What Might Be Done

Chapter 4: The New Man
In which our hero begins to change his ways

. . . it is not a question of the Old Man transforming himself into the New, but of the New Man becoming alive to the fact that he is new, that he has been transformed already without his having realized it.
- W. H. Auden: The Dyer’s Hand


“What colour do you call that, Mister Potter?”

“Er, yellow?”

Snape sighed. “That, Potter, is ecru. The potion at this stage should be ochre. Two points from Gryffindor.”

He could feel Harry’s eyes on his back as he turned and stalked away, ignoring the whispers, which he could hear quite clearly, “Two points? He took two points? He’s going soft. He hasn’t taken less than ten points a go from Potter for two years.” Snape felt as if his jaw muscles just might pop from the savagery with which he was grinding his teeth.

“Mister Potter,” he hissed. “I will see you after class.”

Since he was ignoring things already, he decided to ignore Harry’s groan.

The class could continue, at this stage of the potion, without his constant scrutiny. He sat at his desk and picked up his quill. A jumpstart on his grading would make his evening more pleasant. He looked up in time to see a flash of green eyes as Potter quickly looked away from him. Well, he had got the boy’s attention. First salvo fired and all that. So why did he feel as if he’d already lost a battle?

Snape continued to watch Potter for a moment. The boy was resolutely attempting to finely dice frog spawn. It was one of Snape’s little jokes. Frog spawn was inert in most potions, and it did no harm to add it to this one. Best of all, it was slimy and soft and vaguely round and extremely slippery - quite impossible to dice. It amazed and amused him that many of the students never figured that out and continued to struggle mightily to produce tiny, even little cubes - as Potter was attempting to do now. The boy clearly had genius in certain areas - if capturing a winged ball and landing in potentially terminal trouble could really be counted as genius - but Potions was most certainly not one of them. Snape felt a grin pulling at his lips and he tightened them repressively.

Still, Potter had good hands. Graceful. Long fingered and nicely tapered. If Hogwarts taught music, he would probably be a natural for the piano. Yes. Very nice hands indeed. Snape found himself wondering what it would be like if those hands... “MISTER LONGBOTTOM! WHAT THE DEVIL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?” Snape roared.

The entire class flinched in terror, whether of their professor or the possible imminent explosion of Longbottom’s cauldron, Snape neither knew, nor cared. Longbottom was frozen, hand in mid-air, ready to drop pickled frog spawn into his potion.

“This, Mister Longbottom,” Snape scooped some of the spawn out of Neville’s hand and shoved it under his nose, “is pickled frog spawn. What is the 37th ingredient of this potion?” Snape glared as Neville opened and closed his mouth. “I ASKED YOU A QUESTION, YOU HOPELESS IMBECILE!”
Harry Potter stood up so abruptly, his stool toppled over with a clatter. “You leave him alone!”

Snape turned and gawked. There was really no other word for it, his eyes popped and his jaw dropped. Students in his immediate vicinity winced when they saw his snap shut and heard the dull clunk of his teeth slamming together.

“Mister Potter,” came the too-familiar hiss, “do not presume to tell me... another two points from Gryffindor.” Snape ground the words out, bitterness flooding every nerve of his body. “And you will stay after class tomorrow, and the next day, and the DAY AFTER THAT!”

Harry blinked. “It’s Friday, sir.”

“And what, you arrogant, status seeking little showoff, does that have to do with anything?”

“Uh, there’s no class tomorrow, so I can’t exactly stay after, can I?” Harry licked his lips nervously.

Harry. Licked. His. Lips.

Snape shook his head, trying to clear it.

“Mister Potter, I will deal with you later. Mister Longbottom,” Snape turned back to Neville, once again ignoring the strident whispers of the students, “what is the 37th ingredient of this potion?”

“Frog spawn?”

“Frog spawn, Mister Longbottom. Simple, ordinary, everyday frog spawn. Not dried frog spawn, not salted frog spawn, not pickled frog spawn. Do you know how frog spawn is pickled, Mister Longbottom?”

“Um, with spices and whatnot?”

Snape could feel his face turning scarlet. The bell rang. Snape almost heaved a sigh of relief. “I expect ten inches,” Snape winced, “a foot, I expect a foot of parchment on the proper way to finely dice frog spawn and why it is such a bad idea to add pickled frog spawn to a potion containing Fire Lizard blood. Class dismissed. Not you, Mister Potter.”

Snape sank into his chair behind his desk, refusing to look up until the last student had left the room. When he finally raised his head, he simply looked at Harry without saying a word. Harry shifted nervously.

Harry licked his lips nervously. Snape closed his eyes again and counted to ten. He opened his eyes just in time to see the boy adjust himself. Snape closed his eyes again.

“Uh, Professor?”

Snape looked balefully at Harry. “Yes, Mister Potter.”

This was ridiculous. Snape took a deep breath and closed his eyes again.

“Professor?”

“Yes, Mister Potter. I’m right here and I haven’t forgotten you.” Snape stood up and began to pace back and forth behind his desk. “It has, ahh, come to my attention recently, that is to say, I, um, you... I’ll be right back, Mister Potter.”

Snape turned on his heel and walked out of the classroom. Once out of sight of the open door, he broke into a run. Left, right, right, up the stairs, down the right-hand corridor into his quarters. Seven long paces across the room to the cupboard. Snape grabbed a bottle without looking and took a deep swig. Echh. Creme de Menthe. Fucking Albus. He took another swig and a third before capping the bottle and returning the way he had come.

Harry was standing right where Snape had left him. That was deeply suspicious. Snape cast a glance at his desk, trying to discern if anything had been disturbed, hoping that his subconscious had not let him sketch something damning on the parchments he’d been grading. Well, time enough to worry about that later.

“Mister Potter.” Snape stood in front of the boy.

Harry reeled backward and looked at Snape dubiously. Damn. He had intended to grab a handful of anise seed to chew on his way back to the classroom. Oh well. Time enough to worry about that later.

“Mister Potter. Lately, I have found myself . . .” Snape couldn’t meet the boy’s eyes, nor say what he’d intended. He just couldn’t.

Harry waited.

“I wish to propose an alliance.”

“An alliance?”

“Must you parrot back to me everything I say?” Snape asked irritably. “And I didn’t mean alliance. Armistice. I’d like to propose and armistice.”

“An armistice.”

“Potter!”

“I’m just a bit stunned, that’s all.”

“Stunned, Mister Potter?”

“Who’s doing the parrot act now?”

Snape rolled his eyes and sighed. “An alliance, Mister Potter, between the two of us.”

Harry gawked.

“You’re gawking, Potter. Close your mouth. It’s most unattractive.” It wasn’t really. It just put Snape in mind of... He wouldn’t think about that just yet.

Harry’s mouth snapped shut but he continued to eye Snape warily, stepping back a pace for every pace Snape took toward him, until his bum met the back of a table and he could go no further.

Snape smiled and only barely resisted the urge to trail a finger down Potter’s chest.

“I’m tired of all this bickering.”

“Bickering? You call six years of taunts and torture ‘bickering’?”

“Don’t be melodramatic, Potter! We merely have disagreed, frequently.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Professor, are you feeling okay? I know you only recently got out of the infirmary. Should I call Madame P–“

“Oh shut up. I’m fine. I merely wanted to talk.”

“You just want to talk, not have me scrubbing out cauldrons or anything?”

“This is not detention, Potter.”

“It’s not? Then why am I here?”

“Because,” Snape said, his exasperation evident, “I. Want. To. Talk. To. You. Is that so hard to grasp?”

“Well, yeah. It is a bit.”

Potter’s combined insolence and insouciance betrayed his nervousness even more than fidgeting hands would have done.

“Good Lord,” Snape said sotto voce, “when did I begin to ‘read’ the brat?”

“What?”

“Nothing. I was merely pondering the vagaries of life. You hate me, don’t you, Potter? And I don’t really know why.”

Harry looked at his feet and said nothing.

“Tell me, what’s the worst thing I ever did to you?”

Harry looked nonplussed. “You told Hermione you saw no difference...”

“Must I pay for that minor act of not quite mature behaviour for the rest of my life?”

Harry stared at him. “That’s the first time I’ve ever mentioned it. You must have a guilty conscience.” He smirked.

Snape scowled. “The question was, what is the worst thing I’ve ever done to you?”

“You scared Neville half...”

“You, Mister Potter. You. Not Miss Granger, Not Mister Longbottom, Not Weasley Number Six. You.”

“You think of Ron as Weasley Number Six?”

“You are the most maddening boy on God’s green earth. In another 50 years you’ll put Albus Dumbledore to shame.”

“OK. Fine. I can’t think what the worst thing you ever did was, except maybe TOTALLY HUMILIATE ME MY VERY FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL!”

“You’re not still going on about that, are you? For the love of all that’s holy, Potter, that was years ago. Let go of it already.”

“No. I can’t let go of it. You’re always harping and snarking at me. I can’t set foot in your classroom without losing points. If you think I’ve no reason to hate you, you’re as cracked as Dumbledore already.”

Harry flinched as he realized what he was saying and who he was saying it to.

Instead of ripping into him, Snape mildly said, “Professor Dumbledore, Harry.”

Potter laughed. Snape couldn’t completely repress a grin.

“What you said about Hermione 4th year was really rotten, you know?”

“The little, er, witch, set me on fire!”

“That was 1st year! She was 11 years old! Years ago. Let it go, already. Beside which, you’re supposed to be an adult!”

“Oh yes, well, throw that in my face, why don’t you? Wait until you’re my age, Potter, and see how much of an adult you feel then! You know nothing about it.”

Harry laughed again. “You’re no more than 14, are you. What’d you do? Take an aging potion?”

“Fine. Yes. I can occasionally be immature. I admit it. Are you happy now?”

“Yes, actually. I feel better than I have in months.”

“Impudent wretch.”

“Snarky ba-“

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Two points from Gryffindor for attempted use of bad language. Detention, tomorrow night.”

Harry nodded his head as he slung his book bag over his shoulder. He stalked to the door and then turned around. “You know, Snape. You’re all right when you’re not being a complete arse.”

Snape found himself gawking again as Harry turned and fled.