Life for both students and staff settled into a somewhat grueling routine after the holidays.  Focus shifted to classes and study, overlaid with a renewed sense of urgency.  Fifth and Seventh Year students exhibited a kind of restrained panic, feverishly revising for their OWL and NEWT exams that were now only months away.  The other Years faced yearend exams of their own that, though not as critical, were still important to their grades and class ranking.

The cold wet weather further encouraged a scholastic emphasis, inhibiting outdoor activities and confining  most of the student body inside the castle, where they spent their free hours in the library or common areas. Exceptions to this were the House Quidditch teams, which continued their practices regardless of the weather conditions.

Personally, Snape thought such zeal was rather absurd.  He appreciated Quidditch as a healthy sport for students that encouraged house unity, and had the added advantage of helping to expend the annoying excess energy that children seemed to generate.  But he didn't approve of practice sessions in bad weather that exposed the team members to increased injury and  illness. He had better sense than to express his disapproval - such sentiments would have been considered heretical in a wizarding school. But he did pay close attention to his own team, keeping tabs on their state of health and cunningly steering them into indoor strategy sessions when the weather was especially nasty.

He also made a habit of monitoring Harry's health - subtly of course, without making his concerns obvious.  He lectured the boy several times on the merits of warm, suitable practice attire and on the importance of post-training precautions.  He made the boy vow to take hot showers and dress warmly after every practice, and furtively observed the child's eating habits - scolding him when he consumed too many sweets and not enough vegetables. On one occasion, he had even forced the boy to do lines as penalty for not wearing his gloves during a particularly wet, bitterly cold practice session.  Harry seemed bewildered by his teacher's reaction, but he accepted his punishment without complaint - and didn't forget his gloves again.

Their tutoring sessions continued;  a routine that had become somewhat comfortable for them both.  Severus was particularly pleased to note that Harry's potion skills were improving.  He was still nervous around Snape, and tended to make more mistakes if his teacher hovered near him in class.  On realizing this, Snape had made a point to keep his distance.  When he did, the boy performed much better. Harry had even begun to coach Longbottom into some semblance of tenuous  - well, not competency, really -  but at least the dunderhead blew up fewer cauldrons.

Despite their growing familiarity, Severus still sensed a hesitancy in Potter - a kind of wariness he couldn't decipher. He expected most students to fear him, but he had taken pains after their quarrel to keep his temper in check around Harry, particularly in the privacy of his quarters.  Still the child displayed anxiety around him at times, and had taken to staring at Snape often, with a chary, almost quizzical expression on his far too unguarded face.

Snape wanted to confront him - to question the boy's odd looks and uneasiness - but he had no idea how to broach the subject.  Severus had little experience in open discussion about emotions, and the thought of introducing such a topic made him extremely uncomfortable.  His epiphany at Christmas had given him the motivation, but not the skills to alter his behavior.  He finally accepted that such a major adjustment in his approach, both to Harry and to students in general, was not something he could achieve on his own.  He loathed the idea of exposing his self-doubts to anyone, but knew he would need guidance in effecting changes so radically different from his habitual behavior.

He had toyed briefly with the idea of speaking with Minerva.  He considered her a friend, if not a true confidante, and he trusted her implicitly. But his stubborn pride would not allow him to bring the matter up with the sharp-tongued woman.  Expressing a desire to change meant admitting that his former conduct was wrong, and Severus was not big on admissions of fault.

The only one who had heard such confessions - the only one Severus trusted enough to surrender his pride to, was Albus Dumbledore.   The Headmaster knew more about Severus Snape than any person alive.  He had sat silent and sympathetic, on a night ten years ago, listening to a weeping Severus spill out his worst crimes - his darkest, deepest sins and secrets in a broken litany of anguish and remorse.  He had not judged or condemned - but had forgiven Severus, and had directed him patiently on a path of atonement that Severus knew would last a lifetime. 

Severus set his grading work aside and glanced up at the clock on the wall.  It was nearly teatime on a Sunday afternoon - a good time for a leisurely chat, perhaps.  He was not scheduled for hall monitor duty until after curfew;  the students were busy at their usual weekend activities, whatever those might be, with a late snowstorm stranding them inside where they would be less likely to get into trouble.  He had checked on his Snakes after lunch. Most were gathered into their study groups as required by Snape's house rules, except for a few malingerers in the infirmary attempting an early start on the usual Sunday night illnesses designed to excuse them from Monday morning classes. Severus wasn't concerned about these slackers.  He and Poppy had a firm understanding:  only those Slytherins who were truly ill would find sympathy from the medi-witch.  The pretenders would be reported and would face Snape's discipline later. 

He decided now was as good a time as any to talk to Dumbledore about his recent new insights. He would probably receive only minor help, couched in cheerful clichés and pleas for tolerance, but it was worth a try.  As he left his office in route for the Headmaster's office, Severus contemplated his complex relationship with Albus. 

Their closeness had unfortunately dimmed somewhat over time.  In the lull of years after the Dark Lord's downfall, when most non-incarcerated Death Eaters were either quiescent or in hiding, Severus had submitted to the dull routine of teaching that Albus had required for his penance.  He had never liked teaching.  He was uncomfortable around children; he didn't understand them and didn't want to.  He would have preferred private research to the constant stress of babysitting students he considered too immature and irresponsible to bother with.   He believed he had been assigned to the job, not for his skills, but to keep him close at hand and under the Headmaster's constant scrutiny and control.  Despite his gratitude , Severus was a fiercely independent wizard, and he had begun to chaff under that continual supervision.

He had also begun to suspect that Albus, too, had changed.  He never doubted the man's intentions. He knew the old wizard cared for him and wanted what was best for everyone.  But he was even more stubborn than Severus - and just as resistant to admitting his own mistakes. 

When he was younger, the Headmaster had been noted for his objectivity and broadminded administration. He had welcomed debate and always listened to opposing views with genuine consideration. But over the last decade, he had seemed to grow less interested in the opinions of others, and less inclined to reconsider his own decisions.  He still listened patiently, but was quick to dismiss any disagreement with a kind of gentle condescension than Severus found rather infuriating.  Other staff members had also recognized the Headmaster's growing obduracy and were reluctant to challenge him. Most of them had ceased voicing any opinions at all and rarely questioned his decisions now.

Albus Dumbledore was a wise and powerful wizard, and Severus respected and trusted him more than any other living person.  But he wasn't infallible,  and he could be maddeningly obstinate.  Sometimes Severus suspected the old wizard had come to depend upon the awe and near-worshipful veneration afforded him by most of the students and staff, as if their reverence was not only warranted, but expected.  He had even wondered on occasion, if the old man was becoming slightly senile.  But Severus' loyalty and gratitude heavily out-weighed any misgivings he might have about the wizard who had redeemed him from a dangerous slide into Darkness, and he still valued the man's counsel.  He resolved to seek that advice now,  hoping the old Headmaster could offer some useful guidance on teaching - a profession he had neither liked or wanted, but now found he wished to perform with some degree of competence. 

As he muttered the latest inane password and rode the moving stairs to Albus' office, Severus was not at all surprised to find the Headmaster waiting for him, tea tray already placed on the desk between them. He wasn't sure how the old wizard did it, but he always seemed to know more than he should about Severus' movements. Severus suspected the castle portraits provided the Headmaster with his very effective surveillance, and he was paranoid enough not to allow any  portrait to be hung in his private quarters.

He declined the offered candy (once again) and sipped his tea while explaining the subject that was on his mind.  He didn't divulge the circumstances of his change in attitude.  He had no intention of revealing his altered relationship with Potter, nor the accusations he had overheard.  If Dumbledore knew Snape no longer despised his precious Golden Boy, the old man's smugness would be insufferable.   Instead, he expressed dissatisfaction with the results of the school's Potions OWLS.  He was aware that few Hogwarts students had earned more than an Acceptable in the last decade.  Most students dropped Potions after fifth year, and his NEWTS classes were  embarrassingly small.  He gravely explained that he felt he had to accept some responsibility for his students' poor showing.

"I still maintain, you understand, that most of them are empty-headed dunderheads incapable of learning the fine art of potion-making," he stated stiffly. "I fully believe that the superior grade averages of students from other magical schools is the result of lax testing and overgenerous grading practices."

"That said," he continued with a sniff, "I have enough pride and loyalty to my school and my country to be displeased with the poor ranking that our own students generate in potions overall.  It is, frankly, very disturbing to me that so few British wizards are adept at potions.  I think it would be a mistake to allow this trend to continue."

"An excellent point," Albus agreed with a solemn smile, his eyes twinkling even more annoyingly than usual.  "What do you propose, Severus?"

"Since I am accountable, in a purely professional sense,  for my students' success, I feel I must take it upon myself to better insure their understanding of the subject," Severus admitted reluctantly. "I fear it may require a change in my teaching methods."

"Indeed," Albus murmured kindly.  "What sort of change did you have in mind?"

"I have no idea," Snape confessed bluntly.  "I was hoping with your experience, you might offer some recommendations."

"Hmmm," Albus eyed him over his tea cup, his expression clearly pleased. "I might be able to make a few suggestions.  Let me ask you this, Severus: In your opinion, how do your students view you?"

"View me?"

"How do they feel about you - as a teacher?"

Snape snorted.  "You know perfectly well they are terrified of me! I work very hard to insure that they are!  What difference does it make how they feel? I'm only interested in what they learn."

"Yes, but one thing I have discovered in my long experience, is that how children feel, often influences how well they learn."

"Headmaster, if you are suggesting that I suddenly become kind and friendly toward the little brats, you have clearly forgotten everything you have ever understood about me," Snape glowered at him.

"No, Severus, that is not what I am suggesting," Albus smirked.

"I am not Flitwick or Sprout, Albus.  I am not charming, nor am I compassionate.  I am a hard man. A cold man.  I cannot change who I am."

"Perhaps not," Albus agreed, clearly attempting to placate him.  "But it is possible to be stern and demanding, without frightening them into submission."

Severus' lip curled dubiously.

"Think about it, Severus," Albus encouraged. "I know it is not in your nature to verbally encourage a student, but you might be able to reach more of them (and lessen the chance of accidents)  if the tension in your classroom was not so. . . . elevated. You have said yourself that your students fear you.  Has it not occurred to you that  many of your students may be far more concerned with not incurring your wrath, than in actually learning potions? Perhaps their fear of you may be the prime reason they do not learn."

Severus grimaced.  "I suppose it may be.  I suppose, to some extent, that I may have been too eager to promote such fear."

 "I know you value discipline.  And I understand your concern for safety.  I wouldn't expect you to endanger your students by becoming permissive. But it might be advantageous to exert your authority in a more professional, less personal way. To offer calmer correction and criticisms to your students regarding their work only, without attacking them individually or personally - without assaulting their self-esteem."

Severus snorted.  He had never concerned himself with a student's self-esteem.  It sounded suspiciously like coddling to him.

"If, as you say, you truly wish to improve your students'  understanding of your subject, you might consider at least moderating your rather acerbic responses," Albus offered gently.

"Very well," Severus conceded.  "It is something to consider.  I will reflect on your suggestions, Albus, and think about ways to  be less. . . ruthless."

"I believe you would be pleased with the results if you do, Severus. Students don't deserve or require ‘ruthlessness'. After all - they are children, not dangerous enemies."

"I'm not sure I would agree, Albus," Snape sneered.  "You have obviously not  seen Longbottom poised over a lit cauldron. I would almost rather take my chances with a dozen Death Eaters."

Dumbledore smiled ruefully. "Yes.  Well, Mr. Longbottom is a bit of a challenge, I must admit.  But I'm sure you'll sort him out.  I have complete faith in you, Severus."

Severus rose, and shook his head with a sigh. "I know you do, Albus. . . though Merlin knows why you do."

"Another truth that my long years has taught me, my dear boy,"  Albus winked. "A truth that might help you as well.  I have learned that people tend to meet the expectations of those who lead them.  If you expect them to fail - they generally do.  If you expect them to succeed - they will often surprise you, and do just that.  You might want to consider that with your students, Severus."

Severus gave him a sardonic grin as he started to leave. "I'll try - but asking me to expect competence from First Year potion students is asking a bit much, even for you."

"All you need is their self-belief, Severus. . .they'll do the rest."

"If you say so, Headmaster," Snape's reply was borderline sarcasm.

"Oh - Severus!  One thing more, if you please," Albus expression abruptly sobered. "I have a favor to ask of you."

"Yes, Headmaster?"

"The upcoming Quidditch match between Hufflepuff and Gryffindor..."Albus said.  "I'd like you to referee that match."

 "Won't Hooch be there?"

"I'd prefer that you do it."

Severus scowled.  "Whatever for?  I'm no Quidditch expert."

"No - but you are a defense expert," Albus replied calmly.  "And Mr. Potter will be playing."

A flash of understanding lit Severus' face.  "You think he may be attacked again?"

Albus sighed.  "There is always the possibility. Until we know who attacked him during the last game, I'd rather not take the chance."

Snape scowled at him. "Quirrell is the DADA instructor.  Why not ask him?  Or have you finally come to your senses and begun to believe my warnings?"

"Now, Severus," Albus sighed.  "We have no proof that Professor Quirrell is guilty of anything.  Nevertheless, while Professor Quirrell may be competent enough to teach Defense to children, he hasn't exhibited  a great deal of - shall we say, ‘composure in the face of peril'?"

Severus snorted, remembering the stuttering teacher's frightened performance on Halloween night. "I'm not at all convinced that Quirrell was nearly as frightened of that troll as he pretended - I still maintain he let the creature loose himself."

"Whether he did or did not, is not the issue now, Severus," Albus replied somewhat sternly.  "My point is simple.  If Harry Potter is attacked at that match, I want the best possible defender protecting him. . .and that is clearly you."

 "But why referee?  I protected him from the stands before."

"I will be in the stands for this match myself.  I would feel better if he had protection from the air as well."

"All right, Headmaster - as you wish," Severus made a point to sigh with some disgust.  "Although I've never known you to concern yourself too terribly with the dangers that other players face in a match - far be it from me to protest special measures for The-Boy-Who-Lived!" he sneered crisply.  He was careful not to reveal the considerable relief he felt at receiving the assignment.  He had been worried about the impending game, and had already determined to watch over Potter.  Now he wouldn't need to invent a plausible excuse why he was attending a non-Slytherin match. He allowed a sly smile to tug at his lips.  "Of course, you do realize how Minerva and her Gryffindors will respond when they learn that the ‘Greasy Git' - the Head of Slytherin -  is to referee their match?"

Albus grimaced and chuckled lightly.  "I'm not concerned, Severus.  I am certain you would never use such an advantage to revenge yourself on Gryffindor."

"Of course not, Albus," Snape smiled wickedly.

He headed back to the dungeons, smirking over the Headmaster's typically optimistic faith.  The old man had done exactly what he had anticipated,  spouting off platitudes and promoting ‘warm, fuzzy feelings'. He had no intention of taking his self-reform quite that far.  But he had to admit, some of the ideas the old wizard had suggested had merit.

Children are so emotional - and those emotions interfere with their reasoning.  I've always thought provoking those emotions might harden them - toughen them up,  making them learn to think past their childish little feelings. . .  but perhaps I have been wrong. Perhaps their immature little minds are incapable of setting aside their hurt feelings. I have seen that Potter grasps concepts better when he isn't feeling defensive. I thought fear would keep them alert - perhaps it does distract them. 

He returned to his office and studied the pile of essays still waiting to be graded.

I won't lower my standards.  I won't be satisfied with less than excellence. . . .but I suppose I could point out the little dolts' mistakes without adding the insults. . . well, maybe.  If I restrain myself.

He glanced over the first paragraph of the first essay and sighed, dropping his head in his hands and massaging his temples.

This may be harder than I thought. . . .