themselves in it.
Like he had almost done once.
Shuddering out of his reverie, Potter pushed his way towards the unconscious figure on the dungeons' cold stone floor. The face was severely disfigured, what couldn't have been achieved with only one hex or curse. Someone had cast something aiming at the prostate student's mirror, catching him or her completely unawares.
'What happened?' Harry demanded as he crouched to examine his student, a mass of blonde curls and the cut of the robes gave away the young one's identity 'Ernest? Finite Incantatem!'
Soon the dull but still effective invisible waves of hostile magic that were still reflected by the mirror stopped. Harry's headache disappeared in the swelling of his indignation and anger, but he had to focus on getting Ernest better before dealing with the matter at hand accordingly.
Someone picked the wrong day, the wrong class and the worse professor to mess around. Carefully, Harry rolled the younger man so he was laid on his back, resting the uninjured back of Ernest's head on his lap.
'There... Accio Iron Goblet!' he called, his arm outstretched and in a matter of seconds the goblet was in his left hand, and Harry was encouraging the blonde boy to drink from it 'Here, take a bit of this...'
Using the students' commotion, Harry pretended to merely check the damage on young Hamilton's flesh when he was actually letting his Healing abilities act on the boy wandlessly. Not many knew Harry was indeed able to do wandless magic, and he preferred to keep it that way.
As far as the Durmstrang's alumni knew, it was the mysterious draught he kept in that special goblet that detained amazing healing powers. What none of them knew was that it was nothing more than an enchanted souvenir that he had bought during a trip in India, a common goblet that filled itself with the most limpid water but that deceived the drinker by giving it an unique, exotic and calming taste. A taste that changed accordingly for each drinker.
For Blaise it had been a mix of cinnamon and mint, with a hint of green apple, Hermione had claimed it tasted like honey and blueberries, Ron had said he tasted the unusual combination of lemon and ginger, with a little bit of brown sugar.
Harry had never tried it; he had been tempted to many times but at the last minute, for some reason, he always changed his mind.
When he was done with most of the injuries on the boy's face, and Ernest was again looking normal, Harry felt his student stir softly on his lap. Apparently Harry had covered every single after affect of what he identified as highly powerful and vicious attack; that brought forth Harry's indignation and annoyance, as well as his maddening headache.
Slowly amber eyes were opened, as Ernest Hamilton had a hold of his bearings again. The first thing he saw was the concerned face of his professor, and fighting his fierce blush he cleared his throat and forced himself back to the world of living forcefully.
'Thank you, Professor...' Ernest coughed softly and moved to sit up.
'Apario!' Harry demanded softly, without reaching for his want, his face growing impassive instead of showing all of his bottled up disappointment and irritation. He raised his head and looked up at the two young men who were quietly sniggering at the farthest corner in the classroom.
'Mr. Masson and Mr. Halo!'
The redhead forced himself to hold his professor's gaze, which was better than his bulky friend's attempt to dig a hole on the stone floor with his unwavering stare. Harry narrowed his eyes infinitesimally, and that was enough to get Octavian and Hugo moving closer to him.
It was rare when Prof. Potter actually vocalized an order; his students were well-aware of the fact that when he was really annoyed and irritated, he didn't need to say a thing. It was something about his face, that became absurdly impassive and unreadable, but in a very threatening and frightening way.
That was probably the reason why every change, especially the smallest ones, on that mask only issued actions; and more likely than not, answers from his pupils.
'Yes, Professor?' was Octavian Masson's petulant question.
Harry didn't even bother to get up, still busy working on the many injuries and general flesh wounds covering Ernest's neck. The boy's magic was dangerously low too, slowing his heart rate and his breathing pattern.
'You two managed to get yourselves a week worth of detention' he drawled coldly, with an even voice that made most of the younger ones flinch slightly 'I will not tolerate deliberate attacks, least of all coward attempts of hostility, in my class and I believed I had made that crystal clear for the past four years.' Harry looked up and locked eyes with his student 'Did I not?'
Clearly subdued, Masson finally looked away, not very sure in his defiance anymore. It was something Harry expected. Octavian usually responded first with arrogance, it made part of his personality, but the boy didn't hold onto it when it was obvious that he wouldn't be able to get himself off the hook with a vehement denial.
'Yes, you did, sir' both students answered, even Halo attempted a look at his professor from under his eyelids.
'20 points from Brontë and Cottus for this' Harry announced with a dismissing voice.
That was normally the cue for anyone who had step way out of line, and had gotten out of it relatively unscathed, to remain silent and invisible for the rest of class, if not for the whole year, but as Octavian Masson had been told repeatedly, he didn't know when he had reached the limit until he had already crossed it and someone pushed him back to his place. That was the only explanation for his childish tone when he spat a reply.
'But that's not fair!'
The room went deadly quiet. Hugo Halo's eyeballs almost rolled off their sockets when he widened his eyes in alarm. The young man had had more than his share of detentions all thanks to his childhood friend's uncontrollable ego.
Hugo knew very well by the sudden tightening of his professor's jaw that he was in for another very harsh lecture, if not a greater punishment than being shamefully costing his house several points.
'I beg your pardon, Mr. Masson?' Harry challenged.
'He provoked us first' Octavian lied squaring his shoulders and sneering at the still out of sorts Ernest. 'We were merely striking back. Sir', he added in an after-thought.
'Is that so?' the professor raised an eyebrow at the gritted final addition to that phrase.
'Yes' was announced with a stuffing of chest and an upturned nose.
Harry nodded in a mock acquiesce, looking away from the young men and down at Hamilton. Most of the pus he had already healed out of the protuberances Masson and Halo had hexed onto Ernest's skin.
After he began to sooth the abused flesh, making sure no scar was left on each cheek of the young face. It had taken Harry years of practice to finally be able to heal completely that kind of injury, his first works, all of them done on himself, had left a thin reddish mark behind.
Taking the care to make Ernest drink from the goblet, he let his finder dance over each wound as he willed his magic evenly and soothingly out of his fingertips. Harry didn't even contemplate moving his gaze from what he was doing, sensing the nervousness that all his students were exuding in different degrees.
'Are you willing to give me your word on this Mr. Masson?'
At that Octavian started.
'My word?' he asked more than a little nonplussed.
'Yes, your word.' Harry repeated in a scary monotonic voice 'I may not be or have ever been a Brontë, Mr. Masson, but I work in this school for enough time to know some little peculiar things about each House.'
Octavian frowned and looked around after support but found none. Obviously, he was the only one who didn't know when to keep his mouth shut after testing Prof. Potter's temper.
'For instance, if you accuse your own house and roommate of attacking or offending you, giving me your word on it, I will know you are telling me the truth' the teacher continued, seemingly unaware of his student fidgeting 'It is quite unheard of such thing happening inside Durmstrang's Houses, for neither founder was known for their tolerance for liars. If you are not being honest with me you'll be immediately kicked out of Brontë and unlikely will be accepted in any other House in this school.'
Masson's face turned into an angry shade of red, even deeper than the one that covered his abused roommate, who was coughing every few seconds. Halo was groaning in dismay under his breath, probably thinking about the many levels of torture he'd endure if he arrived home after been expelled from school.
After a heavy and oppressing silence, one that made all the implications of his words more than just clear in the two boys' minds, Harry looked up at them again.
'So I ask you to consider your answer very carefully, Mr. Masson', green depths locked with light blue pools 'Are you, or are you not, willing to give me your word on this?'
Crucial seconds stretched, in such a tense fashion that Hugo reached for Octavian's robes and tugged it urgently and pleadingly. The boy looked away first and shook his head, gritting his teeth.
'I thought so' Prof. Potter offered him a knowing sinister smirk 'Now you may go, class dismissed'; it was after a few seconds that he added absentmindedly 'Mr. Masson. 10 more points from Brontë and another week of detention for your cheek.'
Harry had to give it to Masson, the boy had spine. Even caught completely focused on what he was doing, he was sure that Octavian was restraining himself from saying anything further. As he encouraged Ernest to wake up fully, Harry saw the way Hugo physically pulled his friend out of the classroom.
And people said Halo was stupid.
'You didn't have to go so far, Professor.'
Ernest winced lightly, his face slightly dry and feeling unusually stretched. He took a deep breath and shook his head a couple of times. His professor brought the goblet to his lips one more time, and he sipped the contents without a fuss.
'For how long were they hexing you?'
'It was nothing I couldn't handle, sir' the blonde shrugged, testing his limbs and trying to disperse the numbing reaction of some of the hexes 'It only got too much with my own reflected hex... That's all...'
'Still...' Harry watched as Ernest gingerly touched the flesh on his neck, breathing sharply at the raw feeling of the recently healed skin 'You don't have to take all of that silently.'
'I'm fine, sir' was the curt answer.
'Very well...' the young professor grinned, very aware of the force of an adolescent's pride, but also unable to ignore the way Hamilton rubbed fiercely his right eye 'Here, let me take a look... This was you or them?'
Harry handed him the goblet again as he waited for an answer, his thumb tugging slightly at the red abused flesh around the amber eyes. Ernest sat still, taking a sip of the unknown liquid and feeling a tingling of magic where his professor's thumb was.
'I believe it was me, why?'
When he was sure he had finally healed every thing there was left, Harry took the goblet from the younger man's hand and banished it to his private chamber. He offered the boy a hand after he was back on his feet.
'It's a perfect Conjunctivitus Hex, congratulations.'
Ernest nodded wearily and frowned lightly at the ruffle he received on the top of his head.
'Thank you, sir' he groaned, ducking the hand and earning a chuckle. He chuckled himself; shaking his head amused and brushing off his robes.
'What?'
'You're probably the only teacher who would congratulate me for hexing myself' Ernest answered with more than a hint of cheek.
'Probably...' Harry nodded in acquiesce, before smirking pointedly at Ernest 'But I know for sure that it is better than most of the scathing comments you could hear from other professors...'
'It surely is...' was the uncommitted answer.
'You'll need to eat meat at dinner tonight...' the boy gave Harry a suffering long look 'I know, but you have to restore your energy... I might have lifted all the hexes and fixed everything that needed to be fixed, but you were hit pretty nastily... You should also go to Madam Inas, just in case I might have missed something'
The boy took a deep resigned breath and nodded once, before his face assumed a concentrated look. It was Hamilton's usual thoughtful expression, whenever he had to re-schedule his whole day. The boy was very methodic, and seemed to be constantly planning every single step and word he took and said every second of every day.
'All right...'
'You were planning on missing dinner, weren't you?'
Ernest started and then blushed for being so damn predictable. He then willed the blood from his cheeks, cleaning his throat repeatedly and started to put his things away.
'I have some things to do...' was all he said.
'You're not done with your homework?'
'Not... all of it...'
That slight hesitation made the true implications of the answer very clear for Harry. He crossed his arms over his chest and watched blankly as Ernest neatly organized his books and parchments inside his bag.
'Prof. Snape's extra homework...' he stated, instead of asking.
'Yes...'
'Tell me, Ernest... Do you like his class?'
'Very much, sir.'
'Even the extra ones?'
'Especially them, sir' Hamilton assured him without hesitation, his eyes darkening as he went on 'I never got to thank you... For telling him about me... If it weren't for your indication, I wouldn't have this opportunity now...'
With a wave of hand, Harry kindly dismissed his student's stammering and embarrassed words. He grinned once again, waving his wand and banishing the many mirrors in the classroom.
'You've got nothing to thank me, Ernest...' he replied truthfully 'I simply told Sna-Prof. Snape that you're absurdly dedicated to potions... He took it on himself to be your tutor; I had nothing to do with it...'
'Still' Ernest shrugged slightly before adding sincerely 'Thank you...'
Harry turned his attention to rearranging the desks and chairs again for his next class – a group of fourth-years that had failed tremendously on an essay about vampires and to whom he had given the alternative to keep their abysmal grades, or study for another week and take a quiz.
They chose the quiz, grudgingly so, but it was their decision.
'So... How're these classes going?'
The tension that followed his careless question was tangible. Harry could feel his student's magic cackling in apprehension, something it rarely ever did when they were together. It only happened when Ernest realized he had stepped out of line, and was asking more than his professor was willing to answer, or when Harry himself broached a subject that the young man didn't want to discuss.
'How... are they... going?' Ernest repeated filling it up with unnecessary pauses.
Harry turned to him, with a mild amused expression that more times than not made Hamilton blush crimson red, despite of his best efforts.
'Yes' he nodded with a grin 'What is he teaching you?'
'Humm... Potions...'
Harry laughed softly.
'All right…. But how?' his smile broadened slightly, his green eyes ablaze with interest, adding with an unemotional tone 'As far as I care to remember, Prof. Snape didn't have the smoothest teaching technique ever created. At least, he most certainly didn't use with me or during my Remedial Potions...'
'You took Remedial Potions?'
Harry laughed again at the disbelieving, and slightly belittling tone.
'Yes, horrible' he teased, making his student blush 'You can always ask Sna-Prof. Snape about how I'm completely inept at Potions. Well, at least how inept I used to be at potions when he used to teach me...' Harry then shook his head to bring himself back to the matter at hand 'And I might be older than you but I'm not that old yet, Ernest... You're distracting me from the question...'
Ernest had the decency to look sheepish as he shrugged. He then took a deep resigned breath, amusing his Professor further.
'It's only that...' he trailed off before sending Harry an apologetic look 'No offense, Professor, but I can't tell you anything about my extra classes... Least of all, about what I learn during Prof. Snape's tutoring...'
All amusement disappeared from the vivid green eyes, in its place was a suspicious and mildly annoyed light, one that always shone in his gaze whenever Ernest talked about his extra potions lessons.
'You can't?' Harry asked blankly.
'No...' Hamilton blushed again, shaking his head and fidgeting uncomfortably under his professor's suddenly intense stare 'Potions... Is not a very public science, sir, you do understand?'
At Ernest's obvious nervousness, not to mention the hint of pleading laced in his last words, and seeing that the boy was bracing himself for his reaction, Harry forced himself to calm down and soften his expression and gaze. He wasn't going to take his frustration out on his student.
Even if that blinding headache that was driving him insane for almost 24 hours did the impossible and worsened.
'Surely... Of course.' Harry added more firmly after a while, he smiled kindly and shrugged good-naturedly 'I shouldn't have asked anything in the first place, don't you worry, Ernest.'
When the blonde young man didn't look convinced at all, Harry ruffled his hair brotherly as he usually did to annoy the boy, winking at the mock glare thrown his way.
'I understand it completely, Ernest' he said honestly and then pushed the student playfully towards the door 'Now go, or you'll be late for your next class.'
Author's Note:
Apario (Reveal) is a spell that reveals the magic signature of whoever used magic on or against another person. Despite of its usefulness, the Apario is defective in many levels. For instance, this particular spell can't tell what had been cast – if it was merely a charm, a hex or a curse, therefore making an immediate counter-action very difficult and almost impossible.
The spell can't tell the nature of the magic used either–whether it was Light or Dark, nor the intentions of the witch or wizard who used it, and only someone who is already able to identify people by their magical signature will manage to use Apario successfully. This was Harry Potter's very first, and quite mediocre, spell-creation experience. The final product was so deeply unsatisfactory that he only uses it when something happens and he already has an inkling as to who is the responsible.
Many, many of his students have landed several weeks of gruesome detentions thanks to this spell. According to Hermione Granger-Weasley the spell would have worked if Harry Potter had actually thought out exactly what he wanted from it before creating the Apario, instead of doing it just to see if he could.