Dumbledore was having the time of his life. He'd always secretly wanted to indulge his evil mastermind/omniscient bastard/grand chessmaster persona in a suitably deranged manner, and with the Stone, the myriad traps and his delightful pawns (no, that was appropriate he decided in the safety of his own thoughts) he counted himself well and truly indulged.

Ooh, pepper imps.

Nothing would go seriously wrong. He had Severus on the job after all, picking up the slack out of sight. Of course the dear boy would never get any recognition for his hard work, and even if revealed would still be regarded with suspicion and paranoia. Severus did the Skulking Evil Bastard in Black so well. Perhaps a little too well, but alas, those were the breaks.

…cockroach cluster…? …well, got to try everything once. Except Bertie Botts of course, that was futile.

Aha… here was the urgent summons to the Ministry that he'd been waiting for the past few weeks. So good of Tom to wait until the exams finished before making an attempt on the Stone. He suspected this could well become a ritual – every June, a nice punctual attack on life, limb, Hogwarts and/or Ministry. Evil did so love its meticulous plans.

Sometimes, Dumbledore mused sympathetically as he sucked meditatively on his Blood Pop (O Negative. No, don't ask), Slytherin caution worked against the goal. Prudence was all well and good, but taken to excess it gave Gryffindors time to figure out what was going on.

He whistled as he made his way to Hagrid's hut to request a thestral (he didn't want to be at the Ministry too fast; if he apparated there he'd know within a matter of minutes his presence was highly unnecessary and he'd have to wait around for ages while Tom made his move). He really ought to tell Minerva he was going (because of course his little Gryffindor pawns would go to their head of house upon finally realising the secret of Fluffy was out) but he had to confess, after their last argument – involving the destruction of much of the North Tower – he wasn't over keen to meet her without the safety of other teachers around to keep her in check.

Speak of the Devil… "Minerva!"

Cat Stare o' Doom.

"Delighted to see you!"

…he was reasonably sure she didn't usually have claws like that outside of her animagus form…

"Albus." That… was the scariest intonation of his name he'd ever heard from a professed friend. It sounded so terribly like a hissing cat, and even Dumbledore was sensible enough to be afraid of an enraged cat. "To what do I owe this… honour?"

"Ah," Dumbledore said happily, "well you see I've just had a recent and urgent – most urgent – summons from the Ministry… so…"

"…so… does our esteemed Minister need help deciding whether he should wear brown shoes or black ones to the French Minister's cocktail party?"

"You're in charge during my absence, I should be back sometime tomorrow morning, bye now!" He did the only sensible thing he could do faced with her incredulous stare (rapidly morphing into incredulous fury). He ran for the remnants of his long life.

"Dumbledore!"

A fire-breathing dragon would have been a far more appropriate animagus form for Minerva McGonagall, Dumbledore felt, and sped up.

"DUMBLEDORE!"

Snape was not in a good mood. The only thing that could possibly make even the slightest impact for the positive on his current state of infuriation involved the use of very strong and highly illegal substances. Or possibly an incident involving the application of several very dangerous curses on a Gryffindor first year and ending on a moonless night with a shallow grave.

He was never his most charming at exam time anyway, and this year he had the added stress of wondering whether or not the Dark Lord and/or minion would make an attempt on the Philosopher's Stone while he was preoccupied ensuring morons lived to graduate/return another year.

He was going to be white haired in a matter of years. Maybe even before he managed to reach thirty-five, the way things were currently going, and he'd had a tension headache for the past two days.

Quite frankly, he was suffering. Snape did not like suffering. The one thing he had found to combat its terrible effects on his sleeping schedule and temper was to share the suffering, to the eternal gratitude of students everywhere. Character-building, that's what it was.

Hence: "You will write it until your hand starts cramping and is in serious danger of never being able to wield a quill again."

"But sir--!" Marcus Flint was not the smartest of Slytherins.

"'First years should not be encouraged to befriend the Whomping Willow, nor should they be given plans perpetuating the delusion that it is possible to build a tree house in its branches.' I have already specified the conditions required before I let you leave this classroom."

"They were Gryffindors!" Flint protested. Normally, that would have calmed Snape's ire.

"And I have a temporary truce with McGonagall. Do you have any idea how much wrangling that took? And for it all to nearly be undone by your foolishness!"

"But sir--" Definitely not the smartest of Slytherins.

"Write, Flint!"

He couldn't be quite sure that Flint was truly obeying his instructions, Flint's handwriting being worse than Hagrid after several bottles of his potent homemade liquor (strong enough to reduce dragons to a state of slight tipsiness), but he trusted that regardless of what was being written the charms on the quill would make sure he stopped only when his hand was so swollen the quill was no longer in contact with the parchment.

"Severus! Code Green!" exclaimed the porcelain cat statue sitting on his desk (because in a battle, it was the green curse you really had to look out for). "Dumbledore has left the building!"

And there was the only thing that could possibly make his bad mood worse.

There were times that called for the use of ancient and powerful words, the acknowledgment of humans in a crisis everywhere and everywhen since language was first invented. "Shit." Snape said.

"Dunce knows someone is after the Stone?"

"I keep telling you not to call him that," Minerva snapped. "But yes. I was surprised he knew of it, naturally-"

"So would I be in your place," Snape said dryly. "Clearly Granger has been working overtime."

"Hmph." McGonagall said, but didn't argue. After all, it was true and they both knew it.

"I overheard –" he struggled with his first instinct for a moment, then snarled, "the boy and his coterie planning on heading towards the third floor. I would suggest heading there, just in case." He paused to judge her reaction. Not good. No harm in making it worse then. "Though, given the disposition of the Potter brat I'm pretty sure that even if prevented they'll try again at night."

"Idiots," McGonagall moaned. "Why are my students such idiots?"

"…that is a rhetorical question, I assume?"

"Yes damn you. Don't even think about answering."

Snape held his hands up in supplication. "Of course," he said soothingly. "Of course. Wouldn't dream of it."

Reason 1: They are Gryffindors.

Reason 2: Your mascot is a lion, your house name derived from a griffin and in a thousand years, none of your students has thought to question this disparity. That should tell you something.

Reason 3: The legacy of Godric Gryffindor is a sword. Historically speaking, a brain has never been a vital component required for the act of hacking at people with a pointy object.

Reason 4: Gryffindors have been chosen for their 'daring', i.e. disregard of life and limb. This has been said at every Sorting Song since Hogwarts was built. You are surprised that they adhere to this stereotype, why exactly?

Reason 5: Gryffindors.

Reason 6: Charge first, ask questions later has been their motto for a thousand years; Families run in Houses, it's been bred into them.

Reaso--

"Well?" Minerva demanded, and Snape realised she'd asked something and he had no idea what it was she'd said. He tried not to look mystified. "What shall we do?" she repeated impatiently after a moment.

"Ah," Snape said. "Well, once you've driven them off, don't worry about it further. If they go for the Stone tonight I'll deal with them."

She stared. "That… is not the most… comforting of statements, Severus."

"…I won't ask 'don't you trust me'…"

How best to persuade her that letting him deal with it was the right thing to do… "Rest assured Minerva, that Dumbledore has written it into my contract that I cannot do any irreparable damage to Gryffindor students; otherwise I will suffer horrors beyond the imagining of anyone but a sugar-dosed loon. Does this adequately sooth your doubts?"

"…why has no one ever mentioned this before?"

Snape shrugged. "I like seeing what the rest of you think I'm capable of. The suggestions Filius gives are frequently more inventive than what I had planned."

"…Severus, you terrible, cunning, nasty man."

"Such compliments, Minerva." Now, for ten galleons, did he dare…? "Are we dating now?"

Proof, if any were needed, that Gryffindor courage did indeed come from bottles labelled firewhiskey.

Snape was rewarded with the rarest sight in Hogwarts: Minerva McGonagall sputtering. Yes… Flitwick owed him ten galleons. Poppy too, now that he thought about it. Which he did, as he was heading towards the Hospital Wing at a dead run, hoping to at least be near medical help when Minerva finally recovered from her shock and started after him with wand in hand.

"Explosion in the dungeons!" shrieked a second year Hufflepuff as he ran past, which resulted in him quickly gaining an entourage of screaming students. Clearly the only reason Snape would ever abandon his trademark glide would be when in serious danger from volatile potions ingredients mixed with inept students. Generally speaking it was a correct assumption, and under normal circumstances that did not involve Minerva McGonagall, they could have expected the destruction of the lower level classrooms in ten minutes. Instead, Snape ran into a passage hidden behind a wall hanging, pausing momentarily only to savour the sound of students running into a stone wall.

Such a beautiful, distracting sound. Ah, the stupidity of students. He could almost forget he was in serious danger of death.

Talking of serious danger, he needed to prepare for tonight. And make sure McGonagall didn't find him first, because – as the Dark Lord had constantly proven – remove someone's arms and they were no longer a threat. They were instead a mildly nauseating form of entertainment, whether that was their attempts to get away or by the startled and incredibly pained screams and curses they frequently gave. And if they fainted from shock, a short sharp Cruciatus usually woke them up.

…McGonagall was a mistress of transfiguration and torture. It was more likely that his demise would involve the removal of several vital organs, diabolical use of Switching spells and tickling charms, and quite possibly haggis. Or Worse (because Snape, like every student ever to have been taught by Minerva McGonagall, accepted the fact that she was scarier than any Minister of Magic in the past two hundred years and put nothing beyond her). As a teacher, he knew even better not to doubt this.

This called for the use of all his hard and painfully earned knowledge of where the very best hiding places in Hogwarts were (when you were a favourite target of marauding Gryffindors, it was a matter of do or die, quite frankly. Once or twice, 'die' was a very strong possibility).

He had about seven hours after all, before he absolutely had to interfere and prevent Dunce Who Lived's untimely death. He could stay hidden for seven hours. McGonagall knew better than to kill him before the Dunce was saved. How hard could it possibly be to avoid a sixty-year old witch…?

"Mrowr."

Snape didn't bother turning. He simply ran. If it was Mrs Norris, he could pay her back for the indignity later. If it was Minerva, well, 'duck and cover' was one of the first things you learned upon entering Hogwarts.