The next morning found the three young Gryffindors huddled together, whispering to each other about the previous night's odd events. Harry cast occasional curious glances towards the empty chair at the professors' table that was noticeably devoid of a black-clad presence. “He's still not here,” he said, knowing that he was merely stating the obvious.
Hermione shrugged, sending her bushy brown hair cascading over her shoulders. “Maybe he's sick. Or he's overindulged.”
Ron allowed a broad smile to cross his face. “God, I hope so!” he breathed. “A whole class without Snape breathing down our necks! It would be heaven!”
Harry tried to feel as delighted with their professor's absence as his best friend did, but his conscience pricked at him. “I can't say I'd cry if he didn't show up for class today… but I'd feel better if he did. I have the awful feeling that things aren't going well for Snape with the Death Eaters. And that can't mean anything good for us.”
Ron snorted, but a veil of worry fell over his eyes, extinguishing the usual impish twinkle within. But before he could respond, the door on the side of the Great Hall flew open, and the subject of their furtive conversation swept in, albeit a bit slower and less stately than usual. The man's head was bent, a slight grimace on his face, as he headed resolutely to his usual place at the head table. He plopped himself down gracelessly, took one look at the hotcakes before him, and pushed them roughly away. His normally pale skin tones had faded to a grayish cast, and his eyes were pinched and nearly half-closed, as if the light pained him. The Gryffindor trio watched him surreptitiously as he sipped at a glass of orange juice, nibbling at a piece of toast while he rested his head on his hand. Harry spared Hermione a slight nod. As usual, her suppositions had been dead-on.
Ron could not suppress a groan. “Damn. He'll probably be even worse-tempered than usual.”
Harry smirked at him. “Perhaps not. If Snape is as hung-over as he looks, I doubt he'll be able to stand raising his voice too much. Perhaps he should get drunk more often.”
“We'll find out in a few minutes,” said Hermione matter-of-factly, rising and gathering up her school bag. “We've got Double Potions first thing today.”
The two boys emitted twin groans of despair as they stood to join her. “I hate Tuesdays!” Ron wailed as they exited the Great Hall on their way to the dungeons. Double Potions was a chore under any circumstances, but having it first thing was an especially difficult hardship to bear.
When Snape entered the classroom, it was with much less fierce energy as usual, and he actually closed the door behind himself, rather than letting it bounce back into place, as was his usual habit. His pace as he stalked to the chalkboard was slow and deliberate, and the hand that wrote the day's potion recipe was slightly unsteady. It was not until this little ritual was finished that he turned to sneer at the assembled Gryffindors and Slytherins. “Today you will be concocting an Endurance Potion. While this is not a particularly difficult potion, it does take strict concentration. Therefore, you must all *pay attention!*” He winced slightly at his own vehemence, the throbbing in his head reaching an unbearable level. “Anyone who causes trouble will have points deducted from their house in mass quantities.” This time his glare was leveled squarely at the small gang of Slytherins, who gaped at him, their expressions of wounded pride almost comical. Harry covered his mouth quickly to smother a snicker. They certainly weren't used to having Snape point his vicious temper in their direction! Beside him, Ron was shaking his head slightly in amazement. Snape had actually threatened to strike points from his own house! “I wonder if we can arrange to spike his pumpkin juice?” he murmured in Harry's ear, and the boy had to bite his cheek sharply to avoid bursting out in laughter. Such a loud noise (especially a happy one) was bound to grate on Snape's raw nerves.
With a long-suffering sigh, the Potions Master turned and began setting up his own cauldron. Eyes watched him in mild surprise, for Snape did not often prepare potions himself during class time. “Miss Granger, do make sure that Mr. Longbottom does not destroy this classroom,” he muttered without turning. Neville threw the girl a supremely grateful look as she scooted closer to help. He could tell that Snape was a little off today and hardly wanted to risk provoking him with one of his usual mishaps. Hermione watched the dour man as he added ingredients to his bubbling cauldron, mixed it together, and finally ladled some into a small goblet. “Hangover treatment,” she murmured to the round-faced boy, who looked down at his seething caldron, pressing his lips together until they turned white, not wanting the object of his anxiety to see his amusement. The tiniest smirk curled his mouth upward as he watched the haggard professor down the concoction in one massive gulp. A small spark of spiteful joy burned in his gut at the sight of his tormentor's misery. Serves him right….
To the class's mutual disappointment, Snape seemed to swiftly recover his wits and energy after downing his undoubtedly superbly crafted potion. In fact, the morning's miseries made him even more waspish and foul-tempered than usual. He quickly warmed up to an admirable level of tyranny, snapping at students left and right. And then he whirled and stalked over to Neville Longbottom. The hapless boy shrank back, cowering against his seat, visibly shaken. His potion couldn't be bad, Hermione was actually allowed to help today….! Snape bent over the cauldron, peering at the mixture with a practiced eye, looking for the slightest deviation in color or consistency. Neville was seized by a sudden attack of nerves, and his hand jerked, knocking soundly against the cauldron. It tipped over in spectacular slow motion, fountaining its contents all over the suddenly shocked and silent Potions Master.
Snape stood rooted to the spot, mouth agape, greenish-brown liquid dripping from his robes, which were smoking in an alarming manner. A pained yowl escaped from his lips, and he whirled and dashed for the door of the classroom, long white fingers already tugging frantically at the buttons of his high-collared shirt. The class as a whole turned to gawk at the open door through which the professor had bolted. A nervous silence followed as all eyes swiveled to focus on the hapless Neville Longbottom, who was quaking as he knelt to try and mop up the mess. Hermione stood and took the rag from his numb hand. “Best fetch Madame Pomfrey,” she murmured, and the boy raced out of the room in search of the school nurse, grateful for something to do.
Meanwhile, Snape fled to the safety of his private chambers, mercifully so close by. He swiftly shed his spattered and most likely ruined clothes right by the front door, grateful to note that his billowing robes had absorbed most of the scalding liquid. The house-elves that cleaned his quarters were well-versed in the handling of dangerous substances and could dispose of the garments. The ice-cold shower was a miserable shock to his body, and he shivered uncontrollably, glaring crossly at the bright red patches that were appearing on his abdomen and thighs. One day that Longbottom was going to be the death of him! Merlin, he had left the class unattended… who knows what kind of mischief those children would get into…. He muttered a quick drying spell as he exited the shower, going in search of his large bottle of burn salve. Adept fingers long-used to such treatment spread the mixture over his angry-looking burns, then quickly wrapped gauze bandaging around the wounds. After donning a change of clothes, he was ready to assume the tortures of teaching.
Neville burst into the classroom a few minutes later, followed by an alarmed Madame Pomfrey. Both of them gaped at Professor Snape, who had been in the middle of a lecture, looking for all the world as if nothing had happened. “Professor!” she said breathlessly. “Are you injured? Mister Longbottom told me—“
The man glowered at her, then trained the full force of his malevolent gaze on the hapless boy, quaking and trying to hide behind the nurse. “I am fine, Poppy,” he informed her in icy tones, his head tilted upward with an air of quiet dignity. “My robes protected me from the worst of it. You needn't concern yourself, for I have already dressed my wounds.”
The woman gave him a shrewd look. “All the same, I would prefer to inspect the injuries myself.” She stood her ground as the Potion Master's glare intensified and his lips pressed into an angry, thin line. “I will expect to see you in the infirmary before lunchtime.” With those victorious parting words, she turned and headed back to her domain, sparing a sympathetic pat on the shoulder for the shivering wreck of a boy.
Once Pomfrey had departed, Neville was left standing alone in the doorway. He slunk back into the classroom, head bowed and shoulders slumped, as if desperately trying to make himself smaller and less of a target. Snape's lips twitched, wanting to form themselves into an awful smile, but he restrained himself. It was not good to let his expression give him away – rule number one for a spy. “Mister Longbottom,” he purred silkily, and Neville froze, having just reached his desk. “I believe a deduction of points is in order. Thirty points will be removed from Gryffindor for assaulting a professor. And another twenty for making your friends clean up your mess.” His glare shifted to Hermione, Harry and Ron, who all looked outraged. They had tidied up as a favor to Neville!
“But that's not fair!” Ron exclaimed heatedly. “It was an accident! And he went to get help for you! How can you be so bloody—“ A feminine hand clapped itself over his mouth, stifling the damning words that threatened to spill forth. Hermione gave him a stern look, silently warning him not to make the situation any worse. Harry settled for glaring wordlessly at their tormentor, allowing his eyes to speak every vile curse that lay in his heart. He didn't care what Snape had gone through that weekend! He had no right to take it out on someone as fragile as Neville Longbottom!
But Snape was not finished. “Get out of my sight, Longbottom,” he said with deadly calm. “You are spared from detention because I want you nowhere near my dungeons.” He turned to sneer at the class as a whole, most particularly at his Slytherins, who looked gobsmacked. “A word of advice. Should any of you choose to attack me in such a fashion, you best finish the job the first time. There will not be a second chance. You are dismissed.”
Those words seemed to break a terrible spell, and the students leapt to their feet, all racing to be the first to escape the hellish prison that the classroom had become. The Gryffindors all clustered around a flustered Longbottom, who was valiantly choking back tears, at least until they were out of the line of sight from the professor from Hell. Harry spared a glance over his shoulder as they hastily exited the room, just in time to see Snape bury his head in his hands. His stomach performed a disconcerting flop, and he found himself fiercely quashing a streak of sympathy. If Snape couldn't handle the heat, he should get out of the kitchen. It was as simple as that.
* * * * *
The next few days passed in a blur. It was a relief to Harry not to dwell the evenings he spent with Snape, who worked him harder than ever, seeming to take a rather sadistic pleasure in pushing him to his limits. Still, the boy could not help but notice the dark smudges under the man's eyes and the slightly pinched look on his face that betrayed Snape's own fatigue. These lessons took a lot out of both of them, and Harry would have been more than pleased to have a day off, but he knew better than to broach the subject. He had no doubt that the foul-tempered Potions Master would extend the lessons simply to make Harry miserable, even if he himself suffered in the process.
* * * * *
It was with great joy that he left on the trip for Hogsmeade with his friends. At last, a day free of worries, a day to be spent mindlessly wandering from store to store, stuffing his face with sweets and chatting about nothing of consequence. Even the oppressive heat that warned of approaching summer could not dampen his spirits. The butterbeer they shared in the Three Broomsticks tasted especially fine. The day, in fact, had been as close to perfect as possible… until Seamus Finnigan bolted outside the pub and doubled over, becoming violently ill on the flagstones. It was painfully obvious that he had managed, at last, to turn his beverage into rum. The worried exclamations of his classmates summoned Professor McGonagall from within the establishment. She tutted in a disapproving manner as she helped him get cleaned up. “Of all the spells to concentrate on!” she lamented. Seamus nodded wholeheartedly, entirely regretting his experimentation. She looked past the shivering boy to a tall, dark figure that was stalking past the far end of the road. “Professor Snape! Thank heavens you're here! I need your assistance.”
Harry froze, his blood turning to ice as the mini thundercloud on legs approached, the man's demeanor as foreboding as his attire. He hadn't even realized that the Potions Master had accompanied them…. He growled in silent frustration, feeling his cheer evaporate. Couldn't he ever escape this hateful man? What was Snape doing here anyway? He had half-thought that the bad-tempered wizard spent his time either hiding from the sunlight or hanging upside-down from the dungeon ceilings like an overgrown bat. He had certainly never thought that someone as bitter as Snape would come on a fun outing such as this.
The dour professor shifted his large sack to the side, reaching into his robes, a soft clanking of glass bottles chiming from the within the bag. Potions ingredients, then. Figures. Snape withdrew a slender vial and held it to the rather green-looking Finnigan, who was holding his head and moaning softly. “Drink this,” he growled, his scowl growing deeper at the boy's hesitation. “It will settle your nauseous stomach. I expect you will have a hangover in the morning, which is entirely your fault, and for which I refuse to provide the antidote. You foolhardy Gryffindors have to learn the consequences of your actions.”
“Thank you, sir,” Seamus murmured, eyes fixed firmly on the ground. He *was* feeling tremendously better, but being indebted to the vitriolic head of Slytherin House was unbearable!
Snape turned his dark eyes on Professor McGonagall. “He should remain prone for the return journey. The potion I gave him will be useless if he vomits it out. And if there's one thing I hate, it's a waste of a good potion.” He glared fiercely at the young Gryffindor, as if silently daring him to have the gall to void his stomach of the carefully-prepared concoction.
With a beleaguered sigh, McGonagall muttered under her breath, summoning the carriages that would carry them back to Hogwarts. Their outing had been nearly over anyway, and there was nothing like an ill student to put a damper on things for everyone. “Into the carriages, everyone!” she said sternly, clapping her hands. They went, to her relief, with a modicum of fuss. She was privately pleased to see Harry linger behind, helping Seamus get settled on the padded seat of one of the carriages. It wasn't until everyone had gotten settled that a problem arose – there simply wasn't an extra seat to be had. Harry had been squeezed in between Ron and Hermione on the trip down, having endured the discomfort in anticipation of the day's adventures. But with Seamus taking up a bench for himself, Harry had no place to sit at all. If only he had his broom! He'd be able to fly back to Hogwarts in record time!
He darted a quick, nervous glance toward Professor McGonagall, wondering how she would solve this dilemma. The reluctant gaze she shot him, which then slid over to Professor Snape, made his entire body freeze in horror. Oh no… she wouldn't! Harry wearily kissed his pleasant day goodbye. “Mister Potter,” she addressed him in a voice that was calm yet firm, “I am afraid that the student coaches have already been filled. However, you are quite welcome to ride back in the professors' carriage. I assure you that your return trip will be much more comfortable than the one that led you here.” His sole pleasure was the look of horror on Snape's face. He was going to hate this even more than Harry himself. The boy allowed a small measure of spite to rise within him. At least he wouldn't be the only one to suffer!
McGonagall fixed the Potions professor with a steady gaze. “Is this arrangement acceptable to you, Severus?”
The man pressed his lips together in a thin line, looking very much like it was not acceptable to him at all. He breathed a silent sigh, looking the Potter boy from head to toe with a bit of disdain. “That which does not kill us makes us stronger,” he growled in resignation. Knowing that the students and other professors were becoming restless, McGonagall ushered them into the remaining carriage, which Harry was relieved to see, was reserved for the three of them alone. He wasn't up for making much small talk with his other teachers. The Transfiguration professor diplomatically took her seat next to Harry, leaving Snape to sit by himself on the opposite bench, which was no doubt how he preferred it. It was no small relief to Harry when the carriage started up. The faster they got going, the sooner they would be back at Hogwarts, and he could lament his latest Snape encounter to a sympathetic Ron and Hermione.
The scowling man muttered a few soft words under his breath, and the air in the carriage cooled by several degrees, as if a fresh breeze had blown in. Snape reached into his robe and pulled out a handkerchief, wiping his forehead, which was dotted with fine beads of perspiration. “What a miserably hot day!” he lamented. Harry could not help but gape slightly. He had never seen the man do something so… human. He had thought that Snape was above feeling anything, even changes in the weather.
The woman across from Snape shook her head. “You would not be so uncomfortable if you did not wear such long clothing, Severus. I'm sure you are aware of this.” Harry cast a sidelong glance at her. Her attire was still dignified and appropriate, but her robes were lighter and more airy, definitely more comfortable for hotter temperatures. The Potions Master, on the other hand, wore exactly the same type of outfit year-round: high-necked shirts with far too many buttons, long pants that reached down to his shoes, all covered by his swishing black robe.
Snape sighed. “I hardly have a choice, Minerva. With my complexion, I would burn to a crisp within ten minutes were I not covered properly.”
McGonagall raised a questioning eyebrow. “Surely there are potions for that.”
“There are.” The man snorted lightly. “But they are very time-consuming to brew. The Wolfsbane takes up a good deal of my time as it is. This way is simply more expedient.” Harry pressed his lips together and stared fixedly out the window, trying not to laugh at the absurd topic of conversation regarding the amount of clothing his most loathed professor chose to wear.
“You need not worry about sunburn indoors,” McGonagall pointed out quite reasonably.
“The dungeons are much cooler,” Snape argued.
Minerva smirked. “You are just too set in your ways to change.”
The man's thin, pale lips twitched, betraying his amusement. “Perhaps.” Harry was thunderstruck. This ride could prove interesting after all! He was privately relieved that he didn't seem expected to participate in conversation. He felt awkward as it was.
McGonagall favored her colleague with a small smile. “Speaking of summertime, Severus, what are your plans this year? Will you stay at Hogwarts and continue your research projects?”
The dark-clad man steeped his fingers together contemplatively, surprising Harry, who had expected Snape to let fly with one of his sarcastic barbs. “I haven't yet decided. There's always the annual Potion Masters convention, which is in Strasbourg, France this year. It's beyond me why they chose that place this time around…. Anyway, I have been publishing my efforts to improve upon the Wolfsbane potion, and they are behaving as if Christmas has come early. I am quite certain they will not forgive me if I decline to make an appearance. Though the last time I went, Master Grayson was livid with me for suggesting a possible improvement for his somnolent potion. I dare say he would have strangled me but for the severe arthritis in his fingers.”
McGonagall could not hide her amusement. “Are these gatherings always so eventful?”
Snape rolled his eyes theatrically. “Aside for the occasional scuffle, no. Most of the attendees are quite along in their years. Most have taken to the unfortunate habit of calling me 'sonny'. It is really quite irritating.”
Minerva's smile broadened at the mental image of a scowling Snape accosted by feeble elderly colleagues, asking to be escorted here and there. “Well, you *are* young enough to be a grandson to most of them,” she pointed out. “Not everyone makes Potions Master at twenty-five. If I recall, you made quite the stir with that accomplishment.”
“Yes,” Snape replied, thankfully not registering that Potter's mouth was once more agape at this news. “Before that, the youngest person to ever pass the exam was thirty-four. And he had to take the test three times.”
Minerva tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, leaning forward slightly. “Enlighten me on this exam. I've heard so much about it that I don't know what is fact and what is fiction. Is it really as awful as I've been told?”
The man tilted his head to the side slightly, reflecting. “It's quite a bit like the Cruciatus Curse, actually. Both seem to involve agony that continues for hours, and just when you think it will end, it only becomes worse. The exam typically lasts for eight hours, so by the time it is over, those who have taken it no longer have much capacity in the way of coherent thought. Thankfully, there is a retired Potions Master in the vicinity that owns a pub and lets all test-takers take their drinks and a nap at his establishment free of charge.”
“And it is not unusual for students to take the exam more than once?”
Snape shook his head, all traces of hostility fading in the discussion of his profession. “In fact, nearly everyone takes the exam two or three times. The first is merely a practice run, to get a feel for the type of questions asked. The test itself is revised every few years – I myself have helped with several of those – but the general type of questions and their phrasing does not vary much.”
Minerva arched an eyebrow at him. “But you only took the test once, correct?”
“Yes.” He nodded briskly. “I was determined not to suffer through that monstrosity more than once. I crammed for an entire month beforehand. There is no age restriction on those who take the test, so long as they have completed their basic studies. There is also no limit on the number of times the test may be taken, so the age of the test takers can vary widely. I stood out in no way from anyone else, save that I finished a bit early. After I emerged from the exam, I felt as if my brain had turned to pudding and was dripping from my ears, so I stopped in to the pub and ended up sleeping for fourteen hours on a small pallet on the floor. I was quite happy to be shut of the entire affair…” his eyes darkened and flashed dangerously, “… until I got a summons from the Board of Potions Masters to appear before them the following week. It seems that they thought someone of my youth was incapable of scoring such high marks without some form of *aid*.” The word was spat as if it was something distasteful. Harry found himself awed by the expression of indignation on the professor's face. “Never mind that the testing facility is full of wards, spells and other protections against cheating of any form. Due to the sheer difficulty of the exam, the pressure to cheat is immense, and the various attempts over the years have been very creative, but no one has ever successfully committed fraud on the test in its entire history.”
Professor McGonagall sat back, folding her hands neatly in her lap, a look of fascination on her face. “Gracious, Severus, I had no idea that you had gone through such an ordeal for your Potions Master certification! The Transfiguration exam is quite trying but nowhere near such a nightmare as you describe.”
Snape's lips twisted into a smirk of sorts. “There is a great deal involved in becoming a Potions Master. For many, it is the peak of their career. The board has to be absolutely certain that those who obtain certification are quite worthy of the title. To do otherwise could prove quite catastrophic. Longbottom's little displays in my classroom are but a very mild example of what could go wrong if the experimenter weren't fully versed in his craft. The extreme nature of the exam is quite justified, I assure you.” His fathomless eyes got a faraway look as he resumed his train of thought. “Naturally, I was quite offended at the suggestion that I had come upon my marks through dishonest means. The board insisted that I retest, which I was quite averse to, but I could not argue with them on the matter. Rather, I named some conditions of my own. If I were to go through that hell-on-Earth again, it would be on my terms.” He absently ticked off the points on his long, white fingers. “First, they would have to come up with a different test. A harder one. I wanted no questions about my ability. Second, it would have to be ready in a week's time, for I was not about to let the efforts from my month-long study session fade from memory. Third, I wanted two Board members present at all times throughout the entire exam to observe me first-hand and thus eliminate any possible grounds to accuse me of cheating once more.” His wry smirk grew. “Needless to say, they were not at all eager to accept these terms, and instead administered their own impromptu exam on the spot. They delivered an oral exam that posed some very thorny questions, and also had me brew some very tricky potions, one of which was the infamous Draught of the Living Death. After all of that, they were still not quite satisfied, until I happened by chance to notice the latest edition of Precious Potions that one of the Board members happened to have brought with him. I'll never know why he bothered – that rag is nothing but garbage and doesn't deserve to bear the word Potions anywhere in the title.” The boy nodded to himself; he had heard Snape rail against that particular publication several times in their classes. “I picked it up and began to list all the oversights and inconsistencies covered in the articles. By the time I had finished, I had succeeded in thoroughly convincing them. I was given my certification on the spot and was told that if I neglected to appear at the next Potion Masters' convention I would never be forgiven.”
The normally stern woman favored him with a smile. “And so you became the youngest Potions Master in history by nearly a decade.”
Snape's expression became unreadable. “As well as one of the youngest professors.”
McGonagall shook her head slightly. “Your abilities were never in any doubt at Hogwarts. Professor Grout nearly cried with joy when he found that his most prized student would be replacing him after his retirement. He told Albus that if he had his choice of successors, there would be no other that he would choose.”
Harry watched with rapt fascination as the stern lines around Snape's mouth smoothed. “I was unaware of that.” His voice was softer than usual.
Minerva was looking at him with an unusually kind expression. “I'm sure you have made him quite proud.”
A deep scowl creased his features once more. “I would feel more gratified if the students would actually *pay attention* in my classes! I have done everything in my power to drill knowledge into their thick skulls, and still they are unappreciative of my efforts. I dread unleashing them on the rest of the wizarding world.” He rubbed his temples wearily.
McGonagall allowed herself a smirk of her own. “Come now, Severus. You know very well that Potions is a difficult subject that few excel in. It is the same for every other subject taught at Hogwarts. For example, I remember a certain young Slytherin whose Transfigured bottle obstinately continued to sport feet.”
Snape snorted. “Perhaps I could have fixed it if the blasted thing would have stopped trying to run away!”
“You might have had more success if you had not poked it so roughly with your wand.”
“The bloody thing just wouldn't hold still!”
Harry made a small choking sound. Snape had been McGonagall's student!!! That meant either that McGonagall was older than he had originally believed, or Snape was younger. He just barely restrained himself from smacking his forehead. Snape had gone to Hogwarts with his father, Black and Lupin! He had to be roughly the same age as them! It was just the man's hostile demeanor that made him seem so much older. Listening to the exchange between his professors, he had to bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud. So the great Severus Snape had had difficulties in Transfiguration? Good to know that he had some shortcomings after all!
Feeling uncomfortably like a third wheel, he reached into his robes and pulled out a device not unlike a Muggle Rubik's Cube. It was something that he had purchased from Zonko's nearly a month, and he had worked at it whenever he had a dull moment to pass. He had almost lost himself in the intricate puzzle when a deep, throaty voice intruded. “What's that you've got there, Potter?” He jumped slightly, looking up with a wary look on his face. Snape couldn't possibly punish him, could he? It's not as if he was playing with it during class! It took a moment for him to register that Snape's tone was astonishingly free of any sarcastic or harsh overtones. Indeed, the man's voice sounded almost… curious? Not wanting to risk his infamous wrath, Harry handed over the item. The Potions Master turned the curious object over in his hands, studying it with overt fascination. “It's a puzzle of sorts,” Harry explained a bit hesitantly. “The object is to change it from a triangle into a sphere. It's more of a mind game than anything. The Muggles have a similar game that was quite popular at one time.” Snape continued to study the distorted shape before him with intensity. Harry had succeeded in forming an odd sort of trapezoid, which he hoped was a nice intermediary shape and could be further coaxed into a sphere.
Professor McGonagall's lips twitched upwards, threatening to break into a smile at her colleague's behavior. “I confiscated one of those from the Weasley twins. It took me nearly two weeks to solve it. Quite a diverting little toy, I daresay.” Harry darted a look her way, surprised that she had played with the twins' contraband and had even found it enjoyable. “I suspect that you shall have no trouble with it, Severus.” Her words fell on deaf ears, for Snape was already moving the toy within his strong yet supple hands, his long fingers deftly manipulating the moving parts into place with exacting precision. The other two occupants watched him with rapt fascination, nearly hypnotized by his movements, every one of them swift yet deliberate. And within the space of several minutes, Snape held a perfectly-formed sphere in his palm. “I had hoped for more of a challenge,” he grumbled. He glanced sidelong at the boy. “I suppose you want me to restore it for you?”
“No, thank you, Professor,” Harry replied, feeling more than a little inadequate. He hastily stuffed the toy into his robe pocket, knowing he would never touch it again. The sheer ease with which his most hated professor had solved the puzzle had sapped it of all its allure. Did Snape always have to make him feel so incompetent?
An awkward silence fell over the carriage. Professor McGonagall finally broke the tension by choosing what she hoped to be a neutral topic. “So what are your predictions for the Quidditch Cup, Severus? I dare say the Gryffindor team has given your Slytherins a run for their money this year.”
The familiar sneer returned to the face of the Potions Master. “I would rate our chances much higher if our Seeker had actually managed to catch the Snitch at some point. I told Flint not to sacrifice talent for a bribe, but he is notoriously thick-skulled and paid me no heed. I believe he is now seeing the error of his ways as the Cup recedes further and further from his grasp. As Gryffindor is possession of quite a talented Seeker, the outcome of the final match is in little doubt.” Harry was absolutely thunderstruck. Snape the ever-snide had actually paid him a compliment, and insulted his precious Malfoy in the same breath! As if suddenly realizing who was listening, the stern man pinned him with a sharp gaze. “Don't go getting a swelled head, Potter.” “N—no, sir!” he stammered, not wanting to risk the man's wrath.
McGonagall gave Snape a smug look. “So you concede that Gryffindor has a better team?”
Snape's face formed itself into a smirk, yet one that was devoid of malice. “Hardly. Ten points from Gryffindor for your temerity, Miss McGonagall.”
His smirk was mirrored by her own. “And ten points from Slytherin for your cheek, Mister Snape.”
By this point, Harry had decided to just let his mouth hang open for the rest of the ride. It would be a lot more expedient then closing it, only to have it fall open a moment later. He had always assumed, along with most of the student population of Hogwarts, that Snape and McGonagall couldn't stand each other. He was floored to see that not only did they get along fairly well, they had turned the points system into a private joke! He began to wonder if there had been something wrong with his butterbeer. He had never heard Snape volunteer so much personal information, and with scarcely a trace of animosity. Perhaps he was just hallucinating, and in a moment he'd find himself sitting in the Three Broomsticks, flanked by Ron and Hermione.
A nearly soundless gasp caught his attention, and he looked up to see Snape rest his head in a trembling hand, his skin taking on an even unhealthier pallor than usual. “Too hot…” he gasped, tugging at his high collar. It was then that Harry realized the cooling charm had worn off, and his own back was slick with sweat. McGonagall shot her colleague a concerned look. “Severus, you look faint! For once, won't you sacrifice that stubborn pride of yours and make yourself more comfortable? I promise it will be less embarrassing than keeling over at our feet.” He stared at her wordlessly for a long moment, his lips pressed into a thin line, and Harry held his breath, waiting for the inevitable explosion. Then long white fingers were scrambling at the black buttons of that ridiculously high, tight collar, popping them free, and darting downward to fumble at the buttons that fastened his shirt sleeves. Snape smoothed back the opened folds of fabric at his throat, then rolled his sleeves up to his forearms with slightly shaking hands, being painstakingly careful to not expose the reviled Dark Mark that marred his left arm. McGonagall murmured under her breath, and the soothing breeze of the cooling charm was restored. The man's piercing ink-black eyes closed as his head fell back against the seat cushion, the dark lashes curling against the stark whiteness of his face, as he breathed what could only be a soft sigh of relief. He looked so different in that one split-second of relaxation, the tension drained away, and it suddenly hit Harry that the man was not nearly as repulsive as he had believed. It was Snape's harsh manner and eternal scowl that made him so unattractive after all.
In the next instant, the spell was shattered. Snape's eyes snapped open and his head jerked upward. He crossed his legs and folded his arms tightly around him, glowering at his surroundings indiscriminately, his posture having gone from slightly slumped to ramrod-straight. His sudden actions were in such contrast with the relaxed demeanor he had exhibited just moments ago, and it served to confuse Harry even further. Not that anything Snape ever did made sense, of course… but surely there was a reason for it? He seemed so uncomfortable, so defensive. Was Snape embarrassed by exhibiting a weakness? Was he uncomfortable with unbuttoning his clothing before an audience? Or could it be something else entirely? Harry's mind strained to grasp at a thought that itched at the back of his mind. McGonagall's observations of Snape's attire came back to him. Something didn't fit… only an utter moron would wear thick layers of black clothing when summer approached, and the Potions Master had proved himself a good deal more than just clever. Perhaps his discomfiture had more to do with the unfastening of the clothes themselves, and not just the presence of himself and the Transfiguration professor? He gave himself a mental shake. Snape was a tangled mess of double meanings and false clues. Who could say, save the man himself, what motivated him to do anything?
At this point Harry wanted to say something, anything, to erase the fiercely defensive look in Snape's eyes. The tense atmosphere inside the carriage was strangling him! He didn't care if Snape snapped at him, or gave him a detention for a week – anything was better than this! Truth be told, he'd be glad to have points stripped from his house if it meant the return of the grumbling, ill-tempered Potions Master. Seeing Snape like this, off-balance and vulnerable, completely unnerved him. “Erm, Professor Snape,” he began hesitantly, quailing as he was pinned by the man's intense black eyes, “I know you've made quite a few improvements to the Wolfsbane Potion, and Lupin is more than grateful for it, but… well, I don't think it tastes very good to him. It may seem like a petty complaint, but what good could a potion be if the drinker has trouble keeping it down?”
“So…” Snape drawled in a deceptively calm tone, allowing the threatening undercurrent to build, “am I to understand that my potion is not good enough for our dear ex-Professor Lupin? It is not bad enough that he and his unholy partner in crime continue to hang around the castle in a laughable effort to boost its wards, but he mocks my exhaustive efforts to save him from his own feral nature?”
The look on McGonagall's face would have frozen lava. “Severus!” she said sharply, the commanding tone breaking into his rant. Perhaps something in her voice harkened back to his own school days, for it was enough for him to fall silent, resigning himself to a sulky glare.
Harry wriggled uncomfortably in his seat. “Please, Professor, don't blame Professor Lupin for this! He *told* me not to say anything to you about this! Believe me, he's grateful beyond words. It's a blessing for him to keep his own mind when he's in werewolf form. But if the potion tastes half as bad as it smells…” he grimaced. “He has to take it fairly often… and you *did* say you were looking to improve upon it….”
An aggravated sigh was his response. “Even Mister Longbottom could see the logic in creating a palatable potion. I was aware that the Wolfsbane Potion had a displeasing taste, but not to such an extent as you describe. You understand that flavor takes a backseat to more important aspects – however, I have addressed most of the major flaws in the original design and can now afford to concentrate on the more aesthetic points.” Harry's breath caught. Had Snape just admitted that he was right?! “Unfortunately, sugar renders the potion inert, and other popular flavor enhancers, such as ginger and honey, will most likely paralyze anyone who consumes it. I'm afraid 'Professor' Lupin will have to be patient until an appropriate sweetener can be found.” Well, it was certainly more than Harry could have hoped for. He felt a fierce pride burn inside him – he had challenged Snape on behalf of one of his friends and won!
After a few minutes of idle conversation between Harry and Professor McGonagall, with only a random comment from Snape, the Transfiguration professor found herself staring out the window, admiring the lush greenery. “I've always found Hogwarts to be quite beautiful in late springtime. When I leave the window open, my classroom is filled with the most pleasant scent of honeysuckle. Pity your potions don't smell half as pleasant, Severus,” she said in a gently teasing tone, ready to engage her colleague's special brand of sarcastic wit.
Snape stared at her, slack-jawed, a faraway look in his eyes. She wondered if perhaps she had pushed too far – after all, Severus could be touchy about the oddest things – but he didn't seem angry, precisely. She had seen him in *that* state of mind plenty of times! His mouth moved, finally giving voice to one word, as if it had never heard that word spoken before. “Honeysuckle,” he breathed. “Of *course*! How could I have not thought of it before? It just might work… if I adjusted the amount of wolfsbane in concert with….” His voice petered out, his mind already racing far ahead. In a dream state, he fumbled in his robes and withdrew a folded bit of blank parchment and a quill. Tapping the end briskly with his wand, he caused the tip to become filled with ink. He moved his crossed leg slightly, balancing the piece of parchment on it, bending over it studiously and beginning to scratch out notes at a furious rate. He paused now and then, running the top of the white plume across his lips thoughtfully, before resuming his task.
Harry watched the suddenly preoccupied professor with a bemused expression. McGonagall nodded in the man's direction. “It seems that he has had some sort of brainstorm. It's safe to say that we will not hear from him for the remainder of our journey. He loses track of the rest of the world when he gets like this.” The boy was more than content to make small talk with her about the OWLs, Quidditch, Transfiguration, and whatever topics crossed their minds. Harry was startled when the carriage ground to a stop in front of the large oak front doors of Hogwarts.
“Here we are!” McGonagall announced briskly, she and Harry preparing to disembark. Snape, however, remained oblivious to their surroundings, intent as ever on the parchment on his lap, which had nearly been completely covered in neat handwriting. “Severus,” she said gently, but the man did not move. Harry reached out to give him a quick nudge, but the woman quickly grabbed his wrist. “Best not to do that. He doesn't react very well to touch, especially when he's absorbed in his work.” She leaned over until her lips were near the Potion Master's ear. “Severus! *Pay attention*, young man!”
Harry bit his cheek to keep from grinning as Snape jumped at the words. “What is it?” he said irritably, annoyed both at the disturbance and his colleague's patronizing words to him.
Minerva's expression was smug. “We're here,” she said flatly.
Blink. “Oh.” He set aside his quill and parchment with notable reluctance and began swiftly buttoning up his shirt sleeves and collar. A quick glance at his clothing assured him that everything was once again in place, but he smoothed down his shirt front just to be on the safe side. Grabbing his purchases and his notes, he swept out of the carriage and across the walkway to the castle entrance, sending students scattering out of his way. Harry and Professor McGonagall stood watching his departure. “He didn't say so much as goodbye,” he said wonderingly.
“He rarely does,” she confirmed.