Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter NOR any of his friends NEITHER any of his enemies. It's hard to admit, but when I'm done with them all, I have to return them to Joanne K. Rowling in an original wrapping and unharmed. I make no money, I mean no harm.
Patchwork
Speak Your Mind
"I didn't expect you to bring your luggage," Professor McGonagall said with a raised eyebrow. "Are you so eager to get back to school?" Hermione's face lit up, Draco shyly smiled and Neville said: "Um, yes?" in a voice that made Sprout snigger.
"We decided to start as early as possible," Sprout explained when she composed herself.
"We weren't in middle of anything or so," Neville added. "There was really no point in waiting." The discussion had gone in a friendly atmosphere, if a bit slowly, for about fifteen minutes until Professor McGonagall had arrived. She had changed the mood into a tense, nervous one, although it had hardly been her aim.
"Of course," McGonagall nodded. She had dark circles under her eyes and tense lines around the mouth and Neville wondered whether doing both her deputy's work and her own had really taken it out of her as Severus had claimed. He hadn't thought that possible until he had seen her.
"I thought it would be wise not to put you back in your houses." The unsaid especially for Mr. Malfoy hung in the air. There were still Slytherins faithful to Voldemort, and in spite of the fact the Death Eaters' circles had been more exposed than after the first war, some of them were walking free. "You are older than the rest of the students and you have experience they wouldn't understand."
"You will have your own common room," Sprout continued. "Smaller, of course, but you should have the privacy you deserve."
"And I will arrange for a table just for you. I imagine you would prefer to stay together after the war." They accepted that without argument. Neither Hermione nor Draco had thought of that before, but the very idea of being parted after the last few months seemed absurd and horrid.
"It has also been decided you would recieve tutoring rather than joining the current seventh years," McGonagall continued. "In some subjects, such as Defense Against the Dark Arts, you have already covered most of the syllabus, while in more academic fields you could use some extra practice to renew your knowledge."
"We all understand you had other things on your mind than housekeeping charms or advanced potting techniques," Sprout supplied amicably. Neville felt ashamed. He was sure he had forgotten a lot about basic potting techniques.
McGonagall clasped her hands behind her back and cleared her throat. The tension in her shoulders became visible to Hermione and Draco and they looked at each other with a silent question. Neville whispered "I know," while barely moving his lips.
"You will be required to follow the school rules." McGonagall measured them with a hard stare and they all felt eleven years old again. "You will be, however, allowed to visit Hogsmeade any day provided you'll be back in your common room before midnight."
"Just don't show off before younger students," Sprout murmured.
"We won't," Hermione promised. Draco's shoulders seemed to sag and both McGonagall and Hermione shot him a dark glare.
"Well, that's all. If you have any trouble, come to me or Professor Sprout and we will deal with it." McGonagall greeted them with a sharp nod and left.
"If there are no more questions, I'll show you your common room," Sprout said warmly.
If there was anything Severus Snape really feared, it was the first Gryffindor-Slytherin lesson of the first-years. The Hufflepuffs were hard-working and mostly quiet and the Ravenclaws sometimes managed to comprehend the beauty of potion-making, but the mixture of little lions and serpents was rarely safe and always explosive.
It wasn't because they would be without talent. Some Slytherins became more than adequate brewers before the end of their fifth years and even a few Gryffindors showed some kind of intelligence... sometimes... but they always started a battle of the ancient War of Houses in his class.
The Gryffindors were, of course, to blame for that. No Slytherin would be so stupid to start a battle in front of their Head of House, and then, Slytherins didn't start battles - they made someone else start them instead. Besides, if the Gryffindors weren't so eager and stupid - and they could call it courageous all they wanted - there would be no anxiety between the houses at all.
To add to the pleasanteries of that school year, the first first-years Gryffindor-Slytherin Potions lesson fell to Monday afternoon.
What a mutton-headed dolt could have ruined the beginning of the week like that?
So with a cold feeling in his stomach Snape entered the classroom. The soft murmur that had filled it when the students had entered ended abruptly. He looked around the little faces. Some of them were watching him eagerly - the experience had taught him they were looking forward to causing trouble.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he began and felt warmth returning into his innards. The routine worked, as ever: he could do this. He had kept all his students alive through the lessons so far, and he would continue to do so. They would require his attention, they would keep him on his toes, but they would hardly give him more trouble than he could handle. And before long, they would learn not to mess up with him.
And perhaps they would learn to brew a few potions as well.
He finished his welcoming speech and continued to read the register, writing each face along the name in his memory. They weren't that bad, he ensured himself. Not all of them. There were, however, two boys who had been exchanging desperate looks since the beginning of the lesson, and Snape rounded on them with a set of questions they had a nearly non-existent chance to answer.
A little boy in the back of the classroom, Robert Brocks, a Gryffindor, shot his hand up after the first question was posed, and kept it raising every time Snape's pair of victims mumbled embarassed "don't know, sir".
Another Granger.
To think there was an annoying memorising know-it-all in the school was painful. To know there was one was a torture. But to know there were two of them - and she wouldn't decline an invitation to Hogwarts before the hell froze - that was beyond any description and any suffering.
But maybe the boy just wanted to ask about something? Or he might be sick - a small, yet not no possibility. And at the very least, he remained sitting on his chair...
"Mr. Brocks?" Snape inquired carefully.
"A bezoar can be found in a goat's stomach." A correct answer, and Snape admitted it curtly, turning away from the boy to supply answers to his previous questions as well, when Brocks' hand shot in the air once again.
"Yes, Mr. Brocks?" Snape decided to deal with it right away, whatever it might be.
"Why does it have to be a goat and not a sheep or a llama or a camel?" The curiosity in the big eyes was painfully sincere and Snape found himself trying to compose a short, but truthful answer. That was a nonsense on its own. The reasons behind different magical effects of seemingly similar or even related objects were too complicated to be explained in a few sentences. He didn't have enough time even if he wanted to try, and there was a little chance an eleven year old boy would understand it anyway.
"Because goats are different from sheep," Snape summarised the problem. The boy opened his mouth, probably to ask another question, but Snape continued: "You will learn more about it later." It didn't fully satisfy the boy, but it stopped him from voicing another questions, and for the time being, it satisfied Snape.
Minerva McGonagall, the Headmistress of the Hogwarts School of Wizardry and Witchcraft, a Gryffindor and a war heroine, was seated in her chair at her desk in her office, a glass of brandy in one hand, her wand in the other, and a pile of parchments on the desk.
She was watching them warily. They were just too many - they had to multiply when she wasn't looking or something.
"I'm afraid they are not going to sort themselves out on their own, although I'm sure some of them don't really require any attention." When Minerva looked up, Dumbledore's eyes were closed. She frowned, but reached for the nearest parchment, scanning it. She kept working for an hour and the pile nearly disappeared.
So did the brandy from her glass.
She pushed both the rest of the parchments and the empty glass away and got up.
"Albus," she said firmly when she stood before the painting. He opened one eye, lightly smiling.
"Yes, Minerva?" he prompted after a while.
"I... I just..." She sighed and looked away.
"I know it seems hard now," Dumbledore soothed quietly. "But it didn't seem different to me the first year I was a Headmaster, and the last year really wasn't a regular one. You will get used to it all, and it will become a matter of routine, you'll see."
"I miss you," Minerva mumbled.
"You knew it was inevitable, one day, one way or another. You'll..."
"You don't understand," Minerva interrupted him and looked up. "I miss you. Not the headmaster, not the greatest wizard of our age," she continued, raising her voice more and more, and red spots appeared on her cheeks. "I miss you, Albus - you, as a man." She spun and walked briskly out of her office, the paintings of former headmasters and headmistresses quietly pretending they hadn't witnessed anything personal.
Dumbledore shifted uneasily in his painted armchair. He was more than sure there had been tears in Minerva's eyes, and for the first time ever he realised he hadn't sacrificed merely his own life during the dreadful minutes on the Astronomy Tower.
A/N: I hope I managed to make the plot move visibly in this one. Have you noticed? (Yes, it's a variation of "please, review". I wanted to be more eloquent. Besides, the feedback keeps me on the track.)
The "mutton-headed dolt" comes from My Fair Lady, a musical I like. And I quote Joanne Rowling's Philosopher Stone, of course. :)