XXXXX

Snape was tempted to conjure a bottle of wine by the time Draco entered his private office. It had been a long day, and an even longer night, as he'd continued to make his way through the list of Slytherin students. He'd always insisted on individual meetings as Head of House, mostly under the guise of getting to know his charges better.

He'd originally taken up the practice as an expansion of his efforts to glean information on the Dark Lord. He'd correctly assumed that having a good rapport and a more personal relationship with certain students meant that they were more apt to openly discuss their parents and the unsavory gossip that ex-Death Eaters bandied about their homes.

But he'd found—especially now, resuming his Head of House duties—that there was more to this than the role he'd played. There was some degree of underlying compassion, something gratifying in connecting with his troubled students.

And they were troubled indeed. The whole of Slytherin House seemed deeply unsettled, not only by the recent attack on Pansy Parkinson, but by the entrenched distrust and open loathing of their fellow students. Many had confessed to him that they were sometimes afraid to leave their Common Room. The upper forms were less afraid of the possibilities and more interested in avoiding the scathing remarks and open hostility that they endured from every corner.

And Snape could sympathize with that. He had, after all, contended with the ill effects of suspicion and doubt for years and years. It ate at your resolve, he knew. At least his students could draw strength from solidarity, not that comforting each other was any kind of long-term solution.

He'd purposely saved Draco for last, knowing that his chat with the boy would be far more personal than with the others. Because, in spite of everything, including the boy's intractable arrogance and other unpleasant traits, his friendship with the Malfoys had not been a complete lie. After all, he had taken an Unbreakable Vow to help and protect Draco when he could have easily refused. Lucius was a piece of work, and Narcissa certainly had her faults, but Snape knew that they cared deeply for their son, as any parents did. And he'd practically acted as the boy's godfather from the day he'd set foot in Hogwarts.

Besides, at least Draco and Narcissa had, in the end, found the strength to turn their back on the Dark Lord. And that was enough for Snape.

"Good evening, sir," Draco murmured, more subdued than Snape had ever seen him. Dark circles hung beneath his eyes, and his whole posture slumped, no trace of his former stiff aristocratic bearing.

"Sit, Draco," Snape commanded, gesturing to the leather chair angled before his desk. He'd opted to meet the last half of his students in the office in his private quarters, which was far more inviting than even his new office near the Defense classroom.

Draco settled himself in, his eyes still down. Snape watched as the boy absently fingered a loose thread on his robes—a sign of just how distracted he truly was. His father had schooled him for years on how to comport himself, but now he'd clearly bowed down under the pressures of his situation.

"How has the start of term been?" Snape inquired in a perfectly neutral tone. His sharp black eyes continued to analyze the blond boy, searching for every nervous tick, every clue that might give him some insight into Draco's state of mind.

"Fine, sir," Draco murmured softly.

"You can still call me Severus," Snape informed him smoothly. "We're not in the classroom."

Draco's silver eyes flashed up, disbelieving for a second, before falling back to his hands. "I know you only pretended to care about me so you could get close to my father—"

"I did not pretend anything," Snape hissed, cutting the boy off. "I made an Unbreakable Vow to do all I could for you your sixth year. You think I risked my life for the theatrics of it? To prove my loyalties to your aunt? To earn the trust of your mother, who had already fallen out of favor? I made it for her benefit, Draco, and for yours. I had every intention of keeping you from harm's way."

The boy flushed pink. "Yeah, and I behaved like an ungrateful little prat. I almost got two classmates killed, and in the end it didn't do one bit of good—"

"The past is in the past," Snape told him in his firmest tone. "Act or no, I have known your family since you were born. I have watched you grow. I have been your professor, and I have tried to be a mentor to you. That, I assure you, was sincere." Snape sighed, willing the edge to leave his tone. He pinched the bridge of his nose and continued more softly, "What I am trying to say, Draco, is that I am still here to help you in whatever capacity you may need me. I know better than most what it is like to come out on the wrong side of a war."

Snape watched as Draco's hands clenched tightly.

"You're worried about what happened to Miss Parkinson?" he inquired softly.

"I can defend myself."

"Yes," Snape agreed. "You're extremely capable. But Miss Parkinson was not. And I know that many of your friends are not as capable. Yet no one deigns to tell me what, exactly, has been going on here."

Draco's knuckles were nearly white then with the force he was exerting. "There's nothing you can do—"

"Oh, on the contrary, there is a great deal I can do. But in order to intervene, I need a bit more information."

"Well, you're out of luck then, aren't you?" Draco sneered, his grey eyes flashing up again. "I think we've already established that your mind tricks aren't going to do you one bit of good with me. Maybe you should try it on the others if you're so desperate—"

"I don't make a habit of violating my students' privacy," Snape informed the boy coldly, with a dark glare for good measure.

"Just me, then," Draco scathed.

"Your clumsy stunts that year not only endangered the lives of students, but very nearly exposed you!" Snape growled, losing his temper. "What do you imagine the Dark Lord would have arranged for you had you been caught and sentenced to Azkaban? Do you think he would have fancied letting you slip into the hands of Aurors, to be interrogated with Veritaserum, under the influence of which you might reveal any amount of information about his plans? And what of your parents? What price do you think Lucius and Narcissa would have paid for such clumsiness? And since you could not do me the courtesy of consulting with me in spite of my numerous entreaties and offers of assistance, I was left with little choice!"

Snape broke off his rant, breathing harshly, his black eyes glittering angrily.

Draco had shrunk back in his chair just as soon as Snape began berating him. Now he looked shriveled there, his arms wrapped over himself slightly, his shoulders shaking just a bit. He kept his face down, hidden from Snape's piercing gaze.

"I know," he croaked miserably. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…." He shook his head to himself.

Snape gave a long-suffering sigh and wearily rubbed his eyes. Deliberately softening his tone, he said, "I do not wish to argue. And I did not invite you in to interrogate you about this unfortunate situation with Miss Parkinson. I know that it has been difficult for you to come back after all that has passed, Draco, and I wanted to let you know—you, in particular, but your housemates as well—that I am here for whatever support you might need."

"I don't know if I can stick it out for the term," Draco confessed suddenly, hugging himself a little tighter. "I didn't want to come back, but Mother insisted. I never should have agreed though. I should be home, with them…."

"I'm certain your parents can manage without you," Snape reassured the boy. "Your mother was right; it is imperative that you remain here, not only for the sake of your education but to rebuild your relationships with your peers."

Draco swallowed thickly. "Father hasn't been well," he mumbled. "Mother has been trying to keep up with things, but… you've no idea what we've lost. The Ministry seized our vaults as reparations for the war, and the estate's been sold just so we can stay afloat—"

"Yes, I'm well aware. The Prophet has had a field day prying into all these financial matters. But as I said, Draco, they will manage."

Snape paused to summon two glasses and a bottle of wine from the cabinet behind him, deciding that he would have that drink after all. Draco watched almost apprehensively as Snape charmed the bottle to pour out two glasses of the ruby-red substance and pushed one toward him.

After taking a small sip and setting his glass back on his desk, Snape recommenced, "Your greatest concern now should be doing all you can to repair what has been damaged and to get yourself back into the good graces of the wizarding world. Lucius may have avoided Azkaban a second time, but you carry a heavy burden now because of his deeds and your own. If you do not use this year to prove yourself worthy of some goodwill, anything Lucius and Narcissa might accomplish will have been in vain."

Draco was shaking his head again before Snape had even finished speaking. "I should be home with my father. He's—well, you haven't seen him since…. But you know how he was last year. How much he drank, how much he locked himself away in his room. Especially after the Dark Lord would…." Draco visibly repressed a shudder.

Snape pushed Draco's wine toward him again, tilting his head at it. Draco met Snape's eyes for a fleeting moment, whispered a soft thanks, and took the glass up in his hands to nurse it.

"I am sorry, Draco," Snape told the boy sincerely. "I cannot imagine what it has been to watch him suffer as he has—"

"But he deserves it!" Draco bit out, his mood shifting like quicksilver. "If he'd never gotten us mixed up into that bloody mess, if he'd just kept his head down the first time and never taken the damned Mark, or let me take it, we'd be fine! I never would have been expected to kill Albus Dumbledore at sixteen! Father wouldn't have gone to prison and come back half a man… and Mother wouldn't spend so much time weeping, and…."

As quickly as it came, the outburst died, like a fire extinguished by a cold gust of wind. Draco even seemed to have caught a chill; he hugged himself more tightly as he lifted his wine glass to his lips.

"Not that it matters," he rasped. "Not that blaming him will do us one whit of good. It'll just drive him to drink again, and Mother has been fighting too hard to break him of that. But I don't know what to do, Severus! I write Mother, and she tells me to just concentrate on my studies, but how can I? How can I give a damn about—about Sprout's Dittany plants, or Flitwick's warding charms when all I can think about is how miserable they are, and how I should be home with them, doing something—"

"Draco," Snape cut him off. "Returning home would just give your parents one more reason to worry. You wish to add to their burden?"

"No!" Draco exclaimed. "But you can't possibly expect me just to carry on here as if nothing's wrong—"

"I most certainly don't," Snape interrupted again, allowing his tone to grow a bit more stern. "I have stated in no uncertain terms that my door is open to you. This will be a difficult year, but mark my words, I will see you through it. I will make another Vow if I must, if you cannot believe me."

Draco cast his eyes down again, flushing pink once more. "I don't deserve that," Draco mumbled. "After the way I treated you—after the way my parents treated you…. You have no reason to want anything to do with me. I treated you like shit—"

"Language," Snape rebuked him, but mildly. He took a moment to gather his thoughts, though, casting his gaze to the flames flickering in the hearth of his fireplace.

After a few silent moments he spoke again. "I do not fancy repeating myself. Leave the past in the past—and not another word on it. You were in a terrible position, under a lot of strain, and often it is easiest to relieve the worst of that tension by lashing out at others. I myself am guilty of… less than becoming behavior, shall we say. Your resentment was understandable, and that is all that needs to be said on the matter."

"No, it's not," Draco protested vehemently. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't let you do your job, I'm sorry I made such a mess of it, I'm sorry that I've treated you like a Venomous Tentacula for the last two years. I'm sorry my father was too much of a fool to keep from making the same mistake twice. And hell, Severus, I'm sorry your life has been so awful for so long, I really am. You, at least, deserve comfort—"

"Hush, you idiot," Snape growled, but not unkindly. "If we all got what we deserved, I would have been locked in Azkaban for the last two decades. Now enough of these inane apologies. You will have to make your peace and do what you can to right your wrongs, but my feelings should not factor into that penance. Now, as to the road to forgiveness…."

"I don't know what to do. You know how they treat us. It's worse than second year—"

"Yes, I seem to remember your being rather enthusiastic about the school being purged of Muggleborns," Snape commented sardonically, his words taking on a hard edge. "I'm certain that did not contribute to the pariah status of Slytherin House that year, or subsequent years."

"I'm not like that anymore!" Draco cried, articulating with such force that he sloshed a bit of wine onto his lap. "You think I haven't learned? That I haven't seen what that madman tried to do all for the sake of blood purity—"

"What the Dark Lord did," Snape said in a low, icy tone, "had nothing to do with blood purity, and you are a fool if you think otherwise. He himself was a half-blood, a living example of the taint he claimed to wish to eradicate. Blood purity was merely a cause, a means to an end, a rallying cry he could use to unite the power-hungry. I should know, Draco, because he as much as told me so when I first went to him."

Draco swallowed thickly, sinking back into the chair. "Severus, I—"

"Listen," Snape hissed, leaning forward intently. His black eyes were full of focus. "The hatred spewed by Voldemort was a tool plied to his followers to cement their loyalties. It became their justification for their unabashed power-seeking. I have never paid more than lip service to the notion of blood purity because I myself am a half-blood, and I myself know full well that the most abhorrent of muggles can produce the most formidable of wizards."

Snape took a deep breath, willing himself back to a place of calm. This was turning into a tirade. But Draco needed to hear this, he told himself. It was the only way.

"My point," he continued with a heavy sigh, "is that purist ideology can readily be separated from Voldemort's rise to power. One could maintain the argument that the notion was twisted and misused by Voldemort, but that it is, in and of itself, sound. And I need to hear from your lips, Draco, in all sincerity, that you do not believe that this is so. That you believe that a Muggleborn witch can be worth every bit as much as a pureblooded wizard. I need to know that you believe that. Because without that belief, you will never break back into the good graces of our society."

Draco continued to study the wine in his glass with abnormal intensity. He did not speak for a long time, and Snape was content to let him sit there, absorbing everything that had been said.

At long last, and in a very soft voice, Draco murmured, "Tori's very adamant about how pureblood ideology is nonsense."

Snape suppressed an amused smile in spite of the gravity of the subject. He had noticed that Draco was quite taken with a certain young lady, and he'd begun to wonder if she would have any influence on him. "Miss Greengrass the younger?"

"Astoria, yes. Daphne's younger sister. She could run a whole class on the topic. Her parents aren't too thrilled…."

"Ah, well," Snape murmured, allowing a bit of approval to color his words. "Rome wasn't built in a day. Changes like these—paradigm shifts—they take time and effort. But fraternizing with sensible Slytherins isn't the only effort necessary to make amends. Things are tense now, but you are in a position to extend an olive branch to the other houses, to admit your faults and humble yourself. If you can convince at least a few students—especially those in your year—that you truly and deeply repent of the role you've played in the war, the rest of the student body should follow suit."

Draco took a long draught of his wine, draining almost the entire glass. "So where do I start? Potter?"

Snape dipped his head slightly. "Potter," he confirmed. "Given your… past history… I know that the task will not be easy. However, his celebrity status and his role in defeating the Dark Lord will certainly be a great boon in this undertaking. Not to mention that he has proven himself to be of a rather forgiving disposition."

Draco's eyes flashed up, and for a moment Snape saw pain and shame, emotions that the Slytherin boy usually took great pains to conceal. It was a rare glimpse of vulnerability. "He saved my life. Twice." Draco shook his head slightly in disbelief. "After everything, he… we were in the Room of Requirement, and he was looking for something—and then Crabbe…." Draco's voice hitched slightly. "He conjured Fiendfyre. The three of them—Granger, Weasley, and Potter—they were going to fly out on brooms, but… but Potter made them turn back for us…."

Snape fought back the scathing remark on Gryffindor bravery that bubbled to his lips. There was no need to hide his genuine admiration for the boy any longer—though, he mused, it was far easier to cut the boy wonder down to size than acknowledge how extraordinary he sometimes was. But then, jealousy had always been one of the major emotions tied into the matrix of Snape's animosity, loath as he was to admit it.

"I lost my mother's wand." Draco's voice was just a faint whisper then. "Crabbe was dead, Goyle was useless… they abandoned me, and I ran into a Death Eater, couldn't tell who—and Potter protected me. Again. After Crabbe tried to incinerate him."

Snape tapped his fingers against the surface of his desk as he mulled over what Draco had told him. "Sometimes," he began slowly, pronouncing his words with great care, "it is harder to forgive someone for an undeserved good turn than a bad one."

"Forgive," Draco scoffed. "Yeah, that's the way to win Potter over. I'll just saunter up to him, cool as you please, and say, 'Just wanted to let you know,I forgive you for keeping me alive when you could've hexed me into oblivion.' He might just change his mind—"

"That is not what I meant, Draco," Snape cut him off impatiently. "You feel you are in his debt—as you well should, might I add. And it is your nature—our nature, rather, as I believe it is a House trait—to wish for that debt to be settled, because until it is we find ourselves on an uneven playing field. But however you may try, I doubt you will be able to pay back a life debt twice. So, unless you wish to spend the rest of your life trying to pay down that debt, I suggest you work on reconciling with the fact that you are only breathing by his good graces."

Snape half-expected to hear some form of protest from Draco, something about how it wasn't that big of a deal, that Potter had only done it because he felt he had to. Some feeble excuse to lessen the gravity of what he'd just revealed.

Perhaps two years ago, Draco Malfoy would have done something along those lines. But the broken boy sitting before him, the one struggling hard to be a man, who was also hurting like a terrified child, did nothing of the sort.

"He brought a card for Pansy."

"I know. Would you expect anything less from the magnanimous Chosen One?"

Draco sighed in frustration. "It's just… how the hell can I settle a score like this when he keeps going around like a bloody merry house elf, trying to cheer everyone up—"

"Draco," Snape growled, "did you hear a word of what I just said? This is not about scores. This is about fashioning yourself into someone worthy of a second chance. It is a long, hard road; believe me, I speak from experience. But your redemption has nothing to do with your life debt to Potter, just as mine has had nothing to do with my debt to Professor Dumbledore."

Draco ran a hand through his pale blond hair in frustration. "Fine. But what do I do? Send Potter a bouquet? Go grovel in front of him on bended knee? Tell him I need his wisdom to walk the path of light?"

Snape pressed his lips into a tight line. "You could start by apologizing," he suggested coolly, "and explaining yourself."

"You're one to talk, Severus," Draco muttered.

Snape felt a flush of prickling anger along the collar of his neck. "Mind your tongue. My relationship with Potter is none of your business, and I suggest you remember that, unless you would like to be the first in Slytherin to serve a detention with your new Head of House."

Draco made a slightly derisive noise and shifted in his seat.

Snape sighed to himself. Some things never changed. Draco had never been particularly respectful. His little show at the beginning of the meeting had deeply surprised Snape, in fact. But he supposed this was what he got for trying to reestablish a personal relationship….

"I suggest you take some time to think about what it is you might say to Mr. Potter and friends. If you want to discuss it, you're welcome to come to me."

Draco nodded. "You… you really think he'll give a shrivelfig about helping me?"

Snape snorted. "A noble Gryffindor? But of course. But," he added, all levity disappearing from his tone, "mark my words, Draco. Do not attempt to manipulate or maneuver Potter. He'll see right through it, and he will not appreciate it. Best not to approach him at all if you cannot be sincere."

Draco merely nodded at that.

Snape decided it was time for a subject change. "How are classes going?"

Draco shrugged. "Well, I suppose. As well as can be expected when every other student and most of the teachers treat you like you're some species of slug."

"I can have a word with the professors, particularly the other Heads of House—"

"Don't bother," Draco grumbled. "Really, you'll just make it worse. There's already rumors of a petition to the ministry to remove all Slytherins involved in the war from Hogwarts, and the last thing we need is any pressure pushing that through."

"Who is circulating this petition?"

Draco huffed in irritation, his annoyed grey eyes flashing up to Snape. "I don't know! I said it was a rumor, didn't I? And did you hear a word I said? If you go poking your big nose into things—"

Snape glowered fiercely at the boy, lips parting to deliver a stinging rebuke.

"Poor choice of words," Draco hastily amended, casting his eyes to the side. But it was obvious that the insult had been intentional.

Snape let it ride, though. It wasn't important, he decided.

"What I mean is, if the students start hearing that they have to give our House special consideration and play nice and all, they'll be furious. They'll be twice as motivated to have the ministry intervene, and we all know their feelings on the matter, don't we? I bet if they had their way, they'd burn Salazar Slytherin right out of the history books—"

"I need you to trust me to handle the matter, Draco," Snape cut him off smoothly. "The ministry's views are not so cut and dry, and I have many contacts who would be willing to intervene at my behest. They would hear reason, especially since alienating the children of former Death Eaters would only create resentment and possibly further conflict—"

"But they'd love that!" Draco cried. "They'd love to goad us into fighting back, don't you see? It would give them an excuse to put the lot of us down, or lock us all up in Azkaban. Look, it's nothing we can't handle. We know how to take care of our own, all right?"

"And I know how to take care of my own," Snape retorted fiercely. "That has not changed one whit. My loyalty as your Head of House was not a front, I can assure you." Snape sighed and massaged his brow, which was tight from the tense conversation. "I spied on the Dark Lord for years, Draco, while making him believe that I was actually spying on Albus Dumbledore. Do you believe I do not possess the discretion to deal with this matter appropriately? Or did you believe that, upon learning the names of these students, I would go around to their dorms, nailing accusations to their doors?"

Draco pursed his lips and slumped deeper into his chair, saying nothing.

Snape rose from his chair and, rounding the desk, went to stand beside the blond boy. He placed a hand on his shoulder. "We will resolve this," he promised, his voice low and fervent. "And things will get better. But until they do… remember, Draco, you are not alone. If you truly are sorry for turning your back on me, the least you can do to show it is rely upon my wisdom and judgment now. I am offering you help again, so please, do not be a fool twice."

Draco's eyes flickered up to meet Snape's, both uncertain and grateful. He took a moment to answer, and when he did finally find his voice, his words were shaky. But there was conviction behind them.

"I won't," he whispered.

XXXXX

Harry twiddled nervously with the bottlecap he'd been using to practice transfiguration. McGonagall had them turning it into a full dining set using an initial transfiguration and then duplication spells, and Harry's was still looking rather shabby. McGonagall had promised a test on it sometime in the next week, and Harry knew he'd better get a grip on it soon—since as of right then, his end result was a rather chipped and thinned dining set that looked as if it would dissolve into dust the minute anyone tried to use it to serve dinner.

He'd probably have to ask Hermione for help with that too. Not that she wasn't used to it by then.

But right now she was scanning over the text Snape had recommended to him, trying to parse it so that she could dumb it down for him. So that he could have something useful to report to the professor in the next week—and an excuse to continue to pester the man.

"So?" Harry demanded impatiently.

Hermione held up a finger, her eyes never leaving the book. They flickered back and forth rapidly, scanning the minute lines with an intensity that was borderline unnerving. Finally she pushed the book back from her and sighed, shaking her head.

Harry waited with bated breath, pressing his bottlecap more tightly into his palm.

"Goodness, Harry, it's definitely complex."

"Well, yeah," he agreed, trying to hide his irritation. "But you do understand it, right?"

Hermione pushed back a section of her bushy hair and slumped a little in the plush chair.

At least the three of them had gotten to claim a good section of the Common Room for the afternoon. Though Ron was definitely ignoring them. He was too engrossed with his quidditch magazine, reading the latest article on the Chudley Cannons, who were, against all odds, in the British semi-finals.

"Look, it's like this," Hermione began. "Spell creation is tied to etymology and linguistics, and it's really delicate business. There's only a handful of official programs for it in the world, and they're all really, really selective. I mean, this is a topic they don't even cover for any N.E.W.T.s—it's not even mentioned in passing, so that should give you an idea—"

"I get it!" Harry cut her off, his frustration boiling over. "It's really complex stuff and it's way over my head and there's no way I'm going to understand. But please, Hermione, can you try to explain? Because Snape said this was the only thing we could discuss, and I need to sound like I at least have a clue of what I'm talking about."

Hermione sighed heavily and fixed Harry with a pitying stare, a look he positively loathed. "Look, Harry, I get that you think this is important, and I think it's great that you want to be on better terms with Professor Snape, but…."

"But?" Harry demanded, a hard edge entering his tone. He could tell where this was headed, and he didn't like it one bit.

"He's still been horrible over the years! I get that he had a role to play and that he was under a lot of stress, and that he risked a lot for the Order during war and all, but still, Harry, he's an awful, bitter person and he's very clearly shoving you away. You're wasting your time on this, and he's just going to end up hurting you in the end, because you're going to put all this time and effort into trying to get him to like you—"

"That's not it!" Harry cut her off. "I don't need him to like me, okay? I just… I want him to know me. Not 'famous Harry Potter' or 'the Chosen One' or any of that rubbish. Just me. And then if he still hates me, I can deal with it, because then it's a personal problem, not this stupid hero mystique that everyone gets lost in. And you're right, he's been horrible to me and a lot of other people, but I don't know what he's been going through for the Order and Dumbledore, and I don't know what his life has been like. And I'm trying not to judge him like I did before. And right now, the only way I can get to know him, and get him to know me, is by figuring out what this damned theory even means, okay?"

Harry's words were angry and loud enough to stun Hermione into silence and draw Ron out of his article. They both looked at him, wide-eyed, as if they thought he'd lost it. Harry growled in frustration and, pushing his glasses up, began rubbing his eyes with his palms, trying to calm himself down.

"I just… I don't want you to torture yourself with this," Hermione said at last in a small voice. "You can't fix everyone and everything, Harry, and you shouldn't feel guilty about that."

"Hermione's right, Snape's a git," Ron concurred sagely. "He's not worth your time. If he wants to be a miserable bastard, I say let him."

Harry groaned a little to himself. They just didn't get it. "Look, I don't want to fight. And I really do want to help with the Sectumsempra research. So… could you help sum this theory up for me, Hermione? Please?"

Hermione hesitated, then finally gave a tiny nod of assent. "So, like I was saying. Incanting and spells are tied to linguistics and etymology, which is why Latinate phrases are so often used, since Latin itself is a dead and thus unchanging language."

Harry started to scramble around for a quill and parchment. "Hang on," he called, rifling through his bag. "Just a second, let me write this down…."

Hermione huffed an impatient sigh but said nothing.

At last Harry had smoothed a fresh sheet of parchment before him and had fished out a Self-Inking quill. "Okay," he said as he scratched out notes, "spells are tied to language, so Latin is used because it's dead. Got it."

Hermione was at least gracious enough to slow down her explanation enough that Harry could scribble down key points. "So, precision is then the key when crafting a spell. Sectumsempra is fully Latinate, so you shouldn't have to navigate multiple languages. But in order to correctly counter it, you have to be certain that the counter-curse uses the exact same parts of speech. So, I assume that 'sectum' is a singular nominative neuter inflection of the verb 'sectus', which is to cut…."

"English, Hermione," Harry begged. "I never took Latin."

Hermione sighed again. "Look, just tell Snape that Ramkin postulates that he has to identify the parts of speech used in the original incantation and be certain to use those same parts of speech for the counter-curse."

"Wait," Ron interrupted suddenly. "Doesn't Snape already have a counter-curse? You told us that when you cut Malfoy to ribbons that one time—sixth year—that Snape was there right away and he was able to close up all the cuts—"

"That's different," Hermione told him. "From what I understand, that was an original healing spell but not a counter-curse. A true counter-curse yields a net balance of zero, meaning that whatever is done by the curse is undone by the counter-curse, no more and no less. Snape was able to close up the cuts, but that just sped up the closure of the wounds. It didn't vanish them. It's the same thing with Ennervate and Stupefy. Ennervate doesn't give you an excess of energy or anything; it just returns you to the state you were prior to being hexed."

Harry tilted his head back and closed his eyes. "Ugh, this is such a headache…."

"You don't think he gave you this on purpose?" Hermione inquired, her tone too innocent. "You know, something so dense that you couldn't possibly get a handle on it? Maybe he set you up to fail—"

"It was his reading list. He just whipped it out of his desk and handed it over to me. I can show you if you want. It's annotated and everything." Harry pushed himself to his feet, deciding that he really needed a walk to clear his head before their Defense class. They still had a good hour or so before it began anyway. "Maybe I really can't be useful. And I don't know what to do in that case, because… I don't know, maybe this really is barmy. But I want this to work out. But it's not like I can just chat about the weather or something casual with him…."

Ron winced, probably imagining the torture of trying to make small talk with Snape. " 'Fifty points from Gryffindor for bothering me with these trifles,'" Ron quipped.

"Look, I need a break. I'll catch up with you before Defense, all right?"

Hermione and Ron both frowned.

"Where are you going?" Ron demanded suspiciously. "Gonna go snog Ginny, is that right?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "If we were going to do that, I'd do it right in front of you. Ginny thinks it's funny when you go all purple."

"Do not!" Ron protested. "And you should—"

"I'm not meeting Ginny, all right? She's in Herbology now anyway, you dolt. I just need to stretch my legs."

"You want us to go with you?" Hermione offered.

"Nah," Harry replied with a reassuring grin. "I'm just going to pop down the Infirmary real quick and see how Pansy's doing if she's still there."

Ron groaned. "You're not obsessing over that too, are you? Look, I know you said that some of the students were talking about having an open season on Slytherins, but come on, after last year…. It's just talk, and Pansy's just one case, all right? Can this be the one year where we don't sneak around trying to solve all of Hogwarts' problems? You know, let the next generation take up the mantle and all that."

"I'm just checking on her," Harry stressed, "as a concerned classmate. All right? I'm not going to go start a crusade or anything. I'm just doing what Snape said, publicly showing my sympathy."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Oh, well if Snape said, then you'd best do it. Can't let him down and find out what it's like for him not to like you or something. Wouldn't that be awful?"

Harry shoved his bottlecap into his pocket. "He really has been decent lately," Harry stated defensively. "He even gave Gryffindor points—"

"Five measly points," Ron griped. "After all the points he's knocked off over the years? I think the balance is still pretty bad on the whole, mate. Now, if he wants to start handing them out like they're candy, then, maybe, we can talk about him being decent."

"There's more to life than points," Hermione grumbled, though she didn't sound too supportive of Harry's "Snape is decent" argument.

Harry decided that it was a good time to leave. "Thanks for your help, Hermione. I'll see you both later."

As he left, he heard Ron mutter something that sounded suspiciously like, "Probably needs the extra time to crawl all the way up Snape's arse".

Hermione's high-pitched "Ronald!" was all he needed for confirmation.