Hogwarts, 1992

 Harry sat at the back of the Hogwarts Library, skimming through piles of books. He was alone, for Ron wasn't particularly keen on history books, and Hermione had other homework to do. Harry had been impressed how understanding Ron had been of the amount of research he had been doing, for, while he was a little bit miffed that Harry was reading a lot of the time, he understood Harry's curiosity, and was even a little interested himself. When Harry had gone to the Burrow for Christmas, he had finally told Ron what had happened back in November. He had had to, really. One doesn't go back in time, almost die of poison, spend a month in the hospital wing and then not tell their friend why they got poisoned in the first place. It just didn't work like that.

Harry had been very glad that he could tell someone all about it, for many reasons. One was that it was sometimes hard to believe what had happened was real. Another was that it would have been really difficult not to slip up and say something about it to Ron, as Harry had been lucky enough to get to live with the Weasleys after the events that took place a few months earlier. He had only spent Christmas there so far, but he already loved it, and for a moment he thought fleetingly of summer, which was fast approaching. At the beginning of his first year at Hogwarts, he thought he would never, ever want to leave Hogwarts, but those two weeks during Christmas at the Burrow had been the closest to having a home than he had ever known before, even with living at Hogwarts. He had been amazed at how quickly it started to feel that way.

As Harry flipped the page in his book he couldn't help but marvel at the amount of influence Snape seemed to have on Dumbledore, as it had been Snape in the end that changed everything for Harry. Quite honestly, Harry had not expected the Headmaster to care much at all that the Dursleys had been neglecting and rather quick to punish. Harry still thought it a little odd to call the whole situation abusive, as all the adults called it. It was very rare that he ever got physically hurt at the Dursleys', and those times were usually accidental because he didn't duck quickly enough when Aunt Petunia swung her frying pan. Despite what others thought, it still seemed almost normal to some degree, even after seeing what a proper home was like. It had been quite a learning curve for him, going to the Burrow. Only now was he truly starting to see just how messed up his childhood had been up until this point.

Today, however, these thoughts were fleeting, and instead his mind soaked up the words in the history book before him. Ever since returning from the year 1612 and narrowly escaping his death amidst the rampant witch hunting practises, he had hungered to know what happened since. He often spent nights wondering what had happened to the people he met. His heart sunk every time he thought about being so far from them. Instead, he tried to bring Evelyn, and even that crazy old man Ellery back through the pages of books. But he had found no references at all to people with those names. He hadn't expected to, really, although he thought he might at least have found out something about Blaine McTavish. He had been both insane, and mean enough to be remembered, Harry thought to himself, shuddering. Despite this, during all the time he had spent searching, Harry had yet to find a single reference to him. And still, he searched. Perhaps it was because he wanted to prove, even to himself, that it hadn't all been a dream gone badly awry, or a hallucination induced by the poison that had made him so sick

He wished he could discuss what happened with Snape, just so he could know that someone else was sure that it had happened. But the man had been distant, ever since he talked to Dumbledore about moving Harry to the Burrow. It was as though Snape almost liked him one day, and forgot that he existed the next. Harry tried to keep his mind off all of this, however, because it was easier if he didn't think about how much it bothered him to have lost what had felt like a friendship between he and his Professor. It was, perhaps, Snape's sudden distance that made the whole adventure seem so unreal to him.

Harry took his glasses off briefly and rubbed his eyes. He was going to put the books away soon. Lunch hour was almost over, and fruitless searching had left him weary once more. But he had to do it, for himself. He wanted so badly to know if Evelyn escaped, or if Ellery and the rest made it out of the village in time. Or even if McTavish had truly died. The last time Harry saw Blaine McTavish, he had had a knife in his chest, but Harry still woke up in a cold sweat, wondering if McTavish had breathed his last shortly after that moment, or if he had survived. He had to be sure of this, just so he could be at peace, and know that such evil had been taken from the world. Even if McTavish was long dead at this point in time, regardless of what killed him.

With a soft sigh Harry shut the book, and threw it on top of the large stack of history books that detailed events from the 1600s on. Carefully, he took the stack into his arms to put back onto the shelves. He didn't particularly want to confront Madam Pince if he left that number of books off their shelves.

The stack of volumes was rather tall, and Harry accidental trod on his book bag lying by his chair, getting his foot caught on one of the straps.

He gave a small shout as he tumbled to the ground, the pile of books falling with noisy thumps on the library carpet.

As if she had been waiting for this moment, Madam Pince swooped in from behind a shelf.

"Shame on you, throwing books around like that!"

"I'm sorry Madam, I tripped," Harry said gingerly as he brushed himself off.

"Pick those up immediately!"

"Yes Ma'am," he muttered, reaching for the books and hastily stacking them. One had fallen open and he reached over to close it. Harry felt his mouth fall open.

Madam Pince waved her wand to send the stacked books back to their places, and as the open one soared up into the air Harry snatched at it.

"Wait! Madam Pince, this is the book, this is the one!" Harry cried excitedly. "I need this book. Can I take it out?"

"Only if you don't write in it, damage it, misuse it, throw it, drop it -"

"I'll take care of it, I know the rules," Harry said, hastily looking at his watch.

"Bring it to the counter," said Madam Pince rather grudgingly.

Harry grabbed a piece of parchment from his book bag and put it in place on the page he found. Inside he was writhing with excitement. He followed Madam Pince in a daze, arriving at the counter.

She held out her right hand, the long fingernails on her left hand tapping at the wood counter.

"Recipe for Fame: A History of the Potioneer's Society, by Albert Bresling," she droned, the book in front of her as she it scribbled down in a log book, "on loan to Mr. Potter for two weeks. No more, no less."

Plucking a stamp out of a wicker basket she smacked it down on the ink pad. The next time the stamp was lowered it was with much greater care, when she pressed it onto the paper card inside the book cover.

"I expect it back by May 17th, Mr. Potter," she said sternly, still holding the book out of Harry's reach.

"Yes Ma'am," said Harry hastily, and with trembling fingers he took the book, which she let him take from her grasping fingers.

He practically ran out of the Library and to Defence Against the Dark Arts, where his two best friends were waiting for him. The bell rang just as he threw himself into the seat next to Ron.

"Find something?" Ron mouthed to Harry as Quirrell began his lecture and Harry caught his breath. Ron and Hermione too had been interested to hear what he found on the events that had transpired earlier in the school year, which Harry was grateful for.

Harry nodded, and under the desk (for Quirrell never paid much attention to anything) he flipped to the page that he had seen the familiar name, and read through it, hoping for some connection to what had happened to him last year. Ron covertly read over his shoulder, while Hermione tutted from the desk behind them.

"You're just mad you can't read it too without getting caught," Ron hissed, rolling his eyes.

Harry lowered his gaze to the well-worn pages of the book, making sure to point to the specific passage so Ron knew where to read.

" ... The rapid rise in success and prestige of the Potioneer's Society during the early sixteen hundreds was greatly in part to James McTavish. Much of this was due to the fact that he was a very influential member of London society, considering his family's wealth and rich history. Owning much of the land on the outskirts of London, and being a Potions connoisseur, he had no trouble obtaining an invitation into the Potioneer's Society, something many had great difficulty in doing. McTavish's research on poisons was ground-breaking for the time, and set the stage for such brilliant minds as Richter, Bowing, and O-Kieffe to make even greater advancements years later as members of the very same society. It was McTavish's research project on poisons, and subsequent academic papers that gained the attention of the more scholarly side of London, and thus launched the Potioneer's Society from its relative anonymity to widespread success by the year 1605. With its newly found fame, the Potioneer's Society began to progress into something far greater than its founders imagined. The Society was getting requests, pouring in from all over Great Britain to evaluate potions, develop and test recipes, and publish books on them. With literacy on the rise within the magical community, the well-off had reason to commission such works. Thus, the Potioneer's Society began to regulate potion recipes, test, revise, and release them to the public once deemed safe.

As this continued, the Society proceeded in with their advances in the field of Potions, often by creating and distributing new recipes with almost constantly rising success (there were three periods of inactivity, the first in 1608, when it was shut down for nine months after an outbreak of Spattergroit; the second in 1613 after a fire destroyed much of the building; the third in 1623, a year heavy with the Black Plague) until the year 1666. This success led to great growth within the Society, which allowed for such diverse research to take place. Unfortunately, not all of this work was saved when the Potioneer's Society was decimated by the Great Fire of London, which raged through the city for three days in September of 1666 and caused many years of turbulence due to the heavy losses."

Harry frowned thoughtfully and gave the book to Ron to finish reading, as he wasn't as fast as Harry. Unable to pay attention to Quirrell's boring lecture, he let his mind ponder James McTavish, rather than the Potioneer's Society. He wondered if he could be a relative of Blaine McTavish.

It was then that Harry had a sudden idea. He had potions class next, the last class of the day. Perhaps he could catch Snape at the end of it to discuss this new piece of information, for Snape probably knew something about the Potioneer's Society, considering his brewing skills. Maybe he had heard of this James McTavish, and besides, if he hadn't, Harry though he would probably be interested. Well, in actuality he hoped Snape would be interested more than he thought he would. He wasn't sure if his Professor had been reading up on the sixteen hundreds, but it was worth a try to see what he knew. And, to be perfectly honest - not that he'd ever admit it to anyone but himself - he sort of missed talking with Snape. He was intrigued by the man, for the trip into the past had taught him that there was certainly more to his professor than he had initially thought, and that the man's soul wasn't black, nor was it white. It was not one, but many shades of grey, and Harry was not naive enough to think he would every fully understand any one of them.

For the short time that they had been in the past, and during those few days that Harry had been in the hospital wing and Snape had come to visit him, Harry had felt as though the huge barriers between he and Snape had fallen down. But now he knew differently, for those conversations in the hospital wing were the last of the sort that he had had with Snape, and all too soon the illusion of camaraderie and friendship had disappeared. His Professor's indifference stung more than Harry could admit to himself, especially when Snape brushed him off when he was so clearly trying to talk to him, either in the halls or in the classroom. Even though he had a new family, and two best friends, Harry sometimes felt more alone than ever.

He looked down at the book in his hands. Perhaps he was only going down to ask Snape about what he'd read because he hoped that things would be different this time. That Snape would act like he was actually worth something, like he did when they were back in time, and for the short while after. But six months of Snape's silence had left Harry with little hope. Even now, when he was nearing the end of the school year, Harry did not understand what had changed to make Snape stop talking to him. And it was not as though Harry could ask him, what with him avoiding Harry at every turn. Despite this, Harry still hoped that maybe, just maybe, today his luck would change. So when the bell rang, he set off down the corridors, crossing his fingers that this would be the day that it all made sense to him.

"I'm going to ask Snape after class if he knows anything about this," Harry said to Ron and Hermione as they packed up their books and headed down to the dungeons with the rest of the Gryffindor first years.

Hermione did not speak, but simply frowned, clearly trying to hold back what she wanted to say.

"Look mate," said Ron in a low voice as they descended another staircase, the chill of the air becoming more prominent around them, "I don't think anything is going to change. I mean, it's been months since he started acting this way. Maybe ... well," - Ron's ears went red - "what if he was only being civil because you were forced to spend so much time together?"

"Ron, you weren't there," said Harry, frustrated. "You don't understand, he was different. It was almost like ... almost like he was my ..."

The look on Hermione's face was so tragic Harry felt his brows furrow, and he spat out his last word.

"Friend, okay?" Harry said. "It was like he was my friend."

Neither Ron nor Hermione spoke, but the sad looks on their faces said it all.

"I wouldn't expect you two to understand, alright?" Harry spat, storming ahead of them and pushing through the crowd to the door.

Once in the dungeon he made sure to sit next to Seamus and Dean so he wouldn't have to speak to Hermione and Ron, who were exchanging knowing glances.

It seemed like an age came before class ended, and Harry deliberately packed up his things slowly. To his relief, Snape was still at his desk, marking papers. His heart beating furiously, the book clutched in his hands, Harry approached the desk. He glanced once at the door, where Ron was silently trying to persuade Harry to come with them.

"Go," he mouthed. Ron shook his head, and left.

Harry turned his gaze back to Snape's desk, but his eyes were met with an empty chair. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a pair of black robes whipping around the corner of door to the back room of the dungeon classroom. Left standing alone in the cold dungeon, Harry took a slow step back from the desk, before turning on his heel and running out of the classroom.

Harry met his friends outside the Great Hall a little later, not bothering to tell them what happened, because they knew all too well. All through dinner, Ron tried to provoke Harry out of his blue demeanour and into a fighting mood. It seemed to bother him immensely, the way Harry played with his food and stared glumly at his plate.

"What an idiot, he should be glad you're researching this stuff," said Ron through a mouthful of ham. "He doesn't have to do it, does he? Besides, he's a teacher, and a potions expert ... albeit a git ... but, he should answer questions like yours. If any other student wanted to know about the Potioneer's Society, he would have told them about it! It's his bloody job! For all he knew, you might have had a question about the essay he assigned!"

"Yeah, you're right!" Harry said finally, his insides very suddenly igniting with the feeling of injustice that had been growing slowly for the past few months. "I'm going to go down to his office after dinner, and I'm going to bring the book, and show it to him. He'll have to answer then!"

Ron looked as though that wasn't exactly his idea, but he seemed to know better than to try and talk Harry out of it again.

So, later that evening Harry marched down to the dungeons yet again, rapped on Professor Snape's office door, and waited. If Snape refused to talk to him, he would find a way to make him. How, he didn't know yet, but that was beside the point. Anyway, Snape had no choice but to talk to him if he cornered him in his office, even if it as just to yell at him to get out.

"Enter," said Snape, his voice floating toward Harry.

Turning the knob, Harry entered with conviction. Snape was sitting at his desk, tinkering with a metal box, tapping it in various places with his wand. Snape did not look up from what he was doing.

"What do you want Potter?" he snapped.

"I found something interesting in this book sir," Harry said.

"Good for you. How does it concern me?" Snape said scathingly.

"Well, I was hoping you knew a bit about what I was reading. I was trying to find out more about McTavish, and the year 1612, just to see if there's anything in the books about the witch hunts and what happened while we were there."

Snape did not reply, but slid a knife along the crack between the lid and the base of the little metal chest. Dirt was lodged in most of the crevices. He brushed it away with a rag. Harry continued in what he was saying, reminding himself not to be discouraged.

"I found something in a history book about the Potioneer's Society, sir, and it said something about a James McTavish. I was just thinking, what if he's related to the McTavish that tried to have us hung? At first I thought that it couldn't be, because this McTavish lived in London, and the other McTavish lived in Scotland, but then I remembered that when one of Blaine McTavish's henchmen used Polyjuice potion to impersonate that little girl and get at our plans for rescuing everyone, he said that the Polyjuice potion wasn't supposed to be released for a year, but he had a friend who stole the recipe from the Potioneer's Society. I was just thinking, that maybe all of this stuff is related?"

"It could be," Snape said rather tiredly after a few moments, setting down the box and looking discouraged. Harry grew hopeful, for his Professor's tone was no longer biting, and he was no longer silent. "James McTavish did extensive research in poisons, and the McTavish that we knew did know a fair bit about those. I had wondered if there was any relation while we were there. May I see the book?"

Harry handed him the book, and then, feeling reckless, took a seat in the chair opposite Snape's, just to see what he would do. Snape stared, and Harry stared defiantly back. For a moment, Harry thought Snape was going to reprimand him, or order him out of his office. But, strangely enough, Snape did not take the bait. However, some of the lines on his face became more pronounced as he pulled the book close to his nose and skimmed the page Harry had bookmarked.

"Hmm," Snape remarked when he was finished, looking thoughtful. "It is hard to say, Potter. I do not recall reading anything more about James McTavish other than in historical works about the histories of poisons. Little is actually written about him, as most books focus solely on his research. If I recall correctly, the most that can be found about his background is in books about the Potioneer's Society. It has quite fascinating beginnings, you know. I would suggest you read more about it, just for sake of the rich history surrounding it."

"Are you sure you don't know more about him?"

"I cannot say I know much more about James McTavish than what he did in the lab. However, I can tell you the names of every Potions Master that achieved ground-breaking results in the Potioneer's Society, in chronological order from the society's beginnings in 1605 to today."

"Can you really?" Harry asked, mouth dropping open. Snape had said it so casually that Harry wondered if he was joking.

"Certainly. In the sixteen hundreds there was Lester Smith, then James McTavish, Kevin MacEntire, and Jeffery Bridges. 1700s: Christopher Delaronde, Benjamin Richter -"

"You don't have to prove it, I believe you," Harry said, holding back a smile. This was the Snape he had missed.

"Good," Snape said curtly, "I didn't study three years at Westminster Potions Academy for nought."

"When did you do that?" asked Harry curiously.

"I got a scholarship when I was seventeen, and went the year I finished at Hogwarts. Had to do something to live. Brewing can be quite lucrative, depending on your speciality."

His professor was getting more interesting by the day.

"Why did you end up teaching then?" Harry asked curiously as Snape went back to scraping the dirt out of the crevices on the tiny metal chest.

Snape paused for a moment. For a second, a flash of uncertainty flitted across his face as he opened his mouth to answer. Whether this was because it had registered to him that he was not ignoring Harry any longer, or because he did not think it wise to share the reason he became a teacher, Harry did not know. He shut his mouth, and now seemed to be fighting with himself whether or not to reply. His eyes flicked up from the box and met Harry's eyes. He looked back at the box quickly, brows furrowed. He rubbed his nose, and examining the wood of his desk, continued, albeit a little wearily. It surprised Harry that he answered at all, and that he had continued to speak for this long. This was the longest conversation they had had in months.

"Well, I didn't have the money to start up a business, and ... for one reason or another, I couldn't get hired anywhere else but Hogwarts. Dumbledore offered me a job and the rest is history. And look where I am now. Stuck teaching little cretins like you."

The last sentence didn't have quite as much bite to it as one would expect, as though Snape hadn't the heart to properly infuse it with nastiness. Harry wondered if he was dreaming, what with the way Snape had so thoroughly given him the cold shoulder in class earlier. Perhaps he had finally grown tired of putting in the effort to ignore him.

"The pay is pretty decent though," Snape said, setting the knife down and prying at the box with his fingers. "Curse this box."

"What exactly are you trying to do?" Harry asked curiously after a few moments hesitation, wondering when it would be that Snape would decide to revert to his usual ways and tell Harry to get the hell out. Snape did not seem to pick up on Harry's unease (and if he did, he hid it well) as most of his attention was on the little metal chest.

"This thing practically fell on my head when I was cleaning out my private store cupboard," Snape replied, rather disgruntled. "I think it might be another prank of Aurora's - that's Professor Sinistra to you. She is a bit of a devil, that woman, and has a nasty habit of pulling tricks on the staff when she has too much time on her hands. Seems like it is my turn. So, in answer to what I am doing - I have been trying to get this box open on my own terms before some sort of nasty creature crawls out and starts gobbling my potions samples, or something of that nature. You would not believe the things that woman comes up with. Last year she charmed the teapot in the staff room to belch fire every time someone tried to use it."

Harry laughed, but quickly covered his mouth. He wasn't sure if Snape would be angry at him for it.

"You and Sinistra are probably the only two to find that funny," his Professor said darkly.

Snape slid the knife around the lock again, running it back and forth and prising slightly.

"Aha!" Snape said as the thing sprung open. He held it so that it was only open a crack. "Let us see what terror has been bestowed upon me this time. Watch out Potter. Merlin knows what could be in this thing."

Snape, not seeing anything too dangerous upon opening it a crack, he gingerly lifted up the rusted lid. It squeaked badly on its hinges.

"Hmm," Snape said, one eyebrow raised. "Just a pile of dirt ..."

Harry stood up and leaned over to take a look. Snape rotated the box a bit. Harry frowned too as he stared down at what looked to be a tiny mound of reddish soil.

"That ghastly woman. She probably put it there just to worry m-"

There was a loud bang, and the air filled with the dusty substance. Harry and Snape sat coughing and choking on the dust. There were scorch marks on the desk.

"What the -" Snape spat, wiping the powder off his skin. He rubbed it between his fingers.

Harry looked up in horror. He suddenly knew what the box was. He'd seen something like this before, only it had been in the form of a metal ball, also filled with powder.

"Oh shit," Snape swore, eyes widening too. Harry wasn't surprised by his Professor's language, because the last time they had encountered a powder like this, they had gone back to the year 1612, almost been executed for witchcraft, and Harry had almost been killed by a poisonous arrow. Harry highly doubted this trip would go any better.