Chapter Three

June, 1976

In the morning, Severus attempted to again sneak out of the dungeons before anyone else was awake. He was taken quite by surprise when he flung aside the green bedcurtains to see Evan Rosier sitting, awake, on the bed opposite Severus', his face lit from underneath by his wand. "Good morning, Snapey," Rosier whispered loudly.

Severus jumped backwards, grabbing his wand out from under his pillow. "You're awake rather early," he replied at the same volume.

"Ah," Rosier said, "It's a Hogsmeade weekend, and we proper fifth-years are finished with our examinations. Can't waste a day like today by sleeping through it."

"I quite agree," Severus said. "So if you'll excuse me, I'll make my morning ablutions—"

Rosier snorted. "'Ablutions'? What are you, my father?"

Severus just shrugged. "I'll be going to the toilet now. Enjoy the day in Hogsmeade, Rosier."

Severus pulled his worn dressing gown tightly around his too-bony shoulders and started to walk past Rosier toward the boys' toilets. He was unsurprised when Rosier grabbed his elbow. "Won't you be joining us in Hogsmeade, then?" Rosier asked, his voice low.

Severus shook his head. "I still have three NEWTs left. I'll be spending the next several days in the library."

"With the Hufflepuffs? Please." Rosier rolled his eyes.

Severus, his patience wearing thin, pulled his arm roughly from Rosier's grasp. "I don't know if you've noticed," he said, "but I'm taking examinations normally undertaken after an additional two years' study. Forgive me," he sneered, 'if I prefer to be as prepared as possible."

Rosier, his ghoulishly lit expression oddly one of satisfaction, nodded. "See you around, then."

"Quite." Severus stalked off to the lavatory.

He managed to avoid the other Slytherins throughout his early breakfast (which consisted of far too many sausages—Merlin, he was hungry all the time) and narrowly managed to skirt the incoming group of fifth-year Gryffindors as they crossed paths in the Entrance Hall (the only one to notice him was Wormtail, who visibly paled when Severus met his eye and feinted towards his wand). As Severus had predicted, the Library was deserted, save for a few seventh-year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws—tradition called for Gryffindors to put off revising until it was time for all-night revision sessions, while the Slytherins preferred to stay in their nicely-appointed dormitories where they could a) share notes, and b) sabotage each others' notes (Severus had not been invited).

Severus set himself up in a corner of the library behind a wall of advanced Potions, Herbology, and Defence texts and proceeded to think.

The problem did not lie in brushing up on his Potions and Defence knowledge—that notion was laughable. Rather, Severus' main concern was that it would become obvious that he was far too knowledgeable about his pet subjects. If he went in there, wand a-blazing, using spells he'd refined and techniques he'd invented in his twenty years as a Potions Master, well—

Someone was bound to notice.

So Severus set about calculating exactly how he'd need to perform on the examinations.

He'd need to do exceptionally well, but within reason. He would have to show that he was capable of coming up with innovative procedures, without demonstrating any that would be outside the abilities of an outstandingly precocious teenager. And he'd have to keep in mind what he'd learned as a child at Hogwarts, and what he'd learned as an apprentice, and what techniques he'd learned outside of England that a 16-year-old halfblood from Manchester wouldn't've even seen…

Severus drew out a scrap piece of parchment and began to scribble:

What not to do

Ptns techniques devlpd p-1976

Dfnc spells self designed

ANYTHING DARK

Non-Engl Ptns techs (which are?)

Probably can

Wordless all

Wandless some

Wordless and wandless BASIC defence spells (ex shield yes, ptrnus no)

Anyth did in orig tests (personal recipe yes)

Severus looked over his list and added "bloody FLY" to the "What not to do" list.

Sighing, he drew out another piece of parchment and began to sketch a timeline of recent—or future—developments in Potions, making care to note which new techniques and theories he might be inclined to utilise during the exam.

On a separate parchment, he listed, in approximate chronological order, the spells and Potions he had personally invented. He drew a thick black line on the page at the point where his inventions had been made well after he'd finished his Hogwarts education.

On a fourth piece, he drew a vertical line and under two headers—"English" and "other"—he listed several of his more commonly-used brewing techniques. This was the area in which he knew he was most likely to slip. He'd done his Mastery under a Bulgarian wizard, and although the closest the man had come to actually instructing Severus had been to demand a higher quantity of stock potions (Severus still had nightmares that included the phrase "Ve vill need at least sreedozen more of thees"), Severus had still picked up a few techniques just from watching Master Rotislavic brew the occasional complex potion. After twenty years, they'd become as much a part of his repertoire as the skills he'd learned from Horace Slughorn—but they would certainly look odd to an Anglocentric examiner.

Severus read his four lists. He read them again. Then he lit them on fire, Vanished the smoke and the ashes, and proceeded to write them all out again on fresh parchment.

He repeated this until his guidelines were imprinted firmly in his memory, and then he did it one more time.

The day passed more quickly than he'd expected.

At dinner—he'd missed lunch, and his sixteen-year-old's body was letting him know it—he sat in silence while Avery and Mulciber related with glee their expedition into the Hog's Head ("it's a total slum, but that disgusting old barman actually served us Firewhiskey") and Rosier continued his too-close examination of Severus' reactions (thank Merlin for tinted glasses). As soon as he'd inhaled enough food to satisfy his body's demands, Severus left the table without a word, fled to the dungeons, and read his Herbology textbook behind heavily-spelled bedcurtains until he fell asleep.

In the morning, he left his sleeping dormmates before the sun was up, snagged a quick, solitary breakfast in the Great Hall—the only other occupants were a pair of seventh-year Ravenclaws—and skulked off to the library.

He had just secured himself behind his wall of books when he heard a most unwelcome clearing of the throat. Severus glanced up to see the Head Boy—a Hufflepuff whose name escaped him—standing across from Severus, his hands flat on the table. "It's Snape, isn't it?" the boy said.

Severus raised an eyebrow in response.

"You're the fifth-year who's taking the NEWTs, right?"

Severus leaned back and crossed his arms.

Visibly flustered, the boy tried again. "Are you revising for tomorrow's Herbology exam?"

Severus indicated the Herbology texts with one hand.

The Hufflepuff shifted his weight from one foot to another. "Well, we're having a revision session as soon as everyone gets here. You're welcome to join us."

Severus could think of any number of things he'd rather do than join a Hufflepuff review session—especially when his knowledge of the subjects might draw unwanted attention. In response, he leaned forward. The Hufflepuff took a tiny step back. Severus smiled. "No," he said, "thank you."

"All right then," the boy said, taking a few more steps backward. "We'll be—we're over there. If you change your mind."

Severus snorted. "Unlikely."

The Hufflepuff made a hasty retreat to the other side of the room, where Severus clearly heard him say, "No. Wilkes was right. That kid is an arsehole."

Satisfied, Severus cracked open a seventh-year Herbology book and settled down to read.

Lunch came and went—Avery and Mulciber seemed to have given up on conversing with Severus, although Rosier still, unfortunately, seemed tobe observing him far too closely—and before long, the hour of Severus' appointment in Slughorn's office had drawn near. Remembering with dark humour Slughorn's none-too-subtle recommendation that he make himself "presentable," Severus went back to the dungeons and threw on a clean set of school robes, charmed the lint off of them, and, just before running out of the dormitory, made quick use of Mulciber's comb. (There might have still been a few snarls on the back of his head, but they were difficult to reach, and Severus somehow doubted anything could improve his appearance enough to make a difference. If Slughorn's associate wanted an attractive stockboy, then no amount of hair-combing would convince him to take on Severus.)

Severus climbed the stairs to Slughorn's office, paused briefly to gather himself, and knocked smartly on the door at precisely four o'clock.

"Come in," called Slughorn from within, and Severus swung open the door.

Sitting stiffly on one of Slughorn's overplush chairs was a man whose face seemed extraordinarily familiar to Severus, but whom he couldn't recall having ever actually met. The man was older, though not quite as old as Slughorn, with longish greying hair pulled back neatly in a low knot. He was thin, and dressed in simple black robes, and although it was hard to gauge exactly since the man was sitting, Severus gathered he was quite tall—most likely an inch or two above Severus' adult height.

"Hello, Severus," Slughorn said jovially from his position behind his desk. "Arsenius, may I present Severus Snape, the young man I was telling you about. Severus, I believe you are familiar with the works of Arsenius Jigger."

Severus' heart clenched. That's how he'd recognized the man—from his much-younger photo in Defence and Potions periodicals. The man was notoriously reclusive but equally prolific, having been responsible for a many of the most important field developments in the 20th century. In fact, Severus' own Mastery work—a potion designed to increase a subject's susceptibility to Veritaserum (and, unofficially, Legilimency)—had been greatly influenced by Jigger's work in combat potions. Truthfully, Severus' whole career had been greatly influenced by Jigger's work—the man was without a doubt the leading expert in the dual area.

But Severus had never met him as a student, and by the time he had begun to accumulate enough credibility as a potioneer to feel justified in contacting him professionally, Jigger had died.

So Severus was being entirely genuine when he stepped forward, extended a hand, and said, "It's an honour to meet you, Master Jigger. I've admired your work for years."

Jigger nodded brusquely and allowed Severus to shake his hand, though he didn't rise. Slughorn indicated that Severus should take the other seat; Severus sat down.

"Arsenius here is my partner in the Diagon Alley apothecary," Slughorn said. "I'm sure you're familiar with Slug & Jigger's?"

"Certainly, sir."

"Arsenius here has just lost his shop boy," Slughorn announced. "As unaccustomed as he is to, shall we say, customer service—"

He shot a sideways grin at Jigger, who raised an eyebrow in return.

"—he's looking for someone to man the shop while he brews the more intricate potions for sale."

"I don't pay much," Jigger said abruptly. His voice was low and gravelly. "But I understand you're more in need of lodging than of employment, and there's a small flat above the shop that's perfectly serviceable."

"That sounds agreeable, sir," Severus said. "What is it I would be expected to do?"

"Sell the stock. Offer advice to those who can't tell aconite from asphodel. Attempt to be…pleasant to the shop's patrons."

At this, Slughorn focused his attention on Severus. "Can you do that?"

Severus fought the urge to scowl, and was once more grateful for his glasses. "Yes," he said.

Jigger glanced from Slughorn back to Severus. "Can you?" he repeated.

Annoyed, Severus decided to put on his best Pureblood-at-the-Party mannerisms. "Certainly, sir," he said silkily, bowing slightly in his chair. "It would be an absolute pleasure." Recalling Lucius Malfoy, he put his hand over his heart and lowered his head.

Slughorn blinked. "All right, then," he said at last. "Now, Arsenius—you recall that young Severus here is currently in the midst of taking his NEWTs."

"I recall, Horace."

Slughorn beamed. "Right. Two years early, in fact!"

"I am aware," Jigger said blandly, "of young Mr Snape's age."

"So," Slughorn continued, "he'll be receiving his results in mid-July."

"And?" Jigger said.

"And…" Slughorn rolled his eyes. "Tell the boy what you told me."

Jigger huffed, and turned to face Severus. "Young man," he said, "I am not in the habit of taking on apprentices."

Severus nodded. It was true—as far as Severus was aware, the man had never taken an apprentice.

"I find most seventeen-year-olds to be unsuitable workers with insufferably immature attitudes," Jigger continued. "And I cannot tolerate children in my working space."

Severus suppressed a smirk. Neither could he.

"However." Jigger shot a glance at Slughorn, who smiled. "Horace has impressed upon me that you are a most…unusual student, who may, he believes, somehow be up to my scrutiny. However unlikely that may be."

When Severus said nothing, Jigger continued, "If I find that improbable scenario to be the case, then, once we have received your NEWT results, we may negotiate an apprenticeship."

Severus leaned forward in his chair. "Thank you, sir."

Jigger eyed him narrowly. "Do not take this lightly, young man. My standards are very high and you will more likely fail to live up to them than not."

Slughorn tsked. "Don't be so negative, Arsenius. I assure you, Severus' work ethic is excellent and his brewing is inspired."

Severus inclined his head towards Slughorn. "Thank you, sir."

Slughorn waved a hand in dismissal. "I only speak the truth. So, Severus. Will you take the position?"

Severus nodded. "Yes, thank you. It would be an honour to work with you, Master Jigger."

Jigger snorted. "Please refrain from flattery. It's unimpressive."

"I only meant—" Severus stopped short when he noticed Slughorn shaking his head. Severus swallowed. "Yes, sir."

Slughorn smiled. "Well, that's settled then. Severus, when you leave here at the end of next week, you'll be going to the apothecary. Doubtlessly Arsenius will put you to work right away, but ah! That is what you wanted, is it not?" Severus opened his mouth to reply, but Slughorn simply waved him away. "Off with you, then! I'm sure you'll want to be sharing the good news with all your…with somebody."

"Thank you, Professor. Thank you, Master Jigger. It will be—" Severus stopped himself in time. "Good evening, sirs." He bowed slightly and walked through the door, which closed behind him.

Severus leaned against the corridor wall, exhaling slowly. He was annoyed that he'd let himself become so flustered—evidently, the presence of his academic idol (not to mention the opportunity to actually learn from the man—Merlin!) was enough to turn him into the awkward sixteen-year-old boy he was purported to be.

Which, to be honest, was at least helpful in maintaining his deception.

Severus had absolutely no doubt that he'd perform excellently in his NEWTs, and even less doubt that he'd be an exemplary apprentice—after all, what could a Potions Master want more than an apprentice who already knew all the techniques? Severus had never, himself, taken an apprentice—he saw quite enough of the dunderheaded students in their seven years at Hogwarts and had no desire to add another four years beyond that—but he could only assume that the less actual teaching involved, the better (Merlin knew Master Rotislavic had been far more interested in getting cheap labour from Severus than actually instructing him).

Instead, he and Jigger could focus on developing new methods and potions in the often-neglected field of combat potioneering—together. This was truly a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. In fact—Severus smirked to himself—it was a once-in-two-lifetimes opportunity.

So it was with uncharacteristically high spirits that Severus climbed the stairs up to the Great Hall for dinner. His spirits were so high, in fact, that he neglected to properly skulk through the Entrance Hall and wound up face-to-face with perf—Lily Evans.

"Oh, hello, Sev," she said, smiling brightly. "Been revising hard?"

Severus swallowed and took a step back. "Oh. Yes. Quite."

"You seem…happy, dare I say," Lily said, prodding his arm teasingly. "And—don't take this the wrong way, but you seem a lot taller when you don't, er, hunch over so much."

Severus scowled and tried to assume the poor posture that had been his standard as a child, but Lily just laughed at him. "Don't!" she said, resting her hand on his arm. "It's…nice." Her damnably emerald eyes shone up at him and Severus felt something unpleasant squirm into his lower intestine (what did they feed the students back in the '70s?).

It was, of course, at that moment that Potter and his entourage—minus Lupin—wheeled into the Hall. Severus struggled briefly to keep his face neutral before he made the happy realization that it would be far more noticeable if he didn't sneer and say, "Wonderful. Potter and his cronies."

Which he did.

Lily squeezed his arm. "Don't let them get to you, Sev," she said.

"What's this, then?" Black said, strolling up behind her. "Snivellus, you really need to stop begging girls to talk to you. It's pathetic."

"Black. Potter." Severus turned toward Wormtail. "Pettigrew," he said slowly, drawing out the syllables. Wormtail flinched. Severus suppressed a smile. "Where's your pet—" He stopped suddenly. "…prefect?"

"Oh, he's around," Black said, waving his hand laconically.

"He's somewhere that isn't here," Potter said. "Maybe you should join him?"

Lily rolled her eyes. "Knock it off, you lot. You're not funny."

"Sure we are!" Potter replied. "We're terribly funny, all of us. Aren't we funny, Pete?"

Wormtail, an eye on Severus, simply nodded wordlessly.

"See?" Potter said. "Pete can't even talk for how funny we are."

Lily seemed to be fighting a smile. Severus felt his face warm. Before he could stop himself, he spat out, "Pettigrew can't talk because he's a worthless excuse for a human being, not because he's struck dumb by your wit, which is, incidentally, nonexistent."

"Well that was unkind," Black said, stepping in front of the blinking Pettigrew. "I don't think you should speak to people that way, Snivellus."

"You really should be more polite," Potter chimed in. They both made a show of not quite reaching for their wands.

Severus suddenly felt a presence to his right. He glanced over and saw that he had been joined by Rosier, Mulciber, and Avery, who had apparently decided that it fell to them to perform the role of back-up in this adolescent drama.

"Piss off, Potter," Avery said. "And take the girl with you."

"Excuse me?" Lily repeated, eyebrows raised. "'The girl' will not be 'taken' anywhere."

Severus suppressed a sigh. "Perhaps it's best you go ahead inside," he said. It wouldn't do for Lily to witness any more of his irrationally childish responses to Potter's provocations.

Instead of agreeing sensibly, Lily placed a hand on her hip, a mulish expression on her ange—face. "You can't tell me you agree with him?" she demanded, jerking her head towards Avery.

"I only said that it might be best if you leave this idiocy behind and take your seat for dinner," Severus said reasonably.

With that, Lily threw up her hands. "'Idiocy'?" she repeated. "Oh, thanks."

Severus blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"I know I'm not smart enough to sit my NEWTs yet," Lily said, her face reddening, "but there's no need to insult me." She turned and headed towards the Great Hall.

Severus cursed mentally and called after her, "That's not at all what I—"

Lily didn't turn around as she called back, "Save it. I'm not interested."

Potter the arsehole flipped Severus a grin and dashed after her. Black smiled nastily and flipped Severus two fingers, and dashed after Potter. Pettigrew scurried after them, refusing to look in Severus' direction.

Merlin.

"Tough luck, Snape," Rosier said, clapping his hand down tightly on Severus' right shoulder. "Guess you'll have to find yourself a new Mudblood."

Severus, without thinking, switched his wand into his non-dominant hand and, his hand wrapped around it in a fist, swung upwards and then straight down, driving the blunt end of his wand onto Rosier's knuckles. Rosier shrieked—rather, satisfyingly, like a little girl—and snatched his hand away. Severus flipped his grip on his wand and, whirling around to face the boy head on, pointed it at him.

"What the bloody fuck is wrong with you?" Rosier said, clutching his hand to his chest, gasping.

"Not on," Mulciber said, shaking his head. "Not on at all." Avery stared, open-mouthed.

"Do not," Severus spat, "use that word in my presence."

"Since when?" Avery recovered enough from his shock to demand.

Severus twitched his wand in Avery's direction. "Right now."

Rosier was studying his hand—from what Severus could tell, it seemed to be fine, minus the growing red blotch that would most likely develop into an ugly bruise. That was fine by Severus—such a bruise would not be the ugliest thing to ever mark the skin on Rosier's left arm.

Rosier massaged his hand lightly and, finally, looked up to glare at Severus. "I don't know what the fuck you're playing at," he said at last. "But it's not fucking funny."

"I'm not fucking joking," Severus said lightly, and then he let his wand drop. "Now if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I find I have no desire to join you for dinner this evening." Listening closely for any sudden movements from the trio of fifth-year Slytherins, Severus turned around and shouldered his way through a group of students, heading toward the dungeons.

Nobody stopped him.