“A ‘D’?” Harry exclaimed in horror. “A ‘D’? How could he give me a ‘D’?”

Wincing in sympathetic concern, Ron and Hermione looked at the long sheet of parchment, marked almost completely in fiery red ink, Snape’s only patriotism of Gryffindor colors. “It’s just one essay, mate,” Ron tried to sound comforting, but he hadn’t even managed to get a ‘D’ himself on this particular assignment, and they all knew that this essay was a major grade. Typical. “It’s just Snape, you know?”

“I just can’t believe it!” Harry gawked at the ugly red slashes and the spidery handwriting that marred the paper. There were hardly two words together that Snape had left alone. “I read that stupid potions book a hundred times, took all those notes, and even went to the library to do extra reading on the potion, and I still got a ‘D’?”

Feeling sick and disgusted, the young Gryffindor threw the Potions essay away and onto the floor of the hall. How could he have gotten a ‘D’? He had really worked hard on this essay! He had done work that Hermione would do! He had been so pleased with his focus, so proud of this essay. He was sure he would get at least an ‘E,’ but instead he had gotten a big, fat, ugly ‘D’ from the big, greasy, ugly Potions master. It was unfair.

“What did you guys get?” Harry asked, although he did not really know why he wanted to know. He really was not in the mood to talk about school work, and yet he felt compelled to ask.

“I got a ‘P,’” Ron admitted. “I asked the twins to help me with my work.”

Turning to Hermione, the boys realized that their other friend was not at all pleased with her grade either. “What did you get, ‘Mione?” Ron asked.

Fidgeting, looking like a strange mix between angry and ready to burst into tears, the clever little witch answered, “An ‘E,’” very quietly.

That was it! If Hermione got an ‘E’ then there was no hope for any of them! Snape had gone too far this time. He was not being fair, and everyone in the school, even the Slytherins, knew it. He could not just go around deciding who passed and who failed just because they were in one house or the other. That was not fair!

Determination setting in, Harry marched over to his crumpled essay and picked it up before storming away.

“Hey! Where are you going, mate?” Ron called after him.

“I’m going to see Snape,” Harry called over his shoulder.

“Harry, wait!” Hermione cried.

Before he knew it, Harry was facing his two best friends, each one looking at him worriedly. “I don’t think you should go talk to Snape right now, Harry,” Hermione said uneasily.

“He’ll kill you!” Ron exclaimed. “You know what a foul mood he was in, in class!”

“And let’s not forget to add in the fact that he doesn’t like you, Harry,” the little witch pointed out smartly. “He’ll likely give you a detention for something.”

“I don’t care.” The green-eyed Gryffindor crossed his arms resolutely. “I’m going to go in there and make him listen to me! He’ll have to explain to me why I’m wrong, and when he can’t, I’ll go to Dumbledore, and the headmaster will make Snape change my grade!”

The other two children did not look as confident in their friend’s arguing skills as much as Harry had hoped they would. In fact, Hermione looked right out opposed to the idea while Ron wavered between encouragement and doubt. Their faces only ignited Harry’s anger, though. Everyone was scared of Snape, and he was tired of it. The Potions master had far too much power when it came to fear and intimidation. Someone had to stand up to him! If he was supposed to fight Voldemort someday, he could practice on Snape now.

Setting his face again in resolution, Harry relented to his friends for the moment and followed them to their next class. He would make his way back down into the dungeons to battle the monster that dwelt below later that night. He could handle Snape . . . he could! Snape was just a man — a greasy, mean spirited man, but a man nonetheless, and Harry was convinced that he could handle any man. He would wait, and he would compose his argument so that not even the Slytherin would be able to find holes to slither through. He would wait . . .

~*~

Later that night, once back into the cool of the dungeon, Harry’s confidence began slipping. It was colder than it was during the day, and it kept getting colder the further he went into the ground. It was creepy in a way. Harry could not remember a time when he had gone down into the dungeons alone. Had he ever? He could not really remember, but he shoved that thought away.

Standing outside the Potions classroom, the young Gryffindor could feel the air escaping underneath the door from the classroom, and it was much colder than even the air outside in the hall. A shiver ran down his spine as he waited, as if expecting something fantastic to happen . . . but of course, nothing did. The hall was still, eerily silent, and Harry imagined he could see the steam come from under the door, much like that which comes out when opening a freezer.

But not wanting to be scared, Harry swallowed his fear and knocked on the door. For all his bravery, the knock was quiet and gentle, barely considered a knock at all. Not surprisingly, there came no reply. And just when the boy thought that he should give up and Snape was not in, the door suddenly creaked open, an odd light coming from within.

Driven by curiosity, Harry peeked through the crack and looked inside. He could not see anything except shadows of empty desks. When nothing else happened, he grew bolder and cracked the door open even more to get a better look inside. Perhaps Snape was not here? Maybe he had just forgotten to lock the door?

But then another burst of light came from within Snape’s personal work room, a room that was constantly kept locked. No student had ever seen the inside of this particular room. Frightened at first, Harry picked up his courage again and slowly crept into the classroom, making sure that he was not heard. He had learned this skill well from living with the Dursleys.

As he snuck in, Harry was startled by how different the classroom looked. Without the candles, the room was terrifying, looking much like the dungeons in the old horror films. The desks, the cauldrons, the vials . . . everything in the semi-darkness looked far harsher, far more menacing, than when the candles were lit. And the room felt colder, more . . . depressing. It made his heart sink. He had thought the Potions room was the most depressing room even in the light. Like this, it was beyond salvageable.

When he got to the door of the secret room, Harry carefully peered around the corner, much like a spy, trying to see what was going on inside. What he saw both surprised and amazed him.

Hogwarts had the reputation of hiring the most skilled witches and wizards in all of the United Kingdom — some even said in all Europe, and that each professor knew his or her trade thoroughly. And even though he knew Professor Snape had the degree of Potions Master, a very difficult degree to obtain, Harry had never fully believed that the Hogwarts Potions Master was really much good. That is, until now.

Within the room, his back to the door, Snape stood over a cauldron that exuded a pale blue color. Other than the light of the potion within and a soft bluish light that hung overhead, there was nothing else lighting the room. Harry stood dumbly as he watched the Potions master at work. He had never seen anyone work so effortlessly, so confidently, so utterly perfectly before! Snape’s movements, his methods in working, were so smooth that it was like watching water run over rock. It was in that moment that Harry believed what Snape had told them all many times before: that potions could be done correctly by going through the motions, but it took a true knack for the trade to make one excel in this skill. Those that could see beyond just the words to make it mastered an art. Snape definitely had the gift for it.

Charmed despite who it was making the potions, Harry stood watching as the professor worked silently and efficiently. Snape glided from one station to another so gracefully that it was like watching a ballet. The professor chopped ingredients here, then moved to sprinkle others in there before crushing something over at the next table. Later, the Gryffindor would be shocked to discover that he was actually envious of Snape’s ability. Harry could not think of a single subject in which he had such talent. He wondered if Hermione would ever possess Snape’s level of talent in any profession when she grew up. She was very talented.

But it was when Snape added a dark, foul-looking ingredient that Harry could not help but be completely awestruck. As the black substance came in contact with the potion, there came a powerful gust that blew back Harry’s hair, and the whole lighting changed from the soft blue into a purple color. Smoke rose off the large cauldron and Snape, standing directly before the boiling pot, stared down into his creation silently. Harry wished he could see his professor’s face, but the view of the Potions master from the back was incredible enough from where he stood.

Snape’s robes billowed and fluttered about him delicately, as whatever potion this was still caused a gust of air of some sort. A green mist was slowly rising from the cauldron and it seemed to circle above the Potions master’s head. There came energy from the Slytherin, one that Harry had never felt before, a shock of raw power that was not around the wizard any time the Gryffindor could remember. It was as though the professor’s magic was being completely released here. It was exhilarating to feel such potent magic.

But it was also here that Harry learned just how powerful Snape really was. The Head of Slytherin was portrayed to be a great wizard, a wizard that was not to be trifled with. And even though all of the students knew this, the Gryffindor was not sure anyone knew of Snape’s full power . . . except, of course, Dumbledore. It was in that moment that Harry truly feared Snape, feared him more than anyone else in the world, because who knew what side the Potions master was really on?

When the potion started to fade back into a calming blue, Harry could not help but suppress a shudder. Watching his professor work made him think of Merlin. How many times had Harry wished Merlin and fairytales were real before he had come to Hogwarts? Funny that he should see his childhood dream come to life in Snape.

Looking back up to watch the colorful smoke, Harry’s view was suddenly blocked by a wall of black. Startled, he jumped back several feet, and looked up into the face of an absolutely livid Professor Snape. Oh, shit! The boy thought.

“Potter!” Snape hissed, slamming the door shut to his private work station, while casting a Stasis Charm over his shoulder to protect his work. “What are you doing here?” He stalked closer to the Gryffindor. “Come to steal something else, have you?”

Backing into a table, Harry tried to swallow his fear and remember his earlier anger. “No,” he shook his head. “No, I wasn’t stealing anything.”

Glaring daggers down at the boy, Snape growled low in his throat, like a beast being restrained from making a kill. “Then what, pray tell, are you doing in my classroom? Why didn’t you knock?” he barked.

Hermione had been right after all; Snape still did not seem to be in a good mood. In fact, the professor seemed to be in a worse mood than he had been earlier that day when they had had class. Ron’s words of Snape killing him ran in Harry’s ears, and at the moment, he could not help but believe his friend. The Potions master did not look like he was going to be understanding. In fact, the professor did not seem like he was even going to be very civil! But not wanting to back down now, Harry tried his best to be the Gryffindor everyone expected him to be.

“I . . . I had a question, sir,” Harry tried to explain. “But when I knocked on the door, no one answered, and it creaked open, so I stuck my head in and I saw the light coming from that room, so I just . . . came in, sir. Honest!”

With burning black eyes, the Potions master scorched Harry with his gaze. The Gryffindor had to look away, but Snape snatched his essay out of his hand and strode to his desk while flicking his wand to light the candles. Sitting at his desk, the professor looked over the red-wrecked essay.

“What is this?” he snapped, frowning contemptuously at the parchment. “I’ve already graded this.”

Walking over to the large mahogany desk as well, Harry nodded his head, hoping his stubbornness would keep him standing. “Yes, sir,” he acknowledged. “But I wanted to know why it was all wrong.”

Snape glared so hatefully up at Harry that the boy thought his heart was going to stop. It suddenly occurred to the Gryffindor that the Potions master knew what he was up to. Snape somehow knew Harry wanted to get him in trouble with this essay.

“Can’t you read?” the professor sneered. “Obviously not, or not very well, because if you could, you might have easily read my comments on this . . . essay,” he glared down at the parchment in disgust.

“But none of what you wrote makes sense.” Harry, feeling offended, found the courage to speak up at last. “I worked really hard on this essay — I read books outside of the assigned text, even asked questions and took notes, and I know that most of what I’ve written is right!”

“Is it?” Snape challenged right back. Harry’s heart skipped a beat. “Tell me, Mr. Potter, do you have a certification in potions-making? Are you a Potions Master? Have you taken tests of potions to obtain such a degree? Can you list every popular potion in Europe and the instructions along with them? No? Well, then, do not lecture me, boy! I know what is right here and what is wrong, not you.”

Despite everything, Harry could not help but wish that the man before him would just fall over dead. How could anyone be so utterly infuriating? How could this man just sit here and be so mean to everyone? What had happened to this wizard that made him hate everything and everyone?

A voice in the back of Harry’s mind answered him. Voldemort.

Again, another chill ran through the boy as he thought that perhaps Dumbledore was wrong.

Maybe Snape really was a true Death Eater. Maybe . . . maybe Snape’s loyalties still lay with the Dark Lord? It was not unheard of. After all, the Potions master showed little else but contempt for every house but his own, which just happened to be Slytherin. And there was a distinct prejudice of Gryffindors. And there was the fact that Snape desperately wanted the position of the DADA professor for a long time. Maybe Snape was not as good a person as the headmaster had thought. Maybe the Slytherin was just bidding his time? The time would come soon when Snape would show his true colors, Harry just knew.

But at the moment, the young Potter contented himself with the fact that Snape could not kill him right now, as that would make Dumbledore more than a little angry, and he could not get away with his evil deed. Someone would catch Snape if he decided to kill. In the long run, it was just too risky to kill here at Hogwarts.

“I might not have a mastery,” Harry ground out through his teeth, “but I know that some of this is right! I looked it all up!”

“This,” Snape spat, pointing viciously at the parchment, “is nothing but vague speculations! I wanted an essay based upon facts already existing, not theories that you or someone else has come up with.”

“Well, you should have told us that in class an — ”

“I did tell you that in class.”

“Well you should have — ”

“How dare you take that tone with me!” Snape rose from his desk, towering oppressively over Harry like a dark spire on a tower. “You will watch your attitude,” he hissed. “I am your superior, your elder, and you will treat me with the respect that is owed me!”

Frightened and yet furious, Harry balled up his fists at his sides, wanting nothing so badly as to punch Snape in the face. Why could the man completely undo him? Why did the Potions master make Harry want to hurt him so badly? Why did Snape hate him? He had never done anything to the wizard without the Slytherin provoking it out of him.

But before Harry could speak, suddenly Snape’s eyes widened and he gasped in pain. All at once, the Potions master fell to the floor, clutching at his left arm. Startled, the boy ran to the other side of the desk to look down at the fallen form of his professor. The adult wizard’s eyes were closed tightly, and he was clutching his teeth together hard that looked like an attempt not to scream. The pale face of the Slytherin lost what little color it had left.

Shocked, Harry forgot his anger and knelt down beside his hated teacher. “Professor Snape? Professor?” he asked, not knowing if he should touch the man or leave him lay.

Opening his eyes, Snape gasped in a breath before he reached out and grabbed Harry by the front of the shirt and desperately tried to sit up again. Understanding the wizard’s intent, the young Gryffindor helped the old man sit up and made sure that Snape could lean his back against the side of his desk.

Once up, the Potions master, with trembling hands, pushed up his left sleeve. There, on the professor’s arm, was a large hole that was dripping blood. There was no sign of where the Dark Mark used to be, but from Snape’s expression, Harry could tell that the wizard still continued to feel the terrible effects of the Mark and was not just in serious pain from the lack of flesh on his arm.

Leaning his dark head back against the desk, Snape’s breathing was quick and labored. His eyes looked glassy and began to turn a sickly yellow color. It was then that Harry knew that something was seriously wrong with the wizard. “Stay here, professor, I’ll go get Madam Pomfrey,” the panic in the boy’s voice was unmistakable and he wondered at it.

“No!” Snape gasped. “No, you will not leave here!” the wizard ordered. “They’ll find you!”

Not understanding what was going on, Harry was shocked when the injured wizard stood up quickly. Then, unexpectedly, the boy found that his teacher was shoving him under his large desk. “Professor, what — ”

“Be silent, Potter!” the Slytherin whispered. Harry could hear the desperation in the other man’s voice. “You will stay still and silent. Someone is coming; someone will be here very soon. You will stay here, hidden and away until there is a chance for you to get away. And then you are to leave — run to the headmaster’s office, and do not look back. Do you understand me, Potter?” Snape actually had concern in his cold, dark eyes. For once, Harry perceived something in them other than hatred or anger. “You are to run without looking back. You will go to the headmaster’s office, yes?”

Not knowing exactly why he was agreeing, Harry found himself nodding. Whoever it was had Snape scared, and if Snape was scared, that did not bode well for anyone. “Yes, sir,” he nodded.

“I mean it, not a sound!” the professor snapped. “And you will go to the headmaster?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry nodded more urgently.

Although his face contorted in pain again, Snape seemed satisfied with the answer he received and stood, spun around, and extinguished all of the lights within the room once again. In the dark under his professor’s desk, Harry sat quietly, wondering if anyone could hear his heart beating. It pounded loudly in his ears, and for a moment, the noise was almost too much.

What was he doing here, sitting under Snape’s desk like a coward? He should be helping the Potions master; after all, the man was hurt, and who knew who was going to show up? If Snape was this badly scared, then he would need help! But then again, Harry had promised he would emerge and go to the headmaster’s office when an opportunity presented itself.

The blue light washed into the room dully. Peeking out just a bit, Harry could see that Snape had opened back up his private work room, and that things looked much the same as they had when he’d come in earlier. If Snape was there, the wizard was not making any noise whatsoever. And just when the Gryffindor thought that he was alone, and perhaps he should just go to Dumbledore, the door to the classroom opened up with a nearly silent creak.

Harry ducked back under the desk completely, pressing his back against the wood and curling his legs up lest they be seen. He sat completely still as he listened to the slight footsteps that echoed faintly on the hard stone floors. “Severus Snape,” came the easy drawl of a man’s voice, one that Harry had never heard before.

“Benjamin Archer,” returned Snape’s deep voice. “What are you doing here?”

There was a silence, and Harry could just imagine the newcomer was looking around the Potions master’s impressive collection of stores and the beautiful potion that was currently being made. “What is that in your hands?” Archer asked.

“Rose petals,” Snape replied silkily. “What are you doing here, Archer?”

There was another pause, in which footsteps could be heard. “Just thought I would come in and check up on you,” the newcomer answered lazily. “Good thing too — you are looking frightfully pale. Did last night’s excursion really drain you so terribly?” The sneer was unmistakable. “I’d think a Potions master would have a quick way to heal himself from our Master’s punishments?”

“I will ask you only once more,” Snape’s voice was like steel. “What are you doing here?”

“As I said, just coming to see you after last night.” Archer’s voice sounded innocent, yet brutal. “I heard that you tortured and killed that little Muggle girl. A four-year-old, was she not?”

Harry’s eyes widened in surprise, but he fought to keep from gasping too loudly. Snape, his professor, had killed a little four-year-old girl? The thought revolted Harry. But even so, he strained harder to hear what was being said. A part of the boy could not quite believe anyone to be quite so cruel.

There was no answer from Snape, and there must have been a battle of wills between the two. Suddenly, Archer gave a bit of a nervous laugh. “Yes, you must be proud of yourself. You, the glorious double agent of our Lord and Master! You really had us all going. You flattered when flattery was needed, you begged when begging was required. You kissed feet when needed, too. You had us all fooled, you did. That is, until you made your mistake.”

There was another quiet that fell, and Harry began to lean out of the protective shadows of Snape’s desk. He could see in the doorway, a tall, thin man with sandy brown hair. He looked neat and well put together. He was not as tall or as thin as Snape, but he did look, at least from the back, like an easy target for the Potions professor. From where he was, Harry still could not see Snape’s face, but he wished that he could have. It would have given him courage. Strange that that would be the case.

“Yes, you gloriously took that little brat, didn’t you?” Archer went on. “We all heard the screams, we all heard you say the Killing Curse, but you know what I saw?”

Harry paled. What had this man seen? Snape remained silent.

“I saw you unbind the little girl.” The Death Eater’s voice held a taunt. “I saw you kneel before her, hold her to your chest. I saw you enter into her mind. I saw you disappear and then come back. You took the little girl home, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” came the tight whisper from the Potions master.

“So.” Archer took out his wand. Harry slipped completely out from under the desk, and went to the doorway to see his professor’s face. “I was right in what I saw. You are a triple agent! You are the spy that my Master has been seeking for so long! I must confess I am shocked.”

“Why?” Snape asked, his face blank, though extremely pale. Harry could see blood dripping down the wizard’s robes and pooling on the floor at his feet. “You must have known that a half-blood would not find everything the Dark Lord did as tasteful as Purebloods.”

“No,” the Death Eater agreed. “No I suppose your kind would not have as stout of hearts as the pure. Now you will know what happens to those that go against the wishes of the Dark Lord firsthand. Now, what’s in your pockets?”

“Posies,” came the biting reply.

Archer did not seem to like that. His voice changed into something terrible as he said, “Cute. But I meant your wand. Take out your wand!”

As he watched, Harry suddenly found his eyes locked with Snape’s. The professor stared long and hard at his student, and the Gryffindor knew instantly that that was the sign. He had to get ready to run. He watched, waiting to see what his professor would do, when he noticed Snape’s hands. The Potions master had slipped his wand into his hand. Where it had come from, the boy did not know, but he readied himself anyway.

As fast as lightning, Snape pointed his wand and yelled, “Stupefy!”

Archer was able to cover his panic and block the spell, but Harry realized that it was his time to move. He ran from one side of the door to the other, making his way to the classroom door, when he suddenly froze. What was he doing? What if Snape really needed help? The man was injured, for Merlin’s sake!

Looking back and forth between his freedom and the battle, Harry found he could not consciously run out and leave Snape alone. It was just wrong. Sneaking back over, the boy pressed himself flat against the wall and waited. He could not just barge in; he had to wait for the perfect moment, when he knew who was where and what was going on.

“Crucio!”

"Expelliarmus!”

“Petrificus Totalus!”

“Sectumsempra!”

The last was said by Snape, and a scream that went up, meaning that the Potions master had hit his target. Harry could not help but jump when Archer screamed, but he was also silently cheering Snape on. Peeking around the corner, Harry decided that it was now his chance to go and help his professor. But, again, his view was blocked by Snape himself.

Although he did not know why, Harry found that he was touched by Snape’s actions. Here was Snape, the Potions master, blocking the way between the Death Eater and the boy that he supposedly hated. Though Harry knew that Snape was more than likely protecting him because the world needed him to be alive, Harry was touched nonetheless. This man did not have to do this. He could really play whichever side he pleased. He was in a position where he could go to either side and get what he really wanted. But here he was, protecting Harry when Archer did not even know Harry was in the area! Snape did, in some way, care.

“You’ll pay for that, Snape!” Archer cried. “You’re just a traitor, you bastard! You’ll pay!”

“Diffindo!” was the Potions master’s only response.

Harry ducked back around the corner, took a deep breath, and was about to jump into the fight when he was repelled backwards by the cry of, “Avada Kedavra!”

There was a flash of green light. There was a terrible noise so loud it was as though the earth was splitting open, waiting to devour souls. There came a sickening, dull thud, as though something hard yet fleshy hit the ground. And then . . . then there was nothing. Silence.

Horrified, Harry’s hand flew to his mouth as tears burst forth from his eyes. Shaking with uncontrollable fear and sorrow, the young wizard could think of nothing else to do but obey Severus Snape’s last command and run.

Running from the room, Harry moved his legs as fast as he could, not thinking of anything but the horrid scene that he had just witnessed, a scene that reminded him far too much of his mother’s own death. The words to that horrible curse sounded again and again in his ears — the flash of light, the explosion, the sound of a body hitting the ground, the silence . . .

Snape had showed where his loyalties were at last. Dear Merlin . . . Snape was dead!

~*~

Ring around the rosie,

A pocket full of posies,

Ashes! Ashes!

We all . . .

Fall . . .

Down . . .