Breakfast the next morning began as the usual Saturday morning meal, early in the new school term. The Gryffindor table was unusually quiet, thanks to the absence of the Weasley clan, but the excited buzzing at the Slytherin table more than made up for it. As Snape had predicted, the school Owlry had seen a great deal of use over the last few days, as the revelation over Harry Potter’s new guardianship made its way through the Slytherin parents’ grapevine. Dumbledore had been slightly surprised that the news had not yet been blazoned across the Daily Prophet (or even the Quibbler) but Snape had expected no less. Slytherin parents – like their offspring – tended to think long and hard about the effects of their actions, rather than leaping before they looked. Those who (like the Malfoys) had been Voldemort supporters were doubtless wondering if Snape’s actions were part of some elaborate Death Eater plot, carried out under the Headmaster’s nose. Those who had opposed the Dark Lord, openly or otherwise, were equally unlikely to speak up and betray their allegiances until and unless it would be to their advantage.

Snape was under no illusion that if the news had been leaked to Gryffindors, he, Dumbledore, and McGonagall would doubtless have been submerged in Howlers and reporters as an apoplectic Wizarding world demanded to know how a Slytherin, let alone a former Death Eater, could be entrusted with the welfare of The Boy Who Lived. While he was certain that that day would come, until then, Snape was determined to enjoy a peaceful breakfast.

At least that had been his plan.

He was a trifle late that morning, thanks to two sixth year Hufflepuffs who had mistaken the quiet corridor near his quarters (his quarters! Really!) for a good place for an early morning snog. Having decidedly disabused them of that notion, Snape was in an unexpectedly good mood. He wondered idly if he had been likely to cause them long-term… performance... issues, having interrupted them at a particularly awkward moment, but decided anything that acted as a check on rampaging adolescent hormones could only be a good thing.

He noted that the rest of the staff had already taken their seats and were passing around the food platters as he claimed the sole remaining chair. It happened to be by Albus, and he greeted the headmaster with his usual formality. He then turned to his right to wish Minerva a good morning, only to find her staring at him with an expression of utter shock.

“What?” he asked, instantly assuming that one of the little monsters had managed to hit him with an appearance-altering hex, though with the Weasley twins back at the Burrow, he’d be hard pressed to name the next most likely suspect.

“You – you – “ The elderly witch seemed incapable of speech.

Snape looked past her, hoping the other faculty would be more coherent. Pomona Sprout had frozen in the act of spooning scrambled eggs on her plate, and the contents of the serving spoon had ended up in her lap. She had yet to notice, her eyes being fixed on Severus’ countenance.

“Filius –“ Snape began hopefully. Flitwick looked up from his omelet with a smile, lost both his smile and his balance as his eyes met Snape’s, and fell off his elevated chair with a squeak.

Now more unnerved than he cared to admit, Snape turned to his left. Albus continued to eat calmly, but he was twinkling madly at his plate. Beyond him, Hagrid had missed his mouth entirely and stuck a forkful of bacon into his beard. He too stared at Snape in astonishment, as did Madame Hooch beside him. Quirrell for once appeared to be too surprised even to twitch and stammer, while beyond him Trelawney let out a shriek. “It’s a sign! A sign of the apocalypse!”

Naturally, this captured the students’ attention, and they all looked at the staff table to see what had unhinged their loony Divination teacher even more than usual. One by one, conversations around the Hall petered out, as all eyes turned to Snape and widened.

“Albus!” Snape hissed, fighting down an almost overwhelming urge to flee. “What on earth is going on?”

“I have no idea, my dear boy,” the elderly wizard said politely, clearly lying through his teeth. “Would you like some marmalade?”

“Minerva!” Snape was ready to slap the witch if that’s what it took to get the dazed expression off her face. “What in Merlin’s name is the matter with you?”

“Severus,” she tried to speak, failed, swallowed hard, and tried again. “You – you look…”

“What?” he demanded, clenching his hands into fists to prevent himself from trying to feel his own face.

“Your hair –“ Filius gasped, clambering to his feet, “it’s – I mean – it’s –“

“Gorgeous!” blurted Pomona Sprout.

“What?” Of all the adjectives Snape was expecting, that wasn’t one of them.

“What did you do? It’s so… long. And s-silky,” Pomona gasped. Snape stared at her. Were they all under some odd form of Imperius?

“Severus, you look quite… different,” Minerva finally gulped. “Rather – erm – “

“Sexy!” one of the fifth year Ravenclaws squealed to her neighbor. “I never realized he’s so hot!”

Snape paled as this seemed to open the floodgates. To his intense horror, in the ensuing babble, he even overheard some fifth year Gryffindors arguing over whether his “tall, dark, and handsome” look proved that he was actually “intense and brooding” rather than “unfair and malevolent”. Most of the boys in the Hall were looking either bewildered or furious, though Snape did spot more than one (including several he had not expected) eyeing him with frank speculation.

“Severus, have you been under a disillusionment charm all this time?” Filius demanded, still gaping at him.

“All that lovely, lovely hair and height…Why, you look rather like Sirius Black did in his last year here!” Hooch squawked with – unsurprisingly – a complete lack of tact. Even worse, she trailed off dreamily, “Makes a girl just want to climb up your body and run her hands down your...”

Panicked, Snape hissed at the flying instructor (who was his senior by more than three decades), “Sweet Merlin, woman! Get a hold of yourself!”

“Oh, I think I’ll have to,” Hooch replied meaningfully.

Snape blushed – something he would have sworn he had forgotten how to do – and sputtered incoherently. Finally deciding that his youngest faculty member had been tortured enough, the Headmaster cleared his throat. “If a mere change in shampoo can cause such an uproar, I shudder to think what all of you will do if Severus ever decides to augment his wardrobe,” he said reprovingly.

“Just a change in shampoo?” Minerva said wonderingly. She absently raised a hand and would have stroked Severus’ locks if he hadn’t jerked his head away with a wordless growl.

“McGonagall! You’re making a fool of yourself!” he snarled, feeling as hunted as the time the Marauders had trapped him in a fifth floor lavatory. Between the students and his colleagues, Snape was beginning to feel like a Snitch at the Quidditch World Cup.

“You look… amazing,” Sprout choked out.

Filius laughed, his high voice sounding alarmingly like a childish giggle. “Oh dear, Severus, I suspect you’ll need to change your lesson plans for the next few weeks.” At the younger man’s confused expression, he elaborated, “You’d best have no potions that can explode on your syllabus. Between the girls who will be too moonstruck to follow instructions and those who will deliberately seek detentions in the hopes of being alone with you, you stand a good chance of seeing more explosions in the coming days than in the past five years!”

“This is all your fault!” Snape hissed at Albus, though in truth there was – way down deep below all the humiliation – a rather pleasant sensation in his chest. He’d never before been complimented on his appearance, quite the reverse in fact. He’d been a skinny, awkward adolescent with a defensively hunched posture and secondhand clothes, and he had never realized that he’d emerged from the chrysalis of gawky teen into a lean, wiry adult.

He had always assumed his oft-broken nose (courtesy of first his father, then the Marauders, and finally Voldemort) and crooked teeth (ditto) translated to an appalling homeliness. Merlin knew his father had called him a disgusting, ugly little goblin enough times for him to believe it. The greasy hair simply topped off what was, he thought, the long list of his unattractive features. To be considered “hot” had just turned his self-image upside down.

Now that his hair was shiny and framed his face with gentle waves, rather than hanging straight down in greasy locks, his smoldering eyes, strong chin, and high cheekbones could be appreciated for the first time in years. Coupled with his commanding presence, it was no surprise that he had struck the female population of Hogwarts (and some of the males as well) like a thunderbolt.

“Well, my boy, you could always decide to go back to your previous look,” Albus pointed out gently, ignoring the gasps of dismay from the female faculty on either side.

Snape considered that option for about a second and a half before dismissing it with the snort of contempt that it deserved. Make life easy for the students and staff? What would be the fun in that? Much more enjoyable to torment them.

He tossed his head, surprised and delighted by the low moan that the action caused among the female students, and said in the most supercilious tones he could manage, “I cannot imagine why my personal grooming should be the topic of breakfast conversation. Please pass the toast.”

Eventually, the novelty of his appearance wore off, Sprout cleaned the eggs off her lap, Hagrid removed the pork products from his beard, and Trelawny stopped moaning about “Ragnarok”. By that time, however, Snape had discovered a previously undetected strain of vanity in his nature. He had known that he was justifiably proud of his prowess as a Potion Master, but for the first time, he began to understand how that prat Black must have felt, with girls swooning over him all the time. What’s more, Snape found, he liked it. He really, really liked it.

Happily, his talent for Occlumency permitted him to suppress such base emotions. By the time Potter knocked on his door at ten, Snape had recovered himself enough to greet him with a glower. He had rather hoped the brat would be late and he would therefore have no reason to go ahead with his plan, but the little wretch’s promptness prevented him from using that excuse.

“Potter, I had you come here so –“

“Here, sir!” Potter not only had the temerity to interrupt him, but he also shoved a rather well-worn roll of parchment at him.

Fortunately for the boy, Snape was looking for a distraction. “What is it?” he demanded, unrolling the slightly sticky scroll.

“It’s my essay on healing potions,” Harry explained happily. He knew the professor would be pleased with him for using his time well. “R’member? You told me to write 12 inches after I thought that you used dirty socks to –“

“I remember, Potter,” Snape cut the urchin off. He scanned the document and was grudgingly impressed. The boy had not only included the relevant information, but he had also written it out more neatly than any of his previous work. Apparently the lessons of his last detention had sunk in.

“Oh, and here’s more.” Before he could chastise the brat for the mysterious stickiness of the parchment, not to mention its battered appearance, two more scrolls were thrust at him.

“What on earth?” A quick glance confirmed these were in different handwriting than Potter’s.

“Well, I asked Hermione Granger to look over my essay to make sure it was okay, and so then she wanted to write one for extra credit,” Harry explained guilelessly.

“What is ‘extra credit’?” Snape demanded. It sounded suspiciously like ‘extra work’ for him.

“You know,” Harry said, surprised. “It’s when students do extra things that you didn’t assign and it helps their grade.”

“We are not even in the second week of classes, and Miss Granger has already established herself as an insufferable know-it-all. Why in Merlin’s name would she imagine she needed to do extra work?” Snape demanded.

Harry shrugged. “That’s Hermione. Anyway, while she and I were working on our essays, Neville came along, and Hermione bullied – erm, suggested – that he should do one ‘cause then maybe he wouldn’t be so confused and scared in class.”

“Potter, the only extra work in my class is that which I assign as punishment!” Snape snapped. “Do you imagine that I have nothing better to do than to correct additional essays by know-nothing Gryffindors? Do you expect me to read three derivative essays on healing potions?”

Harry grinned. “I knew you’d say that!” Snape blinked, nonplused. “I told Hermione that she couldn’t write an essay on the same topic as me, so she decided to write one on Polyjuice Potion. She’d read about it in one of her books and thought it sounded neat. And then she told Neville to write one about the potion from last week that he blew up, so you’d see that he really did understand it.”

Snape plastered a sneer on his face and started to inform the little fiend that he had no intention of reviewing any unsolicited essays, let alone providing “extra credit” for them, when Harry looked up at him. The trust in those green eyes had an unexpected effect on his vocal cords and he found himself having to clear his throat instead.

“I even got started on my 500 lines,” Harry told him proudly. He had decided that a way to reassure Professor Snape that he was a good disciplinarian was to show him that Harry took his punishments seriously. He had written the first hundred last night in the Gryffindor Common Room and, after the first dozen or so, some of the other students had come over to ask what he was working on. Although at first put off by the information that he was writing lines for Snape, the other Gryffindors had become intrigued by what he had been assigned to write. Quickly his “I will not quote my appalling relatives” had given way to “My relatives are stupid liars”, “My relatives are lard-filled balloons” (his Housemates had really enjoyed learning what Snape had called his uncle), and “I will pay no attention to anything that my fat, stupid relatives ever said”, among other, more inventive, suggestions from his fellow Gryffindors. Harry hoped that the professor wouldn’t mind that the 500 lines weren’t identical, but he figured that if nothing else, the variety would make more interesting reading for Snape.

“Hmf,” Snape grumbled, deciding that (just this once!) he would permit the outlandish, Muggle notion of “extra credit” to be used in his class. He was a bit curious to see what a Muggleborn first year would make of as complicated a Potion as Polyjuice, and frankly anything that made Longbottom less likely to melt his cauldron could only be a good thing.

He would just have to explain to Harry later – in very stern language – that this sort of thing was not to occur again. The nerve of the little brat! Thinking that he could speak on behalf of one of his professors! He should banish the arrogant whelp to his room, but the notion of what the boy would find there decided him against that course of action.

“Potter, come with me,” he snapped, leading the way to the boy’s bedroom.

Harry followed obediently. He was highly pleased with himself. Imagine, he’d been able to teach the professor about extra credit! “Did you see I had oatmeal and fruit for breakfast?” he piped up, trotting behind the tall man. “Hermione said that was very nutritious.”

“I hope you are not dimwitted enough to expect showers of praise and presents every time you do what you are told,” Snape said repressively. Just because the books said to notice and reward good behavior, rather than simply pointing out and punishing bad behavior, didn’t mean he was planning to simper around the little brat, cooing whenever he managed to wipe his own nose. “Get in.” He shoved the bedroom door open and pointed.

Harry couldn’t suppress a smile as he entered his room (his room!), though it faltered a bit as he saw a broom lying on the bed. “S-sir?”

Memories of being dragged from the cupboard under the stairs and presented with a mop and bucket rushed through his head, though – he reminded himself stoutly – it was only fair if the professor expected him to do some chores around the place. “Do you want me to clean your quarters?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound whiny.

He didn’t mind cleaning, not after all the wonderful things Snape had showered upon him, but he had just thought that maybe Snape might not be quite so brutal about it as his aunt and uncle had been. Being handed a mop or broom or bottle of dishwashing detergent had been a regular occurrence at the Dursleys and had served to drive home the fact that the only thing they valued about Harry was his ability to do housework.

Snape stared at the boy and fought down a desire to bang his head against the wall. Of course, one afternoon at Hogwarts was hardly going to overcome years of servitude among Muggles. “Potter,” he said quietly, “you are a wizard, not a Muggle.”

“Y-yes, sir?” Potter agreed nervously. He wasn’t sure what the professor meant. Was he about to get into trouble for doing something that Wizards didn’t like?

Snape took him by the shoulder and steered him over to the bed. “Wizards do not use brooms for cleaning, Potter. They use them for flying.” He left the boy looking down at the Nimbus 2000.

Harry’s face turned a fiery red. He was such an idiot! Not only had he forgotten about flying on brooms, but he had been rude enough to imagine – again! – that Professor Snape would act like his relatives! He kept forgetting, despite the professor reassuring him over and over that he wouldn’t be treated like that any more. Professor Snape must think that Harry was a complete moron. And of course, the professor probably felt like Harry was insulting him each time he expected him to act like Uncle Vernon. A hot lump grew in his throat and nearly choked Harry.

Here Professor Snape had just bought him yet another present, and Harry’s response was to lump him with his horrible relatives. He felt awful. He wished Snape would take back the broom and whack him with it. He was a stupid, ungrateful brat who –

Snape watched Harry’s anguished face with increasing guilt. Of course Muggle cleaning appliances would have brought up dreadful memories for the boy. Harry had already revealed that he suffered from flashbacks, and here he was – ostensibly an informed, responsible adult – triggering them. He reached out an awkward hand and patted the boy on the shoulder, half-expecting Potter to flinch away from him.

Instead, Potter twisted around and buried his face in Snape’s robes. “’M sorry!” he whimpered. “’M sorry!”

“Potter, you need not apologize with every other breath,” he began.

“But I do!” Harry clung tighter to the man. “I forgot! I didn’t mean it! I just forgot!”

“You are new to the Wizarding world,” Snape pointed out. “It is natural that you would revert to the habits of a lifetime.”

“But I should’ve known better,” Harry said miserably, looking up at him. “I mean, you’re so much nicer to me than the Dursleys, and -“

“That’s hardly saying much, Potter,” Snape interrupted drily.

“Are you really mad?” Harry worried, sniffling. “I don’t want you to feel bad. It’s all my fault you know, not yours.”

“Potter, it will take you time to recover from your relatives’ appalling treatment of you, let alone become familiar with the Wizarding world. I am well aware of the enormous adjustment you are making, and I am quite – pleased – with your progress.” There. That was positive reinforcement.

Harry dragged in a deep breath, reassured by the professor’s words. It was true – in the space of a few short weeks he had gone from his lonely existence as the Dursley’s detested servant to this new world, new school, new culture, new friends, new guardian… Maybe he wasn’t such an idiot after all. Snape had said he was making good progress, and he hadn’t sounded hurt or offended.

Harry felt a surge of gratitude for the tall, dark professor. How many other people would be so forgiving and patient with such a whiny freak? He hugged Snape again. It felt like all the bad luck he’d had over the last ten years was finally being balanced out. He was so lucky to have such a brilliant guardian.

“Potter,” Snape interrupted before the emotional little creature could drive himself into hysterics again. “I will be angry with you if you don’t quickly display better manners than an illiterate baboon. You have just received a gift. What are you supposed to do?”

Harry looked up, puzzled, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Aren’t all baboons illiterate?”

“Potter! Do not be cheeky!” He accio’d a handkerchief and held it out to the brat, glaring.

Harry frowned, oblivious to the handkerchief. “I wasn’t being cheeky,” he protested. “But baboons – at least in the Muggle world – can’t read.” Then, for the first time, he really looked at the broomstick and all thoughts of baboons, Dursleys, and misunderstandings flew out of his head.

“Th – this is a racing broom!” he blurted out. “Ron showed me pictures in his Quidditch magazine!”

Snape rolled his eyes. “Congratulations, Mr Potter. You have now graduated to stating the blindingly obvious.”

“But this is the kind of broom that professional Quidditch players use,” Harry continued, trying to make the professor understand why he was so excited. All the dinnertime conversation with the Quidditch team came back to him. “Oliver has one, and so does a girl in Ravenclaw, but no one else –“ He broke off with an audible gasp. “Is – is this for me?” he whispered, eyes huge as he stared at his professor.

“I realize you are a Gryffindor, Potter, but the fact that it is on your bed, in your room, might lead you to that conclusion,” Snape retorted, highly uncomfortable with the adulation that was fast growing in the boy’s expression. “Surely even you have had time to realize that a Seeker must have an adequate broom in order to perform his assigned task. Did you imagine I would have you use an old school broom during your games?”

“But you mean, you – you bought this for me?”

Snape scowled, hideously embarrassed and furious that the brat was making him state it openly. He briefly considered a highly sarcastic response, but given the little idiot’s near-complete ignorance of the Wizarding world, not to mention his Gryffindorish gullibility, it was too likely that he would believe any statement, no matter how farfetched. “Yes.”

Harry beamed like a supernova and grabbed him. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

Snape struggled to breathe. If Potter kept doing this, he would have a permanent bruise in his midriff. Perhaps some sort of body armor might be prudent – he would have to ask Charlie Weasley at dinner tonight. Surely those who worked with dragons would have some kind of personal protective equipment to protect themselves from blunt force trauma.

Dear Dragon Handlers Monthly, Careful research has proven that the pointy forehead of an underfed eleven year old human can deliver a blow with the same force as the talon of a full-grown Horntail. What protective gear would you recommend, given that preemptive stunning is frowned upon in the scholastic environment?

“Potter!” he managed to wheeze. “Kindly desist from this undignified squawking at once! A simple expression of gratitude and description of how you will use the gift will more than suffice.”

Harry grinned. Poor Professor Snape! He always got so pink around the ears when Harry thanked him. He had noticed how, even during the detention, the professor hadn’t liked Harry to call attention to the nice things he did, like giving Harry a snack or helping him with his handwriting. Professor Snape was like one of those people that Harry had seen on the telly – well, heard about from the confines of his cupboard, anyway – who preferred to do things quietly rather than getting a lot of attention. They were called something like ‘nonymous benefactors’ and the telly had talked about how one such person had just donated a lot of money to a hospital that needed a new piece of equipment and another had given some computers to a school in a poor section of London. Professor Snape was like that. He couldn’t be completely unknown, of course, but he didn’t like Harry to make a fuss. Especially since he was still trying to get Harry to think that he deserved to be treated so well.

Harry might be slowly coming to terms with the understanding that the Dursleys hadn’t treated him properly, but he wasn’t foolish enough to imagine that Professor Snape’s kindness to him wasn’t equally exceptional. Didn’t his own Housemates exclaim in awe and envy when he’d told them about his room? Harry knew the Professor was one of the nicest, kindest men he’d ever met, and he wasn’t about to forget that. Not again.

“Thank you, sir. I really, really like the broom. It’ll make me the best Seeker ever!” Harry exclaimed, running his hand along the broomstick. It even felt fast!

“Hmf,” Snape sniffed, rather pleased with himself. The boy was obviously thrilled with the present, and if he was foolish enough to link his Quidditch performance to the broomstick, then when Snape confiscated it as punishment for some misdeed, it would be an even more devastating blow. Ha! It was worth every Galleon he’d spent on the broom to know that he at last had a highly effective punishment to use on the little monster. “Well? What are you waiting for?” he demanded. “You have Quidditch practice in less than an hour! Go spend some time on your new broom.”

Harry’s face lit up. “Yessir!”

“And be here by 5:30 this evening so that we can go to the Burrow!” Snape yelled after the boy as he pelted away. Really! Such appalling manners! Snape straightened his robe around his shoulders and headed to his desk to correct three additional essays.

Harry was early that evening, a good thing since it allowed Severus to insist that he change into some of his new clothes. Unfortunately, their timeliness didn’t last, because Severus found that between his new desire to fix his hair, and Harry’s fascination with his sartorially resplendent reflection, it took them rather longer to get ready than he had planned.

“Potter, get in here, or else!” Snape finally shouted, a handful of Floo powder trickling through his fingers.

“I’m right here,” Harry protested, hurrying into the living room. He tugged at his new robes one last time.

“Do you think you can manage the floo on your own this time, or would you like me to carry you again?” Snape smirked.

“I can do it!” Harry replied hastily. Knowing that the Weasley children would all be there eradicated any desire for the professor to carry him.

“Very well. Keep your eyes and mouth shut. Do not inhale, and move briskly away from the fireplace as soon as you arrive, as I will be right behind you.”

“Yessir.” Harry gulped and squeezed his eyes shut as Snape flung the powder into the grate and shouted “The Burrow!” He felt the professor’s firm hand pushing him forward, and then he was through the cool flames and emerging into the Weasley’s living room. Molly caught him as he stumbled and pulled him to the side, brushing off a few stray flakes of soot.

Harry cracked one eyelid open, and seeing he had safely arrived, he opened his eyes and took a deep breath. “Was that your first time flooing on your own, love?” Molly asked incredulously. “You did wonderfully!”

Harry grinned, just in time to see Severus stride majestically out of the fireplace. “Severus, how nice to …” Molly’s voice trailed off as she got her first good look at Snape.

After the morning’s reactions, Snape merely smirked. “Good evening, Molly,” he replied.