Chapter 16

Snape entered the kitchen to see the table laid and Harry standing on a chair stretching up precariously to reach the top-shelf of the kitchen cupboard.

"Potter, get down from there this instant."

Harry's hand came down and he wobbled unsteadily on the chair. Moments before he had been so happy: he was going to make breakfast, he would demonstrate he had good manners, and Snape would remain in a good mood. As his feet were placed back on the ground, he came back down to earth. Snape was Snape, and would always be so.

"I was just trying to get-"

"It was not what you were trying to get, it was the means by which you were trying to get it! I would have thought that if recent events had taught you nothing else, it would be not to stand on anything of a height where, if you were to fall, you could break your neck. Or do I need to rebreak your arm."

Harry gulped and blushed with shame. The not too subtle reference to his recent behaviour was definitely not lost on him.

"I'm sorry, Sir."

"What were you trying to get," said Snape, reaching past Harry towards the cupboard.

"The pan."

"The pan? And what were you going to do with the pan."

"Cook us breakfast…sir?"

"So you were going to complete your morning gymnastics routine by attempting to either poison me or set my house on fire."

"I'm good and cooking. I have to do it all the time at the Dursley's!"

Snape frowned at this. A child of Harry's age should not be expected to cook meals for the family. "Well Mr. Potter, you shall not be cooking anything in this house unless I am present to supervise you. Do you understand?"

Harry frowned crossly. He was not a child and did not need constant supervision. However, he held his tongue. He did not think that the best way of demonstrating that would be to enter into an argument or do something in a fit of pique he might later regret.

"Sna- er. Sir, as you are here now, can I keep going? I have already started."

Noting that Harry had held his temper and caught himself in the act of calling him Snape, Severus agreed.

As Harry went about the kitchen, with Snape getting everything that Harry required that was stored above his reach, Snape had to acknowledge that he was doing a good job. When his meal was finally presented to him he did not have to fear food poisoning: it was cooked to perfection.

"Potter, if you are able to cook a meal like this, why can you not beat Miss Granger in my potions class?"

Harry stared blankly. "I don't understand, sir."

"The question or potions?" said Snape with a twitch of a grin.

"Both."

"Well, the distance between cooking and potions is remarkably small. While the instructions may be more… nuanced in the latter, both require patience, skill, dexterity, practice. The question remains, why are your potion marks not higher when you can cook?...well?"

Harry was not going to be able to escape giving an answer. The trick was going to be remaining both honest and polite…

"Well…sir…I think maybe in potions lessons at school… I'm not always paying as much attention to the work as I should be." He didn't have to say that this was usually because he either had to parry attempts at sabotage, launched by the Slytherins; was intimidated by Snape hovering over his shoulder making snide remarks about the quality of his scholarship; or, that he was often talking with his friends.

"I think that will change with the start of term, don't you?" said Snape forebodingly.

"Yes, sir."

Once they had both finished eating, Snape said, "Today you shall read chapter 2 of the book I gave you. That is if you have finished the first chapter on the Babbling Beverage?"

Harry nodded.

"Go get your notes and show me."

Snape took the respite from Harry's presence to get Dumbledore's response to his letter.

On reflection, the letter Snape had composed to Dumbledore had been less than measured in tone. Though fundamentally the content had accurately depicted events and communicated the goings on in Spinner's End up to that point - the plot, Harry's situation at the Dursley's and his present position in Snape's house – they lacked the finesse and subtlety worthy of the Head of Slytherin House. The words he had written, above all those of "impudent", "inconsiderate" and "holiday camp" stood out particularly boldly in Snape's mind. The way he had represented Harry's character had perhaps, and just perhaps, in the light of last night's events, not been wholly accurate. It was therefore with a sigh that he opened Dumbledore's letter and read:

Dear Severus,

I hope that Hedwig was not too fatigued on her return. I was glad to receive your letter and appreciated its length: my response is far briefer.

Harry's revelations confirm two of my conviction. Firstly, that he is safest with you. Your position is a unique one, Severus. I do not believe that in certain circles it can be generally believed that the-boy-who-lived will be residing with you. As such, that is where he shall be remaining.

Secondly, it reaffirms by beliefs about Harry's nature. He is not a dishonest boy, though as your representations suggest, he is disposed to the follies of youth. Yet, this is not a predisposition confined solely to the genus Potter. I should not have to remind you Severus that we were all young once and that our decisions are neither always considered nor prudent! You must remember that Harry is merely a 12-year old boy and therefore subject to the general limitations of his age.

On a darker note, you should expect further communication from my shortly. Any mention of a plot at Hogwarts is not to be ignored especially when seen in the wider context of recent events.

Sincerely,

Albus

P.S. I have always thought that Hogwarts should offer summer camps for its students. I'm sure if nothing else the parents would enjoy a brief sojourn free of the sprogs. I trust I can sign you as a camp leader?

Snape closed his eyes. The thought of a summer camp populated entirely by the Weasley's progeny for him to supervise for the summer would haunt him. The one Potter boy was more than enough, he thought as Potter returned to the room with his sheet of notes and the book. Harry looked with great curiosity at the letter, but didn't say anything.

Snape scrutinised the book and the notes. Both met with his approval.

"Potter what is the principal ingredient for a Babbling Potion? And how long should it be brewed for?"

"Distilled, fermented potato and 30 minutes for brewing. The preparation takes about 10 minutes and the potatoes can take up to 3 months to be fermented so that they are strong enough."

"Hmm… Very well. The second chapter is the Grand Wiggenweld Potion."

"Sir, didn't I study this last year?"

"Potter given your mark in my class last year I think you will benefit from any revision and besides… first years study the Wiggenweld Potion not the Grand Wiggenweld Potion which, if you paid attention, you would know. This will be both a revision and an extension. You have until lunch to complete your study of it."

"Then what will we do."

"We'll see."

Harry turned to go.

"Potter, would you like to know what is in the letter."

Harry thought for a moment.

"If it's important you will tell me."

The Headmaster's heels clicked neatly on the stone floor as he walked down the corridor alone. At each doorway he read both the name that was etched there and glanced through the barred window, as if to confirm the rooms' contents. In doing so he mentally ticked off the names of the men and women he had a personal association with, either through having placed them there or from having lost a friend to them. In too many cases both conditions were fulfilled. Le Strange, Avery … Black. The last name caused particular pain.

Dumbledore had visited Azkaban enough times to know who would be a long-term inmate, and who would pass out of its doors more quickly. This passing out could be due to release or death. When Dumbledore reached the entrance to his destination he took a precursory glance through the window. In the far corner of the room, the furthest point possible from the pall cast by the Dementors, was a figure. He knew at once that of the man would be passing out of Azkaban soon, and by the latter cause. The figure was crumpled, like a paper cup in the aftermath of a party: its limbs were bunched together and static, a great force holding them in place; its head hung downwards from a similar pressure. While Sligh had been in the company of the Dementors for only a few hours, he bore the time as if it had been years. Black, in comparison, appeared in a far better condition, reflected Dumbledore.

Dumbledore opened the cell door and looked down his long crooked nose and the man. The glib light that filtered into the cell reflected off of his half-moon spectacles. The almost ever present twinkle in his blue eyes was absent. Following his receipt of Snape's letter, Dumbledore had worked unceasingly to discover further facts about the plot. As he had written in his letter to Snape, he did not feel that the boy's story had been exaggerated and treated his report extremely seriously. He had therefore embarked on a series of actions of which this moment was the culmination. He was feeling old.

His first action had been a quick call on Mundungus Fletcher. The man usually had his fingers in several, often dubious, pies. While Dumbledore was not concerned about the content of many of them, he was not, after all, the Minister of Magic, his knowledge did provide him with some leverage over the little man. As he had outlined none too obliquely to Mundungus, it would be most unfortunate were the Ministry to hear about any of his business ventures, particularly those in relation to the Muggle population. After that Mundungus had been most forth coming, telling Dumbledore that Malfoy had recently been unloading some of his "collection" on the market, causing a "dip in the value of many of my products," to use the words of Fletcher.

"Was there anything particularly unusual that Malfoy is looking to dispose of?" Dumbledore had enquired.

"The usual Egyptian artefacts and cursed curios," replied Fletcher. After a pause he added, "Of course it's not always what he's trying to sell that can be interesting."

Dumbledore remained silent.

"Sometimes the company you keep can be Sligh-tly more illuminating."

The caesura had not been lost on Dumbledore. Mundungus was a classic low level "businessman" who would always stick the knife into a competitor, even when it wasn't necessary. He had been more that obliging that night. "Thank you Mr. Fletcher. I think that all of my questions for you have been answered."

Mundungus exhaled a breath that he hadn't realised he'd been holding. Dumbledore was a great and powerful wizard, but also one that should not be crossed. Maybe this action had bought him a favour.

Dumbledore's second port of call was to go to the Ministry of Magic: a prodigious institution that owed Dumbledore more than one favour. Once inside, Dumbledore went straight to the office of veteran Auror, Alastor Moody. Moody had made many sacrifices in his long years of service to the wizarding world, including a leg, an eye and a chunk of his nose. While Moody had said on numerous occasions that his magical eye, at least, was an advantage to his work, these benefits did not mitigate the pain that had been involved in how it was acquired. As a result, Moody had a personal vendetta against Sligh, the man who was central to its acquisition.

"Alastor, I have some good news for you."

Moody grunted gruffly. Since the fall of Voldemort and the rapid removal or reformation of his supporters, work at the Auror office had slowed. In fact these days, more than 10 years on from the end of the war, his and the other Aurors' work was confined largely to chasing down rumours of sightings and flagrant hoaxes. Many of the clippings from the Prophet and Muggle papers were yellow and faded. Genuine plots were rare.

"Some news on a Mr Sligh."

This got Moody's attention.

"From what source."

"A reliable one. He was seen with our good friend Mr Malfoy, an upstanding citizen you understand."

Again, this elicited a grunt from Moody, followed by, "Well, I certainly know what company Malfoy continues to keep, however discrete he may attempt to make it."

With that Moody left his office.

The final and most gratifying place which Dumbledore visited had been the home of Mr and Mrs Weasley.

By this point it was late. The majority of the family were either in bed and asleep or in the process of being so. Mrs Weasley was the exception. Upon Dumbledore's entry he was quickly presented with a steaming hot mug of tea and, after she had fetched her husband, a plate of sausage sandwiches.

"Arthur, I have some information about a friend of yours… Mr. Malfoy."

"Oh."

"Yes. He is looking to sell some items that I am certain that your office will be interested in. Now it will mean a late return to the office…"

"I'll get dressed."

Dumbledore smiled.

"Thank you for the sandwiches, Molly."

All of this Dumbledore had done since receiving the letter. It was therefore with a sigh that he went to the corner where Sligh was huddled, bent down and grabbed his chin. In one swift movement he lifted the man's head forcing him to look into his eyes.

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