“Begin at the beginning,” the King said gravely, “and go on till you come to the end: then stop.”

"You know Petunia Evans, don't you, Severus?"

Severus frowned slightly. He was feeling warm, turning the soles of his boots towards the merrily burning logs in the fireplace, tasting ginger and cinnamon in the wine and very much anticipating sleep uninterrupted by students. He couldn't imagine why his counterpart would bring up such an out-of-place topic. He remembered, however, that McGonagall's non-sequiturs were among the most thought-out things she ever said, thus might be worth humouring.

"For the accepted definition of 'know', yes," he answered lazily.

There was a brief silence, as McGonagall waited for a follow-up question or, perhaps, couldn't decide on a question herself.

"How would you... characterise her in her younger years?"

"A waste of genetic material," he replied automatically. He was sure that the old witch was going somewhere with this, but wasn't willing to help her along.

"Actually, remember that chicken of Flitwick's – in her third year now, I think," he continued as an image leaped to his mind. "Ah, Fychan. She, minus her studiousness, might be the image you want."

"Gwendoline Fychan? Oh, my. Quite a character." McGonagall sighed and poured more of the hot brew into her mug. "Nonetheless, I hope the girl is off to a better future."

When the words finally linked themselves to their meaning in his head, Severus blinked and turned to look at her straight on.

"You've seen Petunia recently? How come?"

Minerva looked back at him appraisingly.

"I know what confidential conversations are," he assured her, frowning again. If she'd forgone Dumbledore's recommendations, it was between her and Dumbledore.

"Well, yes, I went to take a look." The witch reclined in her armchair and turned to study the fire, as if reading the memory from the flames. "And I'm not an expert on Muggles, of course. Still, my impression from all those years ago was reaffirmed. This girl and her husband are going to give us a headache one way or another; for all that their every parenting effort seems to be directed at their own child."

"One way or another? What can they do, send us a howler?" Severus remarked sceptically.

"Directly or indirectly, Severus. While a howler is not an option, people who would do that tend to have all kinds of other curious educational ideas." She took out her wand and rearranged the coals briskly. They flared to life with such enthusiasm that Severus had to withdraw his feet slightly. "Ones that teachers have to deal with, eventually, when it's too late. And life has to, when it's even later. Yet, it might be unwise to contradict the headmaster on whatever he declares 'no other choice'."

"Yes," Severus muttered. "I, for one, don't care to join the ranks of prisoners sans trial. Perhaps, there is a way to eschew teaching Po---"

"Wait, what prisoners? What are you talking about?" McGonagall interrupted.

"Tell me, to the best of your knowledge, were there any disagreements between Dumbledore and Sirius Black prior to the whole," he sighed heavily, "the Dark Lord versus the Potters business?"

"Not that I know of, no," Minerva said carefully, looking at Severus curiously. "But... He normally knows more than we do, doesn't he?"

Severus was silent after that, looking back at her, then began speaking anew.

"One of my acquaintances used to say: 'Don't spare your allies, for your enemies to beware'."

"Do I want to know who it was?"

"Karkaroff," he replied flatly. "Oh, he was rather ironic about it at the time. But I can't help but wonder..." he trailed off, and they lapsed into mutual silence once again.

The logs crackled and the inky-blue Christmas evening of 1986 turned into a dark night.

What again was that nonsense Minerva was speaking about? Too late? he wondered distractedly, while grading the end-of-year essays with vengeance. One could always be taught a thing or two, given a proper incentive. See here: Jones, definitely improving over her last year; or here: Lake, getting an E in his OWLs, despite being a teacher's nightmare for some years prior. Of course, there were ones who never worked and never tried to, but...

He thought back on Terrence Lake's test and tried to recall once again if he had been cheating. No, probably not. He had done acceptably well at practicals.

Finally, Severus put his quill down, and the thought made its way back into his mind. Given a proper incentive, one could always be taught. The thing is, most people don't have it. Given a proper incentive... Even one exposed to Petunia nee Evans' dubious worldview, he thought suddenly. Even a Potter. Oh, why the hell not? Warmth spread through his chest, the excitement of a nascent plan, the excitement of what could be a perfect, an absolutely perfect revenge. He could feel it on his fingertips, he could almost taste it: teaching the Potter boy not to behave like a Potter at all.

Possibilities ran through his head. He could brainwash McGonagall carefully, he pondered, she had been moving along a right line of reasoning already. He could push the child's celebrity status, however Severus disliked it, to require extra interest in his discipline and the past and present danger to enforce critical attention to his study performance. If orchestrated correctly, the boy wouldn't have any meaningful time for misbehaviour and would gain a lot of exposure to proper ways of wizard thinking. He would be held tightly in the well-wishing hands of the Hogwarts faculty; with a few more properly-phrased ideas, he would feel answerable to the whole Wizarding world, and not as if the world was at his beck and call. Severus wouldn't even have to touch him. Wouldn't ever have to touch him, — that sounded better still. The faculty... Albus.

Albus, undoubtedly, had his own agenda for this particular future student. Severus frowned. With some luck, their purposes would overlap - he wasn't delusional about his standing, should they not. However, the Potions master always suspected he had no luck to speak of, merely a lot of stubbornness. And it would have to do yet again.

~SS~SS~SS~SS~SS~

Not one to dawdle overmuch, the next morning Severus went to check his ideas against the Deputy Headmistress.

He found her sitting at her desk, peering into a thick book and looking bewildered and frustrated at once. He was more than familiar with the emotion, but it didn't prevent him from feeling amused. Letting this amusement go across his features briefly, he uttered a greeting and sat across from the woman, in a chair normally occupied by her students. Ever since graduating, Severus cherished the manner he could up and walk away from that chair whenever he wanted.

Minerva glanced at him over her glasses and frowned.

"It's not amusing, young man! I cannot get a confirmation. All the others have been read already."

"A confirmation?"

"Of course. A confirmation of having been read by the addressee," Minerva waved a piece of parchment at him. "I should get a mark right here, on the list."

At this, Severus divined the source of her irritation.

"Oh, let me take a look," he said, reaching for the parchment.

He skimmed the names quickly, every one having a checkmark in red ink against it. Except... He smirked widely and looked up at the distressed professor, but could barely open his mouth, when she interrupted.

"No, Severus, whatever you are thinking, cease this instant. He will come to Hogwarts! And it's not amusing, for Merlin's sake!"

"I merely tried to suggest that, perhaps, the spell failed to locate him because of the wards?" he replied swiftly. "Have you checked the address yourself?"

"Please, the spell has served me perfectly for years and years, in a fully autonomous way. And Albus has told me he lifted the communication restriction, so it should work."

Severus was reminded yet again, that the proper way of wizard thinking included a lot of "It should just work". Unfortunately. He cringed a bit.

"Have you tried re-casting it?"

Minerva looked at him like she doubted his sanity.

"The charm has been in place since before you were born, Severus," she said, as if explaining it to a first-year. "It takes a list from here, letters from here, envelopes from here, packs and immediately delivers them to the Owlery."

Severus looked at the only sheet of parchment in a tray on the far side of the table. He made out a familiar heading and McGonagall's sharp signature. He was feeling more frustrated with that woman's logic by the moment.

"I haven't done anything differently," the witch reiterated, more to herself this time. "I've tried several times. It should have worked."

"Oh, bloody — Minerva, what is the date? It's the last day of the applications, isn't it?"

Severus stood abruptly and grabbed the signed parchment from the tray and a blank green envelope from the other.

"You will owe me, remember," he said, stuffing one into the other, then turned on the spot and headed for the door.

"Severus, wait! Tell me you aren't going — I assure you, Dumbledore will have your head if you try anything!"

Minerva rose to her feet as well. The man stalled in his tracks and turned, looking highly irritated.

"Who are you taking me for? I am going to ascertain the letter has been read and responded to, is all."

"Honestly, I'm not so sure you are the best candidate for that."

"We are an equal opportunity school, as the headmaster likes to remind us, now aren't we?" he raised his eyebrows at Minerva, feigning honest incomprehension.

"Equal for students, Severus," Minerva couldn't help correcting testily. "But yes, I know what you are getting at."

She huffed and sat down again.

"Go swiftly. If you scramble it up and scare the boy instead — I won't have to skin you alive, other people will see to that, but I might try regardless."

Severus nodded and left.

Detouring to take his robes off at the lab — the closest personal space — he headed towards the Apparation boundary, guided by the first of many lines of reasoning that would go from him to the Potter boy.

The sun was on its way to the noon point in a cloudless sky of Surrey. The wind was barely there, and Severus walked up the street in eerie silence. No one appeared on the lawns, curtains were drawn, and even an occasional dog on a property seemed to be a life-like lawn ornament at best.

The young professor was mildly frustrated with the way his curiosity had overruled his plans this morning; yet his six sense told him there could be some profit in this course of action. He tugged at his shirt sleeve out of habit and tried to get the three-piece suit to settle more comfortably. Severus never embraced his Muggle side, exactly, but he learned to live with it. If only because he liked to have an upper hand where an upper hand was due. And an upper hand over someone like Lucius was deadly useful, too.

Number four was under the same mirror spell as the rest of houses in the street; neat and tidy and eggshell-blue. No movement was visible inside, either; thankfully, no dog.

A front door, a back door, most likely, five windows on the façade – Severus catalogued escape routes methodically as he walked up to the porch. He spared a passing thought to a possibility of watchers, Dumbledore's or someone else's, but dismissed them as no danger. Hardly anyone would want to simply kill him in the middle of the street; otherwise, he planned to behave demurely enough.

He knocked, both sharply and forcefully, for the intention not to be misunderstood. There was a shuffle from inside, then silence. Perhaps, the adults weren't at home at all? If so, all the better. He knocked again. Silence. He tsked, placed a palm against the door and pushed a bit.

There was a horrible creak of splintering wood, but the door opened only a fraction. His eyebrows shot towards the hairline. None of immediate explanations fit, and those which might, he didn't care to contemplate right then. He placed his hand against the door again, this time not concentrating his magic on opening, but on pushing it inwards. And it budged, then something crashed, and the door swung wide open with a thud.

That's how Severus Snape suddenly came face-to-face with a large blonde man with a hammer in his hand, who was staring at him with dilated pupils in his small eyes. He almost jerked back, but then recomposed himself and tried to make as much sense of the situation as was possible.

"Good day, Mr... Dursley, if I'm not mistaken," he began, not stepping across the threshold into the hammer's range. "I'm here on account of your nephew, Harry Potter. My name is Severus Snape, and I'm a Professor at the School of Witchcraft and Wi–-"

The door slammed in his face. Honestly, under the wave of irritation that engulfed him, he was a little impressed the man could move with such swiftness in spite of his stature. Still, it wouldn't do. Before the woodworking sounds from inside could block his way again, Severus attacked the door one more time and, this time, made sure to step in immediately, kicking the door closed behind him with a heel.

"Mr Dursley," he ground out, "I must insist that you not interrupt me."

"This is my house," the man said, taking half a step back. "You are breaking and entering, sir!"

"I wouldn't have to –-"

"You again!"

Severus turned sharply towards the voice. What he saw was a woman – indeed, Petunia, his memory supplied, the years hadn't been very kind to her – standing in the doorway to the kitchen and pointing her finger at him. Her face was pale with pink spots spreading erratically. Well, that answered the question of whether she remembered him.

"Please," he began, forcing his teeth to unclench, "let us –-"

"You defiled her mind and made her go away! And now you are coming for more!"

Oh, for basilisk's intestines, thought Severus, Petunia at her best. He was ready to silently agree with McGonagall about not being fit for this job; but not for the reasons she surmised. He couldn't scare the boy because he would never meet him.

"It is inevitable!" he barked, trying his best to keep his mind on the purpose. Lowering his voice back into the normal range, he said, addressing Petunia directly, "Let me speak to your nephew."

Petunia and her husband began to say something at the same time, but a new voice cut through them.

"That's me!"

A boy was standing on the stairs, grasping the banister tightly and looking straight at Severus. Another boy, fair-haired, two times his size, watched the proceedings from the furthest possible point upstairs. The first boy looked so small that for a split second the professor had an odd feeling he'd managed to go back in time and come a couple of years too early.

"Right," Severus said, returning to the pattern he had had in mind before entering the house. "How do you do, Mr Potter."

"How do you do, sir," the boy nodded, a bit hesitantly, but seemingly unafraid. Severus gestured at him to come downstairs, and he complied immediately. There was some hope of completing the task, yet.

"Don't listen to him, boy!" Petunia shrieked, holding onto her husband's arm and not coming to intercept him, however. Severus ignored the adults completely for the moment.

"Before I introduce myself, am I correct in assuming you haven't had a chance to read the letters recently delivered to your address?" At another nod, he reached for the letter in his pocket and offered it to the boy. "Please do so now."

"It's not the same, though," Potter Jr wondered aloud, turning the green envelope this way and that in his hands. Severus frowned minutely.

"The content is exactly the same, I assure you, Mr Potter."

The boy glanced at him and did away with the envelope quickly. Several moments passed in silence, while he perused the letter, then he raised his eyes to Severus once again.

"Um, sir? Why? I mean, if it's true what it says there, because it can't be, really, but if it is? Why me?"

"Because you are qualified," he sidestepped. "Whether you are qualified to finish your education remains to be seen, but you are certainly qualified to try, or I wouldn't have wasted my time coming here." Because I can't have my revenge until you are at Hogwarts, he added mentally. "And magic does exist."

"Nonsense!"

Severus snapped his fingers, not even turning. He had irritation to spare, and if they traced his wand, Minerva would rip his head off, and that would be merely the beginning of it. The boy opened his mouth to ask some or other inane question, but never closed it, looking from him to the man at his back, who tried to talk and only succeeded in becoming redder from effort.

"Now, my name is Severus Snape, and I teach at Hogwarts. You should address me 'Professor' or 'Sir'."

The boy shut his mouth with a click.

"Professor, uh, what does it mean, they await my owl?"

"Not applicable in your case," Severus frowned. "Other than that, have you heard of carrier pigeons?"

"Yes. Oh! I get it," Potter Jr brightened and nodded. Severus resigned himself to the fact that standing before him was a natural, absolute, one-hundred-percent Muggleborn. It was a bit frustrating, a bit painful, and a bit –-

"He is not going; we're not going to pay for him to be raised in unnatural ways!" Petunia's sense of righteousness overwhelmed her fear, apparently.

"The school fee is none of your concern," he replied, immensely tired of hearing her voice, but trying to be a dignified Hogwarts representative in this madhouse and not be framed for murder. "Mr Potter, take pen, paper and write a response. Now."

While the boy ran to his room for the supplies, he leaned on the banister and glared the Dursleys into silence for all he was worth. Even though it was barely noon, he briefly wished the day hadn't begun, somehow skipping to tomorrow. Luckily, Severus Snape didn't know that his day was yet to begin in earnest.

Contrary to a popular belief, Severus disliked multitasking; yet it was essential in his line of work.

First of all, he was sitting on a park bench and trying to inconspicuously relax all of the stiff muscles in his back. Besides, he had gritted his teeth so hard that he could feel it now in his neck and in a line of numbness that went all the way down to the fingers of his wand arm.

Secondly, he was eating a sandwich. He only had coffee for breakfast and would readily admit that this particular sandwich was the best thing happening to him so far in the day.

His third task was composing an enormous rant to Minerva that didn't begin with him shouting “They tried to nail the door shut in my face!” and her laughing uncontrollably at his expense. He had been unsuccessful, so far.

He'd seen a few families of newly-appointed wizards: it was physically impossible to compound his house of purebloods exclusively, year after year, — but those were in a league of their own. If an unknown retribution hadn't loomed so ominously on the horizon, he would have run to stomp his foot at Dumbledore this very instant — not the least because he, Snape the bat, had been able to go through the Dursleys like a knife through butter, without using his wand once, and had emerged victorious. Or would have emerged victorious had he been anyone else in the wide wizarding world; as it was, he felt mentally exhausted and suddenly burdened with a student-to-be.

Harry sat on the same bench, turning his face towards the sun, chewing on his half of the sandwich, and thinking that his day was getting progressively better, if weirder. He honestly tried to eat more slowly, heeding the snappish instructions not to inhale his food, for Morgana's sake, but the tomatoes were good, the cheese was perfect, and he suspected that lunch didn't wait for him anywhere else, after today's mess.

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon (upon being able to make sound again) had made it perfectly clear, in succession, whether they wanted to pay for the school (“He is not going!”), for the requisite school supplies (“No!”), see him for holidays (“He goes there, he stays there!”), or ever at all (inarticulate growl from Uncle Vernon, as the Professor narrowed his eyes and said, “We can't all have what we want, Mr Dursley, especially you.”).

Well, that had hurt. It still did. Even if he had kindof expected it to come up sooner or later, and even if his home wasn't the best place in the world. The sandwich did wonders for his mood, though. He glanced at the man next to him and started a bit, finding out he was looking straight at Harry. His gaze was pretty intense.

“As we discussed earlier,” he said, “I will accompany you on your, ah, shopping trip.”

The fourth thing Severus did was to constantly remind himself it was a bloody Potter offspring, not a mishandled Muggleborn. Normally, a Ministry official out of the Muggle Relations Department was dispatched to instruct the child and his or her caretakers and to guide them through to Diagon Alley. He was many things, but not insane to hand off the brat to the Ministry alone, or in the company of his birdbrained relations, even if it could be arranged. How it had happened that Severus went himself, he wasn't exactly sure, but he supposed it had to do with reluctance to leave matters hanging.

“But before that,” he continued, “you need to be aware of some facts that are extremely important in understanding of what you are about to encounter. Listen well.”

Reacting to the tone of his voice, the boy's face looked solemn and intent, as if he were to recite this speech word-for-word afterwards. Severus juggled the words in his mind, arranging them compactly and clearly. Indeed, he had half a thought to make Potter repeat the key points.

“The world you are about to enter — ultimately, by becoming a wizard,” the professor kept his face blank, “and, currently, by acquiring the necessities for school, — exists alongside the one you recognize as your own; for the most part, lacking any physical borders separating the two. The society of wizards is vastly different, however.”

The boy gave him a dubious look-over. “You don't seem so vastly different, sir.”

“What do you expect, a second head?” Severus asked, irritated with the interruption, even if the implied question was somewhat valid. “'Society' means the culture in general, the customs, food, clothing, even thought patterns. Education, occupation, monetary system, health care, government. Infrastructure, what there is of it.”

“I'm sorry, Professor,” Harry rushed to explain over the cascade of long words, “I only meant, for what you've said, your clothes are very normal.”

For several heartbeats, the man gave him a stare devoid of any emotion, which was really unnerving, then said slowly, “Because I came to talk to you and your relatives, Mr Potter.”

Harry dropped his gaze to his lap and muttered, “But it didn't —-”

“—- help, yes. I don't expect anything could.” Severus' lips twitched between distaste and bitter amusement. “But back to the point, because clothing is not the most significant topic on our list.”

“I should guess that you are not aware of this, but your parents were wizards as well, both of them. Magic ability is not necessarily hereditary, not always; but the fact helped you on a few levels.”

Severus paused to sort the list in his head according to immediate priority. The boy was back to listening intently yet calmly, with no discernible change in attitude upon hearing the words, a tale of times long past and buried for him.

“The first reason is, your father came from a relatively wealthy family, and you are his sole heir. As far as I've been informed, it has been arranged that your school fees will be paid out of this account. If I'm any judge, the same account should provide you well enough through the school until you are able to work, if the tides never turn with regards to your... guardians.” Severus desperately wanted to rub at his neck, because the pain of clenched teeth returned in full force, even as he was talking. “I don't advise you to inform them of it, however.”

Potter Jr nodded, not looking happier, either. “Oh. I know. I'll think something up.”

“With this worry out of the way, some more ancient history, Mr Potter. Please, pay attention."

Harry nodded again, “I'm listening, sir.” The man couldn't stop instructing for thirty seconds in a row, it seemed, but it was somehow grounding. Harry didn't have any time to be at a loss in the flow of strangeness.

"You are aware that your parents died at young age. They didn't die naturally."

"I know; a car crash."

"You don't know." Severus held up a hand, forestalling a response. "Don't interrupt me while I'm speaking; you may ask your questions later. For one, wizards hardly ever use cars." He immediately noticed an opening left, and cursed himself. I should stop all this sidetracking or I'll never get back to Hogwarts in this century.

"There was an organisation at the time — a brainchild of a very powerful wizard — which was born for political reasons, but ended up committing numerous crimes and waging a discriminatory civil war among the wizardfolk. The government tried to suppress it for several years, but were unsuccessful. Their leader was fearsome, and indeed, feared. Your parents opposed him and, ultimately, were killed one day by the leader himself; your house was almost completely destroyed. He tried to kill you, as well, but you survived. That scar on your forehead is a curse mark from that day." Harry, a bit dazed, touched the scar, but felt nothing, like always.

"And as if that wasn't enough, in the same moment, the powerful wizard vanished not to be seen again; presumably killed by his curse rebounding. So you are publicly known as his vanquisher."

Potter blinked and looked at him incredulously. "Sir, are those the... um, thought patterns you were talking about? Because it doesn't make much sense. It sounds like he buggered something up, and I was there. I'm really glad it got him back for my parents and stuff, but that's called karma, I think."

"Abandoning the ways of public mind and your crude language, for now," Severus told him pointedly, "the implications are: first, while not entitled to a special treatment, you are very well known; and second, you may very well be hunted by scattered followers of the Dark Lord even ten years later, because their logic isn't significantly better. Where we are heading now, a lot of people will recognise you, but not all of them can be trusted. Keep close to me and be careful."

Every time he starts talking, he ends up with some sort of an order; now that's a talent, Harry pondered, muttering "Yes, sir." Yet, Uncle Vernon ordered around all the time and didn't bother talking first, and never told him to be careful, unless it meant "don't break stuff"...

The professor stood up, and suddenly there was a stick in his right hand. Harry almost missed a small gesture, and then the man was dressed in a long grey coat, and then he was dressed in a shirt that fit. "The transformation is temporary in nature," Harry heard as he touched it in wonder. "But it should give us enough time."

"Can I learn to do it myself?"

"I should hope so, as it's included in the general school course," Snape smirked. "Now, come here and hold on to my arm, Mr Potter. You're about to understand why wizards don't use cars."

The atmosphere was slightly chilly and smelled damp, like they were standing in a vast underground cavern.

“Do you have the key?”

“No. He is right here, just run the identification,” said Severus, gesturing Potter to move forward, a bit impatiently.

“Mr Snape, I would appreciate it if you didn't offer me advice on how to do my job,” the goblin grinned at him toothily. “Mr Potter, please step here for the authentication, then you'll be able to access your vault.”

Severus pursed his lips and added being corrected by a goblin on his Rant of the Century list, while the creature made the boy touch a piece of parchment and went on through the procedure.

Harry, on the other hand, was glad the goblin recognized the professor, because Harry, for his part, had managed to completely forget his name, save for the fact it was kind of weird and had a lot of S'es. Snape, he thought, is it spelled like 'snail' or like 'snap'? He had a suspicion already.

.

Later was such a vague term. Later lasted and lasted for Potter, who was filling the air of Diagon Alley with question after question.

“So, you're the head of one? Do you like it? Do you think I could be there?”

Severus felt momentarily torn between laughing hysterically at the possibility and pinching the bridge of his nose in exhaustion, and so he settled for smirking. “It would be unwise for you to wish that.”

“Why?”

“Your misbehaviour will land you in many a detention. It won't be pleasant. More so, because I try not to affect the general point competition going between the Houses.”

“I will behave, sir! And what's a detention?”

“Completing an assigned task in an assigned time. Usually, writing lines, or doing manual chores.”

“Oh,” the boy waved his hand dismissively, “that's alright then. I'm good with chores. So, do you think I could be chosen for it, sir?”

“What were your grades at primary?”

“Uh, pretty good, I think. I like maths best of all, because it's so easy.” Harry frowned in thought. “Do they sort according to grades at Hogwarts?”

“No, I merely tried to gauge your inclination.” He should have at least half a brain, in all honesty. Ravenclaw wouldn't be so bad.

“Oh, I was looking forward to more maths and chemistry, too, the textbooks they had in the library looked interesting; but now I'm just...” he shrugged helplessly. “Stumped, I guess. I'll probably have to catch up with absolutely everyone,” he added in a low voice, totally crestfallen. "Yes, sir, I see how you don't want m--”

Suddenly, a hand grasped his shoulder and Professor leaned in to say quietly “Silence, now. Follow me.”

They ducked into Madam Malkin's just as another pair of a wizard and a boy, fair-haired and glossy-looking, started crossing the street in the shop's general direction. They had a brief conversation near the entrance, as it was easy to see from the shop, and then parted, the boy walking inside determinedly. By that time Severus had handed Harry off to be fitted and glided further into shadows, effectively circumventing Draco on the way out.

.

“There is a boy there who says he'll be sorted into Slytherin, sir. Do you think he might be?”

“Unfortunately,” said Severus absent-mindedly. He was currently contemplating the joy of having Draco sorted into Hufflepuff and never dealing with Lucius again, ever. Alas, wishful thinking was just that – wishful.

Harry noticed the sour man's attitude getting sourer and decided that having an arrogant git – with a high-standing father – for a student sounded about as exciting as having him for a classmate. That is, not at all. He wondered if he could forge an alliance here.

“Now, on the subject of not wanting you in my House.” The boy sighed miserably at the words. “It is not true, least of all not based on you familiarity with wizarding education. All you require to know is: obey school rules; respect your elders; be polite to your classmates; put your first and foremost effort into your studies – that should get you through, Mr. Potter. Your Head of the House is likely to put up some extra guidelines, and that goes to the 'school rules' section.”

Or not. Minerva was awfully lenient when it came to behaviour outside of her class, after all. Severus frowned a bit and continued, lecture-mode.

“As for me, I teach Potions. Do the reading – always, – listen attentively, exhibit utmost concentration when doing practicals — and there will be a lot of practicals.” He frowned again, now at the expression of wonder on the boy's face.

“Ooh! A lot of practicals. Any perks to your house? Extra lab time? Showing us something outside the course?” Harry looked up hopefully.

“Perhaps, if you are doing your coursework diligently and otherwise are on your best behaviour,” Severus mused. In the next moment, realisation dawned, and he felt alarmingly like he was digging his own grave, if this turned out to be something like another copy of the Weasley twin disaster. “If you aren't, the extra lab time will be forced on you and the tasks won't be pleasant at all.”

The boy nodded vigorously under his glare. In his mind, retorts and tubes bubbled with multi-coloured steam, lit from inside with eerie fluorescence. If Severus had any idea of it, he might have noted that Harry was thinking of alchemy, rather than potions. But he didn't, and was deeply puzzled with the enthusiasm.

“And you don't know yet, whether you will like it, in the first place.”

Harry kept nodding, breaking into an uncertain smile.

“So, you don't mind if I end up in Slytherin?”

“No. Not at all,” Severus finally acquainted, “But it might be tough for you.” He wished he could have said he minded, wished he could have said just why and how it was tough, wished he hadn't mentioned Houses at all, and let the boy find out from someone else somehow. The house for him was chiselled on a marble plaque, anyway.

Harry squinted up through the glasses and said: “It's not like anything was ever too easy for me, sir, I don't think I remember it being so. It's alright, I'm not afraid.”

~SS~SS~SS~SS~SS~

Severus strode quickly to McGonagall's desk, withdrawing a folded sheet of paper out of his robes. He stopped directly across from the Deputy Headmistress and slapped the sheet on top of heaped parchment.

“In his own handwriting.”

She lifted her head and blinked tiredly at Severus from under the brim of the hat.

“Oh, you're back. Good. How did it go? And what took you so long?”

“I accompanied him to Diagon Alley, as well. Other things I'm currently in no mood to discuss. Possibly, ever. Deal with them yourself from now on.”

Minerva looked reproachfully at him, as he turned and headed towards the door. “Severus... Surely, there is at least one good thing about young Harry? I cannot believe otherwise.”

The man stopped and glared at her sharply, the blank expression on his face morphing into a horrible crooked smile.

“Of course, there is,” he hissed. “He is not afraid of madmen, because –-”

They both started when someone rapped lightly at the door. The handle began to turn, not waiting for a response, and admitting a customarily cheerful-looking Albus Dumbledore.

“Hello, Minerva. Why, Severus, what an unexpected...”

The Deputy Headmistress glanced at the younger professor. His face was perfectly neutral once again. He nodded briskly at Albus, passing by him towards the door, and was out of it in a span of two seconds.

The headmaster wasn't bothered by the lack of manners, it seemed; as the door closed, he smiled and twinkled at Minerva. She decided not to make an issue out of it, either.

“This year is going to be interesting, isn't it? I'm sure you've run into a trouble or two, already.”

She shrugged. “Every year, Severus is fishing for an increase in his lab budget for books and supplies for the older students. It's no trouble.” This time she might have to concede, actually.

“And what about our new batch of first-years? Because if you don't have all the replies, I was thinking that, perhaps, Hagrid -—”

“I'm not sure what you are talking about, Albus. All of our prospective students are accounted for,” she said, offering him a parchment full of red checkmarks.

He could do with appearing, really; but Professor Snape had said it was something he would have to learn much later. Harry thought he had done something like that once already, and had told him so. At that, Professor had coldly inquired if he'd wanted to appear at the intended destination or all over the place. Which was a good point in favour of waiting, Harry decided.

Still, Harry could swear he saw a figure in grey out of the corner of his eye, when Uncle Vernon dumped his trunk on a cart and bid his sneering farewell at King's Cross Station. Most likely, he imagined too much.

He tried not to touch his memories of that day in July, like a jewel box that could be broken. Only when he had lain awake in his bed, and the cobwebs on the ceiling made him distrust the reality of his future, Harry had dared to remember in detail where his (his!) books on the shelves had come from, the gaudy crowds and the cunning goblins, the owls and the brooms, and a handful of coins and a ticket under his pillow.

In yet another corner of his mind he kept the way midday sunlight had burned his skin and the taste of soft bread and tomatoes, and how normal Professor had looked just sitting there on a normal park bench, while his words had painted surreality in broad strokes. The way he had always towered somewhere near him, glaring at a woman in the bookshop until she unhanded the confused Harry, or telling the man behind the counter at the Apothecary to have some shame not to sell utter garbage to his students in his presence, thank you. Harry snickered quietly. While he had been a bit scared himself every time the man glared at someone, in retrospect it looked rather more fun.

~SS~SS~SS~SS~SS~

The station buzzed with colour and motion, muting the exchange between the boy and Petunia's husband. Severus leaned casually on a wall barely twenty meters from the target, patiently picking lint from his suit, although that task certainly wasn't necessary under disillusionment.

Patience was necessary, however. In the last month, Severus had been developing a nasty feeling that he had unknowingly stepped into a middle of a web, or became an extra component in a volatile potion; so he should patiently and carefully extract himself from it. If his behaviour came to light... Or, rather, when...

What he had seen going after Potter Jr he hadn't been intended to see, but that much had been clear from the beginning. Another thought disturbed him much more. Would I have seen something different if I did go the way that was intended for me? Heard different things?

Every time he saw Dumbledore, his mouth filled with bitter saliva and he found himself unable to demand an explanation. Minerva was normally a good candidate for championing justice, but he couldn't imagine speaking to her against Albus and being understood. She criticized Headmaster readily, yet frowned upon anyone else doing the same.

His thoughts turned back to his possible exposure. Could McGonagall have sent him intentionally? No, she wouldn't have put them both on the spot and endangered a student, as well, merely to prove some point to Dumbledore. Besides, she seemed genuinely grateful for the intervention and had even asked whether an increase in his labs' financial support this year would settle her debt. That was a nice side-effect.

Nevertheless, he needed to wrap it up himself, so there would be no blame to lay afterwards.

Besides, he liked to see his instructions being followed.

~HH~HH~HH~HH~HH~

“Your magic will let you pass, just don't hesitate.”

“But I can't do anything yet! I don't know anything magical!”

“Irrelevant, Mr. Potter.”

Harry tried to stop feeling weird. He wasn't afraid and had told Professor Snape as much. He tried glaring at the approaching wall. The wall ignored him and stayed solid. Perhaps, he had to touch it, and that was how his magic would let him through.

Don't hesitate. He pushed the cart before himself until it gained momentum. Then, a meter from the obstacle, pulled it into a 180-degree turn. He barely had time to stretch his hand to touch the stones.

He stumbled backwards and was nearly run over by his cart, but managed to stop it in time. He still fell on his backside and, looking up, saw an ornate gate where the other side of the wall should have been. He nodded to himself, got up, then trudged up to the train with a lot of time to spare, pushing his way through the people on the platform.

.

“What house do you think you'll be in?” the girl asked. “I hope I'm in Gryffindor; it sounds by far the best.”

“Good luck,” Harry replied, still watching the landscape passing by. She didn't need his input, by the looks of it, swinging her legs in agitation and sharing the more exciting bits of Modern Magical History without pausing for breath.

“So?” she finished her monologue suddenly.

Harry managed to lose its thread by then. “Um, sorry?”

“Gryffindor house, isn't it great?”

“Well, it did have a lot of people, it seems,” Harry said politely. “None of the names says anything to me, I'm afraid.”

“And if they have a test?” Hermione looked even more agitated at the thought. “What will you do?”

“Then I'll go to the worst house there is, for sure.” His talk with Professor seemed to hint there wasn't any wizarding history entrance test, but he didn't want to explain his sources.

“Like, um, Huff— Wait, there shouldn't be a house for people who don't know things.” She frowned and looked like she was ready to expel him in advance.

“Then, there shouldn't be a test,” Harry remarked, fighting a smile. “Anyway, if I had a choice, I would like Slytherin.”

“Why?” the girl was unrelenting.

Harry thought that 'Because the Head of the House doesn't mind' wasn't an answer to throw around and, instead, said, “I hope to study Potions in-depth; it sounds fun.” When it was obvious the girl couldn't quite connect the facts, he clarified, “The current Head of the House is a Potionmaster.”

Hermione's face brightened, and she nodded, seemingly content with the explanation.

~SS~SS~SS~SS~SS~

Being preoccupied with possible and real consequences took his mind off the fact that the new school year was about to begin.

Every year, Severus saw sour expressions even on the faces of more cheerful teachers as the Sorting Feast drew closer, and thus thought his extreme dislike of the day absolutely natural. The only person on the staff who showed any enthusiasm was, unsurprisingly, Albus. He didn't have to interact with children every waking hour and in the middle of the night, at times.

“Speak gently! It is better far to rule by love than fear,” the headmaster recited, glancing at him as if listening in to his thoughts, the congenial smile never leaving his face. Severus stared at him in dull exasperation. Perhaps, the man's habit of lacing candy with drugs had finally got out of hand?

Sighing, Severus gave the herd of children to be sorted a cursory glance, noting first Draco in his studied nonchalance, with the Goyle and Crabbe offspring by his side. And then Potter, to whom no one had paid any attention yet. He wasn't the most impressive specimen of eleven-year-old monster, that was even more clear now. Scrawny, with eyes too light, he somehow combined a grayish, vaguely anaemic pallor with the hair discolouration of someone who had spent the high days of summer outside. Severus once again found himself hoping he hadn't aggravated the insanity brewing in that clean, faceless, eggshell-blue house by appearing on the doorstep. Minerva ought to stumble into it sooner rather than later.

When Potter, Jr sorted himself, Severus wondered whether the thaumaturgic energy of Potter, Sr turning in his grave would be enough to power an Avada for himself or, at least, a small stunning spell.

.

“--You have entirely the wrong reasons, though,” sighed the Sorting Hat. “SLYTHERIN!”

"You have entirely the wrong reasons, though," sighed the Sorting Hat. "SLYTHERIN!"

Harry grabbed the brim and lifted the Hat gingerly. The silence that permeated the Great Hall was deafening. Harry got to his feet, careful not to let his eyes focus on anyone, because he didn't want proof that everyone was staring at him, drawing their collective breath.

An interminable second later, someone from the table under the green banner shouted "Yes! The best for Slytherin! The best for the best house!" which was promptly drowned out by shouts of "Go Slytherin!", "We've got Potter, eat our hats!" and general loud agreement.

Harry went to the table, smiling timidly, unsure of where to sit, and was pulled over by an older girl to the bench between her and the rest of the freshly-sorted.

"Welcome, firstie," she said, giving him a small smile of her own.

His eyes flickered briefly across the Hall to the table where that bossy girl, Hermione, was already sitting. She wasn't smiling, but when their eyes met for a moment, she nodded and gave him the thumbs-up. Those of her peers, who noticed the gesture, gave her odd looks. The others were still whispering, repeating his name over and over, when the next kid went to sit under the Hat.

Now Harry was closer to the dais on which the faculty table stood. He threw a cautious look in its direction. Professor Snape sat off-centre, closer to their side, rubbing his temples and looking nowhere in particular. He wore black robes this time and seemed to be worse for wear since Harry had last seen him. At the centre of the table there was a large throne-like chair, gold at least in colour (it was hard to tell), in which sat the most imposing man yet with glittering silver hair and a long beard and moustache. Must be the headmaster. And at the far end, he noticed the giant man who had taken them over the lake. He was looking at Harry, scratching his beard and frowning.

Meanwhile, the Sorting went on quickly; their table acquired just one more student, while Hermione's got the two at the very end of the list.

"Even," commented a boy sitting on his other side. He had brown hair, thin features and somewhat detached air around him. "I've counted," he explained, noticing Harry's confused expression. A tiny bit of anxiety left Harry; deep down, he'd worried that his insistence had skewed the sorting layout and that it would be immediately obvious he was not in his place.

Just then, the headmaster stood from his chair and invited everyone to eat with an odd speech. Harry complied. It must be those thought patterns again.

The girl to his right introduced herself to the first-years as Prefect Deena Weaver. She called them all in turn by their first names, peeking at a scrap of parchment, and told them she was responsible for them for the next 3 years, so they should begin to get used to her. She was not unkind, with smooth features and dandelion-like short brown hair, but something in the set of her mouth told Harry they'd better get used to behaving, and soon.

After that, they were left to eat their fill.

.

They were descending deeper and deeper underground, led by Deena, who let the other students go ahead of them to avoid the crowd. The lights were getting dimmer as well, or, perhaps, that was Harry's imagination running wild.

The Dudley-esque boy by the name of Draco stumbled on the stairs for the second time and muttered something about his father, his Manor and decent windows. The brown-haired Theodore, who walked a step ahead of Harry, rolled his eyes and asked Draco's indignant back, “Malfoy, you do understand that the only windows we might have here would connect us to all the water in the lake, don't you?”

“I never asked your opinion, Nott,” the boy shot back, scowling.

.

Harry was still wondering what had motivated the person who had declared living in a dungeon to be a grand idea, when they took the stairs to the first-year dormitory. He imagined all-encompassing wars, reducing the entire castle to a pile of rubble above their heads, and couldn't help shuddering. Surprisingly though, the air of the common room and the dormitories was warm, as if the heat crept up from the depths of the Earth.

Their dormitory, done in calm greens and greys, was bigger than the biggest room back at the Dursleys'. Even Dudley in Smeltings probably wouldn't have a dorm like that, Harry gloated quietly. Right now, however, the loveliest aspect of the room was the availability of beds. Harry was quite ready to flop onto the nearest one, when Draco kicked his own trunk towards it and stood in his way.

“That one is mine. Crabbe, Goyle, take those. No, not at the same time –-”

Harry, whose spirits were still rather high, backed off with a shrug and went towards the farthest bed, just in case.

“Money can't buy you everything,” remarked Theodore levelly, as though to no one personally, dragging his trunk to the foot of the bed next to Harry's. He also ceded his first choice.

“Then you don't have nearly enough of it, Nott,” Draco replied anyway. With that, and a bundle of clothes and toiletries, he strolled out of the room. When the door closed behind him, one of the taller boys sighed.

“Don't be too mad at him, 'lright? He just doesn't know how to be equal to someone else. I'm Vincent, by the way. Vince.”

He leaned over Theodore's bed to offer his hand to him. “Theo,” the boy replied, pausing for a split second before accepting the handshake.

“Greg,” the other of the pair said, smiling crookedly at Harry and squeezing Harry's bony hand in his own, larger and warmer one. Harry had been slightly apprehensive of offering it to him, but it came back intact.

“Dad says it's good for the family image,” Greg added, “to hang out with Draco, be seen supporting him and stuff. And it makes sense, really.” He shrugged a bit. “He isn't a bad kid, just...”

“Very Malfoy?” Theo supplied, sounding amused.

“Yeah, he is that,” laughed Vincent; Greg grinned and nodded.

“It peeves him that everyone pays more attention to you, Harry. Neat of you to get into Slytherin, too – they were gaping like fish, I watched!”

“I really wish they didn't,” Harry said quickly, feeling the tips of his ears heat up uncomfortably. He had already got his tee and pyjama pants from the trunk and was eager to escape to the showers to scrub himself off of a long day.

“You wish for the impossible, Potter.” Theo was now rummaging in his trunk as well.

“Harry, please,” Harry corrected.

“Harry.” Theo finally emerged, holding a bundle to his chest. “Let's go see if Malfoy's turned himself into a prune yet.”

~HH~HH~HH~HH~HH~

“I knew it from the beginning,” said Ron.

“There's no way you did,” countered Seamus.

“I so did! I think I saw him on the train – didn't know that was him at the time – like, totally alone, just looking out of the window and planning something.”

“So what?”

“You don't understand! He was scaring people off with his... aura. I wasn't scared, of course. Just walked away.”

“What are you two even talking about? His parents were killed by You-Know-Who, you know,” Neville mumbled, already under the covers and yawning widely.

“Exactly!” grinned Seamus. “Now he wants revenge on everyone. Just like in those comic books; you know them, right, Dean?”

Dean pulled out an alarm clock from under a sheaf of posters on his bed.

“I'm still not sure how you've figured all that out just because Potter gets to attend the classes at different times and to sit at the other table during meals.”

“He was destined to go to Slytherin. Fred and George say his scar turns people into mindless slaves!” Ron dropped his voice to a stage whisper. “And don't say his name.”

Even Seamus scratched his nose skeptically at that.

“Look, Ron, I don't think we should be worried just now; nothing bad has happened yet. As for later — we'll watch him closely, and if he starts doing evil things, we'll go and fight him while he is still at school, and be heroes. How's that?”

The prospective hero pinked a bit. It would be something to show to his siblings, all right.

“Well, we might. Watch him, anyway. What do you think, Blaise?” he asked the boy in the bed next to his.

Blaise was picking out pyjamas from several pairs in different patterns.

“I think red goes well with my complexion,” he said, thoughtfully.

“It does,” Dean easily agreed.

Severus was one of the few professors to be up and in the Great Hall at the ungodly hour on the first day of classes.

The official excuse was giving out schedules to the students of his house; even as Sprout had boasted more than once that she managed to cultivate a plant which bloomed schedules on a predetermined day, so her students simply had to pick them on their way out (Severus wasn't certain that everything about this type of gardening was strictly legal, but kept that thought to himself); and he knew for a fact that Ravenclaw chickens would spend their first day trying to unstick their schedules from their bags, exchanging elaborate if uncharitable epithets on Flitwick.

But McGonagall handed the schedules out herself, and so Severus did, too. He couldn't guess at her reasons for doing it, but, personally, expected that showing his sleepy, grumpy and dreading the classes students his own sleepy, snarly and dreading the classes all-year-low attitude was a great incentive for the incoming term. He had seen the prefects the night before, and their reports had been satisfactory; his presence in person wouldn't be amiss, however.

“Good morning, Severus.” Minerva pulled out a chair next to him and seated herself, offering a tight smile. “You ran away awfully fast last evening, I didn't manage to congratulate you on your new acquisition.”

“You, too, McGonagall?” Severus looked at her, half-exasperated, half-wary, nursing his cup of bitter tea. It wasn't a warm greeting by any means, but much better than the 'Just take him!' that tried to reach his vocal cords instead.

“Oh, don't dramatise it for me. There couldn't have been that many people talking to you between the Sorting and now, taking into account your general pleasantness, multiplied by the beginning of the year.” Her smile was slightly more pronounced now, like she had been trying to restrain it. “Well, to tell the truth, even Dumbledore didn't try to be overly radiant this time; I've no definite idea as to why – perhaps, the security concerns, – but Pomona thinks it was a nice change of pace.”

Her words brought Severus' mind into focus, and suddenly he didn't want to give anyone over to McGonagall. Not overly radiant – he had noticed that. It seemed almost certain that his plans turned out to be contradicting those of Albus; and he recalled that he had decided to be stubborn in this case. Severus was hazy on the details of the decision at the moment, but was quite confident that they included his students remaining his students.

“But honestly, Severus,” Minerva continued, “I find the whole situation extremely amusing – don't you dare glare at me, – as long as you don't use it as a vehicle for some or other sort of convoluted revenge.”

Misreading something in his face, she added hastily, “Yes, yes, it's safe to say you won't. I reckon that if a child liked you enough not to be distressed by meeting you for a second time, much less facing the prospect of your constant supervision for the next seven years... You two, most probably, are off to a good start.”

“You must be joking,” the younger professor muttered, pushing his cup away in disgust. The tea had turned cold.

Meanwhile, Dumbledore was entering the hall and heading towards them. Him. Suppressing the instinct to flee immediately, he waited till the headmaster was about to sit, no other way around it, and then excused himself, picking up the pile of glossy sheets. He resolutely didn't look back: a good plan for a confrontation was yet to be developed.

He rounded the table and went along the row of Slytherins. Ahead of him, akin to a sound wave of his steps, students stirred, straightened and murmured their greetings, turning their heads towards the professor. There weren't an awful lot of them at such an early hour, but the presence ratio was better than at the other tables, and all of the first years were sitting at the far end, presided over by the iron-willed Weaver girl. Not a bad choice of a prefect for this bunch, he felt.

Severus distributed what he could, leaving the rest of the stack with the prefects responsible, before approaching the Weaver group. Of the girls, only the unmistakable Parkinson breed was recognisable, but all of the boys were more or less familiar snotty nuisances this year. Looking over the children, he caught himself frowning minutely and thinking that for some, the undoubtedly giant effort spent in training them in perfect table manners would have been better applied elsewhere. For example, to attitude correction.

He glanced at Potter and saw him aborting a yawn and straightening up, as the boy noticed him in turn. Their eyes met for a moment, and, to Severus' horror, Potter gave him a tentative smile. He made a short forbidding jerk with his head and broke the contact.

Harry blinked, swallowed his confusion and said his greetings with the other students, as Professor Snape gave them the timetables.

“Don't be late for your classes. See you on Friday,” was all that the man said, before turning and leaving the hall through one of the side doors.

~HH~HH~HH~HH~

“I say, take it,” insisted Theo, nibbling on a piece of chocolate. “Take it, check for curses and hexes, and then eat. Better yet, check for curses, then take it.”

“But we didn't this time,” Harry pointed out. He hadn't opened any of the assorted candy in his bag. “Anyway, I don't know how.”

Theo stopped chewing. “An oversight on my part, I admit.” He looked at the half still in his hand. “I know a couple of useful spells, but we definitely should hit the library for more, just in case.”

“You should check for poisons, too,” said Greg, catching up to them and falling into step on Harry's other side. Vincent, following Draco, was farther ahead, near Prefect Deena and the girls. “And for normal potions, if possible. Trust me, Vince likes to mix jokes into my sweets; once, I was green all over for a week.”

Theo frowned in thought: apparently, the concept of joke candy didn't quite fit into his worldview.

Harry sighed. “I'm not sure what to think. They don't even know me.”

“Everyone –-” Theo began with a roll of his eyes.

“---knows me. Only not really.”

The banquet and the sorting hadn't been the end of it. Any time when Harry ventured out of the lower levels, it was to a whirlpool of susurration. 'See him? The short one... His scar is like a snake, no wonder... Scary... All of them...'

The practical Theo had told him that having his way cleared by the power of sheer superstition was convenient.

To his profound relief, the professors were more or less indifferent towards him. Well, he thought that Professor McGonagall had watched him with interest and the tiny Head of Ravenclaw had lost his footing on a stack of books in excitement, but What's-his-name Binns overcompensated for it by being incorporeal and totally ignorant of his students, his lesson plans, the time of year and, probably, the century.

And last night, passing through the common room with Theo, he had been waved over by a merry group of older students sharing someone's birthday gift of a large box of sweets, it'd turned out. An astonished Harry, hands loaded with candy, had been patted on the head more than once and solemnly instructed to grow taller soon, because the house image should be preserved in the new generation.

Finally, they came to the Potions classroom. Deena left them with a good-natured warning about clashing with Gryffindors, and they filtered in. Their counterparts soon followed, with Professor Snape on their heels.

Not bothering to sit, he grabbed a journal from his desk and began taking the register, in his usual quiet talking voice. In the classroom, it carried. Actually, the only time Harry had heard him raising it was at Aunt Petunia's prompt.

The boy looked over the other house. They hadn't had the other lessons together, and on Monday night, over the Charms homework, Theo had speculated wildly why they should meet in such a potentially hazardous class. Vincent had put an end to it by stating that if the other kids behaved, it was no concern of Slytherins, and if they didn't, woe unto them, the home air of dungeons and all.

So far, some of the boys merely tried to glare through Harry, which wasn't a big health threat, because they quickly turned away when he glanced back at them. Draco didn't, but then, Draco's glare was of glazed, reflective variety he always projected to some measure anyway.

“Ah, yes,” the professor said, as if remembering something, and Harry realised his name was being called. “Potter, Harry. Our new – asset.”

Things suddenly and rapidly went downhill from there. It never occurred to Harry that they could have done it much more spectacularly, and it wouldn't have been a comfort if it had.

Hermione fidgeted in her seat. She was trying, valiantly trying to restrain herself. She had been trying for ten full minutes, in fact; from the moment the two boys had dropped their bags on the table next to hers in the library.

Finally, she put down her quill, closed the Transfiguration text and pushed back her chair. Someone was wrong in the best school of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

~HH~HH~HH~HH~HH~

He'd been forewarned. He had been forewarned.

“I'm an idiot,” Harry sighed, staring into his Charms book.

“Commendably critical point of view,” remarked Theo. “Does that mean you've decided not to self-destruct in an attempt to get a good Potions grade?”

“It has nothing to do with Potions grades,” Harry began resolutely. “He —”

“Harry, you shouldn't blame yourself. That was very unprofessional of Professor Snape.”

From the table in front of theirs, Hermione had had the best view of the happenings in Potions. At first, having swooped upon them in the library, she had been sitting near Harry to offer support he couldn't understand the reason for, but then had moved to Theo's side, so that the two could argue without drawing the librarian's attention.

“Hermione, that's not it. I've told him I want to study Potions. And he just —”

“You've told him and he has acted like that?” Theo looked at Harry incredulously. “It's safe to say you're being counter-productive if you still think you have any chance.”

“It's the principle of thing!” Hermione interjected. “Harry should persist if that's what he wants.”

“Harry wants to override his Head of House, effectively. Principles or not, that is suicidal.”

Harry wondered what in him made people talk about him in third person in his presence.

“It has nothing to do with principles. Professor Snape just doesn't think I'm serious about studying Potions. I have to convince him, that's all,” he said, when it was evident the opponents had come to a glowering stalemate — again.

“My dear Potter, don't put Snape and 'doesn't think' in the same sentence. You'll end up as a potion ingredient. Moreover, there is Malfoy. It looks like he is set to be the teacher's pet, and that way he can cause you a world of trouble. He said —”

“I heard him too, Theo, no need to recap,” Harry interrupted bitterly. “But if I don't have any chance, then Draco has, like, ten percent of it.”

“I wouldn't bet,” Theo replied, dropping his voice and glancing at Hermione suspiciously. “For all the nonsense he spits, his father is on the Board of Governors. No doubt Malfoy the brat runs crying to him the moment Snape tries to say anything like he said to you, no matter that he deserves it and you don't.”

“Oh, I know. I've seen them in July in Diagon Alley — him and his father, I mean. Draco didn't recognise me back there and acted like a right spoiled git. Even Professor Snape then said —”

“Wait, Snape was there, too?” Theo frowned at Harry.

Harry sighed heavily and mentally berated himself, frowning right back at his friend and Hermione for a good measure, “Swear you don't tell anyone what I'm telling you now, all right? You too, Hermione. I don't want... Well, you'll see.”

Both nodded eagerly, leaning closer to Harry, who began to speak.

“I actually met Snape for the first time this summer, when he helped me with shopping for school, — that's a long story I won't go into just now. We ran into Draco and his father, almost, only back then I didn't know them, of course; but the professor apparently did, and managed to avoid them, himself. I thought it didn't bode well. And then Draco and I were at Madam Malkin's, and he didn't recognise me, just like I've said, and boasted how he would be in Slytherin and the usual Malfoy-this-and-that stuff. Later, I asked Professor Snape whether it was true, about Draco sorted into Slytherin, and you know what? He said, 'Unfortunately', and had that expression of — distaste, y'know, like he wished he taught a toad instead.” Harry snickered quietly at the memory.

Theo grinned darkly. “Oh my, that's priceless.”

Hermione chewed her lip in confusion. “But that's prejudice.”

“You don't know Draco,” Harry countered. “Though, I'm not sure if the professor knows him either. He might've been thinking of Draco's father. Anyway, not something to carry tales of.”

“Be that as it may,” Theo was back in his serious mode, “Malfoy didn't manage to get himself into a detention at his first lesson, you have to admit.”

“Yeah.” Harry sighed. The varnished toadstool of a boy hadn't been an idiot and hadn't messed up the most basic potion ever. Sure, Harry had been working with Theo, so the failure was shared, but it turned out his partner regarded Potions practicals as a torture necessary to build one's character and swore he wouldn't be able to drink anything he made himself. Pushing away the Charms and re-capping his pen, Harry fished in his bag for the Potions textbook, but unexpectedly came up with a chocolate bar.

“Stop!” Theo whispered urgently over the table, glancing at Madam Pince. “We haven't tested them yet.”

“I don't care if it's poisoned,” Harry said glumly.

“I knew it,” moaned Theo. “You are suicidal or insane. So, you kill yourself and who do I talk to for the next seven years? Vince, Greg and Malfoy?”

Harry started chuckling in spite of his mood.

“Granger, can you make yourself useful?” Theo continued. “There should be spells...”

“Chocolate is bad for your teeth.” Hermione looked at him with apparent reproach.

“We have a matter of life and death here,” Theo stated categorically, gesturing at Harry, who felt oddly better and lighter without any sweets.

~SS~SS~SS~SS~SS~

The door opened before he had a chance to knock. A customary offer of tea, which he took, and of candy, which he declined.

“It's been some time since we had an opportunity to talk, Severus. I hope everything is going well.”

“As well as it could be expected, Headmaster,” he nodded, just a touch sarcastic. “Is there anything specific you're interested in favourable proceeding of?”

Dumbledore steepled his fingers and looked out of the arched windows. The deep purple of the dying sky blended in his eyes and his robes. Things whirred and ticked on the numerous shelves.

“I know you for a very smart young man, Severus, and as such, you might be harbouring all manner of suspicion.”

“Should I be?” He inclined his head minutely, composing the expression of detached if caustic curiosity.

“Regarding the student distribution... Inviting you to talk today, I hoped to dispel any doubts you may have, my boy.”

Severus suddenly saw the thread of conversation before him, clear and bright. He made a grab at it before it could go through his fingers phantomwise, as it often happened when talking to Dumbledore. When he spoke, there was slightly more force behind his words.

“Forgive me, sir, but I cannot bring myself to believe the perfect Gryffindor offspring is sorted into the directly opposite House, my House, and there is no design behind it. Unless there is something else to his circumstances I'm not aware of?”

“There isn't, I assure you.” Another silence of clicking and whirring. “And it certainly wasn't a part of any plans. I do wonder about the boy myself.”

Severus lifted his eyebrows fractionally. You don't say. Then the headmaster, who was choosing a candy from the dish, focused on him. It was so abrupt his skin crawled.

“I suppose Harry makes for a very unusual Slytherin, doesn't he?”

There were shadows criss-crossing Dumbledore's face and Severus watched them carefully as he shaped his words.

“Oh, we both know for a fact that whatever the hat decided, Potter isn't a Slytherin. He has no inclination to be.”

“Now, Severus...” But Severus felt he already had a good idea of what constituted the now.

“No, Headmaster. And I don't think it's in my power to change his — ah, — breed, aggravated, no doubt, by his pampering Muggle relatives,” he sneered dismissively. “Who, by the way, don't deem it necessary to answer my owl.”

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, and the chair shifted and flowed to accommodate. The glow of lamplight wiped the shadows away.

“You might be judging too quickly. He is but a child.”

“If I'm allowed to point out, sir, I've interacted with a lot of children in my life. Including at least one bearing the surname of Potter. This one is hopeless.”

“And what of his friends? Does he have any?”

“How should I even know?” Severus looked at Dumbledore with open astonishment, but, seeing him still waiting for an answer, shrugged. “I expect it would be difficult for him to build a gang out of his peers. They are either too independent or loyal to Draco Malfoy, who, in turn, isn't one to build a cordial relationship with Potter.”

“Even if his father tells him to?”

“Of Lucius and his plans, I have no idea,” Severus answered honestly. If Dumbledore noticed the answer mismatching the question, he didn't show it.

Instead, he glanced into his tea and said, “It might yet be... For the better, indeed.”

There was no clock in the office, but the window facets were almost completely dark. It will rain tomorrow, Severus thought, tasting an incoming headache. “If that is all, Headmaster, may I please take my leave?” he asked aloud, impatient on a border of disrespectful — not overstepping.

“Of course, my boy. The hour is far advanced: go and take your rest.”

The younger professor nodded and put down his cup, untouched.

.

He stopped and dared to take a breath only on the dungeon stairs; the absence of sound in the sleeping castle was ringing in his ears.

It had been aeons since Severus had occluded so meticulously. He sank down to sit on the steps and dropped his head in his hands.

Of the things Severus learned during his rather short and bleak existence, fulfilling expectations of his superiors was hard-wired. More importantly, giving his superiors a strong impression of fulfilling their expectations, however implicit and subtle they might be. He could discern the layers of meaning in a request and an order, he could tell when the words were perfunctory. It hadn't made him an empathic person, far from it; if anything, it had made him exceptionally good at aiming for the jugular.

And here they were, first Minerva in her misguided optimism. As if he redeemed himself running after the brats for ten months a year, as if his life never happened, as if he could forget everything and start over. And now this.

He could swear upon an appendage of choice — preferably, someone else's — that everything he'd said to Dumbledore had been expected of him. In clear bold print, or close to it. The negative expectation in itself didn't bother Severus, but there seemed to be a positive feedback to it. In much paler lettering, granted: he would've missed it any other day, in any other situation; but not now, and not about Potter. What kind of a plot was afoot this time?

He sat on the cold steps until his thoughts began to go in circles and overlap. And then, from one moment to the next, he saw the giant web he'd become entangled in — the web he hadn't been able to grasp the nature of. Disgustingly simple — nothing more than a cat's cradle suspended between several errors of judgement.

Harry had never had a wristwatch, so he was very glad there was a clock in the common room, on the mantelpiece in front of a mirror.

The mirror itself was large and old, made in one piece out of silvery metal and tarnished at the edges, where polish gave way to an intricate frame. Harry first decided that he liked it when he noticed that Draco was too short to properly check his appearance in it before going out, to Draco's great frustration. For Harry, the mirror reflected the shimmering of ceiling lights whenever he took a break from poring over his homework, and that was enough.

And now, as he stood in a dim, chilly corridor, in front of the Potions classroom door, Harry distinctly missed the lights and warmth of the common room. The door was locked, not helping his dwindling confidence. Perhaps, he was expected somewhere else? Perhaps, he was late by some trick of time and space? After all, the only clock available to Harry remained standing on the mantelpiece a few levels down.

He reached into his robe pocket hesitantly. No rogue wand-waving in hallways, Harry thought in Deena's voice. She had given him a big piece of her mind on earning a detention, too. He sighed.

But then, one of the charms that Theo used was really harmless. And simple.

After the first couple of tries he conceded that it wasn't very simple. While the charm seemed to work, it was showing him something different on every try and, so far, nothing that Harry could make sense of. Why on earth “684269051”? He tried again.

Just as the glow of “18:45” faded before his eyes, a voice close behind him said, “Why, if it isn't Mr Potter, potionmaker extraordinaire.”

Harry's reflexes couldn't decide between jumping in surprise and freezing in place, so he used the moment to stuff the wand back into his robe pocket.

“G-good evening, Professor. I was just...”

“...Waiting for me, no doubt. Potter, don't bother; I have eyes, and they serve me well.”

Severus opened the door and motioned Potter to come inside. He decided to disregard the time-telling attempts, which were, in fact, pretty decent for a Muggleborn barely a week into classes; Filius would've been ecstatic before taking points. But Flitwick had missed his chance, and Severus wouldn't do the job for him. Now, if someone tried to brew a potion out of the proper facilities...

Harry sat on a stool summoned to the front of the classroom and watched warily as the professor dropped the sheaf of parchment he'd been carrying on his table and took the usual place behind it. He wondered if the spellcasting had just turned his punishment worse.

“Now, Mr Potter, do you remember why you are here tonight?”

“Yes,” he said, dropping his gaze to his lap. “Yes, sir.”

“Backtalk is not an acceptable behaviour during class. ‘It’s called One Thousand Herbs and Fungi for a reason’ is by no means an acceptable answer to a question.”

The boy’s face scrolled through red and white in a quite satisfactory way, but the fight hadn’t left him entirely.

“I’m sorry, sir. I’m sorry, but it was true! How should I have… known...”

“Potter! Look up!” Severus’ fingers connected with the table edge sharply. “If you cannot tell one ingredient from another, then you don’t go guessing randomly! And you don’t — talk — back. Is that clear?”

Receiving an affirmative, he continued. “Were you representing any other house, I would’ve brought the points total into negative and be done with it. However, you are who you are, and your Muggle habits…” Severus trailed off, as another thought overtook him. For a couple of seconds, he merely looked at Potter, then finished calmly, “…are of no use now. If you wish to fight for yourself, this is not a way to go about it; and a wrong target indeed.”

He stood up to give instructions for mutilation of some simpler and nastier ingredient stock. Potter obeyed wordlessly.

Severus settled into grading the third-year test papers, glancing up now and then to check on the boy's progress. He quickly recalled why he had put off dealing with that particular pile until late into Saturday.

~SS~HH~SS~HH~SS~

By the bottom of the second jar, Harry was cutting up the greenish-grey ragworms quickly and methodically. He'd got the idea of how not to mash them with his knife, so he let his mind drift and the feeling of intense shame — slowly dissipate. The professor didn't seem too angry with him, but Harry wasn't sure. Also, he was somewhat angry with himself.

“So, Mr Potter,” he heard suddenly, “tell me: have the Potions practicals been meeting your expectations so far?” Sarcasm in the question rang clear.

Harry managed to wipe his itching nose on a sleeve and shrugged.

“I dunno. You said potions are almost like non-magic, but in reality it's the opposite.”

“Indeed?”

“Well, sir, you see, people don't usually wave pointy sticks over needles, whether expecting them to turn into something or not. So it's doesn't seem weird when they do turn into matches; just different. But I cut up stuff and put it together in pans over fire all the time, and nothing like brewing glory happens, ever! Even accidentally, as I'm a wizard and all.”

The professor listened with a peculiar expression on his face, which Harry found almost bird-like.

“It feels like a giant empty space instead of things I should know about magic,” he added, gesturing around the dungeon with the knife. “And I don't want to feel like that.”

“Does your empty space, Potter, contain at least the instructions for the potion you've failed upon facing the unknowable Universe?”

“Of course,” said Harry, a touch peeved. He had moped over the book for a while.

“Oh, really? Then clean the table and be prepared to try and brew glory. Or to try and brew a passing grade. One way or another, you will remake the assignment, and I won't help you; the glory will be all yours.”

Inexplicably, the boy was grinning and nodding in a way that was becoming familiar. Severus suppressed a pang of premonition.

“You know where the supply cabinet is. And I trust that you will manage to recognize the necessary jars — this time. Get to it.”

Potter looked about to dash across the room, when Severus added, “Just a moment. Give me your glasses.”

And back to his thankless work. Frankly, Severus didn’t need a test to know that the students’ grasp on the subject invariably dropped to absolute zero over summer; but it made for excellent scare tactics. He looked at the parchment in his hand. Then again, there were the Weasley twins. The only scare tactics for them involved contacting Mrs Weasley, which made the torture mutual and the whole idea mostly not worth it. He put the parchment aside and started on the Hufflepuff bunch.

He was contemplating a particularly wild flight of ignorance, when something diverted his attention. Severus dropped his quill, crossed the floor in two strides and pulled Potter back from the workbench by the scruff of the neck.

“Never poke your nose into a potion, you foolish brat! Neither when it boils, nor when it is complete!”

Potter looked up at him with a startled expression and mumbled something to the effect of an apology. Severus didn't intend to let him go so easily.

“And why, do you think, does this rule exist, Mr Potter? Answer.”

The movement of his eyes told Severus the boy tried to recall the reading.

“I take it that you haven't paid any attention to the preface of your textbook, in which the matter is explained at some length.” At the length of three paragraphs on the eighth page, in between piles of the author's self-righteous blabbering, Severus added mentally.

In fact, Slughorn's assigned textbooks along with his lesson plans had been making into the top of Severus' teaching hate list from the day one, right below some of the more idiotic Hogwarts students. However, with the young professor's customary absence of good luck, changing any and both required going through an approval procedure, and the approval procedure required more paperwork than a master's thesis in Potions — for each of the seven years of study.

“No matter now,” he told Potter. “To study Potions, one should possess a basic reasoning ability. Think.”

Harry looked into the cauldron again. Despite the smell, the liquid reminded him very much of a stew in Aunt Petunia's shiny pan.

“Because, well, a hair could fall in and spoil that?”

“Good.” There was an infliction of surprise. Later, Harry would wonder which part of it was surprise at the professor's own choice of adjective. “Even though potions you brew at this level wouldn't be spoiled by a minor organic matter contamination.”

“So — it doesn't really matter if I'm doing it now?”

The professor gave him a long emotionless look, which Harry recognised and didn't like any better this time around. It probably meant that —

“Potter, unless you are set on poisoning yourself, you don't want to get a lungful of decomposing ingredients. And even if you are, there are a lot of quicker and less issue-prone ways. Most of all, I hoped you would remember one Neville Longbottom, your hapless peer.”

— he was missing something awfully obvious.

“I don't plan on blowing it up,” he mumbled without any real conviction.

“We'll see.”

After that, Professor Snape stepped back, leaned his hip on the table next to Harry's and nodded at him to continue. He never returned to his seat, watching like a hawk and commenting every couple of minutes — more often on Harry's mistakes; although at times he idly unfolded a comment into an explanation, which was interrupted by the next mistake.

While struggling to both process the words and pay attention to the potion, Harry found that he wasn't half as anxious as he'd been during the lesson, or just now — working alone. It felt nice.

~HH~HH~HH~HH~HH~

“Theo, Theo, Theo —” Flop.

Theo looked up from his book reluctantly. “All the extremities intact. You are lucky.”

“Uh-huh. I just cut up some sandworms. They were kinda rainbowy and fat, and full of this blue slimy stuff —”

“Eww, stop it! I just don't want to know.”

“But they're... pretty, sort of. And then I made it... Not to blow up.”

Silence. Theo put the bookmark back in and closed the volume.

“Harry? Made what?”

His Friend-Who-Lived didn't manage to get under the bedcovers as much as to tangle the covers around himself, grab the pillow and give up the struggle.

“'rythin'... M'glasses, look...”

Theo leaned over to Harry's nightstand and picked up the item gingerly. What? Oh. No tape, no scratches. All intact.