"I just had a most exciting, wonderful idea!" Albus Dumbledore exclaimed.

Severus Snape and Minerva McGonagall exchanged concerned glances out of the corners of their eyes. Filius Flitwick very carefully set his teacup back onto the table without taking a sip. Rolanda Hooch began to slide unobstrusively towards the Staff Room door.

"Er, Albus?" Pomona Sprout spoke up nervously. "This ... idea... does it involve monstrous three-headed hellhounds, giant animated chess pieces, or trolls?"

"Of course, not, my dear --"

"Giant snakes, messages in blood, and hidden chambers only accessible via a language no-one will admit to speaking?" asked Aurora Sinistra, looking gravely at him over the rims of her spectacles.

"Escaped convicts, dangerous once-banned contests filled with mortal peril, or disguised death eaters?" added Abernathy Jones, the muggle studies professor.

Dumbledore laughed. "Why, the ideas you have! No, no -- none of that, now. It's a little idea, a small contest to keep the students' minds from the brewing conflict, taking advantage of this small moment of peace."

Nobody in the staff room looked reassured. The door squeaked alarmingly as Hooch bolted. Not a few wistful glances followed her departure.

McGonagall leaned forward. "And what, exactly, does this 'contest' involve, Albus?" she asked deliberately.

Dumbledore's eyes lit up. He very much resembled a child left unsupervised in a candy shop. "Why, Minerva, I never thought you'd ask!" he exclaimed. "I've decided to call it Suvivor: Hogwarts."

Complete silence met his pronouncement. Then, the door creaked open and a first-year Hufflepuff stuck his head in: "Excuse me, Madam Pomphrey--"

"Oh would you look at that!" Poppy Pomphrey exclaimed with no small measure of relief. "I'm needed in the infirmary -- small emergency, nothing to worry about." She quickly left the room, perhaps a mite faster than propriety would allow.

The remaining victims teachers exchanged concerned glances, a common thought running amongst themselves: Survivor? And what about those that don't survive?

"The premise is simple," Dumbledore continued, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the Staff Room. "Each professor will sponsor one seventh year student. The students will then participate in a series of challenges. At the end of the week, the lowest-scoring student will be asked to leave."

Irma Pince stood up and casually strolled to the door, turned the knob, and left. Dumbledore didn't even blink.

"As incentive," he continued. "The student who 'survives' will win a trophy in the trophy room and a prize of 1000 galleons. The student's sponsor will also receive 1000 galleons, and have their name engraved below the student's on the trophy."

Some of the professors now looked mildly interested.

"Oh," Dumbledore added. "As such, there will be no quidditch this year."

The dungeons were pleasantly cool in early September. Severus Snape strolled calmly through the depths of Hogwarts, reveling in the stillness. The silence was welcome after the rampant havoc of the Staff Room after Dumbledore's pronouncement. One would think that "no quidditch" equated somehow to "Armageddon."

But now, this new contest. Survivor. Yes, he wanted to win. His teachers' salary was small, and he could hardly afford the upkeep on his house at Spinner's End as well as his potions ingredients on it alone. Taking on freelance work only taxed his time and supplies even further. 1000 galleons would go far in establishing himself as a freelance potions brewer; not enough to establish his own business, but, if invested properly, a good start. Writs of Incorporation from the Ministry of Magic cost approximately 1500 galleons, and locations on Diagon Alley cost approximately 200 galleons per month to rent. Admittedly, Nocturne Alley would be cheaper, but if he was to do this, he was going to do this right.

He had to win, that was for certain. There was too much at stake, too much to gain. Who would he sponsor? Draco, of course --

He stopped. Would Draco Malfoy win? Could he win? There was no incentive for him to win; money was no object for a Malfoy, and a name on a trophy? Ha, child's play. Draco was too arrogant, too caught up in his own superiority to adequately evaluate his competition. Who else could he choose?

He started walking again, thoughts a-whirl. Crabbe and Goyle were too dumb. Bulstrode was little better, but at least she could focus independently. Nott was smart, but a loner; he had much time to observe, but little to interact. He was a distinct possibility, but his lack of interpersonal skills would seriously impair his ability to determine whether someone was his ally or enemy. Parkinson, like Draco, would have little incentive to win. Zabini... there was little to be said about Zabini.

Could he sponsor a non-Slytherin? It was possible, he knew, but what would his House think? If he explained his reasoning to Draco, perhaps then the boy would keep Slytherin House loyal. Not for free, of course, but perhaps a little bribing. Some points, some cases of butterbeer, a month's worth of risk-free access to Potter's cauldron for sabotage purposes...

He froze, mid-step. Potter. Gryffindor's golden boy, Dumbledore's favorite. Exceptionally skilled at defense, good at charms and transfiguration. Quite powerful. Many friends, adequate interpersonal skills. Extraordinarily lucky.

He would sponsor Potter. Black would roll in his grave, if he had one. Now all that remained was to find him before Lupin or McGonagall.

Potter would need some serious bribing. What could he offer that Lupin or McGonagall couldn't?

It was the first day of classes, and Harry Potter was already late to breakfast. Hermione and Ron had left as he was still digging through his badly packed trunk, cursing as he tried to locate his tie. He had sprinted down the steps, burst out of the portrait... and ran into Professor Snape.

Not literally, of course. Then he'd be dead, not late.

Snape simply raised an eyebrow. "Mr Potter," he said. "A word."

"Sir, I'm late for breakfast, and --" Harry stopped, blinking in astonishment. Why did he just say that? It must be a lack of sleep; his subconscious usually didn't have such an obvious death wish.

Snape's other eyebrow rose and joined the first near his hairline. "The kitchens, then," he replied. "Come, Potter." He turned and swept off down a corridor.

Harry blinked again and sprinted after him. "Sir--"

"The Headmaster, in his infinite wisdom, has decided to cancel quidditch again this year, Mr Potter," Snape said without looking at him as they turned a corner.

"What!" Harry exclaimed, horrified. "He can't do that!"

"He can and he has, Mr Potter."

"But, but ... why?" Harry asked as they reached the area of the kitchens. He reached out and tickled the pear. A horde of squealing house elves herded them into two seats. A veritable feast appeared along the table. Harry spooned eggs and bacon onto his plate.

"Hogwarts will once more be playing host to a contest," Snape replied as he accepted a mug of tea from a hovering elf. At Harry's horrified look, he added, "Not the Triwizard Tournament, Potter. One of his own invention. He calls it Survivor: Hogwarts." Harry did not look placated by the thought.

"Each professor, with the exceptions of Professors Hooch and Binns, is to sponsor one student in the contest. This student will then compete in a series of unknown challenges. At the end of each week, the contestant with the lowest score is disqualified. The ultimate winner receives a trophy and 1000 galleons, as does his sponsor."

Harry stared at Snape, his breakfast forgotten. "You want to sponsor me," he stated, flatly. It was not a question.

Snape inclined his head. "I can make it worth your time and effort."

"After everything that's happened to me in the past few years, especially the last contest I had to do, you really expect me to volunteer for something else?"

"You may consider this a training exercise," Snape replied. "After the blow the Order dealt to the Dark Lord in your sixth year, we may expect a period of reprieve. The challenges of the contest can only help prepare you for the coming conflict."

Harry nodded his understanding. Snape did make a good point. Now that Voldemort was most certainly back and gaining strength and supporters, nobody could ignore the looming war any longer.

Snape continued, "I will, of course, make this worth your time and effort, should you choose to accept my sponsorship. I can offer you training in any aspect of magic, tutoring, advice, potions, books. Anything you might need to succeed."

Even better. Harry considered the offer. On the one hand, anyone could offer him the same. Remus or McGonagall, surely. Except, maybe, for the potions. But he really hadn't ever needed to use potions in anything before. But Snape knew Voldemort better than anyone else; he knew the Death Eaters and their ways. He would be able to teach him how to defend himself, and maybe attack them successfully. But if Snape was desperate enough to win to be asking him...

"Three conditions," Harry replied, leaning forward. Snape looked surprised that Harry would consider bargaining. A glint of something appeared in his eyes. "First, you'll treat Hermione decently in Potions. I know she's sometimes a bit much, but you don't have to belittle everything she does." On second thought, asking Snape to compliment her work might be pushing it. "Even if you just ignore her, that'd be fine."

Snape stared at him, hard. Then he nodded once. "Agreed."

"Second," Harry continued. "You'll answer any question of mine, to the fullest extent possible and to the best of your ability."

"For any questions not of a personal nature, agreed."

"Third, an unlimited pass to the restricted section of the Library."

That got him another raised eyebrow. "Not an exemption from curfew?"

Harry was startled. "You'd grant me that?"

"No."

He grinned. "Didn't think so. The pass?"

"Agreed."

Harry stretched out one hand. "Then I accept your sponsorship, Professor Snape."

Snape, looking vaguely incredulous that Harry would accept his proposal -- or, perhaps, that Harry accepted it with so little haggling -- grasped the proferred hand. There was a sudden spark of magic that buzzed about the two of them and flew out of the kitchen.

"Most likely a signal for the Headmaster to know that you have accepted a place in the tournament," Snape told Harry. "Sponsorships will be announced tonight at supper. Please attempt to keep this to yourself in the meantime. Should another teacher approach you, simply tell them you have already accepted the sponsorship of another." He rose. "I leave you to your breakfast. Contact me if you want a meeting."

Snape left in a swirl of robes. Harry glanced down, poked at the quivering mass of cold eggs on his plate, and wondered what exactly he had just gotten himself into.