"I hear tell," Potter said softly, watching him with those blank green eyes, "that you are to referee the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match."
Snape wondered where Potter had learnt his low-key intimidation tactics from, and contemplated giving him further pointers. "You heard correctly," he said stiffly, pretending, in true Slytherin style, that he had no idea why Potter had decided to start up the conversation, or that they weren't going to spend the next ten to fifteen minutes sparring verbally to gain more information from what they didn't say than what they did. The Art of Slytherin Conversation was something he enjoyed, so long as his opponent was as similarly skilled as himself.
It said much, Snape felt, that one of his best opponents was Dumbledore.
"Would this have anything to do, perhaps, with the jinxing of the Gryffindor Seeker's broom in the previous match?"
Snape nodded his approval of both the hypothesis and the impersonal reference to his own twin.
"And the spontaneous outbreak of fire among the teacher's section as they watched?"
Snape smiled grimly. He wondered if the boy would take it amiss if he asked him if he was absolutely sure of his paternity. "Indeed." He said (if it had been Dumbledore speaking, the term to describe his voice then would have been 'pleasant', but Snape had never been described as 'pleasant' in his entire life). It wasn't that he didn't have faith in the boy's ability to read his facial expressions, but he knew Potter preferred to be told out loud if his reasoning was correct or not, possibly because it had previously been extremely rare for someone to speak to him. Snape would have to teach him to abandon that need eventually – body language and facial expressions were vital components to the art of Slytherin Conversation, of equal or greater importance than the ability to twist words and topics around endlessly to the point of revealing nothing of importance and learning everything of importance.
Snape was an exceptionally good spy. This made him feel absolutely no better about being able to infer from startlingly few clues that Harry Potter preferred to be spoken to over reading someone's expressions.
"I'll bet that didn't go down well with the Gryffindors," Harry mused, eyes glittering in the malevolent way of a true Slytherin faced with Gryffindor discomposure.
"No," Snape said coolly. "But then, it doesn't settle particularly well with me either. You have no idea what Madam Hooch is capable of."
"Ah," Harry said, and Snape cursed himself for revealing information unnecessarily. "Dumbledore's orders then."
"…are you completely sure," Snape said idly, quickly and effortlessly turning the conversation away from such dangerous information and pretending he hadn't heard the previous statement, "you are the offspring of James Potter?"
He was rewarded with the rare sight of Harry Potter completely stunned. "Guh…?"
Snape smiled. "Rest assured, Potter, I will do my absolute best to make both Gryffindor and Dumbledore regret the situation as much as I myself do."
"Mental images," the boy muttered obliviously, hands clasped tightly to his head. "…mental images…"
"Yes," Snape said dryly. "Welcome to the slightly early and no doubt stunning discovery that adults can, will, and do have sex. I know," he said pityingly at the boy's horrified whimper, "you don't like to think of it, but I'm afraid we do not stop being sexual beings the moment we have the misfortune to produce offspring."
"Sir," he said helplessly, "Does Hogwarts have Sex Ed classes, and please tell me you don't lead them."
"We draw straws," Snape said imperturbably. "Strangely enough, in my eleven years of teaching I have drawn the short straw only once. An unusual number of students present for those classes went on to end up in time-consuming and isolationist jobs."
"…"
"Yes," Snape nodded at his blank look. "I thought that too."
"Threaten Quirrel? Don't threaten Quirrel?"
"You're asking me?" Harry said interestedly. "Is Quirrel worth wasting your time on? He appears to be weak and ineffectual to me."
"You need to understand the complexities of the situation." Snape paused. He gave him a stern look. "I am breaking every rule in the book telling you this," he said.
"Yes, yes," Harry said dryly. "I do, of course, thank you from the bottom of my semi-functional heart for your honesty. Please, elaborate upon the complexities I am not supposed to know of."
Snape grinned almost involuntarily. Students like Potter restored his faith in the existence of intelligence. Or would, if he had ever thought of the wizarding world possessing any in the first place. "The deal is this," he began. "Quirinus Quirrel left the school for a year a rational, articulate, if slightly bookish man. He returns, not to put too fine a point on it, a stuttering idiot who makes even Crabbe look like a genius of world-class calibre."
"Hmm," Harry said.
"Dumbledore takes great care never to make anything explicit, whether that is instructions or information… It is highly unusual for him to request that I keep an eye on Quirrel."
"I see," Harry said thoughtfully. "Why bother unless…"
"Mm." Snape said. Click. Philosopher's Stone. Snap. Troll. Quirrel. Light bulb. Voldemort?
"If he is in any way affiliated with Voldemort and is in contact with him… put it simply, you're screwed."
"Thank you for that terribly optimistic thought." Snape said. "But, perhaps he is simply a weak man tempted by gold and immortality. That is a different matter entirely. Or," he mused, doodling idly on the margins of a sixth year's essay, "If he is in infrequent contact with the Dark Lord…"
"If he manages to inform Voldemort you're still screwed."
"… Mr. Potter, do remember that I am not only giving you vital information, I am also the one who is going to ensure you reach your teens."
The boy shrugged, insultingly nonchalant. "You did ask," he pointed out. "And do you really think it likely I'm going to die before my thirteenth birthday?"
"This is a magic school. As proficient as Madam Pomfrey is, there are still some things magic can't fix. Trust me, I have experimented with most of them."
"Strangely, that isn't as comforting as you probably think it is."
Snape rolled his eyes. "Look at it this way. I am on your side."
They stared at each other for a long moment before Harry burst out laughing and shook his head. "As if I'd believe that," he said wryly.
Snape considered it a minor pity that the Slytherin Art of Conversation also destroyed any trust in someone else's motives.
As it happened, he did threaten Quirrel after the disastrous Quidditch match. He also knew he'd been overheard because from that point on Dunce Who Lived and his coterie kept looking at him as if he was going to avada kedavra them the second they turned their backs. They were insultingly obvious about it.
Snape felt like weeping for the future of wizarding kind, but consoled himself with playing elaborate mind games with the intelligent Potter. He discovered resources of patience within himself that put Minerva – in cat form – to shame. Although, admittedly, it helped that he never had to repeat a lesson twice, and that Harry was very quick to adapt and respond to challenges of the intellectual variety.
Snape also made it quite clear that he would personally torture him until he begged for death if he even thought about involving himself with the Stone. The job was difficult enough already, thank you very much, Snape did not need unnecessary complications.
He'd do his best to keep Dunce Who Lived from danger if he thought that would help keep Harry safe and out of danger, but anything more was simply too much.
Snape wondered when the hell he'd turned into a Gryffindor. He grasped that thought by the throat, strangled it, and buried it in a shallow grave.
He would, however, have an answer out of Quirrel if it was the last thing he did.
And there was absolutely no way he, Severus Snape, potions master and spy extraordinaire, was going to die this early in the game.
A/N: Whoever it was that lured me into the Death Note fandom via their favourites list: I hate you. And now want to write DN crack, and it is all your fault - whoever you are.
In my defence regarding the lateness of this chapter, I submit Exhibit A – Deathly Hallows. Yes, I know it's been months upon months, but I found it very difficult to reconcile evil sarcastic bastard Snape with Tragic!Lovesick!Snape. Just imagine what could have been…
Snape: Harry, I am your father.
Harry: What?!
Snape: No, only joking. But I could have been.
Harry: What?!
No, wait, Vader!Snape fics have always been immensely prolific. ...Mass ESP?