Within a very short time, Ron was snoring in the far bed, but Harry couldn’t sleep. He hated having lied to his guardian, but worse than that, he knew he had let the man down. The professor had done everything he’d promised, being an even better guardian than Harry could have hoped, but Harry kept screwing up. It wasn’t like his professor had placed enormous burdens on him; all he had to do was behave himself and not do stupid stuff, but he couldn’t seem to help it. Maybe the Dursleys were right to call him a worthless fre- Harry caught himself and looked nervously at the doorway.

His guardian had never yet made good on his threat to wash his mouth out with soap, but Harry figured that this was not a good time to tempt the man. The last of the stingy warmth had long since left his bum, but the strength of the two swats had made it clear that his professor had really been frightened. Harry didn’t want to give the man anything else to be cross about tonight, not if he could help it.

Harry sighed. His professor didn’t deserve to have such a troublesome ward. Harry should be trying to make things better for the man, not doing things to upset the faculty and scare his professor witless. The Dursleys had said he was useless; what if they were right?

Thinking about the Dursleys made Harry feel even worse. He owed his professor so much, much more than the man could possibly realize. No one had ever worried about Harry before or insisted that his life was worth anything. No one else had ever thought he could be a good person, let alone want him to do well. Uncle Vernon had often declared, “A good bottom warming will teach you not to be so freaky, boy!” before making sure that Harry’s backside was not just warmed, but scorched. Lying on his stomach on his thin mattress under the stairs, stifling his sobs while he gingerly rubbed his throbbing rump, Harry had often wondered just how many more times he would have to endure such treatment before the freakiness had been erased. Since he never really knew how he was performing the freaky acts that led to his worst wallopings, Harry could do nothing more than try to soothe his punished skin and hope that finally, the smacking had banished the freakiness.

Oh, the professor threatened and scolded like mad, and he would even carry through with a punishment when absolutely necessary – like tonight – but he never had that look of satisfaction that the Dursleys always wore after they had stung Harry’s bum with a hairbrush or banished him to his cupboard. It wasn’t so much that they enjoyed hurting Harry (well, except for Dudley), but more that they felt virtuous about having taught him a painful and/or unpleasant lesson. Jackknifed over his aunt or uncle’s knee, staring at the carpet and yelping as the awful sting blossomed across his backside, he had often prayed for someone who wouldn’t punish him to prove how rotten he was, but to help remind him that he was actually a better person than his current behavior suggested.

Vernon and Petunia always punished him with a gloomy assurance that all efforts on their part were futile; Harry was destined to come to a sticky end, and while they might be able to delay the inevitable with sound spankings, the final result would still be the same. It lent a sort of dreadful conviction to their scoldings, and a grim satisfaction to their forceful swats. They were doing their duty, but Harry was Doomed.

By contrast, Professor Snape expected Great Things from Harry, including (but not limited to) good grades, excellent conduct reports, and ever-increasing magical knowledge. When he scolded Harry or – reluctantly – punished him, he made it clear he was doing it because he felt Harry was not living up to his potential. Harry had never before been told that he had any potential beyond growing up to be a drunken wastrel, and he was determined to prove Snape right and his relatives wrong. He also desperately wanted to be a good ward and not give Snape any reason to regret accepting his role as guardian.

And yet, despite his good intentions, once again he had stuffed it up.

Harry sniffled. He hated that he had upset his professor, on this night of all nights. He had only been trying not to spoil Professor Snape’s Halloween, and yet what had he done? He’d ruined the Feast for all the faculty, risked his best friends’ lives, gotten Ron smacked for lying, nearly been bludgeoned to death by a troll… Harry tried to muffle his sobs. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to stay out of trouble, and for it to happen when he was trying so, so hard not to be a burden just made it ten times worse.

#-#-

After punishing the boys, Snape exited Harry’s bedroom and made a beeline for his stockroom. After downing two Calming Draughts in rapid succession, he finally felt like his normal self. That atrocious brat! Was he trying to get himself killed? And then, having practically caused Snape to have a heart attack, he had recovered in the blink of an eye – to the point where he and that redheaded menace, who had attached himself to Snape, were sniggering instead of being pale with dread at their upcoming punishment!

And then he had to heal Weasley’s backside and – since of course no one else would do it – make arrangements for the little snot to get a functional wand… Would the indignities never cease? It wasn’t as if he would allow Harry’s best friend to wander around unarmed, not after he had overheard Hermione telling Minerva that Harry had encouraged the other two to flee while he held off the troll in a desperate rearguard action.

A troll. At 11 years old, the brat was willing to take on a full grown TROLL in order to protect his friends. Could anyone possibly wonder why he wouldn’t permit Weasley to go without a wand? When Harry’s overdeveloped sense of protectiveness was already so hyperactive?

Why was Snape even saddled with the youngest Weasley? McGonagall should never have entrusted not one but two of her precious lions to the Evil Bat of the Dungeons, unless she – like the little whelps themselves – had decided that there was nothing to worry about. He'd known this would happen. His reputation was in tatters and all too soon his classroom would be too, as there was no longer anything to hold back the cretinous students’ dangerous misbehavior.

He smirked as he recalled the look on the Weasley brat’s face when he had heard that he was forbidden all sweets for a week. Hmmm. Perhaps that would be enough to ensure the redhead still thought of him as a “greasy git”, after all.

Oddly, he hadn’t found withholding Harry’s beloved broom to be as satisfying as he had expected. Indeed, he’d felt the oddest pang when the brat’s face had fallen. It was probably just a consequence of his earlier panicked flight through the castle – a delayed settling of his heart rate or some such. It wasn’t as if the brat didn’t deserve it, just as he’d deserved those smacks.

Snape squirmed uncomfortably when he thought of the smacks. Yes, the boy had earned the spanking - Harry knew full well that he had broken the rules and the books were unanimous on the need for consistent consequences - but Snape hadn’t meant to swat the brat so hard. It was just that he’d been so frightened by the danger to which the little monster’s heedlessness had exposed him… Severus wondered if he should sneak into the boy’s bedroom and apply some bruise balm to his rump while he slept. Weasley was doubtless fine but Harry was so scrawny… And being struck so harshly had surely further eroded his sense of security. Hadn’t he promised the boy that he wouldn’t strike him hard enough to hurt? And then had promptly turned around and broken his word.

He shook his head. Albus was insane. There was no way he could do this. Dumbledore was just going to have to find a new guardian. Someone who could control their temper and wouldn’t keep traumatizing the boy.

Severus rose to his feet, determined to check on the brat. If the boy were asleep – having doubtless cried himself to sleep – he would floo Albus at once. If Potter were still awake, he’d force him to take a mixture of healing potion and Dreamless Sleep, then contact the Headmaster.

No sooner had he entered the room than his worst fears were realized. Weasley lay on one bed, snoring loudly, while in the other Harry wept near-silent tears into his pillow. Feeling a crushing weight of guilt settle upon his shoulders, Snape walked over to the boy and tapped him on the back.

Harry startled violently, and Snape swore at what he interpreted as a terrified cringe. “Come with me, Potter,” he whispered. “You’ll wake Weasley.”

Harry sniffled and clambered reluctantly out of bed. How could he face Professor Snape after everything he’d done? His professor was so good to him, even checking on him to make sure he could sleep! Harry felt deeply ashamed for the lies he had told.

“Sit there, Potter,” Snape ordered once they emerged back into the sitting room. “I’m going to fetch a potion for you.”

Harry looked up at him in surprise. “I don’t need a potion,” he argued, rubbing his sleeve across his eyes.

Snape huffed. “Use a handkerchief, you ill-mannered child!” He accio’d one and handed it over.

Harry honked and mopped. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “But I don’t need a potion.”

“If you cannot sleep because you are frightened or in pain, then you most certainly do require a potion, foolish brat!” Snape retorted, hiding his guilt behind an angry tone.

Harry was confused. Why would his professor think he would be frightened or in pain? “But I’m not.”

“Oh, no? Then why exactly were you sobbing into your pillow?” Snape demanded.

Harry colored. “I wasn’t sobbing,” he defended himself.

“Obviously you are still overwrought from tonight’s events,” Snape declared. “If you are too sore to sit, lie down on your stomach on the sofa while I –“

“Too sore?” Harry echoed blankly. “Why would I – oh. No, I’m okay. Honest. You didn’t smack that hard. I mean, yeah, my bum stung for a little. But it's fine now.”

“You are not fine, and I do not appreciate being lied to. You are obviously very upset about something,” Snape scowled. “What is it?”

Harry dropped his gaze, and his eyes filled with tears again. The professor was so nice to him! He didn’t deserve it.

“Potter!” Despite the Potion Master’s furious tone, the fingers that lifted Harry’s chin were gentle. “You will tell me this instant, or you will deeply regret your intransigence.”

Harry sniffled and smiled all at the same time. It felt so good to have someone worry about him, and all the professor’s fuming and fussing didn’t hide his obvious concern. “I’m sorry.”

“About what in particular? There are so many things to which you could be referring, you’ll need to be more specific,” Snape drawled, but his brow was still creased with worry.

Harry felt the tears gathering. “I messed it all up,” he choked out. “I just didn’t want to ruin the day for you, and I tried an’ tried to be sure that I wouldn’t but in the end I just ruined it all anyway!”

Snape sighed noisily. Why were children such emotional little creatures? He pulled Harry over to the couch and sat down, keeping one hand around the boy’s shoulders – just to ensure that the monster couldn’t bolt, he assured himself. “What are you talking about?” he demanded crossly. “Just because you agreed to accompany Miss Granger to the library when she didn’t want to attend the Feast, doesn’t mean –“

“It wasn’t like that!” Harry blurted. “She came with me. It was all my idea. She didn’t want me to be all by myself, an’ since she didn’t really want to go to the Feast, it wasn’t hard for her.”

Snape’s glare was fearsome indeed. “You lied?”

Harry wilted. “Uh huh,” he whispered. “I mean, I didn’t exactly lie, I just didn’t say anything when Hermione, erm, gave you the wrong impression.”

“Do you imagine that is a distinction I will accept?” Snape demanded.

“No, sir.” Harry stared at his bare toes.

Snape followed his gaze and let out a wordless huff of exasperation, then accio’d Harry’s new sheepskin slippers. “Foolish child! Are you hoping to catch your death of cold? You must wear your slippers in these dungeons!”

Harry hid his smile. Yup, that was his professor. Even when Harry had just been caught in a big whopping lie, Professor Snape was still more worried about his health than angry with his behavior. “Sorry.”

“You will be, Potter,” his professor snapped. “I will not tolerate falsehoods. In this case, Miss Granger is perhaps more at fault and will therefore receive the more severe punishment, but you –“

Harry interrupted with a gasp of pure horror. “No! Don’t! Please, Pr’fessor! It wasn’t her fault – she was just trying to help me. Please don’t punish her! It was all my fault, honest!”

Snape eyed the distraught youngster, his mind working busily. “Hmmmm. Very well, Mr Potter. I will make a bargain with you. I will not punish Miss Granger for this transgression at this time.” Harry sagged in relief. “However, if I ever again find you have lied to me – about anything – I will not only punish you for the falsehood, but I will also punish Miss Granger, and I promise you that the severity of her punishment will be unequalled in the history of Hogwarts.” See? It’s not only the little brats who can be melodramatic.

Harry’s eyes widened, but he nodded in relief. “Yes, sir. Thank you.” He hesitated. “Does – does this mean I have to tell you everything?”

Snape debated with himself for a moment, but in the end decided to be reasonable. “No. You may politely decline to answer my questions, but you cannot lie. Do you understand?”

“Y’sir.”

“Then we will consider this matter closed – for now.”

Harry’s head came up sharply. What about his punishment? His professor had promised not to discipline Hermione for her lie, but what about his lie? Harry chewed his lip for a moment, wondering if he should point out the man’s omission, but finally decided to keep schtum. It wasn’t just that he wanted to escape a well-deserved punishment, but he knew his professor hated assigning them. Maybe it was better for both of them if he ignored the omission?

Snape exhaled silently. The brat’s face was disgustingly easy to read, but it appeared that he was at last developing a sense of self-preservation and wasn’t going to bring up the still-owed punishment. Pleased at this evidence of a Slytherin trait, he absently tightened his grip on the boy’s shoulders.

Harry leaned gratefully into the hug. He was so lucky. How many other kids got a guardian who was so lenient?

“All right, Mr Potter,” Snape said finally. “Just why did you want to avoid the Feast? We have now established that it was you who chose to absent yourself. I want to know why – the truth, mind!”

Harry burrowed closer to the man. “I just didn’t want to go to a big party. Not tonight.”

Snape looked at him, curious. “Why not? You can’t expect me to believe that Miss Granger has convinced you to give up lollies and chocolate, delightful though that notion might be.”

Harry made a face at him. “No! But, well…”

“Truth, Potter,” Snape cautioned.

“Hermione gave me a book about Vold- Him. And it said that my parents had died on Halloween. So I – I just didn’t think it was right to go to a party tonight.” Harry risked a look at his professor, misinterpreted the man’s frozen expression, and promptly panicked. “I didn’t want to ruin it for anyone else though! I know that everyone loves the Feast an’ you have to watch over the Slytherins and so I didn’t say anything, ‘cause I didn’t want to get anyone upset or make a fuss.” Harry drooped. “But that’s just what happened ‘cause I can’t do anything right. I’m sorry.”

“Do not be so foolish!” Snape scolded automatically, but internally he was reeling in shock. He had just smacked and lectured and punished a child for wanting to respect the date of his parents’ deaths. Because he was too inattentive a guardian to connect the day with the anniversary of the Potters' murders, he had put this tortured little child into the impossible position of having to lie and sneak away rather than be forced to attend a celebration. Severus had even planned to engage in his annual ritual of lighting a candle in Lily’s memory before going to bed tonight, yet it had never occurred to him to speak of the day with Lily’s child.

“I’m sorry,” Harry repeated, tears once again spilling over. “I should’ve just gone to the Feast. It’s not like I even remember my parents, an’ you’ve been brilliant. But I just thought that this year I could think about what – what it might have been like…” he broke off, sobbing. Now Professor Snape would really hate him for being an ungrateful little freak but he had just felt so safe here at Hogwarts, and being in wizarding society and learning about how his parents had been students here and having his mum’s sweater… For the first time they had felt real to him, and he had thought it would be nice to spend some time thinking about them. But instead he had lied and gotten everyone into trouble and nearly been killed and now his professor would assume that because Harry missed his parents, he didn’t like Snape as his guardian.

Snape roused himself from his mental self-flagellation. As usual, he had to ignore his own needs and focus on someone else’s – in this case, a hysterical child. “All right, Potter. Hush. Hush now.” He awkwardly patted the boy’s skinny shoulders, causing even more tears and snot to pour forth.

It took several minutes before Harry could be persuaded that Snape wasn’t furious with him, didn’t hate him, wasn’t sad, didn’t want to revoke the guardianship, and understood Harry’s reluctance to attend the Feast. Only then could Harry be calmed down enough to be reasonably coherent.

Snape banished the soggy handkerchief and accio’d a fresh one. “What did you envision as a way of honoring your parents?” he inquired quietly.

Harry sniffled into the new cloth. “I wasn’t sure. I don’t really know much about them, and Hermione’s book didn’t say a lot either.”

“Hm.” Snape would hate to be considered thoughtful, but he was far from heartless. He untangled himself from Harry – how exactly did the brat come to be sitting on me? – and went to the floo. “Minerva, come through immediately, please,” he commanded as soon as the elderly witch blinked sleepily at him.

An instant later, the witch was standing on his hearth, tightening the sash on her tartan robe and examining the wizards with tightly pressed lips. “What is the meaning of this, Severus? Do you have any idea what time it is?”

Harry watched with dread. Why had his professor summoned his Head of House? Was he going to throw Harry out? Insist she take him off to the Tower immediately, explaining that ungrateful wards didn’t get to sleep in his quarters?

Snape took her to one side, while Harry waited anxiously and strained to hear. “We are idiots,” he said, scowling.

Minerva’s eyebrows soared. “I beg your pardon!”

“What is today, Minerva? The date?”

“Why, it’s Halloween, of course. October 31st. What are you –“

“And what happened on this date in Godric’s Hollow?”

Minerva gasped as she understood. “Oh, my stars!”

“That’s why he didn’t want to attend the Feast, but he didn’t want to tell anyone for fear he’d spoil our enjoyment of the festivities,” Snape’s voice was sneering, but Minerva saw the misery hidden behind the angry tone.

“Oh, dear.” She put a hand on his arm. “Are you all right?”

“Me!” Severus stared at her. “Have you lost your wits? It’s not me you should be worried about, it’s your precious little lion over there. He’s the one who’s been traumatized tonight – first by the troll, and then by me.”

Minerva glanced over at the couch. Harry was watching them nervously, but she didn’t miss the fact that he was comfortably sprawled on the cushions, wrapped snugly in a new bathrobe and slippers, and appeared significantly more worried about his guardian than anything else. “He doesn’t look very traumatized,” she commented.

He glared at her. Idiot Gryffindor! “Just because he has finished – for the moment – weeping and wailing and hiding beneath the furniture, does not mean he is fine,” he snapped. “I was extremely sharp with him earlier.”

Minerva shrugged lightly. “Severus, however understandable his motivation, the child did lie and deliberately absent himself without permission. He was also very foolish when he learned that a troll was loose in the castle and nearly got himself killed. Harry knows perfectly well that he deserved punishment for his actions.”

Snape ground his teeth at the witch’s insensitivity. “Minerva! I smacked him! I took away his broom for a week!”

“Good!” she said briskly. “That should make him think twice before behaving so badly in the future. I trust you came up with a similar punishment for Mr Weasley?”

Snape stared at her, too flabbergasted to do anything but nod. “No dessert for a week.”

McGonagall raised her eyebrow. “You are evil, Severus. I’m quite sure Mr Weasley will long remember this punishment. I shall have to get your suggestions for Miss Granger before I leave. But for now, why am I here? Simply to allow you to confess your imagined misdeeds?”

The tart question helped to restore Snape’s equilibrium. He glared. “I asked you here to tell Har- Potter stories about his parents. Those walrus-like relatives of his told him nothing but lies, and I am hardly the best person to regale the boy – er, brat – with Gryffindorish memories. However, such an activity seems an appropriate way to observe their memorial.”

Minerva ruthlessly suppressed her own smirk. Who ever would have imagined that Severus Snape was so sentimental? “Very well. Mr Potter,” she said, turning to the boy with a smile, “your guardian tells me you would like to commemorate your parents’ deaths by hearing some stories of their time here at Hogwarts.”

Harry’s eyes flew to Snape with an expression of astonishment that quickly gave way to adoration. Snape coughed and flushed and looked everywhere but at the smirking McGonagall. Harry abruptly realized he hadn’t answered his Head of House and quickly turned to her. “Yes, ma’am. Please?”

“Very well. As you may know, both your parents were in my House. I would be happy to share some memories with you, and of course your guardian can also. You know he knew your mother even before they came to Hogwarts?”

Harry glanced again at Severus and smiled. “Yes’m. I r’member the Headmaster saying that to the reporter lady a couple of weeks ago.” He paused as a thought obviously struck him. “Please, though, no bad stories tonight?” he begged, his voice trembling.

Minerva frowned, not understanding.

Snape calmly seated himself next to the boy and explained, his voice even. “Potter is referring to the fact that, this evening, he would prefer not to hear examples of his father’s more immature behavior, such as his tendency to bully others. Don’t worry, Mr Potter, I’m sure Professor McGonagall will have no difficulty finding enjoyable stories to share with you.”

Professor McGonagall was, at that moment, finding it difficult not to swoon from sheer incredulity. Was this truly Severus Snape, the man who could win a TriWizards Tournament hands-down if one of the events was in Grudge Holding? Minerva had long since resigned herself to knowing that Severus would never be able to hold a civil conversation about James Potter; the fury and hatred over how the Marauders had treated him during his schooldays was too raw within him. And yet suddenly, here he was discussing it in the calmest of tones, with nothing to indicate that for decades now he had positively foamed at the mouth whenever James’ name was mentioned.

She stared at Harry, who was snuggling up against Snape with a look of hero worship on his face. The Potion Master was grumbling and scowling at the boy, even as his hands were gently pulling Harry against his side and adjusting his robe. Minerva blinked, trying hard to believe what she was seeing. She had known that Snape’s rigid sense of honor would – once the scales had fallen from his eyes – ensure that he protect the boy and treat him with punctilious care. She had been confident that Harry's physical needs would be well looked after, though she assumed Severus’ cold and distant manner would create an insurmountable barrier between them. But she had never for a moment contemplated that Severus might benefit from the relationship.

Yet the proof was before her: Severus was actually managing to display genuine affection for the boy, and even the fact that he had invited her into his private quarters was an enormous breakthrough for the intensely private man. She had never thought she would see Severus so… tranquil. All the rage and bitterness seemed to have been muted. Oh, he was still snappish and prickly, but that razor edge, which tended to cut him as often as anyone else, was gone. The fact that he could acknowledge the Marauders’ treatment without a hissing, spitting explosion of rage was clear proof of that.

Minerva seated herself on the other side of the couch from Harry. “Perhaps you’d like to hear about the time that your mother decided to bring the house elves a treat from the Muggle world. Are you familiar with a Muggle candy known as ‘pixy stix’?”

Several hours later, Harry was draped across his professor’s lap, bonelessly limp and deeply asleep. The professors had told him story after story, painting a richly nuanced picture of two young people, happy and clever and fun-loving. He had finally fallen asleep with a smile on his face, feeling safe and loved as he lay against his guardian and listened to the man’s deep voice reverberate through his chest.

“Great heavens,” McGonagall sighed. “I thought he’d never drop off. Couldn’t you have slipped him some Dreamless Sleep?”

Snape glared at her. “I do not drug my ward for the sake of convenience,” he said, affronted.

McGonagall laughed softly. “Oh my, Severus. You are easy to tease.”

He huffed in outrage. Stupid Gryffindors. Who can hope to understand their humor?

“All right, Severus – before I leave, tell me what punishments you awarded my two lions so that I can be sure they adhere to them.”

“They are on restriction for a week and must each write a three foot essay on the mistakes they made in deciding to leave the library. In addition, as you know, they each have had a favorite activity withheld for that period.”

McGonagall nodded. “Excellent.”

“What penance did you assign Miss Granger?”

“None.” At Snape’s shocked expression, McGonagall explained. “I took her to Poppy so that her wrist could be treated, and she dosed Miss Granger with a half-measure of Dreamless Sleep. There was no point in scolding the child when she was too groggy to listen. I told Miss Granger that I would discuss her punishment with her in the morning – I find that giving them several hours to worry about their punishment is a most effective form of torture.”

Snape eyed her with admiration. He hadn’t realized McGonagall could be so evil. “Impressive.”

She gave him a catlike smirk. “Thank you. I shall assign her the same restriction and essay as the boys, but I’m not sure what activity to withhold. After all, her favorite pastimes are hardly activities I wish to discourage. Should I bar her from the library? Prevent her from attending classes?”

Harry murmured in his sleep and grabbed onto Snape’s robe. McGonagall’s eyes gleamed as she saw Severus reach down and soothe the boy, but she managed to prevent herself from commenting. “Any suggestions?”

Snape thought for a moment, then recalled a conversation from a few weeks previous. “What about instead of withholding an activity, you force her to participate in one?” At Minerva’s uncomprehending look, he amplified, “Doesn’t Miss Granger consider Quidditch a useless waste of time, much to her friends’ annoyance? Assign her a four foot essay on the game, complete with mandatory attendance at all games and practices for the next week.”

Minerva burst into laughter. “Oh, Severus, you are a wicked man! Miss Granger will hate every second of it, especially when she will be forced to ask Mr Weasley for his assistance.” Snape preened at the praise. “And once she understands the game, she will be better able to participate in House activities, conversations with other students… This is a brilliant idea! Now, as for tomorrow’s game,” she glanced at Harry, “I assume he will not be allowed to participate?”

“Correct,” Snape said guardedly, expecting a huge fight from Gryffindor’s Head of House.

To his surprise, Minerva merely sighed and nodded. “It would have placed him in an awkward position anyway. Perhaps it’s just as well, and he’ll still be able to play against Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw,” she said, consoling herself. “Would you then permit Harry to attend the game so as to explain it to Miss Granger? If she doesn’t have one of the boys with her, her mere attendance at the game won’t accomplish much, and Ron was given special permission to spend the game on the Gryffindor bench with his brothers.”

Snape frowned down at the small boy, wondering when his hand had started to stroke the tousled hair. “He is being punished, Minerva,” he began sternly.

“Which is why he’s not able to play in the match,” she agreed. “But surely he could attend the game by special dispensation? All the faculty will be there so it’s an official school function with supervision.”

Snape huffed, but the memory of Harry’s dejection when he had learned he was banned from flying for a week nagged at him. “Oh, all right,” he said grudgingly. “But only because he will be assisting with Granger’s punishment.”

“Excellent!” Minerva got to her feet and headed to the floo. “Oh, and Severus – do you have any idea what a ‘permanent record’ is, or why mention of it should so terrify Miss Granger?”