Chapter 5:

"Come," the man mouthed, and despite herself, the red-eyed woman forced herself up to follow him, staggering up uneasily as he unlocked the restraints on her bed. She stood up, and nearly fell over. With a mildness one would not have expected from his expression, he was beside her at once, taking most of her weight on his shoulders, and they eased their way from the psychiatric ward of St. Mungo's. The hall was mostly silent, at this hour, and if a few orderlies glanced askance at them, they quickly turned away. Morgan Llewellyn being famed as the most effective mind-healer at St. Mungo's, it was not the place of lowly practical nurses--many recruited from the Muggles, at that--to question him, even if he was removing a Class-F patient from warded confinement.

The pair ducked into the Floo room, where another man waited nervously, fiddling impatiently with the tatty hems of his black scrubs.

"Come milady, there isn't that much time--"

"Not a word," growled the man, deftly disentangling himself from the woman. Pinching the floo powder into the flames, he sent the woman before him. Then, fixing the orderly with another glare, he reminded him. "Not a word."

And with that, a polyjuiced Bellatrix Lestrange retrieved her sister from the highest security Medical Ward of St. Mungo's.

Strangely, the security wards had already been disabled.

In another office, dim figures played about the surface of a crystal ball. The object was currently in use as a paperweight on a stack of patient histories.

Lily Potter watched, and did nothing.

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Bellatrix, back to her usual form, entered the Dark Lord's chambers unannounced. He looked up from his current project--a review of the Muggle munitions factories in Germany--and regarded her with a slow smile. It was better than praise, and Bella silently bowed in acknowledgement, silently willing her sister to do the same.

"Leave us," Voldemort said gently.

Another soldierly bow, and the lady left, Voldemort's regretful glance following her passage. Bellatrix half-turned her head, with her odd feminine prescience, and questioned with a half-quirked brow what would be impolitic to say aloud.

Enjoying the view?

He shook his head, though not at all in disagreement, and her smile deepened subtly, the red rim of her cracked lips opening as though to breathe a single, unspeakable word--love? die? Who could tell with that woman?--and she turned back to rush through the door.

He shook himself, again, from those thoughts, and turned to the woman before him.

Andromeda could have been Bellatrix's twin, dressed in her sister's spare robes and with the Devil's Eye arching her body into a sensuality he hadn't remembered little Dromeda to possess. He snapped his fingers and broke the imperio, holding her glazed gaze as he did so, and forced his way into her mind.

"What will you be having me do with her, milord?" Severus asked, unseen in the shadows of the office.

Voldemort grunted. "A moment."

Severus waited as a moment became an minute and a minute became an hour, and continued waiting, though his attention lagged in the first thirty seconds and he began to run through an alphabetical inventory of cruel and unusual punishments after the first five minutes. Thus occupied, he had barely considered 'bloodletting' and suitable ways to administer it to the Weasley twins--disguise as a blood drive? Necessary collection for his Replenishing Potions?--before a startled gasp roused him from reverie.

Andromeda staggered up, eyes gone dim and brown, and Voldemort cautioned Snape back to the shadows with a wave of his hand.

She dry-heaved, coughing, and Voldemort came to her again, and with almost a paternal air, began to rub her back.

"You," she wheezed. "You--you--"

He said nothing. She caught her breath finally, and was still, slumped against the wall, resigned.

"You saved my life," she hissed.

Voldemort inclined his head.

"Why," she demanded suddenly. "Why a life debt--from me?"

Voldemort regarded her evenly. "My dear Andromeda. It was the least I could do for my lady's sister."

Andromeda laughed violently, and Snape was forcefully reminded of her cousin, Sirius. They said that before the Blacks came through France, they were of Spartan extraction, gladiators bred by the Latinate wizards from their most vicious foes in the continent. Numian oracles and Picti warlocks, Scythian demidemons and Irish kelpies--every uncivilized race distilled into a single line, bred true generation to generation through consistent inbreeding.

It had been easy to forget that, that frumpy, dumpy Andromeda Tonks could be--was-- of the same race.

In a moment, the choking old housewitch had gone again, become somehow more predatory in her renewed sanity than in the arch sensuality of her madness.

"My Lord Voldemort," she said slowly. "I would ask of you, as no Black takes what she cannot repay--how may I repay my debt?"

He came upon her now, swiftly and smoothly, seizing her hand, and baring her forearm, stroked the soft, cinder-white skin at the inside of the elbow, pocked from injections. She looked at him, repulsed, and he sighed a little.

"No," he supposed. "I would much rather mark you as my willing servant, if you would. But if you would not--I have no current use for you here. I ask in repayment only that you never tell what has transpired here. Please, go forth."

Bewildered, but unwilling to press her luck, she gave him a single shocked glance, and rustled out the door, nearly tripping on her skirts in haste.

"I am sorry, my lord--but what happened there?"

Voldemort smiled. "A good many things."

"Why cure her Devil's Eye at all if not to gain the third of the Sisters in your service?"

Voldemort's smile widened.

"Who says I cured her?"

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"Damn!" Lily Potter swore, teacups shattering at her outburst, and turned to Snape, voice low and deadly. "You are going to die for this."

He nodded slowly. "I certainly hope so. As a Death Eater, I eat up that sort of treatment. But as you're a healer..." he frowned slightly. "well, I suppose that works with the Hypocritic Oath."

She stared. And slapped him.

He felt oddly disengaged, absolved from guilt by the absurd hilarity of the situation. I pass the night playing Dr. Mengele, directing the collection of Muggle corpses for research. I thwart a former students' plot to assassinate me as a means of climbing through the ranks. I get my mind scrounged by Voldemort to ensure I'm not a spy, spend the night brewing bombs, and on top of that, I haven't eaten in nine hours or slept for twenty. And this is routine.

And this, he eyed the livid woman before him, and stifled a laugh, is the Axis Mundi. Gods, I need to get a life, and against himself, he burst out laughing, and the sound was so unfamiliar to them both, the woman started back and almost blurted a curse.

"Severus--are you--"

He laughed harder, laughed to crying, and laughed again.

"I'm fine--"

"No--" Lily said, now drawing her wand with increasing alarm, and whispering a few quick diagnostic charms, "What I mean to say is--are you sane?"

He shook his head, laughing more quietly now, and gasped for breath.

"Gods, man." Lily Potter rubbed her brow. "I release one of the most dangerous cases on my ward--on your intelligence--because you insist a notorious terrorist can cure her--and you claim that he may or may not have fixed the problem, and might have placed some kind of ticking timebomb in her head?" She brandished the Daily Prophet, and helplessly, he chuffed.

"Look at this, you prat," she growled. The headline: Dark Wins Albanian Civil War; Refugees loose. "This is what happened. Say what they want about international affairs and noninvolvement--you can't say he wasn't in this--Bellatrix Lestrange was the British peacekeeper in that mess, and look how it ended up! Hundreds, dead! Narcissa Malfoy--campaigning for policies that will set up Muggleborn integration years! And you're willing to potentially loose Andromeda Tonks?" She glared at him. "A Berserker like her would be worth a dozen ordinary soldiers in open combat."

"Lily, please," he said calmly. "I cannot hope to decipher Voldemort's motives. It's possible he even put the cure in question in the hopes of manipulating you through me--which would suggest we assume the opposite of what he hopes we'll assume. She seems fine--"

"Right, which is exactly why I can't get her in for testing. Especially because I signed her exit papers, knowing very well that it wasn't Llewellyn there. And when she blows a fuse, it'll be my signature all over this mess. "

"We don't know that's going to happen right now."

"It could."

"It's more likely to come from any number of Dark deals you've made in the past, and it's time we talked about those I think."

Lily went still, absolutely still, while Severus remained immovable, and they faced off like this for a moment's eternity.

"Why were you exchanging potions and charms research with Lestrange? Why are you so blase about Harry being a potential horcrux? Pray tell--" he leaned in, and sibilicated the last "when are you going to tell your husband about all this?"

"James knows," she said flatly.

"James knows," he mocked her. "James knows--about what? About your paralytics and aphrodiasiacs and poisons, your petty contraception charms and obesity curses on your sister's son?" Her mouth opened, but he pressed on. "Tell me, girl, does he know perhaps about the weekend you spent at your 'cousin's', sacrificing the fertility of seven fields--and a farmer's livelihood--for the life of your lastborn? Or the dead unicorn--"

Her eyes flashed. "That, Severus, was none of your business, and--"

"It was as necessary as every other act you have committed with a mother's wrath," he nodded with exaggerated solemnity. "As necessary, perhaps," and he leaned over, eyes black and blank as slates, "as our trysts?"

She started, and her mouth worked.

"Does James know of that?"

"Nothing happened," she began, angrily.

"Of course not," he agreed. "Nothing ever happens, and again," he smiled, self-deprecating, "nothing ever will." He glanced at her once more, her stunned expression. "Lily Potter," he nodded once, and kissed her hand. "You have chosen your place, as I have mine."

"You choose him," she whispered vehemently.

"I chose you. No one," he breathed, "Not even Dumbledore, has a clearer vantage point of the war than we two. You through the Healers, I through my Masters." He glanced back at her again, and found her expression as inscrutable as his own.

"Whatever happens, I promise you, Lily, your family will get through this alive--be it at the cost of our own souls."

She nodded, once.

The complete exhaustion that only comes from confession settled upon him then; he'd spoken his mind more in the past five minutes than he had in the last fifteen years.

"If you would direct James to push Albus towards, oh, hiring Andromeda on as Defence teacher next year, or giving her an assistant teaching position, I will do my best to keep an eye on her. That is the extent to which I may assist in this case."

She blinked, incredulous. "You expect me to advise Albus to allow a former mental patient to teach children, when I'm afraid of a relapse? Severus--I wanted not to be implicated in this matter, not to be sued for malpractice when some Muggleborn gets hit."

"Well, I'll ask Professor Dumbledore to hire her then--and you may rest assured that McGonagall will set the condition that she receives a full medical examination from the real Llewellyn, complete with legilimency and aural scanning, before she's allowed to take a post. It would allow you to review her without seeming involved, and it seems perfectly reasonable--actually, I'm surprised Dromeda hasn't been coerced in already. Several of your examiners have been clamouring for the past week to see her, haven't they? A recovered Devil's Eye patient..." Snape mused. "The administrator of the hospital where they found a cure to the disease might well be renowned."

"That doesn't work on me, Severus." She scratched her chin.

"Well, at least consider it, and don't strike me down if I have her hired. Whatever Voldemort's planning, I think it's more connected with Dromeda's daughter than Dromeda herself. If we wait until the girl graduates..." Severus shook his hand. "No. I'd rather see all cards played at once, where we can keep an eye on the game."

"Do as you please," she dismissed, not raising her head from the patient history she was seemingly perusing.

Severus thought of a snide comment--if you haven't finished that case history in the past year, you surely won't now--but refrained. With a bow of his head, less respect than love, he left to find the rest of his family.

Predictably enough, he found them. In trouble.

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Typically, broom lessons lasted from late September until either early April, or such time as all the first years demonstrated an acceptable level of proficiency.

For Madam Hooch's sanity, she fervently hoped this year would be the latter case.

She'd expected the typical chaos of the first Gryffindor-Slytherin lesson. Routine bickering. The odd hex to be dispelled. Perhaps a cheerful game of quidditch, appropriating the smallest member of the opposite house as the quaffle.

But this...

Hell's bells. She'd have almost taken her mutinous class from her first year here (an oddly coordinated band of Slytherins and Gryffs who'd locked her in a broom closet full of doxies before going off on a three-day jaunt) than these students.

The jarring thing was, it wasn't that they were such bad kids--

They all simply seemed to hate each other.

Never mind Pomfrey's disapproving air as she'd brought in Neville with a broken arm. Now, she had a total of sixteen students with minor injuries, and she hadn't the least clue how it might have happened...

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It began with Neville's Remembrall. A couple of comments, and Weasley and Malfoy had set aside their wands to brawl like Muggles. The rest of the class had merrily joined in, wands or otherwise, and in five minutes, Minerva (watching attentively from a window) could have sworn she was seeing the Second Battle of Hogsmeade.

Little Hermione Granger, not having shut up for a second about nonviolence, marshalled her troups to the broomshed, where she'd cast a surprisingly decent shield. The rest of her group blithely ignored her lecture, and concentrated on covering Ron Weasley--who'd finally disentangled himself from Malfoy and was now dodging aerial bombardment from a couple airborne Slytherins.

"We can't just let the Slytherins block us in the shed!" Dean groaned. He'd have rather been out with Seamus, the only Gryffindor to nab a broom before Hermione had somehow ordered them all under cover.

Hermione ducked as a silver curse flew over the top of the shield. "We can't fight them either!"

"They started it."

"Ron started it."

"Malfoy was the first one to pick up a wand," Thomas pointed out. "And unless you've noticed--" her shield stuttered for a moment, and hex splashed through to splinter a jar of polish--"we're going to get creamed in a moment."

"But the rules--" Hermione began anxiously, as the shield sputtered out, and the Slytherins yelled for blood.

"Hang the rules! They're coming!" Ron shouted, diving into the shed and rummaging for the brooms. He chucked them to the bewildered girls.

"What am I supposed to do with it?" demanded Hermione.

Ron, already afloat, gaped. "Ride it."

"But I don't know--"

"Oh for Merlin's Beard," he muttered, hovering closer. "Get on," he demanded, holding a hand out to her as Malfoy swivelled in through a window.

"But--"

"Are you a witch or not? Get on, woman!"

With a deep breath, she swung astride behind him, gripping his waist for dear life as he rushed out, Malfoy in hot pursuit. She shut her eyes tight.

"How many do we got on us?" he demanded.

She forced her eyes open.

"Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle," she breathed. "Hundred metres under us. But we're outrunning them..." her voice trailed off, and Ron turned back to grin at her, as they narrowly dodged a disarming spell. "Ron, these are the Slytherin team brooms! Do you have any idea how expensive these are?"

"Nope," he grinned. "But I reckon this is the first and last time I'll ever get my hands on one." An abrupt scream came from below, and he flipped the broom around so quickly she almost fell. "Dean!"

The other Muggleborn had been knocked down by Bulstrode and Nott, and Seamus was furiously racing to catch him, break his fall, anything--

Malfoy saw it just as Ron did, and abruptly turned to rush towards Seamus--presumeably to knock him down like Dean--when a bolt of putrid green blasted out from behind Ron, and nailed Malfoy between the shoulders. The blond-haired boy abruptly doubled over on his broom, choking, and Ron glanced back in surprise.

"A slug-vomiting hex? Hermione," he started, in shocked admiration--

She grinned back, tentatively. "Mind your own business, flyboy, and let me man the guns."

"Guns?"

"Muggle reference. Just go. Go-go-go--oh Dean..." they winced as one. Dean fell belly-first into the Great Lake. Everyone paused abruptly, watching in horror.

He resurfaced, afloat in the water, still as death. Sickened, Malfoy willed his broom nearer--only to get blasted as Dean neatly bludgeoned him with a hex. He yelped, tottering unexpectedly, and found himself knocked sideways from his broom, and into the water.

"Merlin's--" swore Ron, whooping, as Dean laughed, punching his arms upwards, and Draco Malfoy began screaming. "Don't tell me the blighter can't swim!"

"Should we help him?" asked Hermione anxiously.

"Nah, reckon that Dean's got this--and incoming!"

Nott, Greengrass and Davies swooped in, closely followed by a very wet Seamus, who had managed to nab his broom out of the lake. Crabbe and Goyle looked torn between helping Malfoy--who was currently enjoying a friendly diving lesson, courtesy of Dean--and aiding their friends. A sudden curse from above decided them, and Hermione glanced to the side.

"Harry?"

Harry was deliriously happy. He'd never imagined there could be anything like this. Anything. Definitely worth breaking into the broomshed for. He corkscrewed around them, Ron whooping to follow in his wake. Hermione closed her eyes and dreamt of Gravol, never lifting her shield.

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Madam Pomfrey had been gone from the practice grounds a total of ten minutes. She returned to find Parvati, Lavender, Pansy and Millicent doing a fair approximation of a judo tournament, and the shed in shambles. Sighing, she sent her falcon patronus to summon McGonagall, who guarded the miscreants as Hooch set out to find her class.

It took her another twenty minutes to track them down to the lake. Fortunately, another Professor seemed to have them in hand.

"Hadrian James Potter! Come out of that water at once, or detention until midwinter, and I'll tell your mother!"

Perhaps splashing the potions master wasn't the brightest response.

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The staff gathered to commiserate in the lounge .

"First years," McGonagall groused. "Using real, active hexes--however minor-- on broomsticks. Coordinating attacks. Dismounting each-other--why, I haven't seen such violence since the jousting tournament at the Medieval Fair--thank Merlin they were over the lake when it happened!" She paused to take a sip of tea and nibble at a biscuit. "I would never have believed it if I hadn't seen it. Why, they haven't been taught half as much magic as they used out there! Did you ask them the incantations they used at all, Ramona?"

Ramona Hooch regarded her incredulously. "Ask them the incantations? I was less interested in the spells they'd used than why they did it at all. And as for coordinating attacks, I didn't get there until the tail-end of it, so I don't know--"

Several staff members became curiously still, and directed their attention elsewhere.

"You were watching the whole time?"

Professor McGonagall shrugged pleasantly. "As a matter of fact, yes. Quirrell, Flitwick and I were discussing how formidably useless the defense curriculum seems to have become in recent years, and we were fortunate enough to see the problem doesn't lay in the potential of our students."

"What's to be done with them though?" Ramona pressed.

McGonagall pursed her lips. "Were it any individual breaking the rules, I would advocate suspension. Being as we can hardly suspend the entire year of two houses and hope to have them all keep up with classes, I suppose we'll simply have to assign detention to the wrongdoers and extra homework to all, and hope it's enough to keep them out of trouble.

Snape snorted.

McGonagall turned to him, brows raised. "You had an opinion to express, Severus?"

"With all respect, Professor," he began slowly, "You would need more than a little extra homework and detention to stop my godson."

She sighed, then smiled.

"You're right. They'll start with you. A few months as Potions Assistants can work wonders on the most recalcitrant teens--wouldn't you agree, Severus?"

Anyone else he would have fixed with one of his patented glares and that'd been the end of it. McGonagall, he deigned to stare at flatly.

"I? I spend my free time supervising a band of miscreants too lackwitted to restrain themselves during their second month of schooling? Professor, if anything, the duty should fall upon the Professor who failed to control them in the first place." He glared pointedly at Hooch now, and Ramona remembered, uneasily, the number of times she'd turned a blind eye to Potter Senior and Black hexing his broom in her classes. Snape paused a moment. "Or perhaps, given the number of miscreants involved this time, we should consider finally hiring extra help."

"I thought Argus Filch was doing an admirable job with their detentions," McGonagall put in.

"Yes, he is an excellent deterrent--however, I doubt the merits of knowing seven non-magical means to clean a china chamberbowl. Several parents have complained that we use our students' time not as efficiently as we might--spending too much time in Quidditch, or insisting on useless, menial punishments. Hence why we've become less competitive with Durmstrang in recent years."

"So you'd suggest a Taskmaster then?" Quirrell interjected. Yes, yes, yes, you couldn't be more correct if you wanted to be, Snape exulted. "A Taskmaster," Quirrell continued, as though lecturing offhand, "such as are present in much of the German schools and the small Old Scholae. To educate such students who desire it in the basics of practical disciplines--rituals, weavings, potions, and other artifact preparations--or focused supplementary training in another core fields of academia. To enforce such training upon such students who cannot be relied upon to use their free time constructively." Quirrell blinked, and set his own quarterly down. "Hogwarts does have a set salary for a Taskmaster, does it not?"

"Professor Dippet disbanded the position in 1929 after Argot Montrose came before the Wizengamot on charges of abusing his position and endangering minors," McGonagall offered.

Professor Flitwick shut his eyes, reminiscing. "I remember that. They accused him of causing the mental breakdown of multiple students, by pushing them too hard in their studies, particularly some unfortunate girl who in the course of her studies, had gotten stuck in her animagus form for several weeks."

McGonagall pinked delicately. "Ahem. Well, that was all some time ago."

"Of course," Severus smiled.

"A Taskmaster, however--I will certainly ask Albus about it, and it's not as though we haven't enough in the operating budget for it," McGonagall mused. "In advance, any candidates for it?"

Severus almost had to bite his tongue from saying anything in the ensuing silence.

"Gilderoy Lockhart has applied multiple years for a post at Hogwarts," offered Pomfrey, "perhaps--"

"No," several staff members pronounced flatly. Thankfully, not everyone in this school is too besotted with stupidity to notice its existence... Snape thought irately.

"Moody?"

"Do you want the students to be alive after this or not? 'Sides, isn't he retired?"

"Yes, however I'm certain he could be recalled, and there's no question he's as well-rounded as any of us would like, and certainly wouldn't put up with any impudence from the students."

"Or," Severus suggested, "Andromeda Tonks."

McGonagall started. "Dromeda? She's been incapacitated for the last five years."

"Oh? Narcissa Malfoy had informed me otherwise."

McGonagall straightened and adjusted her glasses to catch Severus in a gimlet-eyed stare. "Otherwise? But the Devil's Eye?"

Snape shrugged. "I would not presume to know the details with the acuity of a medical examiner nor the intrusiveness of family. I simply heard Narcissa Malfoy in a high snit about the difficulty finding employment for his sister, particularly given her history of mental health problems--cured or otherwise, I believe Mrs. Tonks will be hard-pressed to find a job."

"And with the debts they incurred for medical care..." McGonagall began, but then shook her head. "All the same, whatever Dromeda's qualifications, what of the danger of a relapse?"

"Professor Dumbledore has made other dubious appointments," Snape stated drily. McGonagall followed his glance out the window towards the North Tower. "Asides, I'm not certain he'd have a choice. The Ministry has pushed for increased involvement at Hogwarts for years, and the only thing barring their way is that most of the positions are occupied by tenured faculty." Not to mention the curse on the DADA post. "Give them an opening, and they'll jump. Unless we want an idiot like Umbridge or Dawlish sent our way, it would be in our best interests to find a candidate palatable to the both parties."

"And a former resident of the insane asylum is preferable to a trigger-happy ex-Auror because--" frowned Hooch. "Oh, right. Lucius Malfoy is her brother-in-law. Wasn't she burned off the family tree for marrying a Muggle-born?"

"She was reinstated when Lucius learnt Tonks was a Metamorphamagus."

"Correct." McGonagall glanced out the window again, and then leaned further over, squinting at something on the ground. "Well, I was willing to recommend her for the Defense post five years ago before she was admitted to St. Mungo's--I'll mention her to Albus, though if anyone comes up with some more... stable candidates, by all means tell."

The staff murmured assent, and McGonagall squinted further out the window, into the deepening twilight, and abruptly stood up.

"And from the looks of the grounds, perhaps our urgence for a taskmaster is greater than I feared."

"Why?" Severus strode over to the window, then groaned. "I do not recall giving permission for a bonfire tonight." He frowned at the sudden flashes of light. "Nor a duelling tournament..." he strode past McGonagall, and stormed out the door.

"The Weasley twins?"

McGonagall pursed her lips once more. "Who else?"

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After a round verbal thrashing of a group of third and fourth years caught duelling on the back lawn--Snape skulked down to his labs to check the progress of his experimental munitions. As a mixture of Muggle technology and magic, this was a classified project for Voldemort--the WIP would probably reject to it on general principle, at least until they saw it in combat. Though Snape hardly wanted to be working on the Manhattan project of this war, if it wasn't him, it would be someone else--and at least he could add failsafe spells to ensure the Order could disarm them, if it came to that.

A quick stir added slivered Devil's Snare to a photosensitive explosive, intended to detonate when exposed to sunlight. Or, Snape's lips twisted, any impurities at all. One flake of ash from one of the Weasley Twin's dratted fireworks, and I spend days--days--repairing the dungeons.

He shook his head, set the burner on low to simmer for the next twenty hours, and stalked from the dungeons to complete his last task for the evening. McGonagall had succeeded as well in finding the perpetrator as she would in a food fight. No one could remember who started it.

Of course, Snape would not give McGonagall the satisfaction of another comment on his wayward godson by pointing out the duel had occurred directly below the Hufflepuff dorms.

All in all, however, he hoped more than he'd realized to see a Taskmaster here--before someone blew up the school.

In the meantime, however, he'd have to do.

Tapping politely at the door of Hufflepuff House--a large window that seemingly overlooked the Quidditch Pitch--only experience with the castle prevented him from feeling disoriented as it opened on the warm obscurity of Hufflepuff House. A girl, long black hair combed to her waist and heavily kohled eyes, regarded him with surprise.

"Professor Snape!" she announced cheerfully, opening the window wider. "What can I do--arggghhh."

It was testament to Tonks' clumsiness that none of her peers arrived to look for the source of the kafuffle. In opening the window, she'd somehow unbalanced herself and tripped over the ledge. Snape caught her awkwardly, and set her on her feet. The girl would be less gawky if she weren't forever changing her physique, he groused. Young metamorphagi were notoriously uncoordinated, second only to new animagi. They altered their forms too frequently for their minds to adjust to the change.

Still, he supposed, glancing at the long legs emerging from her artfully ripped uniform, likely easier to coordinate longer legs than Lily's high heels. Elspeth could keep on threatening to tell James Potter about playing dress-up with Uncle Severus. It never happened. Never.

Still, it almost warmed a micrometer of permafrost from the Antarctica of his heart to hear little Elspeth threatening blackmail. Why, they grew up so fast.

"Is Mr. Potter in?" he demanded. Tonks looked inside uncertainly, and that was all the encouragement Snape needed.

"Where?" he pressed, climbing through the window.

"Umm..." Tonks began helpfully.

The laughter by the fireplace directed him. Morcant Butcher, a rather talented charms students, was busily enspelling origami puppets of Hogwarts professors, to the eager delight of his audience. It disgruntled Snape to recognize his paper avatar at work with a napkin Trelawney.

"And, HAHAHA," Lester Gray began in an entirely appropriate cackle. "Thou petty denizens of Hufflepuff! Thou hast foiled our plots for deathly divinations and endless detentions for the last time. Prepare to meet thy doom!"

As good a prompt as I can hope for, Snape supposed.

"Ten points from Hufflepuff, Mr. Gray, Mr. Butcher, for disrespect of your betters. I will be confiscating those--" he flicked his wand once to summon the puppets, twice to dispell them, and set them down. "And now, if Harry is present--"

"Begging your pardon, sir. It's Mr. Potter."

Severus smiled, as though indulgently, and then took the impudent young rip by the ear and began to haul him out--

"Severus!" came a voice, and Snape groaned internally as Pomona Sprout appeared from her room, stuffed into her oversized bathrobe and idly curling her hair with her wand. "What in heavens are you doing with my student?"

"Your student?" he raised his eyebrows. "Your student, Professor, is my godson, and as such, it is my jurisdiction to punish him as I see fit in addition to whatever disciplines are set forth by the school."

She glared. "Section IV, paragraph 3, Hogwarts Code of Conduct. On school grounds, students may not be punished for misdemeanors committed therein by relations up to the third degree, excepting those directly committed against such a person in authority." She smiled sunshine at him. "I believe, Professor, the rule was made for such instances as these to ensure the student isn't punished twice for a single misdemeanor. Now," she smiled wider. "Let the poor boy enjoy some time with his classmates."

Harry exchanged glances with several of the upper years. They nodded or smiled. The significance was lost on Snape.

"Oh, and do please stop by my office some time for tea, and--" Sprout paused, "I've been meaning to tell you, but I keep forgetting. The samples of Devil's Snare I sent you? The whole batch, contaminated. Ruined. I'm sorry to have not said anything earlier."

"Quite all right," Snape assured drily. "Problems of this nature are to be altogether expected in our professions." He turned irately and stalked out the open window with dignity and slammed it shut behind him, before breaking into a flat-out run.

Given time, he could, of course, bully the Hufflepuff head into letting him take his godson in hand. It was just a matter of whether he could do this without getting the silent treatment from the entire faculty for injuring the old woman's delicate feelings. And really, he had more pressing matters at hand than that.

Such as exploding cauldrons.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Snape needn't have tried to conceal his haste before the Hufflepuffs. In his panic--or rather, what passed for it in Head of Slytherin--he'd neglected to notice a crucial defect in his concealed retreat.

The door to Hufflepuff was a one-way window.

The Hufflepuffs watched in open hilarity as Snape broke into flat run, cloak blown out behind like great wings. A Muggleborn began to hum the theme to Batman. Professor Sprout allowed the laughter to continue until Wayne Hopkins started hyperventilating, then cast a Hushing Hex on the lot of them.

"Now, now," she smiled. "That was very entertaining, I'm sure, wasn't it?"

"Yes, Professor," they chimed indulgently.

"Very good," she smiled ear to ear. "And what are we going to say about this little incident?"

"Absolutely nothing, Professor."

"And if," she glared, "any of us mention a word of this to another House, what will we do to him or her?"

"Use him for practicing human transfiguration and lock the results in McGonagall's office," they recited dutifully.

Sprout beamed. Let none say her Hufflepuffs weren't loyal!

"Excellent!" she declared ebulliently. "Now, Potter, if you would please follow me... I have something for you," she enthused.

"But I'm enjoying time with my classmates..." he protested half-heartedly, and then caught her glance.

He flinched.

Begrudgingly, Harry followed her into the Round Room, where she shut the door. It was, unfortunately, not soundproof, and from his short experience, he knew his fellow students were intended to hear everything that went on.

She turned on him, smile dissipated in a second, leaving in its wake a thunderous ire.

"Hadrian James Potter!" she bellowed. "Can you NOT stay out of trouble for longer than two minutes? Is that too much to ask?"

He shrugged nonchalantly, willing himself to breathe evenly. Sprout noticed. Sprout disapproved. She swooped in and nabbed his ear.

"And don't you give me that I'm not hearing you bit, boy," she twisted, "I'm quite certain you know exactly what's going on here."

"Ow, ow, ow..." Harry winced. "What is it with the ear today? Can't you find some other way to get my attention? Like, a simple listen-up?"

"None of your lip, Potter! Breaking into the Third-Floor Corridor! Salting my Devil's Snare--what gave you and that Weasley boy the idea--"

"Umm, it was kind of trying to kill us at the time--"

"Starting duels nearly every single day--"

"Begging your pardon, ma'am, but the thing with the brooms wasn't exactly a duel, and I just blundered into it because I was worried about Dean. He looked like he was going to fall, and--"

"You thought you'd watch him fall, and fling off a few hexes while you were at it, hmm?" fumed Sprout. "I wasn't born yesterday, Potter." She caught sight of her face , graying and weathered, in the hall mirror, and pursed her lips ruefully. "Obviously."

"Why, you're as ravishing as ever," Harry jumped in. "Now, milady, if that will be all for the evening--"

"Why, you're the young gallant. Sit down!" she snapped, and Harry--fearless Harry--actually jumped for a second, then scrambled for the chair.

She squatted down to his eye level.

"Now, my little gentleman, let us understand some things," she growled. "Number one. Hufflepuffs do not start fights. They simper and sing and when the fights start, they run for the nearest broom closet... usually with a pretty girl in tow," she mused as an aside. "Speaking of which," she raised her voice for the benefit of the eavesdroppers, "Eloise and Martin are next."

Muffled whispers at the door followed this juicy tidbit. Harry had neither the interest or time to think on this though.

"Number two," she snapped. "Hufflepuffs do not participate in fights. They scream like girls and run for the nearest teacher, who conveniently happens to be their Head of House, who takes a hundred points from the other House. Three..." she leaned in closer, so that Harry couldn't avoid her bald glare.

"Three, if we do, we don't--ever--get caught. Now, tell me," she said, standing up and dispersing the Doomgloom charms she'd set for an appropriately dark ambiance, "What's the difference between a Hufflepuff and a Slytherin?"

Harry caught his breath. "Everyone can trust a Hufflepuff, but a Slytherin's too sly to understand."

"Exactly," Sprout smiled. "And we'll leave it at that, shan't we?" she continued pointedly. "Now, as for your detention," she bustled about and retrieved a couple of heavy tomes, handing them to Harry. He staggered under their weight.

"Go into the first carrel," she directed him, pointing to one of the small spaces off the main room. "You'll be here every weeknight from after supper until lights-out, and if I as much as find you trying to sneak out, I'll place you under the supervision of the house-elves. Do you hear me, Mr. Potter?"

"Yes, ma'am," he responded diligently, squinting to make out the title on the cover in the yet dim light.

"Good! And ensure you pay those books good mind," she continued, "as you'll be tested on the top one every two weeks. Your detentions will end once you've learned it to my satisfaction."

"Yes, Professor," he grumbled, knowing it was pointless to argue. He stumped into the small carrel, shutting the door upon the sound of Eloise's interrogation behind him. And stared at the first book.

"A Contemporary Compendium of Magical Law. Bartemius Crouch." He flipped through the first few pages. From the vocabulary, he was certain this had to be the restricted book that burnt out your eyes. He rubbed his forehead, and lifted it, hoping the book beneath it would be slightly more encouraging.

"A Complete Dictionary of Modern English." Of course.

Well, hang that.

He got up to try the door. It didn't budge.

"Alohomora."

No such luck.

He sighed, and resigned himself to the next few weeks.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Pomona Sprout, having set her students to work, withdrew to her own room, lighting a candle with a word, and sprawled her formidable figure across her tiny bed. She wriggled into the worn duvet, and once comfortable, allowed herself a tiny smirk.

Pomona Sprout was the perfect Hufflepuff.

Never mind the foolish expectations held about her house--she was certainly loyal and hardworking to a fault. She just didn't see the point of working hard at unnecessary tasks that could be delegated elsewhere--enabling her to devote her considerable energies towards other more important things.

Like dragon dung.

It was so difficult to find a proper fertilizer nowadays.

Hence, with no feigned gratitude she allowed Severus and Minerva to take most of her detentions--excepting the odd case where the miscreant knew his way around a Greenhouse, or continued offenses by a member of her House.

And they wondered why they had no spare time!

The Sorting Hat did not lie about the Houses. Hufflepuffs were honest--primarily because they had no reason to lie, and occasionally, as in her case, because they could out-equivocate a Jesuit. Hufflepuffs were loyal, because it made everyone more cheerful and, you know, their peers might use them for target practice otherwise. And Hufflepuffs worked damn hard and stayed out of trouble--or else Professor Sprout, or a Prefect, or even just an upper year student, would drag them into the Round Room, and set them to work for several hours.

An onlooker might express astonishment that how this Durmstrang-like set of affairs remained intact without the knowledge of the other houses. Certainly, it was quietly known among all the upper-years that Sprout was a formidable force and not to be crossed--but they discounted whereby her power was truly derived--the love and loyalty of her students, well-earned through her constant concern for their welfare and happiness.

Which was why Harry--her clever, thieving Harry-- would find himself studying Magical Law four hours a night--and reviewing it every spare minute--for a long, long time to come.

Love hurts.