Part XI

Disclaimer: This is a non-profit tribute to the works of JK Rowling, who created and, together with her publishers and licensees, owns the characters and settings elaborated herein.

All my gratitude to my betas and previewers DementedLeaf, Xoxphoenix and Morgaine_Dulac. Heartfeld thanks to Duj for her final revision.

Many thanks to all my kind readers and reviewers.

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Part XI

Snape's first real lesson to his second years began while a violent storm exploded in fury, and thunder rumbled in a sky black with clouds. The splendidly-decorated panes of the ancient window vibrated and sent vivid coloured flashes each time a lightning bolt crossed the air. Electricity filled the atmosphere, and thunder made the most impressionable amongst the children jump in fear. The torches diffused a tremulous though bright illumination. In that contrast of dark and light, where the vacillating shadows gave an even more tridimensional effect to the objects, and cauldrons appeared immense compared to the little figures moving amongst them, Severus Snape looked strangely flat while flashes reflected on the uneven surface of his portrait.

The class was evidently uncomfortable. For the very first time, the children were alone with their new professor, and they were considering him suspiciously with surreptitious glances. Those who had gathered information from parents or older relatives had hurried to tell the others about the frightening reputation of Snape as a teacher. Whispers had been exchanged in the corridors about his having been a follower of the Dark Lord. Some of the Slytherins had been torn between loyalty for their House and the disparate feelings of distrust, anger or hate raised by the flux of information. Headmistress McGonagall's previous explanations had therefore been deleted by a torrent of news coming directly from houses and families. Yet, no parent had opposed to the peculiar choice of the Headmistress: no father had protested in indignation, no mother had sent an owl in concern. The children had been left wondering in their sea of doubts, and diffidence was now making their faces darken and their voices hesitate, while the tempest howled outside the windows and inside their hearts.

Snape welcomed the class with a cold smile that changed into a sardonic expression as soon as James Potter appeared under the frame of the door. The child was nervous, and although he displayed a bold appearance, he somehow avoided looking directly at his teacher. With his long-lasting experience, Snape was instantly alert, and the sarcastic twist of his lips accentuated even more.

The portrait was expecting a challenge: even better, he was looking forward to it.

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The lesson began with a short lecture, in which the wizard pointed out some of the most evident mistakes he had noticed in their previous meeting. It was difficult to change habits that had settled down after a year of practice, so the children needed to be corrected as soon as possible. Snape shuddered thinking of the older students: how many other wrong behaviours had Zabini helped to encourage with his inexplicable laxity?

Then a quick survey followed and, while he asked noncommittal questions, the new professor searched for interactions amongst the students: he was studying the dynamics of the class, to understand who the leading ones were, who the weaker, who the most eager or prepared, and finally who the potential troublemakers.

Soon he individuated two major groups, one gathering around the Gryffindors, one around the Slytherins. Nothing new in this, Snape thought with a soft sigh, remembering his past. The only remarkable difference was that now the Ravenclaws seemed to team up with the green and silver students, and the centre of their attraction was undoubtedly Jennifer Avery... That was an interesting detail for a further investigation.

Finally, they arrived to practice. With his usual sarcastic scowl, Snape opened his painted book and chose a potion to test his students; but this time he opted for a very difficult one, as he was curious to see how the different characters would react to such a demanding challenge.

At least, that was the justification he was repeating to himself.

But his eyes were continuously returning to James Potter, who was painfully aware of that merciless scrutiny. The boy was getting uneasy and looked around as if searching for support, chewing his lips and scratching his head in the effort of interpreting the text. Next to him, even more anguished, Arthur Macmillan was raking his fingers through his hair, making it stand absurdly up while he desperately tried to make sense of the instructions.

Thunder cracked loudly, and the vivid light of flashes illuminated the place with a sinister effect. The whole class was wriggling and squirming like worms on a hook. The assignment was evidently too hard for them. They might be the best, but the best according to Zabini's recognition, Snape thought and smiled cruelly, observing James rub his nose in perplexity and exchange worried glances with his companions.

On the other side of the room, a meaningful smile matching Snape's on her face, Jennifer Avery was cutting her flobberworms in little precise segments, eyes accurately focused on the ingredients on her desk. Her hands were moving steadily, and her behaviour betrayed an immense confidence and a covert contempt for the pathetic bunch gathered around her.

That would be a different kind of problem to deal with in the future, Snape considered with a frown.

The assignment was soon over. One by one, the children renounced the fight and watched their potions decompose, waiting in panic to know the reactions of their new and so frightening teacher at that failure. James Potter was the only one in the Gryffindor group who refused to give up his task and continued an obstinate struggle against the obscure forces in his cauldron: yet, too nervous to act properly, he too lost control on the brewing process, and the mixture he was stirring soon changed its colour, going from a pale yellow to a stunning bright orange.

Attempting to counterbalance the alarming transformation, James added new ingredients, but the cauldron emitted a bubbling gurgle and squirted out some liquid, splashing the boy with a disgustingly viscid fluid.

"Hell!" James shouted, and stepped back, making a cup of seeds fall on the floor with a resounding crash.

"Manners, Mr. Potter!" Snape exclaimed, a ferocious joy growing in his chest. "As I already told you, we are not on a Quidditch field."

The boy clenched his fists, and his lips twitched in the effort of controlling his anger, while he picked up the seeds.

Too easy, Snape thought vindictively and, as if perceiving his thoughts, the cauldron vomited again a wave of liquid on the unlucky lad as soon as he went closer to check it again. This time, the words that escaped James' lips were as burning as the potion he had tried to brew.

"Mr. Potter! Watch your tongue, and clean up the mess you have made on the floor!" Snape ordered.

"I didn't do it on purpose!" the boy exclaimed indignantly, and Snape instantly exploded. "Respect, Potter! You call me sir or professor!"

The class froze and retreated in alarm; suddenly, that painted professor looked much more alive and terrifying than many of his living colleagues.

Crossing his arms in his favourite pose, Snape lowered his voice to a cold tone. "Isn't that your cauldron, Potter?"

"Yes, but---"

"No excuses!" the wizard spat. "Blame your incompetence, Potter, if you have spoiled your concoction and wasted your test. Don't forget you are in a course that requires brain, not muscles."

"I didn't ask to stay in this course... sir, " the boy replied resentfully at that reiterated allusion to his physical exploits.

"Clean up that mess!" the wizard continued with a tone that made all the other children shiver and stare in anxious expectation.

"I'm going to write to my father about this," James angrily whispered to Arthur Macmillan, a look of disgust on his face while he tried to clean himself. But, alas! Snape's ears were extremely keen after so many years of teaching.

"I had the pleasure of teaching your father before you, Mr. Potter," the wizard replied slowly and dangerously, "He also thought himself above the rules as a child, yet I don't believe he would be happy to hear you were following in his footsteps in that regard. Ask him, by all means."

Snape paused.

"But I regret to inform you that, in this class, the last word is mine," he concluded with a cold smile.

"Then I will speak with Professor McGonagall! I don't want to stay in this course anymore!" James burst out in childish resentment.

Thunder cracked again with a resounding roar as if underlining that declaration, and vivid flashes of red exploded in Snape's mind, coagulating in little pulsing dots.

"Clean up that mess, Potter, if you don't want to be given a detention."

Boy and professor stared at each other, eyes locked in a mute challenge.

"NO!" the boy shouted; then, vibrating in anger, he turned his shoulders to the portrait and began to walk towards the door: yet, his steps became immediately hesitant, as if he was already regretting his too-hurried decision, while his eyes glanced around, asking his companions to say something, to defend him, to give him somehow support. But nobody moved, and Jennifer Avery crossed her arms, a cold smile dancing on her lips.

"What are you doing, Potter?" Snape asked sharply.

"I'm leaving," James replied, his trembling voice heightened by tension.

"I think not. Auxilium!"

A startling creak replied to this call. Awakening from its inanimate slumber, one of the suits of armours resting in the corners straightened itself and slowly began to walk, with a frightening, strident noise.

Some of the children gasped in fear, but almost everybody was entranced by the scene, all feeling relieved that their professor had forgotten his lesson and found such a convenient scapegoat.

James paled. It was the very first time that he confronted a magical adversary, and surely he hadn't thought that the man in the portrait could have such allies at his side. He stopped and considered his enemy. Then, with a determined expression, he tried to circumvent it, using the many techniques he had learned and that worked so well on a Quidditch match.

He dodged, feinted and tried to leap past the statue, and Snape smiled in silence, savouring the moment in which the spoiled brat would be forced to return to his place in shame. Charming those impressive guardians -- so that his painted and therefore powerless self could awaken them to life -- had been a splendid intuition.

But the armour was even more resolute in its task than both Snape and James had imagined. After an unsuccessful try, an iron arm unexpectedly stretched itself out at an impossible length and grabbed the boy by his ankle. Suddenly, James was upside down, his arms almost touching the floor, while the creature turned back towards Snape to present triumphantly its dangling captive.

"Let me go!" the boy screamed, gasping in that uncomfortable position, and the whole class held its breath in fascinated horror.

A solitary flash violently lit the room, and Snape's eyes widened, while memories brought him back in time. Now he was sixteen again, watching the scene from a remote distance, and it was his younger self, lifted by a Levicorpus, that shouted and wriggled and struggled to free himself... but nobody tried to help. It had been James' grandfather to humiliate young Severus in front of their fellow students, and hate suddenly ran into Snape's veins while he relived that most shameful episode in impotent rage. Emotions he hadn't thought possible to experience anymore awakened wildly in his fibres and, for a moment, darkness veiled his mind.

James was wearing trousers under his uniform. At least, he had been spared the public shame of being exposed in his underwear. But, escaping from one of his pockets, a little glowing card fell graciously on the floor where, with a little pop, it transformed into the misty shape of a girl. In the sudden silence, a soft voice declared, "I love you, James!"

The class exploded with laughter, and the dangling boy, mortified, burst into tears.

The whole episode had lasted only a few seconds, but Snape felt as if he were back from a long travel into time. Bitterness tightened his heart. No, there was no joy, no satisfaction, no pleasure in the humiliation of that small boy whose eyes were reflecting the same anguish the wizard was carrying in his soul.

"Enough!" Snape found himself shouting. Immediately, the students stopped and backed in fear at the fury diffusing upon his features.

"Let him go!" Snape ordered the armour, and the creature gently released the sobbing James on the floor, where he curled in a ball, not daring to look at his companions.

"Ten points from each House!" the wizard declared sharply, and the children lowered their eyes in a resentful silence. Then Snape turned to James.

"You will clean that mess before you leave, Potter. This is all, and I hope I won't have to complain about you anymore," he declared quietly.

"But he will be late for Transfiguration!" Arthur Macmillan, the only one who hadn't laughed, couldn't help but interject in his anxiety.

"In this case, you will help him, Mr. Macmillan. Punishment is more bearable when it is shared with friends. And then, immediately after, you will have a new occasion to show your friendly support, when you both arrive late to Transfiguration."

Arthur lowered his head, too frightened to reply.

"Class is dismissed," Snape commanded and, in the same resentful silence, the children took their books and left the room. Outside, the storm was calming, but thunder still rumbled in the distance, as if echoing the many contrasting emotions pervading the spirits.

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As soon as he was alone with Arthur, James slowly got to his feet. Without saying a word, closing himself behind a wall of coldness, he began to clean the floor, eyes still full of burning tears. Arthur went closer and tried to comfort his friend by clumsily putting a hand on his shoulder. James pulled away, tightening his lips in a line. Discomfited, Arthur took a deep breath, then, remembering their situation, he turned to look up at Snape in apprehension. But the portrait was empty, and the two children stared at each other in relief.

"I hate him!" James murmured, paling under the violence of his raising feelings. "I hate him! I HATE HIM!!! Didn't you see how he enjoyed the scene?"

"Well..." Arthur uncomfortably replied, "I did tell you to leave Margaret's card in our room..."

"I didn't mean that, you idiot! Didn't you hear what he said? He hates me because of my family, because of my name!"

"Still, he seems to like your brother..." Arthur tried again, swallowing in uneasiness. He didn't want to bicker with his friend, but James could become very dangerous.

"Al is stupid! I warned him! Bet Snape will do something mean to him too. He hates all of us!"

James inhaled and concluded sharply, "Somehow I'll find a way to make him suffer for what he did!"

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Minerva slowly sipped her herbal infusion. Lately, she had lamented little annoying pains in her body, and Snape, who had become very protective about his old friend, had asked Zabini – well, effectively obliged him – to prepare every evening a special mix of invigorating herbs to help her. Then he had begun to spend his evenings with her, enjoying a last chat before she went to bed. In the circle of his new colleagues – always wary and polite in his presence – Minerva was the only companion he really cared for, the only one in the school who had shared with him so many important events in his life.

"So," she asked quietly, "it's James Potter again, Severus? Will this situation never end? After all, he is the third generation! The blood must have watered down over the years... despite the mixing with the Weasley heritage."

She raised her eyebrows in hope, but Snape sighed and remained silent. That morning, he had faced his demons. The scene in the classroom was still churning in his stomach, and he didn't want to share his considerations. Furthermore, he had the unpleasant impression that Minerva could perceive his feelings. Her kindness was even more painful than a reproach.

"And what about his brother?" the Headmistress gently continued. "I thought you liked little Albus Severus..."

Snape felt a stab of anguish in his heart. He didn't want to think about his favourite pupil. How would the small one react to his brother's punishment?

"I regret it, Minerva," he finally resolved to say, "but the boy deserved a correction. However, as I told you, I'm always ready to resign."

"And, as I told you, I cannot accept," Minerva replied with a smile and shook her head. "You haven't tried hard enough, Severus. And I need you in this school. So please, do your best."

Minerva placidly finished her cup, then tilted her head to watch her unusually bashful companion.

"You won't get away so easily this time, Severus. Not with me giving the orders."

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NA:

I know that this chapter will "disturb" many of my readers in different ways. I can only ask them to please wait. The story has still a long way to go.