The Best Revenge
Chapter 40
"Aqua Vitae as a catalyst. Increase citrinnitas by exposure to Sun one hour."
Snape groped for a chair. The room spun slowly until, after several deep breaths, he mastered his shock. Gathering his courage, he looked again at the message. That was not Albus' hand. While Albus Dumbledore might well have the ability to slip past Snape's defenses, he had not left the laconic scrap of advice in Snape's notebook.
For a terrified instant, he had thought it might be Quirrell, or his master acting through him. No. He knew Quirrell's handwriting, and he certainly had not written this. And he was rubbish at Potions, anyway.
It took longer to firmly set aside the notion that the Dark Lord was behind it: sending a note to torment and threaten, letting his erstwhile servant know that his secrets were discovered. Snape could not recall ever seeing his handwriting, but he had longer ago assessed the Dark Lord's potions expertise, and it was impossible that he could have conceived of these elegantly simple solutions to Snape's problems.
He studied the message again, marveling at it. It was inspired. Who could look at notes for what could have been only two hours at most and comprehended Snape's purpose so clearly? And not only that, had improved-possibly perfected-the formula?
The aqua vitae was something that Snape might well have hit on, given time. Using the unique properties of the Sun, however... This was an entire field of research that he had never imagined! He felt a flash of the joy and delight he had known in his school years. He had allowed himself to ossify, down in the dark dungeons, never imagining such a fresh approach. There were so many possibilities...
No one at Hogwarts could have done it. Not even Horace Slughorn at his canniest could have done it.
"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."
Being a halfblood had its difficulties, but being a halfblood had also allowed him to read Arthur Conan Doyle. Sherlock Holmes had just given him his answer, and Snape's mouth curled in the faintest of smiles.
Had Flamel received his letters? Had they piqued his interest? Was he here, in the castle, intervening to save his masterwork? Snape had learned not to hope for much in his life. He knew all too well that no torture was more exquisite than to hope for help in vain. When he had thrown himself at Dumbledore's feet so many years ago, the old man-almost-promised things that had made Snape nearly drunk with the hope that Lily would be saved from the vengeance of the Dark Lord.
And then she had died. And then she had died.
So he must not expect too much. He must seize what opportunities he could, but not put all his trust in a deus ex machina.
Hands still shaking with excitement, he wandered out of the laboratory and summoned tea. He must think this through clearly.
Yes. Very likely it really was Flamel: the brilliance of the solution suggested the greatest of all alchemists. If the source of his own immortality was in danger, perhaps he had arrived to secure it. He might choose simply to remove the Philosopher's Stone from the equation, and depart back to his well-known "retirement."
He was, after all, notoriously apolitical-at least for the past three hundred years. For all Dumbledore's association with him in the Headmaster's youth-the uses of dragon's blood, etc., etc., etc., ad infinitum-Flamel had kept an extremely low profile for most of the century. Snape, out of professional interest, knew more about him than the shreds of information doled out in Binns' class. Years ago, he had read the biography of Flamel that Lily had bought at Snape's suggestion. She had always had more spending money than he. She read it, and he read it, and they talked it over privately, puzzling over the wizard's story.
Flamel had been a voice against the seclusion of the wizarding world. His own life had led him to believe that magic was the common heritage of the human race; that there was no great gulf fixed between wizard and muggle, but a sliding scale of magic in which nearly all human beings could find a place. His own genius, of course, caused him to tower over lesser wizards and witches. Small wonder that he saw more similarities than differences between mildly-talented magicals and people who might have only a small ability for divination or arithmancy-or no magic at all.
Magic, Flamel contended, was a gift: only one of many that a human might possess. Musicians did not claim to be superior beings to the tone-deaf: philosophers did not claim that their stronger understanding made them a race apart. Some people were artists, and others were poets. Some were brilliant mathematicians, and some wrote noble histories. Some could use magic.
Flamel saw a greater divide between the gifted-in any realm-and the stupid, the incurious, and the slothful. In various times and places he and his wife Perenelle had been friends with many outstanding individuals who were not magical at all, but worthwhile and interesting people for all that.
After all, no one could honestly hold that wizard and witches were more intelligent than other human beings. Everyone had met wizards who could barely read, and witches who could not reason logically.
But in the mid-seventeenth century, he was a voice from another age crying in the wilderness. The madness of that time was such that the great majority of witches and wizards wanted nothing more than to hide from the terrors and cruelties of the witch hunts. That sugary little fable about Wendelin the Weird taught in Binns' class disguised the real horror of the witch-craze, which shaped an era until it burned itself out in New England and Scotland at last.
Yes, a witch or wizard armed with a wand was fairly safe from the likes of Matthew Hopkins, the Witch-Finder General. Their children, however, were not safe, nor their neighbors, nor people who only looked something like them. It mattered not whether people were actually capable of witchcraft, when the persecutors were also using the term as a code for religious differences, for personal eccentricities, for ethnic hatreds-and certainly, as a tool to lash out against women who dared to be independent.
Wizards had always had a place at the courts of the mighty. Princes, Kings, even the Holy Roman Emperors themselves had their Sorcerers Royal-their pet magicians and potions makers; and even amongst the lower classes the "cunning man" was more respectable than the "wise woman." Though many men died in the course of the witch hunts, witches were the preferred target, and they had no princely patrons to shield them.
It had been the witches, in the end, who had voted entirely for seclusion, aghast at the holocaust. In some German towns, every woman and girl had been executed. The witches had carried the day, and the wizarding world had cut itself off from the rest of the humanity and chosen a separate path. It had never looked back.
Flamel had submitted to the will of the majority. What else could he do, short of seizing supreme power and bending everyone to his will? Once the decision was made, he had not subverted or ignored it. On the other hand, he had never concealed his regret for his lost friends and colleagues-or the friends and colleagues who might have been.
"Just between us, I was told that Flamel thought Albus should have finished his apprenticeship with him, rather than mucking about in politics."
Where had he heard that? Probably Slughorn, who knew more gossip than Rita Skeeter. Yes-Albus and Flamel had been close when Albus was a young man. Perhaps the scholarly life was not ultimately what Albus wanted, but his early association with Flamel had lent him tremendous prestige, and had launched his rise to fame and power.
Surprisingly, Flamel had not played any role in the war with Grindelwald that Snape knew of, other than as an independent researcher of cures for magical ailments. He had not come forward to fight against the Dark Lord of that time, partly because Snape had the impression that Flamel thought that for a wizard to describe himself as a Dark Lord was too vain and absurd for words.
His views of the whole Light/Dark Magic question were unclear at best. However, his biographer had quoted him as saying that the use of the terms "Light" and "Dark" as metaphors for kinds of magic were not useful, and actually muddied the issue. His own preference was to distinguish between magic that was benign or neutral and that which he considered "malicious." And not everything that the British Wizengamot, for example, defined as "Dark" was "malicious" in Flamel's opinion.
Snape's own personal Dark Lord, the wizard Albus Dumbledore called Tom Riddle, had not considered Flamel in his own plans at all. Flamel was an outsider: someone who had removed himself from the struggle for power out of weakness, or foolish scruples, or cowardice, or extreme old age. Nor had Flamel come forward to assist his old collaborator, Albus Dumbledore. He had not played a role in public life for so long that no one questioned it at the time-which they had done in the days of Grindelwald.
Was that the reason Albus had wheedled the Philosopher's Stone from Flamel? To give him a stake in the war against the-current-Dark Lord? If Nicholas Flamel was in Hogwarts, improving Snape's potions, who could say what he had learned about the situation?
"Master Flamel?" Snape called out, not sure what to do.
Should he leave a thank-you in the notebook? Was Flamel still about?
"Master Flamel?"
He was not surprised that there was no answer. Flamel might be at Hogwarts, but he would reveal himself-or not-when and how he chose.
"Where were you last night?" Charity wondered at breakfast. "I called your room, but there was no answer."
Still rather tired from the previous night's exertions, Snape did not look up from his plate.
"I was helping Pomona retrieve some new plants for her collection. They had to be flown in from Sicily."
"That was nice of you. What kind of plants?"
Casually, Snape answered, "Moly. She thought it best to pot up a half dozen, in case some didn't survive."
"How interesting! So much lore! So many stories! Has someone been trying to turn people into pigs recently?"
Snape snorted. "Not that I've noticed. Though it might be an improvement in some cases, at that."
She laughed, very chipper and cheerful in the mornings. That, Snape decided, was the worst of her. It would not prevent him from brewing something quite special for her Christmas present: a personalised scent with a base of her favourite lime flowers. There was an Egyptian vial he owned that would be just the receptacle for it.
"I wondered where Pomona was," Charity said. "She must have had a late night with her new treasures."
McGonagall and Flitwick had come down to breakfast. Flitwick's eyes were shadowed with weariness. Minerva was much the same as ever, and exchanged a quick look of understanding with Snape.
Pomona had rested after her leg of the flight, in order to be sharp when the plants were placed in the greenhouses. She had had quite a bit of work to do with them last night, and was no doubt sleeping in. The moly would need time to adapt, but Snape would be able to take some for his own use within a day or two.
Harry entered the Great Hall, and waved to him. Snape managed to respond in kind without scowling. Not many students had stayed over the holidays this year. A single long table was laid for those who remained. Of the Weasleys, only Percy was there, nose in a book, looking up to nod to Harry. The monsters and the youngest were not yet down, and Snape gave silent thanks for that. No Hufflepuffs, other than Harry-those two Ravenclaw girls were seventh years, and not interested in little boys-none from his own house, since the Headmaster had agreed to let poor Delilah Trewlett spend the holidays with a cousin...
It was the Weasleys or solitude, it seemed. Harry would see Draco on New Year's Eve, and would doubtless be writing notes to his other friends. Still, it might be possible to arrange a brief visit...
He asked Charity, "Have you locked the club room for the holidays?"
"Yes." She leaned closer, and whispered, "Knowing that the Weasley twins would be here, I didn't want the room spoiled."
"Sound thinking," he agreed, "but it might be available, might it not, if Harry had visitors?"
"Are you thinking of inviting some of his friends for a day?" she whispered back. "Is that allowed?"
Snape narrowed his eyes at the Headmaster's empty chair. "It means bending the rules slightly, since there are provisions for staff who have families. I'm only the proxy guardian, but I would prefer to apologise later rather than to ask permission first and be refused. I was thinking of Boxing Day."
She gave him a conspiratorial smirk. "And if the children stay in the club room, who would be the wiser?"
Quirrell arrived, and took his place on Snape's other side. The pleasant conversation died away.
Snape left soon after, but not before slipping Minerva a message: "We need to talk. At Three Broomsticks 2 PM."
"Oi, Potter!" Ron said, plumping himself down at the table. "Could you pass the bacon this way?"
Harry obliged, still talking with Percy about cheering charms. Percy was writing a lengthy essay about them, and was pleased to share his findings with someone who would listen. Ron filled his plate and ate with gusto.
"-and you can combine them with a number of calming potions for healing. They do that all the time at St. Mungo's," Percy finished.
"That must be pretty complicated," Harry said. "Of course, you're a good student. Are you thinking about going into Healing?"
Ron laughed. "Not Percy! He fancies being Minister of Magic before he's thirty!"
Percy was annoyed. "While Healing is a very worthy profession, I am more interested in a career in the Ministry, though of course I am not so ridiculous as Ron makes out. Thank you so much, by the way, Ronniekins."
"Don't call me that!"
Percy ignored him and addressed Harry. "Our father works in the Ministry, and I've always wanted to follow in his footsteps."
Harry asked, "What does he do?"
"He monitors the misuse of muggle artifacts," Percy explained, pleased to talk about the Ministry. "It's quite an important job. You wouldn't believe how careless-or how unkind-people can be, bewitching muggle things and then unleashing them on the unsuspecting. Not too long ago, Dad had to deal with this cursed teapot-"
Ron was chuckling, shaking his head. Harry glanced at him, and answered, "I can imagine how scared a muggle would be. What do they do, when something like that happens?"
"Confiscate the article, and sometimes call in the Obliviators to remove the muggle's memory of it. Sometimes Dad has to track down who did it, and refer the case for prosecution. He loves his work, though not everyone understands how valuable his contribution is-"
Ron put in, "Percy means it doesn't pay as well as a lot of the Ministry departments. Mum wishes he'd transfer out and get more money."
"Well, I think it sounds pretty important," Harry said, trying to smooth things. "If people don't know much about the muggle world, maybe they don't understand how much trouble those things can cause. It's too bad they don't appreciate it more."
Percy was mollified, and Ron shrugged, reaching for the jam.
"Dad's mad about muggle stuff. He loves hearing about it, and he's got a lot of muggle things about the house-doesn't always know what they do, of course-"
"You live with muggles, don't you?" Percy asked Harry.
"Yeah. My aunt and uncle and cousin. Completely muggle." Harry replied without enthusiasm.
Percy opened his mouth and then shut it, sensing that the muggle relatives were a sore point. Harry, after all, was at Hogwarts and not with his family.
Ron was not so sensitive. "Why didn't you go home for the holidays?" he asked, wolfing his toast. Percy winced.
Harry's temper flared. His first impulse was to tell them the awful truth. "Because they hate magic, and by extension, me."
But Professor Snape was counting on him to keep that quiet. "I'd rather be at Hogwarts. Magic is all pretty new to me. Professor Snape and I have some plans."
Ron shuddered, "Better you than me!"
Percy nudged him, and Ron sputtered, "What?"
"I know what you're thinking," Harry said. "Professor Snape has been really nice to me. I know he's tough in class, but that's because potions are dangerous. He's tough on me, too. Keeps track of my grades, and checks my homework and all, and if it's not good enough, I have do it again. And no," he said, seeing the look on Ron's face, "he doesn't give me the answers. Sometimes he tells me the name of a book I should look at, but I have to do the work myself."
"That's very responsible of him," Percy put in hastily. "He's a very serious person. I always thought so."
Ron rolled his eyes, but said no more on the subject. "So I hear you like chess?"
"I'm just learning. I like it, but I'm not much good at it. Percy says you're brilliant."
Ron shrugged again, but looked very pleased, all the same. "I'm pretty good. Want to play a game or two?"
"Let me get my chessmen. We could play here, I guess."
"Yeah, why not? You want a game, too, Perce?"
"I'm off to the library, I'm afraid. Transfiguration calls."
"See you later, then. I'll meet you here in a tick, Ron," Harry said, and hurried off to the Hufflepuff quarters.
He glanced back at the Head Table. Professor Quirrell looked up at met his eyes briefly. Harry turned his head away instantly and dashed off, with only a fleeting stab of pain to remind him to be more careful.
Quirrell watched the boy go, not surprised at the flash of intense dislike and suspicion he caught. He certainly had given the brat plenty of reason to hate and fear him, and that the boy obviously did rather pleased him. Revolting little do-gooder. Once the Stone was his, he could move on to other projects, and settling The Boy-Who-Lived was certainly at the top of his to-do list.
"But you're sure it was Flamel?" Minerva asked again, utterly astonished. The Three Broomsticks was packed with holiday shoppers, and the two Hogwarts professors spoke softly, conscious of the witches and wizards at the neighboring tables.
"I can't imagine who else it might be. No one else has that kind of expertise. I wrote to him-twice. I warned him that the Stone was in danger. I hadn't heard back, but then there was the message in my own notebook in my private laboratory. I hadn't expected him to come, but it seems he has."
"Do you think Albus knows?"
"If he did, surely he would have-" Snape paused. No, Albus would never have told them. "I don't know. It seems incredible that a wizard could simply stroll into Hogwarts, but Flamel is no ordinary wizard, and he taught at Hogwarts in the past. More than once, in fact."
"Not since the eighteenth century, but I take your point. He probably knows the castle quite well, and it has not changed much since his days. I wonder if he's already taken the Stone and left?"
That was certainly a possibility, and the two of them sat glumly over their drinks.
Minerva rallied her spirits first. "Even if he has, what does it matter? Quirrell doesn't know. It would be quite ironic if he spent all this time and effort to thread the maze and come up with nothing. And our trap will probably work just as well. We must tell Pomona and Filius."
"Yes, but we need be extremely careful. Perhaps I'm becoming yet more paranoid, but none of us should discuss this by fire call. And Albus tends to know where people are in the castle. If he notices the four of us together too often, he's likely to become curious."
"True, but this is too important not to share. We'll meet in my quarters this evening. Pomona was completely worn out after her efforts, and I think Filius was too, though he tries not to let on. He's not young, and flying tires him, but he wanted to do his bit."
Flitwick was so excited at the idea of Flamel coming to their assistance that he nearly fell out of his chair. Pomona Sprout took the news more calmly, but seemed rather reassured. After a brief discussion, they agreed that they needed to know if the Stone was still where they had left it. A brief expedition revealed that it was. This detail puzzled them all.
"It will be nearly impossible to remove anything from the Mirror, if the trap works as it ought," worried Minerva. "Do you suppose that Flamel has another Stone? Or that what we have is only a portion of a larger one?"
Snape was rather vexed that he had no answer for her. The available literature was so sketchy and so enigmatic that there was little he could say. He suspected that others had tried to create Stones, but no one was likely to advertise a failed attempt. Slughorn had pooh-poohed the possibility of making one nowadays, with a great deal of blather about ideal conditions at a specific time in history-so much blather that Snape wondered if Sluggy had had a go at a Stone himself.
He himself had never even considered it. It was not as if his life had been anything that merited immortality. And there were lessons to be learned from Flamel's long life-even from observing a wizard as old as Albus. Times changed. People had short memories. It must be incredibly difficult to adapt to new ideas and new inventions. Personally, he did not feel that Albus was entirely successful in meeting the challenge of the continual tiny adjustments that long life demanded. Perhaps, however, the Elixir of Life made all the difference. He simply did not know, and he admitted as much to his colleagues.
"But it's very encouraging, all the same," Pomona insisted. "It's obvious that he was in the Mirror Chamber. He didn't even try to hide it. He simply walked in and walked out."
"And presumably had a look at what we've done," Flitwick added eagerly, "though he didn't leave us a note. Too bad, that."
Snape gave a slight shrug. "It might simply mean that he thinks it-adequate."
They left it at that. The next few days passed in something like peace. The Castle was quiet. Quirrell came to meals but otherwise kept to himself. Snape found that two of the moly plants would give him roots enough for his purpose and he set about brewing, very eager to try the solar exposure technique.
"Come in, Harry."
Harry entered Snape's quarters, scowling. "You always know it's me."
Snape smirked at him. The boy took his usual chair, sprawling out comfortably. During the holidays he had taken to making a daily visit.
Astonishing what boredom can drive one to, Snape reflected.
Today Harry had a purpose other than mere chat. "When are we going to Hogsmeade?"
"Tomorrow, perhaps. I'm in the middle of an important potion, and I need to work on it today while the weather is fine."
"Why does the weather matter?"
"Ah-this particular potion calls for an unusual process. I need to expose it to sunlight for an hour."
"Can I help?" Harry sat up, looking rather like an eager puppy.
A moment's silence, while Snape considered the idea. How very appropriate that Harry should take part in brewing a potion that would put paid to his nemesis. Prophecies had an odd way of fulfilling themselves, after all...
"I don't see why not. Wouldn't you rather be playing chess with Youngest Weasley?" He had indeed seen Harry losing spectacularly to the boy in the Great Hall, sometimes after only a half-dozen moves. Ron Weasley had a real talent there. Minerva had noticed it too, and was trying to think a way to channel that kind of clear thinking into some aspect of the boy's academic life.
Good luck with that.
Harry told him, "Ron's all right. He's nice enough when you get him away from Smith. He's better at chess than Draco, even. Maybe there should be a chess tournament at school. I think Ron would like a chance to shine at something. From what he says I guess he feels kind of overshadowed by all his brothers."
"Possible, I suppose. Never having had a brother I wouldn't know."
"Me either, but I remember how I hated it when Dudley got all the attention. Ron gets all these hand-me-downs like I did: even his wand and his pet. It's a rat named Scabbers, and really old and stupid." Harry added, "Anyway, I wouldn't mind helping you with the potion. What's it for, anyway?"
"It may have surprising therapeutic uses. It's something of an experiment, so I'd prefer you not spread the word about."
"If we get it done early, could we go to Hogsmeade after?"
Snape rolled his eyes. "If we must."
"If we go to Hogsmeade, would Professor Burbage want to come too?"
Astonished, Snape wondered for a moment if Harry was crushing on her. "I hadn't mentioned it to her. Why do you ask?"
"I just thought you'd want to. You two are going together, aren't you?"
"What makes you say that?" Snape growled, instantly suspicious.
Harry was surprised at the reaction. "Well-you just are. I mean, you were worried about her when the troll was after us, and you sit with her and talk to her and everything. She has tea with us sometimes, and you don't ask anybody but her. You like her, don't you? She's really nice."
Feeling all his blood rush to his head, Snape managed, "Is this an item of common student gossip? Have you told anyone else this?"
"No, Professor! I haven't talked about it to anybody. I thought everybody knew you liked her. She sure likes you."
Snape got up and walked across the room, his back to the boy.
"Harry-" he ground out. "I am a very-private-person. The thought of my personal life being known and gossiped about by dunderheads is unspeakably repugnant. You must not discuss this with anyone else."
Very chastened, Harry apologised. "I'm sorry, Professor. I didn't mean to-"
Snape turned, fighting down his rage, "I know that you were not speaking out of malice. Yes, Professor Burbage and I are friends. I had not realised that this was apparent to anyone else. We must be more discreet, and to that end, perhaps it is best that we not be seen together in Hogsmeade."
"But it's the holidays!" Harry protested. His eyes, green and innocent, had never looked more like his mother's. "None of the other kids will see. If anybody wonders, you can tell them you both need to protect me because I'm so-" he struggled for a suitable word "-incorrigible!" Yes-that was the word Uncle Vernon had used to describe him to a neighbor once. "-I'm incorrigible, and I take a lot of looking after!"
Snape sighed for the past, and agreed. "Oh, Harry, you are indeed incorrigible, and you do take a lot of looking after. Would you like Professor Burbage to join us?"
"I wouldn't mind," Harry told him. "It would be nice with just you and her and me at a table-just the three of us. She's nice," he repeated. "And I don't see why you should mind if the whole world knows you like each other!"
"There are reasons," Snape replied, already inwardly agreeing that Charity's company in Hogsmeade would be very agreeable. "And Hogwarts professors are expected to be discreet about their private lives."
"It's not private," Harry said stubbornly. "You're my guardian. Everybody knows that. And extra protection is always a good idea. So maybe we should get to work on your potion and get it done and then we'll have lots of time for Hogsmeade after!"
Snape had long ago learned that work was soothing when he was out of sorts. The potion base was already under way, and there was work for both of them. He motioned to the boy to follow him.
"To the laboratory with you, incorrigible!"
He could not entrust infusing the moly roots to anyone but himself, but the boy was very helpful with the other ingredients, chopping finely and uniformly, just as he had been taught. Harry had a knack with potions, and his good grades were not mere favouritism on Snape's part.
Adding the Aqua Vitae at the proper moment made the boy wrinkle his nose and chuckle.
"I didn't know you were making wine again."
"The heat will burn off the alcohol. It's merely being used as a catalyst here, to speed up the amalgamation of the ashwinder shells. Yes, the truffles look all right. Add them slowly while I stir widdershins."
The potion needed some simmering, so he sent Harry off to find his cloak and gloves. It might be sunny, but it was still December, and watching a potion for an hour outside would be chilly work, even with warming charms. He would set up a work table and a flame to keep the potion at the proper temperature, since charming the potion might have an adverse effect. Albus' office did not overlook the courtyard Snape intended to use, and he hoped that the cold would keep the Headmaster from strolling outside and asking questions.
They must have looked like a parade as they took the work outside, dressed in cloaks and hoods. Snape himself, carrying the potion on the tabletop, flame still burning, felt like some sort of priestly masquerade, with little acolyte Potter trotting along behind him. He hoped no one would see them, and not just because of the need to keep the potion secret.
Once set up though, the work absorbed him. The steam curled up lazily and smelled like excrement seasoned with nutmeg. Theoretically, the odour would fade during this process. Snape certainly hoped so.
The potion bubbled slowly, thinning out over time. Its density was supposed to be indistinguishable from water. The dirty dishwater colour began changing, ever so slowly.
"Look at that, Harry," he said, trying to control his own excitement. "Do you see how the potion's colour is becoming more intense? That golden colour is an indicator of what the alchemists call 'citrinnitas.'"
Harry grinned. "It looks like pee, Professor."
"How very mature. Spare me your schoolyard sense of humour. Do you see it?"
"Yes, Professor. I see it. Is it the Sun that's doing that? Is that why you brought it outside?"
"Exactly. An entirely new technique. There might be a number of other applications. Don't bump the table. It needs to stand undisturbed the entire time."
Harry lounged about, messing with lumps of snow, fidgeting back and forth, occasionally gossiping about his new-friend-Snape supposed.
"Ron" had a quidditch pitch at his home, called the Burrow, Snape was told. He was the youngest but one, who was an annoying little sister named Ginny. Ginny would be coming to school next year, and Ginny always got new things because she was a girl.
"I think it might be nice to have a sister. Do you have any sisters, Professor?"
"No," Snape replied, peering at the potion. "I am an only child, just like you."
"That's what I thought." Harry paused as a new thought came to him. "Your parents aren't alive, are they?"
"No, Harry, they've been gone a long time." Snape wondered where these questions were leading. It would not do to be distracted at the moment...
"I guessed they were, or you'd be going to see them at Christmas. So you're an orphan, too, like me."
"Many adults are."
"Well-old people, of course. You're not old."
"I'm aging rapidly at the moment. Let's talk about it later. Come here and smell this."
"The stink is wearing off. That's good."
"Admirable use of technical terminology. Yes, the stink, as you put it, is wearing off, and that is indeed good." He checked the time. "Not much longer to go."
The colour was a clear, transparent yellow now. It would have to go into something dark, like-hmmm-red wine. If put in just before serving, the wine would not affect the potion, and the colour would be masked. Albus always made such a ritual of having everyone served a goblet of mulled wine at the Christmas feast...
Note: If you're interested in the real background of the witch hunts, and why a magical community might want to cut itself off from the rest of society, read The European Witch-Craze of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries by Hugh Trevor-Roper.