"Professor, it was Severus who attacked first and insulted Lily! I was just defending myself!" The moment Slughorn lifted the spell, James blurted it out, glaring across at Severus.
"Professor Slughorn," Severus began, his voice calm and even. "I simply asked Miss Evans to return my textbook, the one I lent her some time ago. Mr. Potter grabbed my jacket and started making incoherent demands, then threatened me. So I used a nonverbal Silencio. Apparently he didn't care for that, and decided to attack me from behind." He paused. "Though what am I saying? He's an animal. Animals don't understand honour. Please, forget I said that."
"That's not true!" Sirius cut in immediately, springing to his friend's defence. He had pleasant, aristocratic features and the kind of pallor that came with old money. "He attacked James first, and it definitely wasn't just a Silencio. And he called Lily a Mudblood!"
"I called her that because it's what she is."
"I beg your pardon?!"
"She's a Mudblood. A witch born to Muggle parents. I wasn't insulting her."
"I see," Slughorn said, cutting in before it could escalate further. His voice was carefully controlled, though his eyes rested on Severus with something close to surprise.
Severus was one of Slughorn's favourites, and Horace knew him well enough for this to set off an alarm. The boy he remembered would never have said that to Lily. Lily had been his only friend, the person who mattered most to him.
Slughorn had always considered Severus one of the most gifted young wizards he'd ever taught, with real promise ahead of him. That was why he had invited him into the Slug Club, the circle he'd built over decades for students who were likely to matter one day.
Comfort was Horace's great weakness, and collecting talented people was his great pleasure: nurturing them, drawing out what they had, introducing them to one another. He was Head of Slytherin, yes, but he had never let that make him partial. He treated every student the same, regardless of house.
"Five points from Slytherin," Slughorn said, shaking his head. "Mr. Snape, 'Mudblood' is an insult, and I'm asking you not to direct that word at Miss Evans again."
"I apologise, Professor, but I don't see it as an insult," Severus replied, equally measured. "The Daily Prophet ran an article making exactly that argument: that the word isn't an insult, only an unofficial term for wizards of Muggle parentage."
"Did it indeed? Then give me the issue number."
"Certainly. Issue 6910."
"Good. I'll verify that. And if it checks out, Slytherin gets ten points back." Slughorn allowed himself a small smile, then turned to the Gryffindors. "Mr. Potter, for attempting to harm Mr. Snape, you'll also be serving a month's detention with Mr. Filch."
"But he started it! Lily, why aren't you saying anything? Tell him, you were right there!"
Lily had been staring at Severus the whole time. She simply didn't recognise him. She had never seen that coldness in him before, and the blank indifference in his eyes while he had choked James had frightened her in a way she couldn't quite name. She didn't understand how he could have changed so completely in just a few days. When Potter's voice reached her, she flinched and looked at him as though the words hadn't quite landed.
"...What?"
"Severus attacked first!"
"Yes..." Lily nodded numbly and looked back at Severus. When their eyes met, she shuddered. There was nothing there.
"That was self-defence, Miss Evans. And it was a Silencio. A silencing charm. It poses no threat to anyone's life."
At that moment three more students came around the corner. On the breast of their robes sat the silver serpent on green, the same crest Severus wore.
"Professor, forgive the interruption, but we can corroborate Mr. Snape's account," said a boy with sharp aristocratic features and blond hair combed back flat. "We watched him approach and ask for his textbook, perfectly civilly. Mr. Potter grabbed his jacket and started making demands, raising his voice. Mr. Snape asked to be let go. When that didn't work, he cast a spell to quieten things down. The moment the book was returned, he released the spell and turned to leave. Mr. Potter then aimed his wand at his back. We were about to step in when you arrived."
"Noted. I'll take your account into consideration," Slughorn said, with a satisfied nod. He appreciated seeing his students look out for one another, even when the motives were largely self-interested. "That said, Mr. Snape, you won't be escaping without punishment. I trust I don't need to explain why."
"No, Professor."
"Good. Three days' detention with Mr. Filch, starting tomorrow. And I'll expect you in my office this evening. There's something I want to discuss." He added a brief smile. "You five, with me to the exam. Mr. Macmillan, you're free to go."
"Of course." With a contemptuous glance at the four Gryffindors and a brief nod to Severus, Macmillan left with the two boys at his heels.
Severus returned the nod with a thin smile and fell into step behind Slughorn, letting the four pairs of eyes burning into his back go unremarked.
"Professor."
"Yes, Mr. Snape?"
"After the exam, might I have a pass for the Restricted Section?"
"What for?"
"I want to go deeper into Potions." And I want to know what this world's magic is actually capable of.
"Is that so?" Slughorn nodded with an approving look, opened his notebook, murmured something, tore out a sheet and held it out. "Any questions about Potions, you know where to find me."
"Thank you, Professor."
The Potions classroom was in the dungeons, and they reached it quickly: a spacious, gloomy, rather cool room that smelled of things steeped too long, its shelves dense with ingredients.
"Everyone present?" Slughorn scanned the class. "Then we'll begin." Dozens of sheets rose from his desk and landed in front of each student. "Two parts: written first, then practical. Forty-five minutes each. Questions?" He waited ten seconds. "Good. Begin."
Severus glanced down at the page, and the faintest smile touched his lips. He didn't even need to think. The answer was simply there.
He could have been a great potion-maker, Severus thought, with a flicker of something like regret. Why do geniuses always go early?
He sighed, picked up his quill, and finished in five minutes. The sheet vanished from under his hand and reappeared in Slughorn's. Slughorn skimmed it, smiled to himself, nodded, set it aside.
When the written portion ended, everyone rose. The chairs and desks vanished at once, replaced by cauldrons.
"Second part: the Draught of Peace. All ingredients are provided. Begin."
Severus went to the ingredient table, gathered what he needed, returned to his station, and started work. His hands moved without any conscious direction, adding each component at precisely the right moment in precisely the right measure.
Potions isn't complicated. You follow the recipe. These hands know it, too; the real Severus put serious work in here. Still, seals and runes feel more like home.
After half an hour, a thick grey paste filled the cauldron, carrying a soft, pleasant scent. One breath of it and something in the shoulders and chest began, slowly, to ease.
"Excellent," Slughorn said, peering in with satisfaction. "Mr. Snape, outstanding as always. Perfectly done."
"Thank you, Professor."
Ten minutes later the practical ended, and Severus left the classroom. The library was next, and it received him in its usual silence, total and slightly oppressive.
The room was large, lined floor-to-ceiling with shelves. It looked like any library, except that nothing on those shelves had anything to do with ordinary life.
He approached the librarian's desk. Madam Pince was middle-aged, not conventionally pretty, but with something still striking about her. Severus placed Slughorn's note on the desk.
"Madam Pince, you look as wonderful as ever." She wasn't particularly surprised, but she was a woman, and the words landed well enough. Her expression thawed by a fraction, and the eyes she turned on him lacked their usual quality of a guard dog sizing up a potential threat.
Madam Pince loved her books the way some people loved their children: fiercely, possessively, and without any sense of proportion. So much as a scuffed spine was grounds for a personal grudge. Heaven help anyone who tore a page.
There was even a story at Hogwarts, not quite a rumour and not quite a legend, that the Headmaster had once borrowed a copy of Theory of Transubstantial Transfiguration and, lost in thought, started scribbling in the margins. The book had smacked him on the forehead. The enchantment was said to be Madam Pince's work, and not even the most powerful wizard in Britain had been safe from it.
That was why students feared her. If she'd take on the Headmaster, what chance did they have?
"Severus..." She examined the note, then returned it with a nod. "You may go in. But if I find a single mark on a single page..."
"I know, Madam Pince," he said, with a polite smile. He nodded and headed for the locked gate. Beyond it was a smaller, darker room, several times more interesting than the main library. Right. Let's see what a world starved of magic has actually managed to figure out.
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