FIC: "Conduits of Sorcery" (SS/HP, NC-17) chapter 1/12
Title: Conduits of Sorcery (chapter 1 of 12)
Author: Penumbra (pen_and_umbra)
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: SS/HP
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: JK Rowling's, not mine. For fun only. Don't sue.
Feedback: Feedback and concrit make the world go 'round.
Summary: It's a Triwizard Tournament year and Harry returns to Hogwarts as one of the Tournament organisers. What he had hoped would be a quiet year with old friends turns to something quite different when Lucius Malfoy shows sudden interest in wizarding sports.
Thank yous: Go to my wonderful editors, betas, Britpickers: furiosity, elanor_isolda, and emerald_123.
Notes: This story is complete and as my betas and I edit through it, a new chapter will be posted every couple of days or so. Approx. 72,000 words, written Oct 2004 thru Jan 2005.
Conduits of Sorcery
by Penumbra (c) 2005
Chapter I: Of Friends and Goats
When Harry Potter Apparated at the Hogwarts gates, he hugged a tree.
In his defence, he had no choice, because he appeared scant inches from an ancient elm. So, he came to greet his alma mater with a curse and a rather ignominious flail. Clutching the tree, he vowed to select his sodding Apparition points with more care next time. When his heartbeat settled, he let go of the tree and stepped around it. Unbidden, a smile came onto his lips.
In the twilight, the Hogwarts castle glowed in shades of stone and bronze, imposing yet inviting. According to Harry's calculations, it had been almost four years since he had last been on Hogwarts grounds, yet it was as if he'd never left: the full feeling in his heart was the same he had had on the last day of school. Warm, yellow candlelight glinted from the windows, the numerous towers and spires reached to the sky like delicate fingers, and the air was thick with magic and the whispers of the trees as they swayed in the wind.
His eyes on the castle, he bewitched his trunks to follow him and made his way up the hill. On entering the entrance hall, Harry spied a familiar figure emerging from the tunnels. His face splitting into a grin, he congratulated himself on excellent timing.
"Hagrid!"
"Harry! Ruddy hell!"
Harry grinned and braced himself for the rib-crushing hug. The first-years following Hagrid tittered in a scandalised manner.
"It's -- oof! Hagrid, I need to breathe -- it's good to see you again."
"Barkin' mad, I thought I was, seein' yeh standin' there," Hagrid boomed, jiggling Harry around. "Long time, eh?"
Relaxing as the hug lost some of its deadly qualities, Harry pulled back and grasped Hagrid by the shoulders -- still the highest part he could reach. The shoulders, large as boulders, shook with laughter and Harry ducked the friendly pat aimed at his shoulder.
"Long time, Hagrid, yeah. Seems I made it just in time for the Sorting?"
The tittering of the first-years behind Hagrid intensified and Harry heard stray words he thought were quite possibly his name. When he peeked around Hagrid and gave the children a smile, the tittering graduated to outright laughter.
"Yeah, righ'. Jus' came across the lake, we did. Better get goin', don't wanna keep people a-waitin'," Hagrid said, shooing the children up the stairs. "Yeh, too, Harry," he added, clasping Harry's shoulder as they followed the scampering youths.
"Professor McGonagall still her impatient self?"
"Not McGonagall doin' the talk," Hagrid said as they ascended.
Harry frowned. "Well, who is it then?"
His question was answered as they rounded the landing and saw the first-years at the top of the stairs, huddled together before a very familiar figure.
"Welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," said a quiet voice that was very familiar, too.
"Oh no," Harry muttered to himself. "It had to be him, didn't it?"
Now that McGonagall wasn't the Deputy Headmistress any more, it was of course her successor that had the honour of greeting the new students. Harry just hadn't quite put together whom that meant.
To Harry, Professor Severus Snape looked as he always had: a cross between a vampire and a vampire's worst nightmare. The translucent quality of his skin and the baroque complexity of his black robes contributed to the former impression; his eyes, dark and forbidding, evoked the latter. To meet that gaze was to face one's fears, and it seemed none of the first-years were quite ready to do that.
"The start-of-term banquet will begin in a moment, but before that, you will be sorted into your houses. The houses are Slytherin, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and..." Snape paused, something resembling disgust curling his lip. "Gryffindor. During your time here," he continued in a more normal tone, "they will be what passes as a family to you. You will find your worst enemies there, as well as your only sanctuary from the inevitabilities of a life amongst your adolescent, idiotic peers. Stand by your house and you will, at least, survive the experience."
Harry could not help his indignant mutter of protest at the speech. Alas, the sound caught Snape's attention.
"Ah," he said, the syllable a delicate mixture of boredom and contempt. "It seems we have been graced with visiting dignitaries."
Harry stepped out of Hagrid's shadow and, gazing over the heads of the children, smiled with as little trepidation as possible. He failed miserably, which really shouldn't have surprised him: Severus Snape didn't invite platitudes and smiles. He was a man of cold serenity, complete with an exquisitely vicious mouth and the calm, slippery voice of a practised fiend; he could make Harry nervous and ecstatic by merely looking at him.
"Hello, Professor Snape," Harry said, too brightly. "Never too early to put the fear of Potions Masters into the hearts of children?"
"Mmm. To what, Mr. Potter, do we owe the dubious pleasure of your presence?"
"I'm here for the you-know-what as the Ministry representative, as well as to do some broom research. I'm surprised Professor McGo-- the Headmistress hasn't mentioned...y'know. Me."
"Your eloquence leaves me breathless, Mr. Potter, as does your apparently unchanged assumption that the world revolves around you. The Headmistress did inform us of your impending presence, but I had dared to hope it wouldn't be quite yet. Unfortunately, I've not had time to give my hexes a refresher."
A warm feeling of home washed over Harry. It wasn't the Hogwarts he remembered -- and how could it have been, with him so much older and Dumbledore gone and so many old friends dead -- yet he was heartened to discover that some things never changed. Not Hagrid, not the first-years, and never Snape: he was still the ugly, absolutely magnificent bastard Harry remembered.
"Yes," Harry said, smiling broadly at his ever-prickly former professor. "Think about it, you'll have an entire year with me again."
"How lovely," said Snape, and Harry could almost hear his teeth grind.
"I thought so, too."
"Well, Mr. Potter, further pleasantries will have to wait. First-years, stay here," Snape barked and whirled around, the black robes billowing around him like a collection of shadows. The first-year students huddled together, darting glances between Snape's rapidly retreating back and Harry.
"Yeh all right there, Harry?"
Biting his lower lip to curb his smile, Harry turned. He felt giddy joy at the prospect of another year at Hogwarts. Things had changed, yes, but it was still like coming home.
"I'm perfect, Hagrid. Now, let's go before we miss the Sorting."
* * *
Sitting at the high table was more nerve-wracking than Harry had thought, given that he'd played professional Quidditch in front of crowds of thousands without being the slightest bit nervous. After exchanging pleasantries and several handshakes with his former teachers, Harry nodded at McGonagall and smiled, trying not to show how much he ached, seeing her sit in what had been Dumbledore's chair.
There were new faces at the high table, too: Hermione waved at him from McGonagall's other side. Harry was annoyed that he'd been guided to a seat so far away from her; that lasted until he saw the young witch who sat by Hermione: she was giving Harry a blatant come-hither look that did not bode well. Making a mental note to avoid her eye, Harry turned to Madam Hooch on his left and fell into a discussion on broom charms.
Harry was so focused on the conversation that when the main doors of the Great Hall swung open, he jumped. Through the opening, Snape stalked in, thunder on his brow. The first-years following him gave him a wide berth as they straggled towards the front of the Hall, eyes on the enchanted ceiling and on the long tables full of older students.
"Quite a Pied Piper he's turned out to be," Harry commented, nodding towards Snape.
Madame Hooch snorted into her hand. "Somehow, I'm having trouble imagining Severus with a piccolo flute. The army of rodent sycophants, however..."
Harry swallowed his laughter and smiled as he looked over the table. "Who's she, then?" he whispered, indicating the woman who had given him the unsubtle once-over -- a witch of stupendous amounts of chestnut hair and a button nose that invited porcine comparisons. She was still staring in Harry's direction while tugging on the sleeve of a harassed-looking Hermione.
"Professor Wimbleby-Smythe?" Hooch said in a tone usually reserved for discussing leaking pustules. "Used to be a Ministry head of something-or-other, now the newest hopeful in the Defence Against the Dark Arts rotation. I think you should know she's tacked a poster of you in the staff room."
Harry cringed and made a mental note not to look in Wimbleby-Smythe's direction. "Oh, bloody hell. And I thought I'd be safe from over-eager fans here."
"Not a chance," Hooch said and gave Harry an impish look. "I don't need to be Sybill Trelawney to tell you Wimbleby-Smythe wants to gaze into your crystal balls."
Harry snorted and got Hooch's prompt elbow in the ribs when his ungraceful noises caused Snape to give them an annoyed look. "Severus'll have our heads soon," Hooch hissed at him, not unkindly.
"Please don't mention Professor Snape and giving head in the same sentence," Harry whispered back, causing Hooch to snort in turn.
The Sorting was mercifully short, mostly because Snape was barking names off his list very rapidly and students jumped to sit under the hat with alacrity. When all had been sorted and McGonagall stood up, Harry felt his stomach growl and remembered he had not had lunch.
"Welcome to another year at Hogwarts," McGonagall began, smiling as broadly as Harry had ever seen her do. "Before we eat, I have some start-of-term notices to give you. First of all, as some of you are aware, it is Triwizard Tournament year," she said, even as the hum of conversation rose in the hall. "It was Durmstrang's turn to host the competition, but alas, due to weather conditions and some unfortunate glacier movement during the summer, the games have been moved here to Hogwarts."
The hum of conversation in the hall rose to a dull roar and Harry could feel several pairs of eyes on him, including Madam Hooch's. McGonagall had to clear her throat twice before the noise subsided.
"The Beauxbatons and Durmstrang entourages will arrive in October. As the Ministry of Magic representative overseeing the tournament, I am happy to welcome our Hogwarts alumnus and former Triwizard champion, Mr. Harry Potter."
Tumultuous applause followed and Harry stood up, willing the flush on his cheeks to subside. He waved and nodded and smiled until the worst of it was over and he could sit down again. McGonagall offered him an encouraging smile before turning back to the hall.
"Secondly, Mr Filch has asked me to remind you that the list of forbidden objects now contains 538 separate items. A copy of it has been affixed..."
Harry didn't hear the rest because a shadow fell on him. As he turned to look, his heart skipped a beat. Of course he'd had to have the chair that was right next to--
"Ah. Professor Snape."
"Potter," Snape said as he sat down.
For a moment, Harry hunted for a topic of discussion before his eyes landed on the new Gryffindors at their table. "Odious task for you, I'd say? The first-years, I mean."
"It is as pleasant as you can imagine," Snape muttered, in a tone that suggested thumbscrews and the rack as more enjoyable ways to whittle away his free time.
"I can't remember ever being that young," Harry commented absently, his eyes on the new additions to the Gryffindor table. Their fresh, excited faces made him feel positively ancient. "That...innocent."
"While your innocence is debatable, Mr. Potter, for them it is a blessing," Snape said, not unkindly. "They are probably the first generation of Hogwarts students that is too young to remember the war. I'm sure you agree that such naïveté is enviable."
Harry turned to look at Snape, relieved. The man's somewhat conversational tone stood in clear contrast to the decidedly chilly reception he had provided moments before. It was more like the Snape he remembered from the war.
What Harry hadn't realised before the war against Voldemort had heated up was how dull waging a war could be. It had been moments of sheer terror broken by endless days of tedium, mind and senses on overdrive yet with nothing to do. There are only so many chess games one can play and only so many times a wand can be polished before there is nothing to do; eventually, one seeks out challenges amidst one's compatriots. Snape had been Harry's, if only because he liked challenges he thought impossible.
To say they had had conversations would be to make a gross overstatement, but they had talked. Snape had jeered, insulted, and liberally dribbled his gloomy sarcasm over whatever topic Harry had picked, but Harry had been content with not being ignored. Getting personal details out of Snape had been like extracting teeth, but sometimes they managed an almost civil exchange -- like the one they had just had.
"I'm glad you can still find it within yourself to be nice to me," Harry blurted in a sudden wash of sentiment. It was received as well as expected; Snape gave him a look that almost withered the flower arrangement in front of them on the table.
"There is no need to be insulting, Potter."
"All right, then. Civil," Harry amended.
"It has been years since you were one of the juvenile twits for whom I'm required to reduce complex matters into simple words and diagrams. I really cannot be bothered to actively object to your presence any more."
That made Harry smile. "You do like me, don't you, professor?" he said, leaning over as if to nudge Snape with his elbow. Snape dodged his arm.
"No, I don't. And I'm no longer your professor, thank Merlin."
"Which means you should call me Harry again," Harry persisted on an old topic. "I'm just glad you don't hate me any more."
"Hate, Mr. Potter, is a luxury of the idle."
Harry didn't quite know how to take that non-answer, though when he glanced at Snape, he could well see the dark shadows under his eyes. Apparently, idleness was not a luxury he could afford these days, either.
"You've grown your hair longer," Harry said in a fit of spontaneity. "Why?"
Indeed, Snape's hair reached halfway to his elbow, and it shifted across his shoulders as he dropped his head onto his palm. "So that you'd have a topic with which to natter on to me," he said, voice slightly muffled against his hand. To Harry, it also sounded like he was developing a headache.
"Would you like a Painkilling Potion?"
"What I want, Mr. Potter, is oblivion. A sharp knife will do in a pinch."
Harry laughed and, as if cued by his mirth, McGonagall announced the beginning of the feast. Curbing his sudden desire to offer his table knife to Snape, Harry focused on filling his plate with food and shovelling it down. All through the feast, he found himself smiling.
* * *
It was only after he walked out of the Great Hall -- well, waddled while regretting the destruction he'd wreaked on the treacle pudding -- that Harry got to have a word with Hermione.
"Harry! My goodness, how long has it been?"
Through the hug and his laughter, Harry said, "Must be close to six months now." His touring schedules with the Chudley Cannons and the England National Quidditch team meant he had little time for socialising.
"Time gets away from us, doesn't it?" Hermione said as she let go of him, pushing him to an arm's length and giving him a once-over. "You look good."
Smiling, Harry eyed his longtime friend. Since he'd last seen Hermione, at her wedding to Neville, she'd lost weight but gained something that looked very much like contentment. She was decked in robes of red and gold, as befit Hogwarts' Transfiguration teacher and Gryffindor Head of House, and her smile brought warmth to Harry's insides.
On the way up to the Gryffindor tower, they discussed the everyday topics of their lives, of Hermione's career and Neville's business and Harry's hiatus from Quidditch. Neither mentioned the war; even after six years, it was still hard to talk about all those who were gone, and it seemed to Harry that Hermione was as keen to keep the mood light as he was.
He had rooms adjacent to Hermione, one floor down from the Gryffindor common room. There was an airy sitting room, a bedroom with large windows and blinding white sheets on a bed that beckoned him, and a bathroom with a tub that rivalled the one in the prefects' bathroom. It was comfortable and it smelled of Hogwarts -- of pumpkin juice and Floo powder and home.
"I need to go and talk to my students," Hermione said with an apologetic air.
Harry waved her worried look away. "Don't worry, I'll be going to bed soon anyway. I'm holding you to that dinner invitation, though."
"Neville's coming in from Brighton tomorrow. Maybe we could do that dinner in our rooms? Eight-ish?"
Harry smiled, feeling a pool of warmth gather somewhere over his heart. It would be just like old times. "I'd love that. Now go on, get out of here before your over-eager prefects send out a search party."
After Hermione departed, Harry wandered around his rooms for a while. He traced the gleaming enamel of the tub with his hand before testing the burgundy and blue towels against his cheek; he scrunched his toes into the large, furry hearthrug in his sitting room before trying out the settee; he ran a lazy eye over the titles on the bookshelves that covered one wall of the sitting room before raiding the liquor cabinet for Ogden's Old Firewhisky. Finally, a tumbler in hand, he paused at the window and rested his forehead against the cool windowpane. Outside, the sky was like a blanket of black cloth, marred only by the stars and the silhouettes of two of the castle's towers.
He thought of many things, mostly of the war -- the obvious watershed of his life. So much had happened since its end: he had gained a stone of muscle and what seemed to him about two hundred years' worth of experience. He'd grown broken bones, mended his heart twice over lovers whose faces he couldn't remember, toughened his hide against the world that kept invading his until sometimes he forgot what privacy meant.
In a familiar, mindless gesture, he touched his leg that no longer held a human bone inside. Instead, it was built of his own flesh and metal and magic. Smirking at his image in the glass, Harry mused how little of him Voldemort had managed to break in the end.
"You bloody bastard. Rot in hell," Harry muttered, saluting the world outside with his glass. The alcohol burned down his throat too easily.
Despite what the Daily Prophet had at the time reported at the time, the war had not been a glorious occasion. What Harry best remembered of his seventh year at Hogwarts was the metallic taste of fear and the smell of all the old houses they had hidden in. Sights and sounds and flavours had taken on new meanings: Dumbledore's chamomile tea would eternally remind him of his dead friends; he would always remember the watery, calm tang of Snape's Dreamless Sleep Draught; he would never forget how sticky and hot blood had been on his hands.
This jumble of sensory memories and the never-ending, terrifying fear was how he had come to think of the war. Afterwards, he had seen the spoils of the war: the barely covert scrutiny of everyone and the whispered incantations of his deeds and names, all of which had acquired capitals in his mind.
The Slayer of Evil. The Boy-Who-Just-Kept-Going. The Hero of the Wizarding World.
He had received his Order of Merlin (First Class) and so many parades that he'd grown weary of confetti and champagne and in the end, it had left him with no purpose in life and wizarding skills he hoped he would never have to use again.
Heroism. Harry snorted and poured himself more Firewhisky. There was only fame and oblivion and after so many years of the former, he sometimes wished for the latter.
"That's why you're here, Harry," he whispered to the bottle and himself, hearing the slight slur of his words. "Aren't you? In search of that something?"
He had played professional Quidditch, travelled, and availed himself of some of the men and women who had thrown themselves at him. And yet, everything he had tried had felt like a bad facsimile of the life he'd had before and during the war. He had existed and not lived for the past few years. He had come to Hogwarts in the hopes of capturing the spirit of days gone by and perhaps finding something that would feel worthy of his attention. Something.
Someone, perhaps, his traitorous mind added, and Harry stomped down on that thought. Three drinks later, he passed out from inebriation and exhaustion.
* * *
The next morning, Harry banished the Cornish Pixies flying around inside his cranium with a quick hangover spell and a walk around Hogwarts grounds.
His friends were buried at Hogwarts -- not because of sentimentality but for simple reasons of practicality: that field, now but golden hay and grass, was where the final battle had taken place. Where they had died, now flowers grew in the springtime and they no longer bloomed blood red. Seamus Finnigan and Bill Weasley and Professor Vector and Kingsley and so many others lay there, and Harry spoke to all of them quiet words of comfort and whatever else he could think of.
Dumbledore rested apart from the others, underneath an ancient-looking oak that had sprung up from the ground in the months after his passing. When he touched the tree's warm bark, Harry felt the tickle of magic on his palm; when he looked up, the sun that shone through the canopy blinded him. It limned the leaves with golden light and Harry wasn't quite sure if it was a trick of the eye or magic.
"Hello, Dumbledore. I'm back and things here are as you'd expect," Harry said, feeling the rough bark with reverence. The tree smelled of moss and lemons. "There are far too many empty seats and too many new faces for it to be Hogwarts of old. And it really isn't, not without you here."
The tree said nothing in return, but then again (as Harry had always thought), one of Dumbledore's best qualities was his ability to listen. And so Harry stayed, talking and staying silent, until the sun became too hot and the gurgle of his stomach informed him it was time for lunch.
In the afternoon, Harry went in search of McGonagall; he needed to discuss the possibility of setting up a workroom somewhere in the castle because ostensibly, he was spending the whole year at Hogwarts not only to supervise the Tournament, but also to research safety charms for Quidditch brooms. Harry knew his research scheme was really an excuse to take a break from playing Quidditch, and with his reputation, it hadn't taken him long to secure funding for his plan: the broomstick manufacturers had been ecstatic at the marketing opportunities. Same was true of his job as the Tournament supervisor -- it was a Ministry job he had accepted after years of ignoring the recruitment letters the Department of Magical Games and Sports kept sending him. He'd taken the job simply because it had allowed him to return to Hogwarts.
Before he could track down the Headmistress, however, he was waylaid by a group of Gryffindor first-years who wheedled for a tour of Hogwarts until Harry acquiesced.
"We can't disturb any active classes," Harry said, trying to remember the timetable he'd glanced at. "So we can do some of the usuals, plus the pitch and maybe the Transfiguration classroom..."
With the half dozen of Gryffindor's youngest, Harry did the rounds, replying to their never-ending questions about Quidditch and Mrs. Norris and the moving portraits and just about everything they came across. Through Transfiguration, the inner courtyard, and the Owlery, they went the long way to the Astronomy Tower and from there to the dungeons.
"Why's it so cold here, sir?" one of the children asked as they descended the winding stone steps.
"Nobody really knows, though theories abound. I've always thought it's because Professor Snape likes it cold and damp down here," Harry replied. "But most likely, it's just how Hogwarts is."
"Mr. Potter, sir...is it really true that Professor Snape is, you know?" said Philip Creevey in a small voice that reminded Harry of Colin.
"Professor Snape is what?"
Creevey looked around. "Um, you know. Undead." He paused, clearly ill at ease. "Colin says he's a vampire."
"Despite what tall tales your big brother tells you, I assure you, Professor Snape is entirely human." Mostly human, he amended in his head and smiled. "Don't worry. Contrary to his reputation, his bark is far, far worse than his bite." Belatedly, the thought struck Harry as something he certainly wouldn't have said while at school.
Waving the Potions classroom door open, Harry stepped in, only to freeze in his tracks so abruptly the first-years following him bumped into his back. He couldn't get a sound out of his slack mouth at the tableau that greeted them, though from behind him, Harry heard startled inhalations of breath and a few hastily muffled retches and screams.
Indeed, Harry felt like screaming might be just the thing.
In the classroom, the air was thick with the smell of sage and incense and the scent of tallow candles. Snape stood in front on a thick tarp, his hair in a neat black plait that bisected the back of his shirt. He was also wearing a leather butcher's apron, elbow-length gloves, and boots, and much of him was liberally stained in blood; its source was obvious, for all around Snape floated carcasses of white goats in various stages of dismemberment, swaying as if nudged by gentle winds.
At Creevey's scream, Snape had turned and Harry noted he was holding a slender, wicked-looking knife in one gloved hand; it, like many of the surrounding objects, gleamed with blood. However, most startling of all were the intricate swirls of blood that decorated Snape's cheeks and forehead. For a fleeting moment, the coppery tang of blood was thick at the back of Harry's mouth and he marvelled that the vampire rumours had been right after all. At the sight of Snape's undone collar, his mind also supplied other helpful commentary, such as 'ah, collarbone' and 'run, now'.
"Mr. Potter. How may I be of assistance?"
Harry tore his eyes away from the goat guts Snape had just been sorting through. The tone Snape had used had been rather more about 'how do I get you twits out of my hair?' than 'how can I help you?'
"Um, I was just giving the first-years a bit of a tour of the classes they hadn't yet been to. There's no Potions on Thursday afternoons, so I figured, y'know. I didn't think you'd be using the class for..." Harry trailed off and gestured at the goats. He had almost said 'ritual animal sacrifice' but had caught himself in time.
"Didn't think, Mr. Potter, are the crucial words of truth once more. Fourth-year classes begin tomorrow, and we deal with which topic during that year?"
Feeling like he was back being a fourth-year student himself, Harry straightened and racked his brain. "Er. Poisons, right?"
"Ah, you do have a brain, or at least a reasonable facsimile thereof. What a pleasant surprise. Yes, poisons," Snape replied and cleaned excess blood off his knife by running it between two fingers. "I'm sure I don't need to point out the obvious connection."
"I think I'm going to be sick," Harry heard Creevey stage whisper behind him.
"Mr. Potter, can we go now? Please?" whined one of the girls.
"I really have no clue, sir," Harry replied, ignoring the wheedling going on behind him. "Really."
"Mr. Potter," Snape sighed and paused; during the momentary silence, the sound of blood splattering on the tarp seemed unnaturally loud. "While I realise you have the approximate attention span of a retarded gnat, one would hope you'd retained some memory of our first encounter."
Harry frowned. "The first Potions class? Brew glory, bottle fame, all that stuff?"
"Somehow, it doesn't surprise me that fame and glory were the concepts that stuck to your mind. In that seminal class, we learned about...?"
That day stood very clear in Harry's memory, for the sheer terror and humiliation he had experienced. "Um. The Draught of Living Death, asphodel -- bezoars! You're trying to find a bezoar, aren't you?" Harry said, smiling as relief flooded his mind.
"Very good, Potter. Trichobezoars, to be precise. I would give Gryffindor five points, if only you were still a student here," Snape said with an obvious shudder. "Thank Merlin for small mercies. Gryffindor should get the points for your absence alone."
"What's with all the bells and whistles, then?" Harry asked, indicating the candles and incense burners that dotted the floor around Snape, as well as his facial decorations.
"One cannot hunt for magical objects in any old abattoir. As much as I detest rituals, some are quite necessary to ensure bezoars do more than give one indigestion. Here," Snape said and, after reaching into a jar on the floor, tossed something at Harry.
It was perhaps the most disgusting thing Harry had ever held. The size of a small egg, the bezoar was grey and slimy-spongy with dots of blood and dark flecks of something foul-smelling decorating its surface. The first impression wasn't helped by the fact that he knew it to be, well, a hairball.
"You give me the nicest things, Professor Snape."
"Keep it, Mr. Potter. Perhaps you'll come to need it."
If it weren't for the ghost of not-quite-a-smile that flickered across Snape's lips, Harry would have been very worried indeed: the only use for a bezoar was to prevent one from being poisoned.
* * *
On to Chapter II...
Author: Penumbra (pen_and_umbra)
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: SS/HP
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: JK Rowling's, not mine. For fun only. Don't sue.
Feedback: Feedback and concrit make the world go 'round.
Summary: It's a Triwizard Tournament year and Harry returns to Hogwarts as one of the Tournament organisers. What he had hoped would be a quiet year with old friends turns to something quite different when Lucius Malfoy shows sudden interest in wizarding sports.
Thank yous: Go to my wonderful editors, betas, Britpickers: furiosity, elanor_isolda, and emerald_123.
Notes: This story is complete and as my betas and I edit through it, a new chapter will be posted every couple of days or so. Approx. 72,000 words, written Oct 2004 thru Jan 2005.
Conduits of Sorcery
by Penumbra (c) 2005
Chapter I: Of Friends and Goats
When Harry Potter Apparated at the Hogwarts gates, he hugged a tree.
In his defence, he had no choice, because he appeared scant inches from an ancient elm. So, he came to greet his alma mater with a curse and a rather ignominious flail. Clutching the tree, he vowed to select his sodding Apparition points with more care next time. When his heartbeat settled, he let go of the tree and stepped around it. Unbidden, a smile came onto his lips.
In the twilight, the Hogwarts castle glowed in shades of stone and bronze, imposing yet inviting. According to Harry's calculations, it had been almost four years since he had last been on Hogwarts grounds, yet it was as if he'd never left: the full feeling in his heart was the same he had had on the last day of school. Warm, yellow candlelight glinted from the windows, the numerous towers and spires reached to the sky like delicate fingers, and the air was thick with magic and the whispers of the trees as they swayed in the wind.
His eyes on the castle, he bewitched his trunks to follow him and made his way up the hill. On entering the entrance hall, Harry spied a familiar figure emerging from the tunnels. His face splitting into a grin, he congratulated himself on excellent timing.
"Hagrid!"
"Harry! Ruddy hell!"
Harry grinned and braced himself for the rib-crushing hug. The first-years following Hagrid tittered in a scandalised manner.
"It's -- oof! Hagrid, I need to breathe -- it's good to see you again."
"Barkin' mad, I thought I was, seein' yeh standin' there," Hagrid boomed, jiggling Harry around. "Long time, eh?"
Relaxing as the hug lost some of its deadly qualities, Harry pulled back and grasped Hagrid by the shoulders -- still the highest part he could reach. The shoulders, large as boulders, shook with laughter and Harry ducked the friendly pat aimed at his shoulder.
"Long time, Hagrid, yeah. Seems I made it just in time for the Sorting?"
The tittering of the first-years behind Hagrid intensified and Harry heard stray words he thought were quite possibly his name. When he peeked around Hagrid and gave the children a smile, the tittering graduated to outright laughter.
"Yeah, righ'. Jus' came across the lake, we did. Better get goin', don't wanna keep people a-waitin'," Hagrid said, shooing the children up the stairs. "Yeh, too, Harry," he added, clasping Harry's shoulder as they followed the scampering youths.
"Professor McGonagall still her impatient self?"
"Not McGonagall doin' the talk," Hagrid said as they ascended.
Harry frowned. "Well, who is it then?"
His question was answered as they rounded the landing and saw the first-years at the top of the stairs, huddled together before a very familiar figure.
"Welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," said a quiet voice that was very familiar, too.
"Oh no," Harry muttered to himself. "It had to be him, didn't it?"
Now that McGonagall wasn't the Deputy Headmistress any more, it was of course her successor that had the honour of greeting the new students. Harry just hadn't quite put together whom that meant.
To Harry, Professor Severus Snape looked as he always had: a cross between a vampire and a vampire's worst nightmare. The translucent quality of his skin and the baroque complexity of his black robes contributed to the former impression; his eyes, dark and forbidding, evoked the latter. To meet that gaze was to face one's fears, and it seemed none of the first-years were quite ready to do that.
"The start-of-term banquet will begin in a moment, but before that, you will be sorted into your houses. The houses are Slytherin, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and..." Snape paused, something resembling disgust curling his lip. "Gryffindor. During your time here," he continued in a more normal tone, "they will be what passes as a family to you. You will find your worst enemies there, as well as your only sanctuary from the inevitabilities of a life amongst your adolescent, idiotic peers. Stand by your house and you will, at least, survive the experience."
Harry could not help his indignant mutter of protest at the speech. Alas, the sound caught Snape's attention.
"Ah," he said, the syllable a delicate mixture of boredom and contempt. "It seems we have been graced with visiting dignitaries."
Harry stepped out of Hagrid's shadow and, gazing over the heads of the children, smiled with as little trepidation as possible. He failed miserably, which really shouldn't have surprised him: Severus Snape didn't invite platitudes and smiles. He was a man of cold serenity, complete with an exquisitely vicious mouth and the calm, slippery voice of a practised fiend; he could make Harry nervous and ecstatic by merely looking at him.
"Hello, Professor Snape," Harry said, too brightly. "Never too early to put the fear of Potions Masters into the hearts of children?"
"Mmm. To what, Mr. Potter, do we owe the dubious pleasure of your presence?"
"I'm here for the you-know-what as the Ministry representative, as well as to do some broom research. I'm surprised Professor McGo-- the Headmistress hasn't mentioned...y'know. Me."
"Your eloquence leaves me breathless, Mr. Potter, as does your apparently unchanged assumption that the world revolves around you. The Headmistress did inform us of your impending presence, but I had dared to hope it wouldn't be quite yet. Unfortunately, I've not had time to give my hexes a refresher."
A warm feeling of home washed over Harry. It wasn't the Hogwarts he remembered -- and how could it have been, with him so much older and Dumbledore gone and so many old friends dead -- yet he was heartened to discover that some things never changed. Not Hagrid, not the first-years, and never Snape: he was still the ugly, absolutely magnificent bastard Harry remembered.
"Yes," Harry said, smiling broadly at his ever-prickly former professor. "Think about it, you'll have an entire year with me again."
"How lovely," said Snape, and Harry could almost hear his teeth grind.
"I thought so, too."
"Well, Mr. Potter, further pleasantries will have to wait. First-years, stay here," Snape barked and whirled around, the black robes billowing around him like a collection of shadows. The first-year students huddled together, darting glances between Snape's rapidly retreating back and Harry.
"Yeh all right there, Harry?"
Biting his lower lip to curb his smile, Harry turned. He felt giddy joy at the prospect of another year at Hogwarts. Things had changed, yes, but it was still like coming home.
"I'm perfect, Hagrid. Now, let's go before we miss the Sorting."
* * *
Sitting at the high table was more nerve-wracking than Harry had thought, given that he'd played professional Quidditch in front of crowds of thousands without being the slightest bit nervous. After exchanging pleasantries and several handshakes with his former teachers, Harry nodded at McGonagall and smiled, trying not to show how much he ached, seeing her sit in what had been Dumbledore's chair.
There were new faces at the high table, too: Hermione waved at him from McGonagall's other side. Harry was annoyed that he'd been guided to a seat so far away from her; that lasted until he saw the young witch who sat by Hermione: she was giving Harry a blatant come-hither look that did not bode well. Making a mental note to avoid her eye, Harry turned to Madam Hooch on his left and fell into a discussion on broom charms.
Harry was so focused on the conversation that when the main doors of the Great Hall swung open, he jumped. Through the opening, Snape stalked in, thunder on his brow. The first-years following him gave him a wide berth as they straggled towards the front of the Hall, eyes on the enchanted ceiling and on the long tables full of older students.
"Quite a Pied Piper he's turned out to be," Harry commented, nodding towards Snape.
Madame Hooch snorted into her hand. "Somehow, I'm having trouble imagining Severus with a piccolo flute. The army of rodent sycophants, however..."
Harry swallowed his laughter and smiled as he looked over the table. "Who's she, then?" he whispered, indicating the woman who had given him the unsubtle once-over -- a witch of stupendous amounts of chestnut hair and a button nose that invited porcine comparisons. She was still staring in Harry's direction while tugging on the sleeve of a harassed-looking Hermione.
"Professor Wimbleby-Smythe?" Hooch said in a tone usually reserved for discussing leaking pustules. "Used to be a Ministry head of something-or-other, now the newest hopeful in the Defence Against the Dark Arts rotation. I think you should know she's tacked a poster of you in the staff room."
Harry cringed and made a mental note not to look in Wimbleby-Smythe's direction. "Oh, bloody hell. And I thought I'd be safe from over-eager fans here."
"Not a chance," Hooch said and gave Harry an impish look. "I don't need to be Sybill Trelawney to tell you Wimbleby-Smythe wants to gaze into your crystal balls."
Harry snorted and got Hooch's prompt elbow in the ribs when his ungraceful noises caused Snape to give them an annoyed look. "Severus'll have our heads soon," Hooch hissed at him, not unkindly.
"Please don't mention Professor Snape and giving head in the same sentence," Harry whispered back, causing Hooch to snort in turn.
The Sorting was mercifully short, mostly because Snape was barking names off his list very rapidly and students jumped to sit under the hat with alacrity. When all had been sorted and McGonagall stood up, Harry felt his stomach growl and remembered he had not had lunch.
"Welcome to another year at Hogwarts," McGonagall began, smiling as broadly as Harry had ever seen her do. "Before we eat, I have some start-of-term notices to give you. First of all, as some of you are aware, it is Triwizard Tournament year," she said, even as the hum of conversation rose in the hall. "It was Durmstrang's turn to host the competition, but alas, due to weather conditions and some unfortunate glacier movement during the summer, the games have been moved here to Hogwarts."
The hum of conversation in the hall rose to a dull roar and Harry could feel several pairs of eyes on him, including Madam Hooch's. McGonagall had to clear her throat twice before the noise subsided.
"The Beauxbatons and Durmstrang entourages will arrive in October. As the Ministry of Magic representative overseeing the tournament, I am happy to welcome our Hogwarts alumnus and former Triwizard champion, Mr. Harry Potter."
Tumultuous applause followed and Harry stood up, willing the flush on his cheeks to subside. He waved and nodded and smiled until the worst of it was over and he could sit down again. McGonagall offered him an encouraging smile before turning back to the hall.
"Secondly, Mr Filch has asked me to remind you that the list of forbidden objects now contains 538 separate items. A copy of it has been affixed..."
Harry didn't hear the rest because a shadow fell on him. As he turned to look, his heart skipped a beat. Of course he'd had to have the chair that was right next to--
"Ah. Professor Snape."
"Potter," Snape said as he sat down.
For a moment, Harry hunted for a topic of discussion before his eyes landed on the new Gryffindors at their table. "Odious task for you, I'd say? The first-years, I mean."
"It is as pleasant as you can imagine," Snape muttered, in a tone that suggested thumbscrews and the rack as more enjoyable ways to whittle away his free time.
"I can't remember ever being that young," Harry commented absently, his eyes on the new additions to the Gryffindor table. Their fresh, excited faces made him feel positively ancient. "That...innocent."
"While your innocence is debatable, Mr. Potter, for them it is a blessing," Snape said, not unkindly. "They are probably the first generation of Hogwarts students that is too young to remember the war. I'm sure you agree that such naïveté is enviable."
Harry turned to look at Snape, relieved. The man's somewhat conversational tone stood in clear contrast to the decidedly chilly reception he had provided moments before. It was more like the Snape he remembered from the war.
What Harry hadn't realised before the war against Voldemort had heated up was how dull waging a war could be. It had been moments of sheer terror broken by endless days of tedium, mind and senses on overdrive yet with nothing to do. There are only so many chess games one can play and only so many times a wand can be polished before there is nothing to do; eventually, one seeks out challenges amidst one's compatriots. Snape had been Harry's, if only because he liked challenges he thought impossible.
To say they had had conversations would be to make a gross overstatement, but they had talked. Snape had jeered, insulted, and liberally dribbled his gloomy sarcasm over whatever topic Harry had picked, but Harry had been content with not being ignored. Getting personal details out of Snape had been like extracting teeth, but sometimes they managed an almost civil exchange -- like the one they had just had.
"I'm glad you can still find it within yourself to be nice to me," Harry blurted in a sudden wash of sentiment. It was received as well as expected; Snape gave him a look that almost withered the flower arrangement in front of them on the table.
"There is no need to be insulting, Potter."
"All right, then. Civil," Harry amended.
"It has been years since you were one of the juvenile twits for whom I'm required to reduce complex matters into simple words and diagrams. I really cannot be bothered to actively object to your presence any more."
That made Harry smile. "You do like me, don't you, professor?" he said, leaning over as if to nudge Snape with his elbow. Snape dodged his arm.
"No, I don't. And I'm no longer your professor, thank Merlin."
"Which means you should call me Harry again," Harry persisted on an old topic. "I'm just glad you don't hate me any more."
"Hate, Mr. Potter, is a luxury of the idle."
Harry didn't quite know how to take that non-answer, though when he glanced at Snape, he could well see the dark shadows under his eyes. Apparently, idleness was not a luxury he could afford these days, either.
"You've grown your hair longer," Harry said in a fit of spontaneity. "Why?"
Indeed, Snape's hair reached halfway to his elbow, and it shifted across his shoulders as he dropped his head onto his palm. "So that you'd have a topic with which to natter on to me," he said, voice slightly muffled against his hand. To Harry, it also sounded like he was developing a headache.
"Would you like a Painkilling Potion?"
"What I want, Mr. Potter, is oblivion. A sharp knife will do in a pinch."
Harry laughed and, as if cued by his mirth, McGonagall announced the beginning of the feast. Curbing his sudden desire to offer his table knife to Snape, Harry focused on filling his plate with food and shovelling it down. All through the feast, he found himself smiling.
* * *
It was only after he walked out of the Great Hall -- well, waddled while regretting the destruction he'd wreaked on the treacle pudding -- that Harry got to have a word with Hermione.
"Harry! My goodness, how long has it been?"
Through the hug and his laughter, Harry said, "Must be close to six months now." His touring schedules with the Chudley Cannons and the England National Quidditch team meant he had little time for socialising.
"Time gets away from us, doesn't it?" Hermione said as she let go of him, pushing him to an arm's length and giving him a once-over. "You look good."
Smiling, Harry eyed his longtime friend. Since he'd last seen Hermione, at her wedding to Neville, she'd lost weight but gained something that looked very much like contentment. She was decked in robes of red and gold, as befit Hogwarts' Transfiguration teacher and Gryffindor Head of House, and her smile brought warmth to Harry's insides.
On the way up to the Gryffindor tower, they discussed the everyday topics of their lives, of Hermione's career and Neville's business and Harry's hiatus from Quidditch. Neither mentioned the war; even after six years, it was still hard to talk about all those who were gone, and it seemed to Harry that Hermione was as keen to keep the mood light as he was.
He had rooms adjacent to Hermione, one floor down from the Gryffindor common room. There was an airy sitting room, a bedroom with large windows and blinding white sheets on a bed that beckoned him, and a bathroom with a tub that rivalled the one in the prefects' bathroom. It was comfortable and it smelled of Hogwarts -- of pumpkin juice and Floo powder and home.
"I need to go and talk to my students," Hermione said with an apologetic air.
Harry waved her worried look away. "Don't worry, I'll be going to bed soon anyway. I'm holding you to that dinner invitation, though."
"Neville's coming in from Brighton tomorrow. Maybe we could do that dinner in our rooms? Eight-ish?"
Harry smiled, feeling a pool of warmth gather somewhere over his heart. It would be just like old times. "I'd love that. Now go on, get out of here before your over-eager prefects send out a search party."
After Hermione departed, Harry wandered around his rooms for a while. He traced the gleaming enamel of the tub with his hand before testing the burgundy and blue towels against his cheek; he scrunched his toes into the large, furry hearthrug in his sitting room before trying out the settee; he ran a lazy eye over the titles on the bookshelves that covered one wall of the sitting room before raiding the liquor cabinet for Ogden's Old Firewhisky. Finally, a tumbler in hand, he paused at the window and rested his forehead against the cool windowpane. Outside, the sky was like a blanket of black cloth, marred only by the stars and the silhouettes of two of the castle's towers.
He thought of many things, mostly of the war -- the obvious watershed of his life. So much had happened since its end: he had gained a stone of muscle and what seemed to him about two hundred years' worth of experience. He'd grown broken bones, mended his heart twice over lovers whose faces he couldn't remember, toughened his hide against the world that kept invading his until sometimes he forgot what privacy meant.
In a familiar, mindless gesture, he touched his leg that no longer held a human bone inside. Instead, it was built of his own flesh and metal and magic. Smirking at his image in the glass, Harry mused how little of him Voldemort had managed to break in the end.
"You bloody bastard. Rot in hell," Harry muttered, saluting the world outside with his glass. The alcohol burned down his throat too easily.
Despite what the Daily Prophet had at the time reported at the time, the war had not been a glorious occasion. What Harry best remembered of his seventh year at Hogwarts was the metallic taste of fear and the smell of all the old houses they had hidden in. Sights and sounds and flavours had taken on new meanings: Dumbledore's chamomile tea would eternally remind him of his dead friends; he would always remember the watery, calm tang of Snape's Dreamless Sleep Draught; he would never forget how sticky and hot blood had been on his hands.
This jumble of sensory memories and the never-ending, terrifying fear was how he had come to think of the war. Afterwards, he had seen the spoils of the war: the barely covert scrutiny of everyone and the whispered incantations of his deeds and names, all of which had acquired capitals in his mind.
The Slayer of Evil. The Boy-Who-Just-Kept-Going. The Hero of the Wizarding World.
He had received his Order of Merlin (First Class) and so many parades that he'd grown weary of confetti and champagne and in the end, it had left him with no purpose in life and wizarding skills he hoped he would never have to use again.
Heroism. Harry snorted and poured himself more Firewhisky. There was only fame and oblivion and after so many years of the former, he sometimes wished for the latter.
"That's why you're here, Harry," he whispered to the bottle and himself, hearing the slight slur of his words. "Aren't you? In search of that something?"
He had played professional Quidditch, travelled, and availed himself of some of the men and women who had thrown themselves at him. And yet, everything he had tried had felt like a bad facsimile of the life he'd had before and during the war. He had existed and not lived for the past few years. He had come to Hogwarts in the hopes of capturing the spirit of days gone by and perhaps finding something that would feel worthy of his attention. Something.
Someone, perhaps, his traitorous mind added, and Harry stomped down on that thought. Three drinks later, he passed out from inebriation and exhaustion.
* * *
The next morning, Harry banished the Cornish Pixies flying around inside his cranium with a quick hangover spell and a walk around Hogwarts grounds.
His friends were buried at Hogwarts -- not because of sentimentality but for simple reasons of practicality: that field, now but golden hay and grass, was where the final battle had taken place. Where they had died, now flowers grew in the springtime and they no longer bloomed blood red. Seamus Finnigan and Bill Weasley and Professor Vector and Kingsley and so many others lay there, and Harry spoke to all of them quiet words of comfort and whatever else he could think of.
Dumbledore rested apart from the others, underneath an ancient-looking oak that had sprung up from the ground in the months after his passing. When he touched the tree's warm bark, Harry felt the tickle of magic on his palm; when he looked up, the sun that shone through the canopy blinded him. It limned the leaves with golden light and Harry wasn't quite sure if it was a trick of the eye or magic.
"Hello, Dumbledore. I'm back and things here are as you'd expect," Harry said, feeling the rough bark with reverence. The tree smelled of moss and lemons. "There are far too many empty seats and too many new faces for it to be Hogwarts of old. And it really isn't, not without you here."
The tree said nothing in return, but then again (as Harry had always thought), one of Dumbledore's best qualities was his ability to listen. And so Harry stayed, talking and staying silent, until the sun became too hot and the gurgle of his stomach informed him it was time for lunch.
In the afternoon, Harry went in search of McGonagall; he needed to discuss the possibility of setting up a workroom somewhere in the castle because ostensibly, he was spending the whole year at Hogwarts not only to supervise the Tournament, but also to research safety charms for Quidditch brooms. Harry knew his research scheme was really an excuse to take a break from playing Quidditch, and with his reputation, it hadn't taken him long to secure funding for his plan: the broomstick manufacturers had been ecstatic at the marketing opportunities. Same was true of his job as the Tournament supervisor -- it was a Ministry job he had accepted after years of ignoring the recruitment letters the Department of Magical Games and Sports kept sending him. He'd taken the job simply because it had allowed him to return to Hogwarts.
Before he could track down the Headmistress, however, he was waylaid by a group of Gryffindor first-years who wheedled for a tour of Hogwarts until Harry acquiesced.
"We can't disturb any active classes," Harry said, trying to remember the timetable he'd glanced at. "So we can do some of the usuals, plus the pitch and maybe the Transfiguration classroom..."
With the half dozen of Gryffindor's youngest, Harry did the rounds, replying to their never-ending questions about Quidditch and Mrs. Norris and the moving portraits and just about everything they came across. Through Transfiguration, the inner courtyard, and the Owlery, they went the long way to the Astronomy Tower and from there to the dungeons.
"Why's it so cold here, sir?" one of the children asked as they descended the winding stone steps.
"Nobody really knows, though theories abound. I've always thought it's because Professor Snape likes it cold and damp down here," Harry replied. "But most likely, it's just how Hogwarts is."
"Mr. Potter, sir...is it really true that Professor Snape is, you know?" said Philip Creevey in a small voice that reminded Harry of Colin.
"Professor Snape is what?"
Creevey looked around. "Um, you know. Undead." He paused, clearly ill at ease. "Colin says he's a vampire."
"Despite what tall tales your big brother tells you, I assure you, Professor Snape is entirely human." Mostly human, he amended in his head and smiled. "Don't worry. Contrary to his reputation, his bark is far, far worse than his bite." Belatedly, the thought struck Harry as something he certainly wouldn't have said while at school.
Waving the Potions classroom door open, Harry stepped in, only to freeze in his tracks so abruptly the first-years following him bumped into his back. He couldn't get a sound out of his slack mouth at the tableau that greeted them, though from behind him, Harry heard startled inhalations of breath and a few hastily muffled retches and screams.
Indeed, Harry felt like screaming might be just the thing.
In the classroom, the air was thick with the smell of sage and incense and the scent of tallow candles. Snape stood in front on a thick tarp, his hair in a neat black plait that bisected the back of his shirt. He was also wearing a leather butcher's apron, elbow-length gloves, and boots, and much of him was liberally stained in blood; its source was obvious, for all around Snape floated carcasses of white goats in various stages of dismemberment, swaying as if nudged by gentle winds.
At Creevey's scream, Snape had turned and Harry noted he was holding a slender, wicked-looking knife in one gloved hand; it, like many of the surrounding objects, gleamed with blood. However, most startling of all were the intricate swirls of blood that decorated Snape's cheeks and forehead. For a fleeting moment, the coppery tang of blood was thick at the back of Harry's mouth and he marvelled that the vampire rumours had been right after all. At the sight of Snape's undone collar, his mind also supplied other helpful commentary, such as 'ah, collarbone' and 'run, now'.
"Mr. Potter. How may I be of assistance?"
Harry tore his eyes away from the goat guts Snape had just been sorting through. The tone Snape had used had been rather more about 'how do I get you twits out of my hair?' than 'how can I help you?'
"Um, I was just giving the first-years a bit of a tour of the classes they hadn't yet been to. There's no Potions on Thursday afternoons, so I figured, y'know. I didn't think you'd be using the class for..." Harry trailed off and gestured at the goats. He had almost said 'ritual animal sacrifice' but had caught himself in time.
"Didn't think, Mr. Potter, are the crucial words of truth once more. Fourth-year classes begin tomorrow, and we deal with which topic during that year?"
Feeling like he was back being a fourth-year student himself, Harry straightened and racked his brain. "Er. Poisons, right?"
"Ah, you do have a brain, or at least a reasonable facsimile thereof. What a pleasant surprise. Yes, poisons," Snape replied and cleaned excess blood off his knife by running it between two fingers. "I'm sure I don't need to point out the obvious connection."
"I think I'm going to be sick," Harry heard Creevey stage whisper behind him.
"Mr. Potter, can we go now? Please?" whined one of the girls.
"I really have no clue, sir," Harry replied, ignoring the wheedling going on behind him. "Really."
"Mr. Potter," Snape sighed and paused; during the momentary silence, the sound of blood splattering on the tarp seemed unnaturally loud. "While I realise you have the approximate attention span of a retarded gnat, one would hope you'd retained some memory of our first encounter."
Harry frowned. "The first Potions class? Brew glory, bottle fame, all that stuff?"
"Somehow, it doesn't surprise me that fame and glory were the concepts that stuck to your mind. In that seminal class, we learned about...?"
That day stood very clear in Harry's memory, for the sheer terror and humiliation he had experienced. "Um. The Draught of Living Death, asphodel -- bezoars! You're trying to find a bezoar, aren't you?" Harry said, smiling as relief flooded his mind.
"Very good, Potter. Trichobezoars, to be precise. I would give Gryffindor five points, if only you were still a student here," Snape said with an obvious shudder. "Thank Merlin for small mercies. Gryffindor should get the points for your absence alone."
"What's with all the bells and whistles, then?" Harry asked, indicating the candles and incense burners that dotted the floor around Snape, as well as his facial decorations.
"One cannot hunt for magical objects in any old abattoir. As much as I detest rituals, some are quite necessary to ensure bezoars do more than give one indigestion. Here," Snape said and, after reaching into a jar on the floor, tossed something at Harry.
It was perhaps the most disgusting thing Harry had ever held. The size of a small egg, the bezoar was grey and slimy-spongy with dots of blood and dark flecks of something foul-smelling decorating its surface. The first impression wasn't helped by the fact that he knew it to be, well, a hairball.
"You give me the nicest things, Professor Snape."
"Keep it, Mr. Potter. Perhaps you'll come to need it."
If it weren't for the ghost of not-quite-a-smile that flickered across Snape's lips, Harry would have been very worried indeed: the only use for a bezoar was to prevent one from being poisoned.
* * *
On to Chapter II...