"Enjoying some quality time with Madam Pomfrey? One on one?" leered Fred Weasley through the open infirmary door.

Harry might have glared, but instead, he smiled. "Why, of course. Notwithstanding her ample charms, her presence lends one other assets."

Weasley, almost as precocious as Harry in these matters (thanks to Bill, who was not as circumspect as he might be in informing his younger brothers), grinned wider, and gestured. "Do elaborate."

Harry beckoned him closer, and Fred whisked eagerly to the bedside.

"Number one," Harry intoned, "she often feels the need to consult anatomical texts illustrating crucial regions of the human body. These are left for the patient to consult if curious."

"Are you freaking kidding? I’d heard from Shu Mulan that she was liberal with the conception potions, but—"

"Hush, you’ll bring her running," Harry rebuked him, sitting higher up against a mound of pillows stuffed between his back and the wall. He punched them firmly as to fluff them up, and smoothed them back again. The old bed groaned and squeaked at the motion. "Number two, her liberality is only exceeded by her experience with human physiology."

Fred’s leer deepened, if that were possible. "And the magic number three?"

Harry smiled to match him. "She’s very possessive of those in her care. In fact—MADAM POMFREY!!!!!!!!!" he screamed. Fred, who would suffer an everlasting chagrin for the next two weeks in remembering this incident, leapt and squealed. It was an inordinately high-pitched squeal, almost girlish, and Harry nearly burst out laughing. Pity he’d forgotten the magical recorder Mione had juryrigged. But others were depending on him, and he continued screaming. Madam Pomfrey, disturbed from a rather dull study of the vascular system, rushed into the main room, bonnet askew, wrinkled face flush. She took in the room at an instant, seeing only the retreating flicker of a cape.

"OUT!" she screeched, redundantly, flicking bats from her willow wand. They screamed in her voice, all the way down the hallway and into the Great hall, and further, down the shortcut where Peeves would sing in accompaniment his corny Wheezy Weasley song, and further still, into the Gryffinndor tower, where everyone would wonder (and bet) on how the twins infuriated the nurse this time.

"Now, Harry," she addressed her hyperventilating patient delicately, "tell me what’s wrong..."

A long, frantic explanation later—followed by a brave refusal of Calming Draught—the witch left unsatisfied, yet ignorant of the culprit who’d woken Harry up in the middle of a peaceful slumber. Someone had intimated to the boy that he was Snape’s son—of all things!—and was fated to turn into some half-serpentine thrall of Voldemort, AND would grow poison fangs! Good heavens, what more ridiculous?

Had Pomfrey been Muggleborn like the V.A.A., she might have smiled at the Vaderesque image of Voldemort intoning "I AM YOUR FATHER" to Hadrian Potter, before dismissing it with the other improbable notions. As it was, she felt no small degree of relief when Harry concluded it was a nightmare, brought on by the stress of the most recent attack. While that didn’t explain the unknown visitor, Pomfrey grudgingly accepted this as an explanation. Some paranoia and anxiety could be expected after all that had happened.

Good heavens.

Chance inflicted more injury on the boy than the Order had ever done on Voldemort. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say someone had it in for him.

Two broken legs from the attack at the end of October. Easily regrown by Lily Potter. Then the concussion gained from the scuffle with the troll in the library during Halloween. Also easily fixed. And now, mid-November... his broom hexed during a flying lesson, despite it having been kept in a secure storage shed. Had not Quirrell barely managed a cushioning charm on the ground—had the Weasley boy not fumbled a decent levitation charm on the falling boy—well, the results might have been worse.

As it was, picking Envenomed Briar out of wounds never had been pleasant. Why, why did Hooch have to hold the lessons in the overgrown lots by the Forbidden Forest? Couldn’t she have waited for the Ravenclaw Quidditch team to finish their practice, for Heaven’s sake? Honestly, she was taking that childish House loyalty of hers further than Pomfrey had ever seen.

Once Pomfrey had checked him for confounding charms and dream damage, murmuring to herself about fixing the Hospital Wards and analyzing his meds, Harry sat up. Again, the bed groaned, this time, more in relief than pain, and a second later, Ron Weasley poked out from behind the pillows. Mione Granger and Tracey Davies, the former shocked and a little secretly pleased at her bout of rule-breaking, the latter disgruntled, rolled out under the bed. Seamus Finnegan poked his head out of the closet, and his legs followed after.

"Whew. That was a close one," Ron gasped for breath. "Prat. Did you have to punch me?"

"You almost dislodged the pillows," Harry defended himself. "Would you really want Fred to catch you here with his map?"

"You actually managed to get it? That’s it?" Trace demanded, looking at the rather rough flap of parchment in Ron’s hand.

"That’s it?" Finnegan said incredulously. "Blimey, witch, it’s probably old as Hogwarts. For all we know, the Founders’ first apprentices could have charmed this thing."

Trace sniffed dubiously. "I think the Founder’s Apprentices would have had access to better preservation charms."

"Oh, quit arguing, mates," Harry waved them off. "The twins won’t be anywhere near here for awhile, and Pomfrey’s nodded off from the Sleeping Draught I snuck into her iced tea." Hopefully Sirius’ latest batch wouldn’t also act as a saliva replenisher. It had taken Mione ages to get the drool smell from her pillows after borrowing a couple vials. Fortunately, it had the desired effect—for the first time in her life, she managed five hours sleep before a midterm exam. "How do we work the map?"

"No idea." Ron responded, point-blank. "The few times I caught them with it, they were, like, talking to it."

"Didn’t you say Professor Snape confiscated it once?" Harry asked, frowning and pointing at the parchment. "Maybe someone could weasel it out of him how to make it work."

"And maybe muggles could fly," Ron countered. "Weasel it out of Snape? I’d bet you a galleon if I had one that you couldn’t."

"I never said I could," Harry retorted smugly, "but I’ll bet a galleon to your new Chudley Cannons poster that I can get my sister to!"

"You’re on," Ron clasped his hand.

"Boys," Tracey prompted impatiently. "The map?"

"Oh, sorry," Ron responded, stepping back as Harry made an elaborate gesture, invocating "REVEAL THY SECRET!"

They looked on in bewilderment and dismay as a spiky script came out upon the page.

Harry set the map down on the bed. "Well that was useful—ack!" he sputtered as the map scrolled itself abruptly and bonked him upside the head. He swatted it, although this only seemed to encourage it. He aimed a quick reducto at the blasted thing, and it deftly evaded it.

"And this is the kid who’s supposed to save us from Voldemort?" Tracey remarked scornfully, watching the map deliver three sound smacks to Harry’s backside while Weasley stood by laughing. Harry ducked as the paper darted forward, and grabbed a poker from the fireplace to parry it aside. He overextended himself, and the paper darted in, crinkling in glee.

"Well, the pen is mightier than the sword," Mione mused, "and someone had to write a lot of magic into that scroll."

"Check," Tracey turned disdainfully, scowling delightedly as Harry, eyes intent only on the bedevilled parchment, retreated hastily towards the fire. "The power the Dark Lord knows not is pen and parchment. Do you think Harry could knock him off by sending him a Bible over the break?"

"You could kill anyone with that book," Harry panted, stepping backwards. "Boredom’s a more powerful soporific than the Draught of Living Death. Augh!"

This last was delivered as the fool set his foot in the fire. The parchment, fluttering in satisfaction, zipped over to Weasley and folded itself neatly in his lap. Harry limped over to the paper—in the intent of ‘tearing into it’ for the punishment he’d just received—when some parting words shimmered over its surface.

"I didn’t accept anything, you blasted—"

"Potter! Weasley, Finnegan, Misses—oh, for Heaven’s sake, is this an infirmary or a zoo? Out, out all of you!"

"So you thought you’d bring a tournament into the infirmary," Pomfrey concluded, lips a thin white line. "Ten points from Hufflepuff for reckless behaviour—and—Potter! Is that another injury?"

Harry gave a sheepish smile, and, tucking his wand back into his sleeve, lifted up his foot. He revealed the heel, blistered an unnatural red-black, and someone choked beside him. "Sorry, ma’am. Our aim’s a little off."

"Who fired that, might I ask?"

Mione, loyal as a Hufflepuff, shyly lifted her hand, and Pomfrey shook her head. "Well, this is what comes of allowing children access to advanced spells. I’ll be having a word with your head of houses over this, mind you I shall! Out, all of you—second degree burns from an incendio, my word!"

The others filed out reluctantly—save for Ron Weasley, who choked and coughed next to the bed. Pomfrey turned, and gaped in disbelief.

"A vomiting hex? Do you first years know any bounds? What in heavens is that Quirrell teaching them... and a rather messy hex at that! Why did he think it was on the list of hexes the Health Board doesn’t allow--Well, it’s easy to use and impossible to remove, and only a potion will work for that, and plenty of bed rest. Stay seated, Weasley, while I fetch the antidote."

Ron’s eyes glared murder, before he ducked to vomit again. Harry casually removed the cosmetic colour charm from his foot while the boy’s attention was otherwise occupied, leaving only the minor blistering beneath. Honestly... the ‘injury’ wouldn’t have stood closer scrutiny than Pomfrey’s first scandalized accessment. He thanked his stars that Flitwick had brushed over Colour Change Charms a week past, in response to Ron’s desire to change his pet rat yellow.

Pomfrey whisked in and briskly poured the potion down Ron’s throat, before vanishing the vomit and floating him into bed.

"Now then, what can I do—" she looked at Harry’s foot in shock, then suspicion.

Harry offered no explanation, and she asked for none. Heaving a sigh, she set to work.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Ron Weasley heaved a snore. Harry, sleeping on his side and turned away from the entrance, felt the light dim before his lidded eyes as the door shut. He listened for Pomfrey’s retreating footsteps, then leaned over and nudged Weasley. Hard.

"Bloody hell, what did you do that for?" Weasley groaned, sitting up in bed and rubbing his eyes. "I’d just barely gotten to sleep. No thanks at all to that vomiting hex—I ought to curse you into next week—"

He punctuated this assertion with a quick prod of his wand and an awkward incantation. Harry batted it aside and grinned cheekily.

"Later, mate. And we’ll work on your wandwork while we’re at it—if that’s how you fight, good thing Malfoy didn’t show up to that duel. So," Harry asked, business-like, "about those brooms you found in the third-floor corridor?"

Ron reluctantly put down his wand. "Yeah—about that. Finnegan, Longbottom and I got into the corridor when we were hiding from Filch, and there was this gigantic three-headed dog—I swear it was going to eat us—when Peeves came by and started chanting that stupid Wheezy Weasel song. The dog fell asleep then."

"Why didn’t you run out?"

"Filch was at the door! And in a terrible mood too—you know, his cat’s been missing all week..."

Harry nodded, surprised. He’d have thought Uncle Severus would have found the tabby by now, but then again, he didn’t use live potions ingredients that often. Ah well, give it another week or two, and if the cat wasn’t found... well, she’d lived with good purpose. His spells were now animal-tested.

Yeah, and if he let Hermione know about this, she’d probably start up a wizarding branch of PETA. He shuddered, and then continued listening.

"... so Filch was about to get through that Longbottom’s Alohomora—"

"The one that jams doors?"

"—and there was only one way to go. We ended up on top of this plant Neville’s dying to go back and see—just about killed us—and then," Ron’s eyes gleamed, "we found—"

"The broomsticks," Harry scrambled up. "What sort are they? Think we can borrow them for awhile? I’ve tried getting past the unlocking charms on ALL the quidditch sheds, but it’s hopeless. I swear, I’ve even tried a fifth year counterspell—not sure I got it right—but it didn’t work!"

"They say some old headmaster charmed them so that only the players can access them—but it doesn’t matter! The brooms are old—not much better than the junk they have us riding for lessons—but they’d be ours, if you’ll help me get one out!"

"If you’ll play Quidditch with me, deal’s a deal!" Harry spat into his palm and proffered it. Ron looked disgusted, then shrugged and shook Harry’s hand. Harry looked pointedly askance.

"What?"

"You didn’t spit."

"Why should I spit?"

Harry shrugged in return. "Deal’s not a deal ‘less you spit."

"Who says?"

"Sully. Bloke from my hometown." Harry didn’t offer further details. Weasley was alright, but a bit nervous when it came to rule-breaking. He’d threatened a duel before Harry returned Neville’s Remembrall, after the thief had swiped it and then drawn it out from his nose. The blonde prat took it next—leading to a lovely little scuffle during which Harry took the pansy’s pocketbook for keeps.

Or, at least until he stepped home to Hufflepuff Tower, and Dumbledore shot him with Finder’s Fire, rattling the gold-leafed account book from his pockets. A curt "Thieving is not allowed at Hogwarts", two detentions and twenty points less later, Harry hustled back.

Really. He needed to work on his strategy in this place. He was getting caught WAY too often.

Ron spat. That closed it. They drew apart their hands.

"Eww."

Harry shrugged. "Aguamenti." The jet of water missed Ron’s hands, and hit his face instead. The ensuing mayhem visited upon the Hospital Wing needs no explanation. Unlike Muggles, wizards don’t have to reload for water fights.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The long, supple fingers holding one armrest, stained and callused at the tips and knuckles, lifted to pick up the parchment on the table. The man’s eyes ran down the page, calculating, awaiting the orders of his master seated at the head of the table.

"What is your opinion, Severus?"

Severus set down the sheets, and bowed his head before speaking.

"My master, I am sorry for what I must say, and certainly one of your greatness deserves a better truth than that I must tell—"

"You will dispense with apologies. A great leader of any skill does not punish his subordinates for just criticism of his actions—or, at least he will not if he desires their loyalty and the solidarity of his party. I am not a two-bit terrorist to crucify you for honesty." Voldemort paused, took a sip from his mug of hot chocolate, and fixed Severus’ glance again. "Continue."

Severus nodded, still uncertain, and in the absurd sensitivity of stress, was terribly aware of the chafing of his ankles against the heels of his well-worn dress shoes, where the padding had worn away. He shifted and sat up, moving his hair aside as he did so, brushing a chain at his neck. Beneath his shirt, a pendant hanging from it caught and tangled in his chest hair for a moment, then hung loose once more.

"You cannot hope to recruit the necessary forces in Britain for conquering through Austria, for two reasons. First and foremost, since Grindelwald and that Muggle dictator arose from that relative area, their Ministry has become far more strict than the advisors of your younger years remember it. Your generation grew up during the wars—but the wars presented as much of a chance for trafficking in illegal indulgences as a risk for injury. My lord," Severus’ voice lowered cautiously, "this is not the 1960s, and we can no more conquer by force through Austria than finance our party from black market stocks in the area." His lips twisted wryly. "Unless, of course, you want to bootleg? I understand Leipzig’s still trying to all abolish magic and moonshine."

Voldemort laughed a little, and drank deeper. "Puritans. No, quick insertions in the Ministry, or worse, open warfare, would be detected too quickly. Their privacy acts are different than ours—they register all wands, auras, lineage and what-have-you with law enforcement the moment you set foot on their land. They relie on bureaucracy to an incredible degree, actually, out of paranoia." He swirled his drink, and swallowed again. "Which is what we need."

"You plan on—"

"Infighting, yes. They seem fairly content with their current Minister for Magic. He is young, charismatic, and exceedingly vulnerable during the European Wizarding Summits. I know for a fact that the member of the Ministry most qualified to replace him—his aide, in fact—was his dormmate at Durmstrang. They ran against each other in the last election. The Summit’s this week at the Romanian Dragon Preserve. I have already arranged some things. We may have had minor leaks in intelligence, but the informant was killed."

Severus swallowed, holding a teacup between his chilled hands, and considered how the defence teachers might have been too easy with Charlie Weasley.

"You expressed a second reason for the implausibility of conquering Austria?"

"Infighting certainly will work. But not with British recruits. Not even when it is conquered. The Roman Empire of old survived in part because of its ability to compromise on trivial issues and retain command on the important points. Appoint competent regional commanders and manage reasonable trade policies. Allow yourself to delegate. Although it is difficult to trust any wizards’ loyalty to not waver at a distance, you might ensure it by keeping their wands pointed to each other’s heads and not your own. Baron Von Trap and Lord Spiegelman hate one another. Advance the latter’s business prospects, and ensure he has the support necessary to be an adequate rival to Von Trap. When the time is right, have them killed and replaced with several regional commanders. Never allow too much power consolidated in one place. Only give the people figureheads when they can be displaced by yourself."

"True advice. Ideas on the recruitment rates?"

"Two hundred new British Death Eaters this year? Almost half of Hogwarts, isn’t that? A high estimate, but possibly attainable, if we do not allow them to ascend as quickly through the ranks as to weed out possible spies. It is too much to ask to have twoscore competent duellists among them," Severus’ lip curled. "With the poor Defense curriculum these many years, the people are utterly unprepared for war. One would almost say it was necessary to join you to learn anything of use."

Voldemort smiled thinly, and looked regretfully at the bottom of his mug. "A score then of duellists."

"I’ll go through my lists of old students who showed potential. There are a few likely ones in sixth and seventh year, but I don’t think this has progressed enough for the recruitment of teenagers."

"I don’t believe my patience has progressed enough either. Brief me on the most likely ones of the past few years."

Severus shut his eyes in memory. "Nymphadora Tonks. Half-blood—Bellatrix’s niece, actually. Superb duellist, excellent metamorphmagus, yet lacks the subtlety and finesse to use her talents in spying, and her clumsiness could get her killed in a fight. No interest in the Dark Arts. She did have an aural reading once, at nine, during a medical scan. Traces of the Black Aura."

"A decent witch, but nothing extraordinary," Voldemort waved a hand dismissively. "Her peculiar talents would recommend her as a spy or assassin, but from your words, she doesn’t have the mind to match them."

"Like many magicians of family, she doesn’t need a mind. The power gradient in that reading suggests she’d be a match for Rabastan by now."

"Intriguing, yet it is difficult to see how she might be swayed—"

"Simpler than you think. She had a dormant Devil’s Eye in her aura—no doubt inherited from her mother, who has been... indisposed these past years."

Voldemort stopped drinking, and set the cup down.

While the propriety of the current administration demanded the public stay tight-lipped over the differences between Pureblood and Mudblood magic, the old families knew every asset of their traditions. And while the Muggleborns sneered at the Purebloods’ close intermarrying, it remained a fact that inbreeding had made the old families more powerful. Magical potential increased, and rare recessive traits—so seldom seen among Muggleborns—were passed on. Miss. Tonks was lucky to have her gift, given her father’s background, and Severus suspected a squib in Ted Tonks’ lineage. Talents like hers rarely passed to half-bloods.

Neither did genetic diseases.

Every reward had its risks, and in exchange for powerful, talented heirs, the purebloods risked physical, mental and magical deformities. Their midwives, a close-lipped lot, trundled out a dead baby for every one live one they delivered. No one spoke of the abortions, unless as a fact of life in their world.

Those without critical impairments survived: Half-wits such as MacNair or Goyle, with enough magical to use an Unforgivable and barely the mind to point the wand. Useful as soldiers, and not much else. Emotionally unstable witches like his Bellatrix, who had to be kept half-drugged and under control at all times—unless he wanted a Berserker loose in his office. Viral illnesses from fools who frequented the same wenches as werewolves or vampires or hags turned out half-breeds. And then—

There were degenerative diseases.

Devil’s Eye. With that, she could be considered essentially fatherless, a pureblood, whatever her records might say. For a half-blood like Tonks to even be a carrier of Devil’s Eye—let alone a metamorphagous—her Black lineage would have to have dominated her Mudblood breeding, a happenstance rare, though not unheard of, among crossbreeds. But half-bloods were impossible to predict. Though vast majority were barely stronger than Mudbloods, a small percentage numbered prominently amongst the most powerful wizards of all time—wizards like Grindelwald himself. And these wizards were as vulnerable to their own genetics as the purebloods.

Devil’s Eye affected the amygdala, the almond-shaped organ in the centre of the brain controlling emotion, producing warped thoughts, delusions of grandeur and increasingly violent behaviour, devolving into homicidal tendencies and insanity. The only visible symptoms showed themselves late in the disorder, through the crimson eyes and pale skin of the victim. Originally the result of a familial curse placed on a Black ancestor, the last recorded cases had been—

"Yesss," Voldemort responded, his affirmative long and pleased. "Yes, Severus. A clever means to lure our new recruit. I could certainly force Andromeda Black’s condition into dormancy as I did my own, easily enough. For a price."

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

He felt uneasy in his cleanness. Normally, he wore sweat like a second skin, the tang of herbs and salt passing off his body like smoke from a cauldron. He’d pared his nails to the pink and scoured his hands raw. His dark hair, now clipped just past his ears, hung stiff as drying flax. His scalp stung from the lye he’d used. With the removal of the grease, his complexion seemed more exotic than sallow—the last testament to an East Indian grandmother in the Snape lineage. He did not bother to knock at this office. Rather, he walked in without explanation, and slammed and spelled the door shut once inside, and the tired woman within brightened.

"Severus! Make yourself comfortable, of course," she ordered him, unnecessarily, for Severus had already appropriated the cushy black office chair across from her desk. "I see you’re enjoying your day. Tell me, what’s the good news? Or," Lily Potter leaned across her desk, pertly lifting her brows, lowering her voice to a husky whisper. "Is it a secret?"

"Since when could anyone keep secrets from you?" He was too tired for it, too tired for her laughing eyes and lily-white hands, and too tired to even tell her this. So he remained silent, until she settled up straight and came around the desk. She tapped the teapot and poured him a cuppa, and then set her left hand against his shoulder, her right hand guiding the rim against her lips. He allowed her this. She rubbed his back, crooning nonsense as she did so, as carefully as though he had been her son. He leaned into it, holding her carefully about the waist. They remained there, for sometime—not speaking, and hands silent as their mouths, reading only the muscles taut below their unmoving palms.

Then, when the tension had not entirely eased from his shoulders and the cup had run dry, she turned away from his eyes and their undecided intimacy. Brisk behind her desk once more, she smiled thinly. "A difficult day then. What happened in your meetings?"

Severus grimaced, interlacing his fingers and stretching languidly before him before allowing them to fall limp on his legs. "First meeting of the day—Voldemort’s recruitment strategies for the next year and a half."

"Hell’s Bells, brother. Should we be discussing this here?"

"I cleared your office two days ago, and you sweep it every morning. Your wards can keep monsters and Death Eaters out of Swinetrail—and more impressively, can usually keep your children in. Comparatively, I feel safer here than at Order Headquarters, where Professor Dumbledore sees fit to allow in all the rabble."

"I suppose I can see where you’re coming from. Does he really think we can trust Mundungus?"

"I would not presume to know what he thinks," Severus scowled. "If I did, I doubt I would ever return to Headquarters again, much less feel comfortable in his employ."

"Hush. He’s better than Voldemort."

The man snorted then, summoning a stool to set his feet atop. "Sometimes, I wonder. Great wizards are all alike—all massive egotists, certain of their schemes—and never so much as when they feign doubt." Restless again for the familiar motion of striding deserted corridors, the nostalgic solace of his castle by night, he thumbed the stubble on his chin irritably. "The more consultations and concessions they make with you, the less you can trust their regard."

"Well, someone’s become philosophic lately," Lily filled a brief silence. "So, back to the start. What’s going on? Who’s he recruiting?"

Severus leaned back. "Watch your Healing interns for the next year or so. And work on pressing that Healers’ Union through with the Ministry, even their policies do force you out of a job. I’ll never understand why wizarding healers aren’t required to take a binding Hippocratic Oath, and I doubt it will make a difference in the next war—but in the long term, casualties on both sides might be decreased if we can trust healers not to be assassins."

Lily shrugged noncommitally. "It grows out of our historical occupations as indentured apothecaries and hack surgeons and—oh, potions masters. Feudal lords used us as assets. Kill one lord’s healers, and that side was much weakened if yours remained alive. End of discussion. If Voldemort has any healing candidates, we’ll take them if I can push this Union through." She sighed. "But if it’s pushed through, I’ll never fight again. I can quit being a soldier. I can’t quit healing."

"We need healers more than soldiers in this war." Severus exhaled harshly. "Which leads us to my next piece of news, both good and bad. I may have access to a cure for one of your patients’ conditions."

Lily’s eyes immediately brightened, and his heart stilled. "Which one?"

"Andromeda Tonks."

"But she’s—"

"The Dark Lord once had Devil’s Eye. Ask me no more, I only know he spent the bulk of his school years working out the means to force his condition into dormancy or excise it. He is willing to work on Andromeda—yet expects something from the daughter in return."

Her hand flew up to her mouth, and her quill fell from her hand. "Dora, a Death Eater?"

"He alone knows." Severus fixed Lily with a hard glance. "Lily, do not inform Professor Dumbledore of this—"

"Whyever not?"

"Voldemort has other, less difficult prospects for recruitment than Nymphadora Tonks, and may likely abandon this venue of converting her if it proves too difficult to access Andromeda. If you want your patient cured, I would suggest—"

"that I allow these events to unfold," Lily filled in for him, slowly. "Agreed, Severus, but I will my eye on Andromeda, and I will not allow her outside her room. If he is manipulating you and plans something else, I will not have a Devil’s Eye loose in my hospital. Restraining her is currently difficult enough."

"Agreed," Severus exhaled, and then smiled, a little.

"And speaking of restraint, that brings me to the second half of my day so far."

"Oh?"

"Your son featured prominently in the latest staff meeting..."

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

"Well, if that’s all we have to discuss about the merits and difficulties with the curriculum," Dumblebore’s eyes singled out Snape, who refused to budge, "are there any of our students who need particular attention?"

"Harry Potter," Pomfrey asserted, and several staff members groaned in response.

"And what, may I ask, has my godson done to earn your displeasure this time?" Severus deadpanned.

"The Hospital Wing! Visitors when none were allowed, using and teaching dangerous curses—he hit Weasley with a Vomiting Hex, for gods’ sake! One would almost think he’d read up on the first-year spells struck from the curriculum somewhere—"

"They hardly public information, after all..." Snape mused sarcastically.

"And after I finally walked out, in the assurance that they were gone to bed for the night—they flooded the Hospital Wing! I stepped in at six in the morning, and everything, save their beds, was floating in three inches of water!" Pomfrey, shaking in frustration, sat on the edge of her chair. "And when I asked them how it got there, they meekly responded that they were getting a head-start on your class."

The condemned man, one Filius Flitwick, blinked and tried not to seem pleased. "Although this is somewhat ahead of schedule, perhaps it’s not wise to penalize them for initiative."

"Initiative? Initiative???" repeated Pomfrey, beside herself now. "I certainly made them take initiative. I taught them a Drying Charm, and they can practice it for as long as it takes to evaporate all the water away."

"Relieve them? If they’re still around by supper, certainly I shall."

It would have piqued Pomfrey’s ire even more to realize Harry had blackmailed a couple of seventh years, (whom Silver had caught sneaking into Snape’s storeroom) to banish the water away. Snape, however, would be relieved to know Mrs. Norris no longer resided in his closet, having been released by the cat-loving trespassers. Filch would encounter her right after the meeting, slightly burgundy and no worse the wear for all that.

"Indeed, Mr. Potter seems to be taking initiative on many accounts," Dumbledore said, folding his hands atop his desk. "With thievery, no less."

"You have no proof of that," Severus defended. "While I do not enjoy speaking poorly of Mr. Malfoy, surely you have noticed his tendency to, ah, flaunt his wealth before the other students. He himself claimed to have given the pocketbook to Potter for his casual perusal."

"Which would explain their rather heated duel afterwards." Dumbledore sighed. "Needless to say, I was not born yesterday, Severus, and all signs point to your godson being rather too lawless for Hogwarts."

"Lawless?" Sprout began. "One of my students?"

"Pomona, surely you’ve noticed the hexes he’s used since he came here. How a student can barely scrape by in all his classes and notably excel in Defence and Charms is beyond me, but it does suggest a disturbing proclivity for violence—"

"Violence?" huffed Pomona. "Of all the rubbish—"

Severus silently cheered her on.

"None of my Hufflepuffs have ever shown interest in your flashier subjects, and as soon as one them applies the hard work and dedication characteristic of my house to Defence, trust a Gryffindor to rebuke them for it."

"Pomona, this has nothing to do with House loyalties..."

"Oh? Then what about the nonsense all the Weasley twins have done? We spend two hours a week or more tracking them down and fixing their accidents, not to mention all the time Pomfrey wastes curing their fake ailments when they skive! And one of my students decides to simply practice course material—"

"A Vomiting Hex is not course material!"

"It was, once, and I think Harry should be congratulated for taking the extra time to learn about it."

"And if he dabbles into the Dark Arts?"

"Oh, come now, Albus. A Vomiting Hex is almost identical to the Slug-Vomiting Hex, and it’s far, far from the Dark Arts. Harry is a sweet boy, and I hardly think such a thing possible." She had cooled down now, and delivered her next point gently. "After all, while I know you feel responsible for whatever they learn—it’s not fair to Harry, or any of the students, that they learn less because we’re afraid of the dangers."

"Dangers?"

Pomona shrugged, turning to the window to watch some third years chasing each other on brooms about the turrets of the castle. One scooted past their window so fast they couldn’t even make out his features. "Albus, we know you feel responsible for the current situation of our world. You taught nearly all of them—Voldemort, Lucius Malfoy, the Lestranges and Blacks. But watering down the curriculum isn’t going to lessen the war that’s coming. It will make them less educated on the responsibilities of their actions, if the first time they use a hex is on an enemy and not a friend. It will make them more likely to injure themselves in defense if the only way they can learn a lethal spell is through a book. Albus, the seventh years today are graduating with only a fraction of their parents’ education."

"I cannot condone the teaching of Dark Arts to minors."

"Dark Arts? No," Quirrell agreed quietly, from where he’d been sitting quietly in the corner. "But more advanced, more dangerous spellwork?"

"They’ll learn it anyways," Sinistra opined, and Dumbledore looked at her askance, for he was accustomed to her taking the part of the senior teachers in these discussions, despite her being in her mid-seventies. She saw a similar expression on McGonagall’s face. "Minerva, it is the truth. Every once in a long while, some students come to the school that are a little smarter or stronger than the norm, and they throw the whole castle on end as their teachers and peers try to keep up with them. Tom Riddle, the Prewett brothers, the Marauders—and now, Harry Potter and his little friends. And truthfully, it’s better for the school. They’ll all work harder if a sneaky little first-year keeps showing them up." She scratched her head. "We might even get some decent Defense marks in a few years, though it’s too much to ask that they take Astronomy seriously."

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

"Harry, a thief? Really, what do you think, Severus?"

"Mm. No idea. Do you honestly suppose I don’t have better things to do than track my godson’s whereabouts every second of the day."

"Yes."

"The Malfoy brat is a braggart, and well, Albus is a bit obsessive over anything Harry does. I doubt it was more than a childish prank." Despite his faint misgivings, he neglected to tell Lily about the key Harry had taken from Crouch. "He’s a very competent thief, but you should tell him—and Sirius—to desist. I’d hate to imagine the issues with Magical Law Enforcement if they learnt the General’s son was a petty bandit."

"He taught Sirius?" Lily’s eyes widened, and in that moment, Severus knew that however she might protect Harry—and whatever Harry might mean to the world as the Boy-Who-Lived—Sirius would always be her little son, where Harry was a stranger under her protection. "Gods, I’ll tell him, and thank you, Severus."

"Anytime." Severus accepted another cup of tea from Lily—laced with the wine she kept stashed in her trick drawer—and drank deeply before continuing. "While I need not know or say everything your son is involved in, this I will say—he is singlehandedly improving the other students’ education. An entire list of spells, struck from the first years’ curriculum as too dangerous, despite the ease of the magic, was reinstated after a spate of their use in the corridors." He smiled a little. "Why ban the students from learning it in class when they’ll teach themselves out of class anyways?"

Lily looked at him again, and seemed to notice something for the first time.

"Severus, you’re clean."

"I usually strive to maintain the dignity of my profession by being so, yes."

"No, but you’re—" she sputtered. "What’s the occasion?" she managed at last.

"Polyjuice potion. Any residue from the brewer will contaminate it."

Lily tried not to smile. "I knew there had to be a good reason."