“Good morning Mr Potter, please sit down.” Headmaster Dumbledore said, smiling tightly.

“Err, Thanks, Sir” Harry nervously edged himself into the empty chair beside the stiff, forbidding form of Professor Snape: the Potions Master had dark shadows under his eyes, a clear indication that, today, even breathing loudly would put Harry in detention. To make matters worse, Harry was feeling somewhat dopey as, after the run-in with Ron, he hadn’t been able to sleep: potions this afternoon would be sheer murder.

“Now!” Dumbledore said, with an attempt at his customary joie de vivre, “The Triwizard Tournament. Yes, well, I regret that we have yet to find a loophole, my boy. And believe me, we have searched the archives, some more thoroughly than others.” the Headmaster added, with a concerned look towards the pale and exhausted Professor Snape. A muscle under the Potions Master’s eye twitched.

“So, I’m still competing?” Harry asked, anxiously.

“Yes, Mr Potter” snarled Professor Snape, turning sharply, his dark eyes flashing “A prospect which must delight you no end!”

“No, I…” Harry blustered, hunching back like a rabbit faced with a black mamba.

“Gentlemen, please. Mr Potter has assured me that he did not enter himself for the Tournament and I believe him” Dumbledore said firmly, his eyes hard as sapphires. “Now, Harry, Professor Snape has very kindly offered to give you duelling lessons.”

“But, I thought that the Champions weren’t allowed to accept help from teachers?” Harry said, scrubbing his wayward, raven hair.

“We are not allowed to aid you specifically in your tasks, Potter. However, both Karkaroff and Maxime are giving their protégé’s extra tuition and the Headmaster believed that you might benefit from lessons in Advanced Defence. Or do you believe you are above such?” Snape asked, his upper lip curling to reveal a yellowed incisor.

Flushing, Harry looked away. Why did Dumbledore always have to choose bloody Snape? Why not Flitwick, whom everyone knew was a Duelling champion, or Mad-eye Moody, who, rumour had it, was the most powerful Auror of his time, or, here’s a damn good idea, why not himself? The Headmaster had defeated the last Dark Lord, hadn’t he?

“Thank you, Sir” Harry bit out “Advanced Defence lessons would be very useful.”

“Good, good!” Professor Dumbledore beamed, rubbing his hands together “Well, my boys, shall we say Saturday afternoons?”

oOoOo

It had been the week from hell:  even in his second year, when everyone seemed to believe that Harry was Slytherin’s heir, he had not felt himself so suspected and despised by his fellow students. The Slytherins, of course, already hated him for being a Gryff and, as far as Harry was concerned, the catcalls and contempt were par for the course.

Hufflepuff, also, could be expected to hold themselves a little aloof; handsome, charming Cedric Diggory, Quidditch Captain, Prefect, outstanding academic, was their star student and Hufflepuff could be forgiven for feeling pretty put-out when, at Cedric’s moment of glory, he was overshadowed by the shock revelation that there was a fourth Champion and, to add insult to injury, that ‘champion’ was the famous Harry Potter. However, Harry hadn’t quite expected this degree of froideur; even the ever-friendly Ernie, Justin and Hannah were acting as if he didn’t exist or, rather, didn’t deserve to.

Even Ravenclaw, whom Harry dared to hope might consider him with a little more compassion, had, instead, decided to ignore his protestations of innocence and conclude that Harry Potter was just an arrogant little toe-rag who used his position as Headmaster’s pet to wheedle his way into obtaining a bit more fame.

And the fact that Gryffindor was so ostentatiously, so clamorously proud of Harry, so delighted that he had been chosen, so ready to sing his praises or fight his corner, only drove Harry’s reputation lower in the eyes of the other Houses and, worse still, threw into sharp relief the behaviour of the one Gryffindor who did not support Harry.

Ron’s sneering disregard hurt Harry the most; everyone else, even people like Hannah and Ernie, who Harry considered friends, could be forgiven- to an extent- for believing that Harry was an attention-seeking delinquent but not Ron. Not his best mate, who knew how much Harry hated being the centre of attention, how little the fickle public’s regard was worth to him, how desperately, hopelessly, Harry wished to be a normal boy, with a home and a family to return to at the end of each school year. Ron’s betrayal cut Harry to the soul.

And, after the week from hell, Harry had an interview with the devil himself.

Scuffing his shoes against the stones, Harry slouched miserably down to the dungeons: he could just imagine the greasy bastard, standing amid his disgusting jars of formaldehyded specimens, rubbing his pale, spider-like hands together, hard, dark eyes alight with glee at the prospect of being able to spend the next two hours hexing his least favourite student into a quivering mess. Harry kicked the floor, grimacing; if Snape thought setting a viper loose on a second year was acceptable, what the hell was he planning to do to Harry now?!

If, and it was a big if, Snape ever intended to teach Harry anything at all. The Potions Master had said to meet him, not in his office or even the Potions Classroom, but somewhere down past the Slytherin dorms; an area with which, Snape had said with a sneer, Harry should be familiar. Chances were Harry was walking into an ambush, knowing the slimy git.

Eventually, Harry spied, in the distance, a portrait which matched the description Snape had given him; a blue-robed wizard holding a snake. As he hurried forward, Harry was irritated to realise that there was no door opposite the painting, merely a bare expanse of wall. Harry snorted; it was typical of the man: if he left, Snape would dock him points for disobedience, if he stayed put, Snape would ridicule him ‘I didn’t mean that portrait, Mr Potter, I meant the other one, just around the corner, you scum-sucking, dunderheaded waste of oxygen. 500 points from Gryffindor for merely daring to exist.’

As Harry stood sulking, he was shocked to see a doorway form in the wall opposite him. A second later, the door creaked open and Potions Master poked his head outside, his greasy curtain of hair swinging lankly.

“In, Potter!”

Shrugging, Harry sullenly loped through the door…

Into a grassed area which, to Harry’s amazement, seemed at least twice the size of a professional Quidditch pitch: on one side of the field, bordered by a circular moat, there was an obstacle course, complete with bramble thicket, on the other, a large meadow, padded with springy moss. 

“Where are we?!” Harry gaped, staring around, “What is this room?”

“That, Mr Potter, is none of your business.” Professor Snape replied silkily, having silently stepped behind the teenager. Harry spun around to see the Potions Master standing, arms crossed, with a tight smile on his face.

“Leave your wand with your bag, Potter. You have twenty minutes to complete the course. Go!”

“But…” Harry gasped, he didn’t even know where the course started.

“Now!” Snape snapped, pointing a long, elegant finger towards a gnarled tree, which stood in the middle of a high hedge. A knotted rope hung from one of its broad branches, like a hangman’s noose. 

Slipping his wand into the front pocket of his satchel, Harry dropped his bag and sprinted over to the rope, silently thanking Dudley for the agility and climbing ability which Harry had developed through constantly evading attacks from his cousin’s thugs.

However, climbing the rope was more troublesome than Harry had anticipated: his trainers kept getting caught in his baggy trouser bottoms and his voluminous robe tangled around his legs. Worse still, the tree’s broad branches abounded with little, claw like twigs, which caught Harry’s sleeves and, when he climbed down the wooden steps which were nailed to the tree, Harry’s loose trainer laces caught under his feet and almost tipped him head over heels.

By the time he’d reached the thorn thicket, Harry was hot, sweaty and rather more ragged than when he started out. Taking a deep breath, the teenager took a running jump.

Harry would have made it, had the hem of his right trouser leg not caught a bramble, mooring him, stalling his momentum, sending him falling, face-first, towards the inch long, wickedly sharp thorns.  Squeezing his eyes shut, Harry threw his arms in front of his face and prepared for the hot rush of pain.

Which, in fact, never came. Instead, there was another sharp tug, the feeling of movement, a rush of wind in his face and the tickling sensation of grass against his hands. Harry opened his eyes and, realising he was lying on the grass like a dead fish, pushed himself onto his feet and set off over the stepping stones which bridged the moat. Halfway across, however, the lace of his left boot came untied and one unwary step later, Harry was sitting, soaked to the skin, in the deceptively shallow water.

Struggling to his feet, sodden robes dragging against his every movement, Harry sloshed through the water, struggled over the bank and squelched his way across the field to where the Potions Master was standing, smirking.

Obsidian eyes sparkling with amusement, Professor Snape said, satisfaction oozing from his voice, “That, Mr Potter, was a lesson. Now, let’s see what you have learnt from it.”

Harry’s immediate reaction was that it had taught him never, ever to obey slimy, sarcastic sadistic gits who dedicated their miserable existences to humiliating him as painfully as possible. However, as he didn’t wish to drive his house into negative points so early in the term, Harry simply huffed “That the school uniform is rubbish.”

Professor Snape raised an elegant eyebrow, a smile playing at the corner of his lips “Correct. And what is your honest opinion of my attire, Mr Potter?”

Wide green eyes beheld the close-fitting, tunic-collared, fusty black robe, the drainpipe trousers, the buttoned sleeves, which embraced the Potions Master’s arms so tightly that they appeared to be almost painted onto his skin.

“Old fashioned?” Harry heard himself say. Oh shit…

“Exactly so, Mr Potter.” Professor Snape smirked “Now, observe.”

Harry watched, half-awed, half-irate, as the pale, skinny, middle-aged, Quidditch-hating Potions Master strolled, literally strolled, through the obstacle course. As much as he hated to admit it, Snape was exceptionally fit and moved with the dexterity, effortless grace and absolute economy of a cat. Harry crossed his arms, soaking sleeves squelching sullenly, glowering as his professor casually vaulted over the brambles and strode across the slippery stepping stones, no less at ease than he was in his classroom.

Snape sauntered up, an unbearably smug expression on his face. After casting a drying charm on Harry’s clothing, the Potions Master said, in a triumphant tone, “Zipped ankle boots, Mr Potter, with a mild suction charm applied to the sole. Laces often become loose or, on occasion, inexplicably tie themselves together, thereby causing accidents. The leather a. prevents damage to the ankles, b. provides a shield against water and c. allows one to enfold one’s trouser-leg safely inside the boot, thus avoiding loose material catching.”

Harry felt his jaw drop.

“My collar and the hems of my sleeves encompass no excess material and, therefore, will not be caught by either flame or foe.” Professor Snape informed the wide-eyed boy laconically “And the jacket of my robe is designed to fit closely, with no visible pockets, for the self-same reason. Moreover, my clothing has powerful shield, flame-retardant and waterproofing charms woven into the fabric.”

Shaking his head to dispel the sheer strangeness of getting fashion tips from the worlds worst-dressed wizard, Harry observed “But the skirt of your robe and your cloak are loose.”

Snape raised an eyebrow “An intelligent question, Mr Potter, wonders will never cease. Both have powerful evasion charms and, more importantly, detach at the slightest tug.”

Harry stared at Snape appraisingly, curiosity obscuring the usual loathing and fear which marred his emerald eyes. “Um, but why do you wear them in the first place. I mean, wouldn’t it be better not to wear a cloak at all?” the tousle-headed teen asked, regarding the billowing garment suspiciously.

The Potions Master smirked, his eyes amused “You may find, Mr Potter, that in a duel it pays to have a second-shadow; people aim for the centre of a mass and, if that centre contains only your cape, they will hit fabric rather than flesh.”

On feeling a smile tugging at his lips, Harry ruthlessly gritted his teeth: this wasn’t a mate, or a parental figure like Sirius or even one of the cooler teachers, like Flitwick; if Harry forgot, even for a moment, he was talking to Snape, he knew the sarky git would make him regret it.

Professor Snape’s eyes suddenly hardened. Taking a tiny book from a hidden pocket on his sleeve, the Potions Master enlarged, then thrust the leather-bound volume at Harry.

“‘Warlocks Weft: Combat Clothing Throughout the Ages’…” Harry read, his green eyes wide.

“‘Old fashioned’ clothing, Mr Potter, was designed during the Golden Age of Duelling.” the Potion master drawled, hooked nose in the air. “Read, choose an appropriate style, apply the relevant spells and I will see you next week.”

“Yes, Sir” Harry replied gratefully, stuffing the book into his bag. He could scarcely dare to believe that Snape would let him off so lightly, not to mention actually teach him something useful. Perhaps these Defence lessons weren’t going to be so bad after all. 

“And if I observe so much as a crease in that book when you return it to me, you will be gutting flobberworms every evening for the next three terms.”

Despite the fact that Snape was still a total, greasy git.

oOoOo

Monday evening found Harry more than ready to admit that Snape, despite being a complete hypocrite, knew his stuff. ‘Warlocks Weft’ was brilliant; seventeen chapters of pure genius, each focused on maximising the protection and minimising the dangers of every conceivable item of clothing: from underpants to handkerchiefs. It was a fascinating, often amusing, read: the author, Wilber Raghast, was obviously the seventeenth century’s answer to Mad-eye Moody and his suggestions varied from the obviously necessary to the sublimely inspired to the ridiculously paranoid. Indeed, Harry might have dismissed half the suggestions had it not been for the annotations, written in a small, cramped hand, which liberally smattered the pages, explaining, for example, that it was not uncommon for victims of the cruciatus curse to lose control of their bowels, thereby making the automatic-scouring charm, which Raghast recommended the reader to cast on their underpants, a wise precaution.

Thus, supplied with ‘Warlocks Weft’ and a notebook, Harry actually found himself enjoying spending time in the library, which, previously, had been the only drawback to having Hermione for a best friend.

oOoOo

Despite being within a hair-breadth of unpunctuality, it was with some satisfaction, not to mention assurance, that Harry walked into Professor Snape’s classroom for his Friday afternoon double period of Potions: Harry’s adapted robes were, at last, finished, the final touches being added as the bell heralding the end of lunch rang. Now that he was wearing his sleek, warded robes, Harry felt a strange sense of self-sufficiency, rooted in the knowledge that, for once, he was not merely reacting to events, he was prepared for them. Thus, the sniggers of the Slytherins, their ‘Potter Stinks’ badges, even Ron’s comment that Harry looked ‘a right prick’, were the proverbial water off a duck’s back: for once, Harry simply didn’t care what the they thought.

Catching Snape’s eye, Harry was amazed to see something not unlike approval in those obsidian depths as they observed his narrow sleeves, covertly zipped from elbow to wrist, thus minimising loose material, the streamlining of Harry’s robe, the collarless jacket of which was now securely zipped closed and the skirt stripped of pockets. All that was missing was a pair of sturdy, sensible ankle boots, which had not arrived in time to complete the ensemble, however, Harry’s drainpipe trousers and Velcro-closed shoes made adequate amends.

Feeling rather more respect than usual for his domineering tutor, Harry set down to work on his antidote commenting to Hermione, with a wry smile, that it was much easier to prepare ingredients when their robe-sleeves weren’t dangling over thier hands. (Hermione had also altered her attire, albeit to a lesser extent; never one to leave an interesting book unread, Hermione had opted to taper her sleeves to fit her wrists snugly and, naturally, cast the undetectable expanding, strengthening and lightening charms on her book bag).

As Harry chopped, diced and sliced, he found himself thinking that Potions was rather like cookery, the one chore which he actually enjoyed. In hindsight, it seemed a little daft to doss around just because Snape was an ass. Mucking around with Ron was, well, used to be, fun but, considering how his best friend, no, ex-best friend, was behaving, he wasn’t worth losing out on the chance of gaining a NEWT in Potions- Harry did want to be an auror, after all…

Severus Snape gazed over at Potter, a bemused crease between his elegant, sable eyebrows; the incorrigible boy seemed, for once, to be concentrating, nay, even deeply absorbed in creating his potion. The old adage ‘clothes maketh the man’ appeared particularly apt and a smile had the impertinence to twitch at the side of the Potion Master’s mouth, fighting against his impassive mask. Folding his arms, Severus forced his countenance into ‘neutral’, inwardly indulging in the satisfyingly spiteful thought that Potter, like his worthless sire, was impossibly shallow; he probably thought that a scholarly mien would show off his attire to its best advantage.

Besides, Harry thought, stirring his antidote, it wasn’t as if Potions was a boring, like History of Magic, or useless, like Divination; the prep was absorbing and there was something magical about watching a dish- or a potion- coming together: with just a few simple, unappetising ingredients and a bit of elbow grease, you could create something wonderful. And, anyway, despite Snape’s inherent gittishness, he was a decent Defence instructor: ‘Warlocks Weft’ was genius and Harry had to admit that, although Snape had been an ass, making him humiliate himself on that obstacle course like that, at least Harry had learnt, albeit the hard way, something that could save his life. So, perhaps, if Harry just made the effort with Potions…

There was a frantic rapping and Colin Creevey tumbled through the doorway, panting like an excited puppy. “Professor! Professor Snape, Sir! Harry’s got to come upstairs. All the Champions…”

Severus glared, his eyes hard as jet “Mr Potter still has an hour of Potions to complete…”

“Please, Sir!” whinged Colin, his brown eyes beseeching “The Headmaster, he says Harry’s got to come now! All the Champions...”

Severus’ lip curled.

“There’s a photographer! They’re going to take pictures!”

White knuckled and painfully aware of Ron’s contemptuous gaze, Harry stared into his caldron, hoping, praying that Snape would refuse.

“Get out of my sight, Potter” Severus snarled, pointing his wand at Harry’s perfect, nearly completed antidote. “Evanesco!”

Gritting his teeth, Harry scooped his equipment into his bag and stormed out of the room, Colin skipping after his heels.

Harry’s emerald eyes prickled with heat and his chest tightened uncomfortably; Snape was as much of a sadistic, nasty, evil git as ever.