Professor Snape beheld his last class's worth of students departing, a scowl firmly affixed on his face. Unbidden, his mind cast back to last night's discussion with Dumbledore. They had rehashed the unpleasant fight, naturally, and Severus was gratified to note that Black would be in for quite an unpleasant dressing-down from the Headmaster. However, the old wizard had other things to discuss, and in fact had presented him with a request -- an order, really, but Dumbledore had a way of making the harshest demand sound like a polite entreaty. Snape had argued with him, grumbled and growled and even yelled a few times, but both of them had known that he would do it. His little display of temper was just to keep the status quo, so the Headmaster would not think that his will could be bent so easily.
“Tutor the Potter boy,” he growled. Tutor him indeed! And teach him what? The many ways the Death Eaters liked to kill? How they relished every scream of their victims?
“Teach him, Severus,” the shrewd old wizard had told him. “Arm him with the knowledge of what he is about to face. Steel his resolve for the coming battle. And, above all, teach him how to fight back. There is no better man for the job than you.”
And it was thus that, despite his better judgment, he had cornered Potter after class and told him, in clipped tones, to meet him at eight o'clock in the classroom. Potter, having already spoken to Dumbledore, did not question, merely nodding a bit in resignation. The boy obviously could not bear the thought of being with him for a whole extra hour. The feeling was wholeheartedly mutual.
As much as he dreaded the eighth hour, the time seemed to simply fly by. After dinner, he busied himself concocting a mixture, letting the familiar routine soothe his nerves. And, before he even realized what time it was, a timid knock sounded. Snape briefly consulted his pocket watch and uttered a soft curse. Already? “Come in,” he snapped, and the door creaked open just enough to allow a young teenage boy with glasses and slightly unkempt hair entered. He brushed away an errant lock from before his eye and said in a voice that wasn't quite as steady as he hoped, “I'm here, Professor.”
“So I see.” Snape left his bubbling concoction and turned to face the intruder. He gestured to one of the classroom chairs, and Harry fell into it gratefully, as he positioned himself to lean against the large desk. “I can tell that you are less than thrilled to be here. I myself can think of about a hundred other things I'd rather do, swallowing ground glass being amongst them.” He sighed and ran his hand through his dark, eternally greasy-looking hair. “But we cannot turn from the face of duty. I will teach you what you need to know, and you will learn and not ask too many questions. As for the rest of the time, you stay out of my way and I'll stay out of yours. Agreed?” The nod of an ink-colored head was good enough for him. “Very well. Just so we understand each other. Now, if you are prepared--“
Suddenly Potter jumped to his feet, mouth open, finger pointing. “Professor! Your potion!” he exclaimed. Snape turned just in time to see his painstaking efforts of the past few hours roiling in its cauldron, then surging upward in a spectacular eruption, showering the surrounding area with smoking whitish liquid. He looked at it for a moment, speechless, then uttered an extremely vulgar curse and dove at the mess, trying to salvage the remnants of the mixture. “Dammit! A total waste,” he growled. Glaring at the mess, he pulled out his infrequently-used wand and cast a cleansing spell. That took care of the spattering, but the cauldron still sat smoking and burnt. “My favorite cauldron, too,” he lamented, setting it aside.
He swiftly turned his head and pinned Harry with a venomous look. The young man forced his mouth to work, then managed to choke out, “I-I'm sorry, Professor. It was my fault.” It hurt his pride to say it, but the furious glint went out of the Potion Master's eyes. Snape knew that it was really his own fault for allowing himself to become distracted, but he would certainly never admit that to that rotten Gryffindor whose head was far too swollen already. “Very well,” he said grudgingly. “I fear our first lesson will be slightly delayed. I'd best get started on a new potion straight away. Your precious werewolf is depending on it.” The last few words were practically spat from his mouth. Harry stiffened at the tone but wisely held his tongue. This mixture would help his dear friend, who had returned to Hogwarts as well at Dumbedore's request. He knew how Lupin depended on the Wolfsbane Potion to keep his sanity during the full moon.
Harry shifted from foot to foot, then blurted out, “Can I help? It might go faster if the both of us worked on it.”
The professor's face formed a sneer, then relaxed as he genuinely considered the offer. “I won't let you help create the actual potion. It is extremely complex and requires precise doses. However, you can assist in passing me the ingredients I require.” He stalked around the room, gathering a clean cauldron and a large spoon to stir with. Without looking up, he began to call out ingredients. Harry had no trouble finding them -- Snape kept his supplies very neatly ordered, alphabetized and sorted by potency. He watched in reluctant awe as Snape poured the ingredients from each bottle directly into the cauldron without bothering to measure them. There was no doubt that, if the amounts had been placed on a scale, they would exactly equal the required amount.
“Wormwood,” the other man called out, hunched intently over the cauldron. Harry dutifully turned to fetch the ingredient. He looked on the shelf on which he expected it to be, but it was nowhere in sight. He even peeked behind the other bottles to see if it had gotten pushed aside somehow. No such luck.
“Umm… it's not there.”
“What do you mean it's not there? Are you looking in the right place?”
Harry bristled but managed to keep his temper in check. “Positive. I see witch hazel, wolfsbane, but no wormwood.”
Snape stalked past him, finger outstretched and ready to point at the blatantly obvious bottle… which wasn't there. There was nothing but an open space. His finger wavered in the air, and Harry felt a surge of defiant triumph. “Where could that blasted bottle have gone to? I had it this morning!” Grumbling under his breath, he made a brief circuit of the room, dark eyes roaming in search of the bottle. Finally he uttered a locating charm, and his wand tugged in his hand, pointing downward at the far corner of the room. He stomped over to the area and bent down, practically lying down on the cold stone floor, craning his head to see. There! It was there, underneath the desk, lying in the shadows. He strained and managed to snag it, dragging it out, and he straightened, nearly cracking his head on the desk. “Blasted first years!” he ranted. “Can't be trusted to treat anything with respect!” In this respect, Harry had to agree. It was rather careless of whichever student had been sitting there. For a brief moment, he understood Snape's anger toward those who did not take potions seriously, then it faded. Who would actually be interested in mixing together a bunch of smelly chemicals anyway?
The glowering professor returned his attention to the cauldron, adding the infusion of wormwood. He called out a few more ingredients, then demanded dragon-hide gloves. Harry handed them to him wordlessly, a question in his eyes. Ignoring his curiosity, Snape headed for the furthermost rack and selected a thin decanter. “Stand back,” he snapped as he approached. “I don't want you getting in the way of this.” Harry was only too happy to back away as the sallow-faced man uncorked the bottle, noting how its contents fizzled and bubbled ominously. Snape took a large amount of care as he poured its contents into the cauldron, and even wiped the bottle after capping it once more. He busied himself with replacing the ingredient as Harry idly thought that that particular item would surely never find itself on the list of classroom potions.
The boy watched his professor working away at the mixture bubbling merrily before him, rather interested to see that Snape muttered to himself occasionally as he stirred it, making random notes on its consistency and hue. As he worked on the potion, his normal abrasiveness seemed to fade, leaving him to appear almost content. Potion-making was a subtle and unappreciated art, and it seemed to pacify the taciturn man. Harry blinked in surprise. He had never seen Snape so calm and relaxed in his presence. Finally the man stepped back, allowing the spoon to stir on its own in a circular rhythm. Their gazes locked, and Snape seemed a bit startled, as if he had forgotten that he had company. “All right, Potter,” he muttered. “I suppose we have a bit of work to do.”
“But what about the potion?” he asked nervously, certainly not wanting a repeat of the episode from earlier.
“It will be fine for an hour as long as it is constantly stirred. After that, I will work on the second phase.”
“Second phase?!” Harry goggled. Just how long did this thing take to brew anyway? It must kill Snape to waste so much energy for someone he despised.
Snape allowed himself a smirk. “I told you that it was a very complex potion. It contains three stages and must be handled very delicately.” That fact seemed to please him to no end. Harry quickly revised his previous thought. The Potions Master clearly enjoyed the challenge that such a complex task presented.
He suddenly clapped his hands together in one brisk movement. “We have precious little time left. We had better begin the lesson while we still have the opportunity. Today we will practice avoiding hexes and curses. I know that Moody -- or rather, the one who was impersonating him -- has introduced you to the Unforgivable Curses. I also know for a fact that you have well-mastered the disarming spell.” His eyes narrowed, and Harry flinched guiltily. He, in conjunction with Hermione and Ron, had used the Expelliarmus Charm with enough force to knock Snape unconscious two years ago. He really was hoping that Snape wouldn't bring that up. He realized that Snape was still speaking and dragged his mind back to the lecture at hand. “…I may cover some of the same ground, but I want to make sure that your training is thorough. The first spell we are going to work on is the reflecting spell. This will allow you to turn an opponent's curse back on himself.” Harry nodded, wishing he had learned this one a lot sooner. It would have protected him a lot better than ducking and running! “The command is reflectus. The trick is to execute it at the proper moment to redirect the incoming curse. Ready?”
Before Harry could even nod, Snape whipped out his wand and shouted “Cerinus!” His skin promptly turned a shunshine-yellow color. Again Snape moved and called out. Harry yelped “Reflectus!”, but the spell was a bit late, and he was suddenly seized with a nasty crawling sensation. Snape looked rather irritated, shifting back and forth slightly, and Harry bit back a nasty grin. He had been able to reflect at least a portion of that one. The next twenty minutes passed in very much the same manner, Harry reflecting each curse and spell as it came hurtling toward him, until he could turn back each and every one. Snape was a rather interesting sight, skin a mottled red and blue, covered in alternating scales and boils. “Finite incantatem!” With that, the both of them were restored. After that they moved onto several other similar methods of deflecting, dissipating, and dodging dangerous curses.
After some time, the Potions Master surveyed him with a critical eye. “I think we've done enough for today. Return at the same tomorrow night. We have much to accomplish.” He then turned his back on the young man, checking on his bubbling potion, leaving Harry to scowl crossly. He'd done a good job, and Snape knew it! Would it kill the man to say a kind word to him? It wasn't as if Harry was enjoying this any more than he was. He stomped off, unconsciously doing a very good imitation of Snape as he stalked back to the Gryffindor tower.