Thanks to a Dreamless Sleep potion from his father, Harry woke up relatively well-rested for his first day of classes – all things considered. The thought of seeing Malfoy still made him uneasy. But he had to admit that talking about his nightmare had helped, and his terror from the night before was greatly abated.

It was an uncommonly chilly day out, and as he dug around for his heavier winter robes, Harry couldn't help feeling thankful for his father – the one who always made sure he had warm clothes, a good night's sleep, and reassurance that he was loved.

Harry was so lost in thought as he was bent over his trunk, he didn't notice Ron standing awkwardly near his bed post with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his robes. With an embarrassed look, the redhead cleared his throat to get his attention.

"Oh. Hey Ron, what's up?"

"Yeah," Ron muttered, not quite looking Harry in the eye. "Um. Listen, I just wanted to say, you know, about last night–" Harry's breath caught in his throat. Did I cry out in my sleep? Did Ron overhear my nightmare?! "–that I'm, well… I'm sorry I didn't believe you about Malfoy."

He means after the feast, Harry realized in relief. After everything else that had happened last night, he'd completely forgotten about the fight with his best friend.

"You were right," the red head went on, unaware of Harry's thoughts. "If anyone knows You-Know-Who's mind, it's you, and I should have–"

"It's alright, Ron," Harry interrupted with a smile, suddenly realizing how stupid and immature he'd been. After all, he thought, unable to keep from the images of his nightmare from flashing through his mind, I know what it's truly like to be alone and friendless, with no one who gives a damn. Sighing, he ran a hand over the back of his neck as he murmured, "If anyone should apologize, it's me. I acted a right prat."

Surprised, Ron stared silently across at him for a long moment. "Oh. Well… don't worry about it, mate. It couldn't have been easy having a run in with that silver haired slime ball. He's enough to piss off a saint." He grinned for a moment before the look dimmed uncertainly. "So… are we good, then?"

"Yeah," Harry smiled warmly, a feeling of deep gratitude for Ron's friendship wash through him. "We're good."

They met Hermione in the Common Room, and the bushy haired girl glowered at Ron for a moment. "Nice of you to show up," she snapped, as a group of First Years thanked her for her help and made their way toward the portrait hole.

Ron gave her a lazy grin. "You're so good at everything, I knew you'd have it under control."

Although she tried to hide it, the corners of Hermione's mouth twitched in a small smile, and she seemed appeased by the praise. "Well… Let's go down to breakfast, then."

And with that, the three of them headed down to the Great Hall. The first day's morning meal was always a confusing, prolonged affair, as the heads of houses handed out class schedules and attempted to redirect the multitude of chaos. Harry's gaze flicked toward his father sitting at the staff table, a cup of coffee before him and nothing else. Their eyes connected just long enough for Harry to see what looked like… worry?... in Snape's eyes. But then the look was gone, replaced with the traditional sneer his father normally wore.

Harry narrowed his eyes before glancing away, making sure to play the part for anyone that might be watching. To distract himself from the bitter resentment of their new public roles, Harry let his mind wander. Unfortunately, his thoughts drifted immediately to last night – or more specifically, the moment that his father had slipped beneath his Occlumency shields and witnessed the horrors of Harry's nightmare.

I didn't even feel him enter my mind, Harry worried, chewing on his bottom lip. He wondered why his shields hadn't prevented the intrusion like they normally did. Perhaps he hadn't been focusing enough, as upset as he'd been. That must be it, he concluded as he served himself some eggs and bacon. Beside him, Ron was already working on a mountain of eggs, sausage, French toast, and a score of fat sausages.

The First Year Gryffindors were overwhelmed with wide-eyed in confusion as McGonagall passed out class schedules. Hermione, of course, overheard their murmurs of, "Where's the History of Magic classroom?" and, "Where do we go for our flying lessons?" and did her best to help advise them on where everything was in the giant castle.

"Charms is on the third floor," she explained to a young black-haired girl. "Oh, but… stay away from the girl's lavatory up there. That's where Moaning Myrtle likes to spend her time."

"Who's that?" The girl asked curiously.

"Well..." said Hermione thoughtfully. "Let's just say that she's been a student for a really long time. And there's a reason they gave her the nickname, 'Moaning Myrtle.'" The First Year nodded, although her brows were furrowed in obvious confusion.

As accommodating as Hermione was, Harry and Ron were equally unhelpful. As they watched the First Years scurry about, they couldn't help snickering at their younger classmates.

"Look at them – their eyes are about to bug out of their skulls," Ron chuckled as a group of eleven-year-olds scrambled past them on their way to their first lesson. "They look like owls!"

"Were we ever this small?" Harry asked, plucking an overlong scarf off the ground and handing it to the diminutive boy that had almost tripped over it. But instead of thanking Harry, the boy went scarlet in the face and ran off toward his friends. After accepting him back into the fold, the group promptly started whispering behind their hands and shooting unsure, disconcerted gazes Harry's way.

When one of them pointed and they over heard him muttering about the 'The Chosen One', Ron sharply called out, "It's rude to point!" Every member in the group jumped, then scurried from the hall as if a dementor was on their heels. Harry huffed an exasperated breath.

"Why are they pointing at you, Harry?"

Spinning in his seat, he came face-to-face with little Jillian. "Hi Jilly!" He beamed, ruffling her hair. Harry wished that he could throw his arm around the girl in a hug, but knew that he had to keep her at a distance – especially in an area where Death Eater offspring would be watching his every move. "Are you and Celine starting class with Professor Lupin today?"

"Yes, we're going to our classroom now! Professor Lupin says we'll be working on reading and arithmetic, and then we can go outside to visit the giant squid! Do you think Professor Lupin will let us go swimming? I wonder if Squiddy likes sharing his lake…?"

"Squiddy?" Ron asked, nonplussed.

"The giant squid, silly!" Jilly explained as she impatiently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Harry smiled as he noticed that she used the same tone of voice as Hermione when she thought Ron was being particularly thick. "I asked Professor Lupin if the giant squid had a name. But he said he'd never asked, and he couldn't speak Squid anyway. Everyone must have a name… So I named him Squiddy."

Harry couldn't help the laugh that bubbled to the surface.

"I like it!" Hermione chirped with a smile at the young girl.

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "He looks like a Squiddy to me. Have fun today."

"Thanks, Harry! See you later!" And she scrambled to catch up to Professor Lupin and Celine, both of whom were waiting by the door.

McGonagall said a final farewell to her granddaughter in that moment and approached them.

"Potter, Granger, Weasley," she announced, handing each of them their corresponding schedules. "Today it looks like you have Potions, followed by Defense Against the Dark Arts." Her gaze drifted to the staff table behind them. "Potter," she muttered, her sharp eyes flicking to the Slytherin table before settling back on Harry. "Be sure to remember your place, won't you?" The message was vague, but Harry clearly understood her meaning: the Slytherins will be watching. He gave a nod of acknowledgement, and the three friends rose from the table to head down to the dungeons.

When they arrived in the corridor they saw that there were only a dozen people progressing to N.E.W.T. level. Four Slytherins had made it through, including Malfoy. Harry's heart began to pound, and he wiped his sweaty palms on the inside of his robe pockets as he glared at the silver-haired bastard. Malfoy caught him staring, and leaned in to whisper something to the other Slytherins. As they all started laughing, Harry was eerily reminded of his nightmare, and his hands fisted at his sides. His first impulse was to charge Malfoy and slug the disgusting smirk right off his ugly, ferret face.

Luckily, before Harry could act on his urge, the dungeon door opened and Slughorn's belly preceded him out the door. As they filed into the room, his great walrus mustache curved above his beaming mouth as he greeted Harry and Zabini with enthusiasm.

The dungeon was already full of vapors and odd smells, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione sniffed interestedly as they passed the large, bubbling cauldrons. They chose seats nearest a gold-colored cauldron that was emitting one of the most seductive scents Harry had ever smelled. Somehow it reminded him simultaneously of the herbal scent of his father's robes, the woody smell of his broomstick handle, and something flowery he remembered smelling when he hugged Ginny. He found himself breathing very slow and deep, the potion's fumes filling him up like a delicious meal. A great contentment stole over him. He grinned lazily across at Ron, who gave him a languid smile in return.

"Now then, now then," announced Slughorn, whose massive outline was quivering through the shimmering vapors. "Scales and potion kits out, everyone, and don't forget your copies of Advanced Potion-Making..."

In the euphoria caused by the simmering potions, Harry suddenly thought that Slughorn reminded him of Father Christmas, grinning at the class in a jolly way and inflating his already bulging chest so that the buttons on his waistcoat threatened to pop off. He almost chuckled, but caught himself as Slughorn continued, "I've prepared a few potions for you to have a look at, just out of interest, you know. These are the kind of things you ought to be able to make after completing your N.E.W.T.s. You should have heard of them, even if you haven't made them yet. Can anyone tell me what this one is?"

He indicated the cauldron nearest the Slytherin table. For reasons he didn't understand, he was suddenly not bothered by Malfoy in the least. Instead he ignored the snakes and raised himself slightly in his seat. He saw what looked like plain water boiling away inside the massive cauldron that Slughorn indicated.

Hermione's well-practiced hand hit the air before anybody else's. Slughorn pointed at her. "It's Veritaserum – a colorless, odorless potion that forces the drinker to tell the truth."

"Very good!" Slughorn boomed happily. "Now," he continued, pointing at the cauldron nearest the Ravenclaw table, "this one is pretty well known... Featured in a few Ministry leaflets lately, as well... Who can–?"

Hermione's hand punched the air once more.

"It's Polyjuice Potion, sir," she confidently announced.

Harry had also recognized the slow-bubbling, mud-like substance in the second cauldron, but did not resent Hermione getting the credit for answering the question. After all, it was she who had succeeded in making it, back in their second year.

"Excellent, excellent! Now, this one here... Yes, my dear?" asked Slughorn, now looking slightly bemused, as Hermione's hand flew into the air again.

"It's Amortentia!"

"It is indeed. It seems almost foolish to ask," beamed Slughorn, who was looking mightily impressed, "but I assume you know what it does?"

"It's the most powerful love potion in the world," Hermione said almost reverently.

"Quite right! You recognized it, I suppose, by its distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen?"

"And the steam rising in characteristic spirals," Hermione replied, slipping into the educational role she seemed to revel in. "It's supposed to smell differently to each person according to what attracts them. For example, I can smell freshly mown grass and new parchment and –"

She glanced sideways at Ron beside her and turned slightly pink. For some reason, she did not complete the sentence.

"May I ask your name, my dear?" asked Slughorn, ignoring Hermione's embarrassment.

"Hermione Granger, sir."

"Any relation to Hector Dagworth-Granger, who founded the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?" he asked hopefully.

"I don't think so, sir. I'm Muggle-born, you see."

Harry saw Malfoy lean close to Nott and whisper something. Both sniggered condemningly, but Slughorn showed no dismay at Hermione's proclamation. On the contrary, he beamed and looked from Hermione to Harry, who was sitting next to her.

"Oho! 'One of my best friends is Muggle-born, and she's the best in the school!' I'm assuming this is the very friend of whom you spoke, Harry?"

"Yes, sir," Harry agreed.

"Well, well, take twenty well-earned points for Gryffindor, Miss Granger," enthused Slughorn. At that moment Harry happened to catch a glimpse of Malfoy, who sported the same look of surprise as the time Hermione hauled off and punched him in the face.

Hermione turned to Harry with a radiant expression and whispered, "You seem to be telling a lot of people that I'm the best at the school… Thank you!"

"Well, what's so impressive about that?" muttered Ron, who looked annoyed for some reason. "You are the best at school – I'd've told him so if he'd asked me!"

Hermione smiled but made a 'shushing' gesture, so that they could better hear what Slughorn was saying. Ron looked slightly disgruntled.

"Amortentia doesn't create real love, of course. It's quite impossible to manufacture or imitate that. No… This potion will simply cause a powerful infatuation bordering on obsession. For that reason, it is probably the most dangerous and powerful potion in this room – oh yes," he intoned, nodding gravely at Malfoy and Nott, both of whom were smirking skeptically. "When you have seen as much life as I have, you will not underestimate the power of obsessive love... And now," Slughorn announced, "it is time for us to start work."

"Sir, you haven't told us what's in this one," said Ernie Macmillan, pointing at a small black cauldron standing on Slughorn's desk. The gold potion within was splashing merrily about, and large drops were leaping like goldfish above the surface. Despite all the movement inside, however, not a droplet had spilled from the rim of the cauldron.

"Oho," said Slughorn again. Harry was sure that he had not forgotten the potion at all, but had waited to be asked for dramatic effect. "Yes. That. Well, that one, ladies and gentlemen, is a most curious little potion called Felix Felicis. I take it," he smiled at Hermione, who had let out an audible gasp, "that you know what Felix Felicis does, Miss Granger?"

"It's liquid luck!" Hermione cried excitedly. "It makes you lucky!"

The whole class seemed to sit up a little straighter. Now all Harry could see of Malfoy was the back of his sleek blond head, because he was at last giving Slughorn his full and undivided attention.

"Quite right. Take another ten points for Gryffindor. Yes, it's a funny little potion, Felix Felicis," chortled Slughorn. "Desperately tricky to make, and disastrous if you get it wrong. However, if brewed correctly as this has been, you will find that all your endeavors tend to succeed... At least until the effects wear off."

"Why don't people drink it all the time, sir?" Terry Boot asked eagerly.

"Because if taken in excess, it causes giddiness, recklessness, and dangerous overconfidence," Slughorn explained. "I once knew a chap who got hooked on the stuff as a young man, started traveling the world writing books of his adventures – Gadding with Ghouls was my personal favorite. He was even the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher here at Hogwarts for a spell, if you can believe it! But it eventually caught up with him… Last I heard, he was a permanent resident at St. Mungo's mental ward, poor bloke. And all because of little Felix here." Harry, Hermione, and Ron eyed each other in surprise as Slughorn swept an arm dramatically toward the golden potion. "Too much of a good thing, you know... But if one takes it sparingly, and very occasionally..." He had a twinkle in his eye reminiscent of Dumbledore, and he winked at the small crowd of students.

"Have you ever taken it, sir?" inquired Michael Corner with great interest.

"Twice in my life," Slughorn beamed. "Once when I was twenty-four, and then again when I was fifty-seven. Two tablespoons taken with breakfast. Two absolutely perfect days."

He gazed dreamily into the distance. Whether he was playacting or not, the effect was good.

"And that," said Slughorn, apparently coming back to earth, "is what I shall be offering as a prize in this lesson."

There was an utter silence in which every bubble and gurgle of the surrounding potions seemed magnified tenfold.

"One tiny bottle of Felix Felicis," Slughorn continued, taking a minuscule glass bottle out of his pocket and showing it to them all. "Enough for twelve hours' worth of luck. From dawn till dusk, you will be lucky in everything you attempt.

"Now, I must give you warning that Felix Felicis is a banned substance in organized competition... Sporting events, for instance, examinations, or elections. The winner is to use it on an ordinary day only... and watch how that ordinary day becomes extraordinary!"

"So," Slughorn announced with a clap of his hands, suddenly brisk and businesslike. "How are you to win this fabulous prize? Well, by turning to page ten of your books. We have a little over an hour left to us, which should be time for you to make a decent attempt at the Draught of Living Death. I know it is more complex than anything you have attempted before, and I do not expect a perfect potion from anybody. The person who does best, however, will win little Felix here. Off you go!"

There was a scraping as everyone drew their cauldrons toward them and some loud clunks as people began adding weights to their scales, but nobody spoke. The concentration within the room was almost tangible. Harry saw Malfoy riffling feverishly through his copy of Advanced Potion-Making. It could not have been clearer that Malfoy really wanted that lucky day. For some reason that Harry couldn't put his finger on, he suspected that whatever Malfoy was so eager to accomplish was probably nothing good.

Harry bent over his father's old book, flipping to page ten. The margins were as black as the printed portions, and he had to narrow his eyes to decipher the printed ingredients from those that a teenage Snape had annotated and crossed out. He noted with surprise that the two instructions were very different. But he thought of his father's explicit order to follow his directions, so he hurried off toward the store cupboard to find what he needed. As he dashed back to his cauldron, he saw Malfoy cutting up Valerian roots as fast as he could.

Everyone kept glancing around at what the rest of the class was doing. This was both an advantage and a disadvantage of Potions, that it was hard to keep your work private. Within ten minutes, the whole place was full of bluish steam. Hermione, of course, seemed to have progressed furthest. Her potion already resembled the 'smooth, black currant-colored liquid' mentioned as the ideal halfway stage.

Having finished chopping his roots, Harry bent low over his book again. He saw that for some reason his father had taken issue with the order to cut up the sopophorous bean and had written the alternative instruction: Crush with flat side of silver dagger, releases juice better than cutting.

"Sir, I think you knew my grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy?"

Harry looked up to see that Slughorn was just passing the Slytherin table.

"Yes," answered Slughorn without looking at Malfoy. "I was sorry to hear of his death, although of course it wasn't unexpected, dragon pox at his age..."

And he walked away. Harry bent back over his cauldron, smirking. He could tell that Malfoy had expected to be treated like Harry or Zabini. Perhaps he'd even hoped for some preferential treatment like he had learned to expect from Snape. But as Slughorn walked away, the silver-haired ferret looked as though he'd swallowed one of the slugs Ron puked up in second year. Harry had to bite back his laughter.

He turned back to his ingredients, and saw with relief that his father had included a silver knife in his kit – even though he knew the official school list had not called for one. Harry crushed his bean with the flat side of the dagger and watched as, to his astonishment, it immediately exuded so much juice that he was amazed the shriveled bean held it all.

As he hastily scooped it into the cauldron, his potion immediately turned the exact shade of lilac described by the textbook. Curious, he glanced over at Hermione's potion and saw that hers was still a deep purple. He felt a twinge of guilt as he realized that he'd never told his friends about this particular textbook. Snape asked him to keep it to himself since he was breaking almost every school rule in giving it to him.

Swallowing back his guilt until he could speak to his father about it, Harry squinted at the next line of instructions. According the book, he had to stir counterclockwise until the potion turned clear as water. Snape, however, had written to add a clockwise stir after every seventh counterclockwise stir.

Harry counted seven counterclockwise stirs, then stirred once clockwise. The effect was immediate as the potion turned pale pink.

"How are you doing that?" demanded a red-faced Hermione, whose hair was growing bushier and bushier in the fumes from her cauldron. A pang of guilt struck Harry once more as he saw that her potion was still resolutely purple. Surely helping her with a single direction won't hurt...

"Add a clockwise stir–"

"No, no, the book says counterclockwise!" she snapped.

"Really Hermione, if you just add a clockwise–"

"Read it again Harry! The book clearlysays counterclockwise!"

Harry sighed in consternation and continued what he was doing. Oh well, I tried, he thought as he counted seven stirs counterclockwise, one clockwise, then pause... Seven stirs counterclockwise, one stir clockwise, pause…

Across the table, Ron was cursing fluently under his breath; his potion looked like liquid licorice. Harry glanced around. As far as he could see, no one else's potion had turned as pale as his. He felt elated, something that had certainly never happened before in this dungeon. His gratefulness toward his father increased tenfold.

"And time's... up!" called Slughorn. "Stop stirring, please!"

Slughorn moved slowly among the tables, peering into cauldrons. He made no comment, but occasionally gave the potions a stir or a sniff. At last he reached the table where Harry, Ron, and Hermione were sitting. He smiled ruefully at the tarlike substance in Ron's cauldron. Hermione's potion he gave an approving nod. Then he saw Harry's, and a look of incredulous delight spread over his face.

"The clear winner!" he cried to the dungeon at large. "Excellent, excellent, Harry! Good lord, it's obvious you've inherited your mother's talent. She was a dab hand at Potions, Lily was! Here you are, then, here you are – one bottle of Felix Felicis, as promised. Use it well!"

Harry slipped the tiny bottle of golden liquid into his inner pocket, feeling an odd combination of delight at the furious looks on the Slytherins' faces, and guilt at the disappointed expression on Hermione's. Ron looked simply dumbfounded.

"How did you do that?" he whispered to Harry as they left the dungeon.

"Got lucky, I suppose," said Harry, glancing over his shoulder as he left the room. He saw Slughorn slip a few more of those tiny bottles – now filled with the potions he'd shown them – into his robe pockets. Slughirn must have felt his gaze, for he looked up and shot Harry a large, conspiratorial grin.

"Well done, m'boy!" He called from across the room. "I can't wait to see what you'll pull off next." Harry waved as he left the dungeons.

But as he hurried to catch up with his friends, he was forced to pass Draco lurking alone in the shadowy dungeon hallway. He eyed Harry has he passed, watching his every movement as he glared daggers at his Gryffindor nemesis. Quickening his step, Harry refused to acknowledge the uneasy feeling that almost overwhelmed him under that angry silver gaze.

.:HP::SS:HP::SS:.

As the lunch hour came to a close, Snape balled his fingers into a tight fist before slowly opening them wide in a painful stretch. It was only midday, and already his joints burned like molten shards of glass. He'd had no intention of eating lunch in the Great Hall, not when there was every possibility that he might drop his silverware in his lap like an infant.

As he heard voices and the sounds of dozens of footsteps approaching his classroom, he sighed in irritation. At least I'll finally get to see Harry, he thought, before realizing the danger he was putting himself – and Harry – in by allowing that train of thought.

As he moved toward the door, the boisterous teenage voices on the other side became clearer. He could distinctly hear his Snakes exchanging cutting barbs with the Lions, and he sighed in irritation. Whose bloody idea was it to have shared classes between Slytherin and Gryffindor?! Intending to make his displeasure obvious to his students, Snape raised his hand to open the door with a bit of wandless magic.

But his movements halted midair when he heard his son's name spoken in a voice he recognized.

"Don't look so smug, Potter," Draco sneered from the other side of the door. "Slughorn only gave that to you because he's trying to kiss up to 'The Chosen One,' not because you have any actual talent."

"Shove off, Malfoy," Harry growled. The anger was clear in his voice, but there was something else… something that he wouldn't have noticed if he didn't know the boy so well. Fear…?

"I'm shaking in my boots," Draco mocked. "You're such a pathetic waste, you know that? But keep going, Potter. Your anger makes it more exciting for me."

"How does it feel to have to work for your grade, Malfoy?" Harry snapped back, a strange emotion coloring his words. "Guess you're not as talented as your mummy led you to believe, are you?"

"Leave my mother out of this, you sorry sack of–!"

The heavy wooden door flew open, colliding against the stone wall behind it with a deafening BOOM!

"Potter!" Snape barked, the role of threatening enemy suddenly very easy to play. "Why is it that you always seem to be at the heart of trouble? Are you that desperate for attention?"

Draco snickered loudly. As Harry's face filled with color, Snape was immediately sorry for the harsh words. After skipping both meals of the day, he knew that the extra snark was due to a combination of low blood sugar and parental concern.

Harry's green gaze never left Snape's own as his eyes narrowed dangerously up at him. And although he tried to hide it, Snape could tell that his son was afraid.

"Inside," he murmured to the class before Harry could do anything stupid. The boy glared daggers at him as he passed.

Attempting not to break his jaw as he gritted his teeth in anxious irritation, Snape swept to the front of the classroom. Harry hunched sulkily in his seat, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Beside him, Granger already had her book open and a sheet of parchment at the ready. Doesn't the girl know there are more important things than schoolwork? He thought, exasperated to no end.

"I have not asked you to take out your books," he snapped as he swept passed, and as he moved to stand behind his desk, he heard her hastily slide the book beneath her chair. His cloak billowed out behind him as he silently swirled to face the class. "I wish to speak to you," he murmured into the silence, "and I want your fullest attention."

His black eyes roved over their upturned faces, lingering for a fraction of a second longer on Harry's angry features.

"You have had five teachers in this subject so far," he proceeded after a moment. "Naturally, these teachers will all have had their own methods and priorities. Given this confusion I am surprised so many of you scraped an O.W.L. in this subject. I shall be even more surprised if all of you manage to keep up with the N.E.W.T. work, which will be even more advanced."

Snape set off around the edge of the room, speaking now in a lower voice. The class craned their necks to keep him in view.

"The Dark Arts," he continued, "are many, varied, ever-changing, and eternal. Fighting them is like fighting a many-headed monster, which, each time a neck is severed, sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than before. You are fighting that which is unfixed, mutating, indestructible. Your defenses must therefore be as flexible and inventive as the arts you seek to undo. These pictures," he indicated a few of them as he swept past, "give a fair representation of what happens to those who suffer, for instance, the Cruciatus Curse" (he waved a hand toward a witch who was clearly shrieking in agony) "feel the Dementor's Kiss" (a wizard lying huddled and blank-eyed, slumped against a wall) "or provoke the aggression of the Inferius" (a bloody mass upon ground).

"Has an Inferius been seen, then? Is he using them?" Parvati Patil asked in a nervous, high-pitched voice. It was the first time Snape had seen the girl since the horrific incident at Malfoy Manner earlier in the summer. For a horrible moment, he found himself pulled back into that awful scene as Parvati's screams ripped through the silence as the magical whip tore through her back.

Snape shook himself to get his emotions under control. "The Dark Lord has used Inferi in the past," he said after a moment, "which means you would be well-advised to assume he might use them again. Now..."

He set off again around the other side of the classroom toward his desk, his dark robes billowing behind him.

"... you are, I believe, complete novices in the use of non-verbal spells. What is the advantage of a non-verbal spell?"

Predictably, Granger's hand shot into the air. Snape took his time looking around at everybody else, making sure he had no choice, before rolling his eyes and saying curtly, "Very well – Miss Granger?"

"Your adversary has no warning about what kind of magic you're about to perform," she answered, "which gives you a split-second advantage."

"An answer copied almost word for word from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six," Snape replied dismissively. Over in the corner, Draco sniggered. Instead of snapping at the boy to hold his tongue like he wanted to, he growled, "Indeed, those who progress in using magic without shouting incantations gain an element of surprise in their spell-casting. Not all wizards can do this, of course; it is a question of concentration and mind power which some… lack." His gaze lingered upon his son, worrying once more about the boy's sudden deficiency in his Occlumency shields.

As Harry sat glowering at him, Snape unconsciously fisted his aching hands and winced in pain. Harry's eyes widened. The anger instantly melted into worry.

I'm alright, he swiftly sent into the boy's mind. Remember your role.

"You will now divide," he went on, breaking their connection, "into pairs. One partner will attempt to jinx the other without speaking. The other will attempt to repel the jinx in equal silence. Carry on."

Snape was well-aware that Harry had taught at least half the class how to perform a Shield Charm the previous year. He also knew, however, that none of them had ever cast the charm without speaking.

A reasonable amount of cheating ensued. Snape made sure to take points when he caught any Gryffindors whispering the incantation instead of saying it aloud, but blatantly ignored any Slytherins doing the same.

Typically, ten minutes into the lesson Granger managed to repel Longbottom's muttered Jelly-Legs Jinx without uttering a single word – a feat that would have earned her twenty points from any other teacher. But I'm not any other teacher, am I? Snape thought bitterly. My life is a God-forsaken production with not one, but two different puppet-masters.

He swept between the students as they practiced, knowing that he looked just as much like an overgrown bat as ever. But he paused in his incessant stalking, lingering to watch Harry and Weasley as they struggled with the task.

The gangly red head, who was supposed to be jinxing his son, was purple in the face with his lips tightly compressed to save himself from the temptation of muttering the incantation. Harry had his wand raised, waiting on tenterhooks to repel a jinx that seemed unlikely ever to come.

Snape narrowed his eyes and waited. And waited. Weasley only continued to look as if he had taken an especially large dose of his twin brothers' ridiculous new product called U-No-Poo.

Harry's gaze suddenly flicked to meet Snape's own. There was something lurking in the green depths that caused a niggling worry in Snape's brain. I need to speak to you, he directed toward his son. Do something to garner detention.

"Pathetic, Weasley!" Snape announced without preamble, shoving him aside. "Here, let me show you–"

He turned his wand on his son quickly enough that he knew Harry reacted on pure instinct when he yelled, "Protego!" The boy's Shield Charm was so strong that Snape was knocked off-balance and fell into a desk behind him. The whole class looked around and watched in terrified silence as Snape slowly righted himself. Although he made sure to scowl, he was secretly impressed with his son.

"You do remember me telling you we were practicing non-verbal spells, Potter?"

"Yes," Harry answered stiffly.

"Yes, sir."

"There's no need to call me 'sir,' Professor."

Caught completely off guard, Snape's eyebrows rose in surprise. He almost laughed at the boy's sheer cheek. Almost…

"Detention after class, Potter," he purred in a dangerous tone, scowling darkly to cover the smile that wanted to slip onto his lips.

But the smile evaporated quickly when his eyes connected once more with Harry's. Although his son tried to hide it, the vision was as clear as if he were watching a Muggle movie: Harry, wide-eyed and recoiling in fear during their final Occlumency lesson, on the night when Snape had almost attacked the boy after finding him in the Pensieve.