The Potions Master

Chapter 5: TRUTH

A week later, Ron, Hermione, and Harry were still debating the Day of the Griffin as they stole down the pitch-black corridor to Moaning Myrtle's restroom to say the final incantations over their dream and truth potions. On this night of the new moon, not a lumen of light shone through the high, arched windows. Harry wondered whether crowding together inside his invisibility cloak was really necessary. They'd already passed by Filch unnoticed. Only Mrs. Norris had peered at them with her suspicious cat's eyes.

At his left ear, Hermione whispered, "I still say Professor Snape was lecturing Draco for being such a coward."

At his right, Ron gave a loud snort. "Snape chew out Malfoy? You've got to be-- Hey! Watch it! Those were my toes."

"Sorry," Harry mumbled, recovering from his stumble. "But I agree. A lot of us heard Snape tell Malfoy not to push an inquiry. So why take him off privately? I think Snape was explaining that inquiry would lead to him."

Hermione shook her head, almost dislodging the cloak. "Innocent until proven guilty. If you want the truth, wait until you question him."

Harry grimaced. He had waited. And the wait had almost killed him. That he was the one on the dragon statue when it came to life might have been coincidence. That the meanest griffin in all of Britain had been brought to Hogwarts when he was the chap set to parade it--that was one coincidence too many.

"I'm not sure we even need this potion," he muttered. "We should just go to Dumbledore. He can put two and two together. Avery works for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. His letter to Snape must have been about the griffin. Obviously, they--"

A blood-curdling shriek cut Harry short.

Ron gasped. "Where'd that come from?"

"Up ahead." Without thinking, Harry wrapped an arm around each of his friends. "Let's run."

"Please, yes!" Hermione breathed.

Harry took off, dragging his friends with him.

Hermione gulped. "I didn't know you meant toward it!"

A second screech jarred Harry. Definitely a girl. A girl in danger. A girl needing to be saved. But when he pulled his friends around the corner, another voice drifted down the hall that slowed the trio to a halt.

"Calm yourself, woman. This is a friend."

Nick? Harry peeked out the folds of the invisibility cloak. Up the hall floated three spirits, emitting their own spectral light. Nearly Headless Nick was patting Moaning Myrtle's shoulder. Beside him hovered a ghost Harry had never seen before--a cave woman with a humped back and dangling arms wearing scraps of fur. When she turned, he saw why Myrtle had screamed. The cave woman's skull had been bashed in by a crude stone axe. And the axe still hung there dripping ghastly, silver blood.

The cave woman grunted.

Myrtle stuck her nose in the air and vanished through her door.

Nick waved. Apparently, he'd spied the little bit of Harry peeping out of the cloak. "Gryffindors! Come! Meet my new friend!"

Hermione sucked air through her teeth. Harry knew ghoulish introductions were not her favorite thing.

"Sure, Nick." Ron ducked out from under the cloak and strolled ahead. "Nice to meet you, uh--"

In a guttural voice, the cave woman said, "Fire."

"Fire?" Hermione repeated, suddenly interested. "Could she actually be--?" She dropped her half of the cloak and hurried to join the group.

Harry raised his eyebrows. Sandwiches were named after the Earl of Sandwich weren't they? Walking forward, he let the cloak slip to his shoulders. His hands he jammed in his pockets. He wanted to be sociable--but not to the extent of risking a sub-zero handshake.

"Almost axed, see?" Nick's pearl-white eyes danced. "We'll show that snobby Sir Patrick Delany-Podmore. His Headless Hunt will turn positively green."

Whistling a spooky tune, he and Fire glided up the hall, taking all the light with them. At the far end, Harry saw the faint gray outlines of half a dozen more ghosts. Three Scots had arms and legs barely attached. A maiden in a diaphanous Napoleonic gown leaked mist-colored gore from deep gashes. Just like Nick, two male phantoms in flapping wizard robes had heads that wobbled--almost, but not quite, severed.

Hermione's teeth chattered. "It's nearly the witching hour. Let's go see Myrtle. At least being killed by a basilisk doesn't leave one gruesome."

#

Hermione tossed the last of the bandersnatch skin flakes into the dream potion cauldron. They floated on the bubbly surface, then slowly submerged into the simmering cerulean liquid. She chanted a long incantation that Harry knew by heart--having repeated it himself over forty tedious times in the last three weeks.

Drift into dreams.

Sail by notion.

Stray along streams

Of thought without fetters, a limitless ocean

Of passions and secrets and hopes and illusion.

Push open your shutters and free your emotion.

"And spend five days belching from drinking our potion," Ron added softly.

Hermione cast him a warning scowl. Harry bit his lip to keep from laughing.

Embark on adventure. Create your own fusion

Of danger and rapture and chance and confusion

With memory, reverie, truth and delusion.

"And please be too thick to detect our intrusion," Ron mumbled.

Hermione poked him.

Harry raised his eyebrows appreciatively. If Ron had been adding such lines to each of his forty repetitions of the spell, Snape would be under their control for sure.

Contemplate fantasies, one of a kind.

Penetrate mysteries in your own mind.

"And may a fat warthog soon bite your behind." Harry grinned, surprised he'd managed a rhyme on such short notice.

"Shut UP," Hermione growled through gritted teeth.

Discover in dreams

Life's not as it seems.

The spell was over. Hermione's glare dared Harry and Ron to make another joke.

Then a ghostly giggle sounded one stall over. "We hope you have nightmares on gross, icky themes."

Ron and Harry burst into pantomimed applause.

Moaning Myrtle pressed her face through the divider wall. For once, she was smiling.

"If this dream potion fails, it'll be all your fault," Hermione grumbled.

Myrtle shrugged and wafted away.

Harry shot Ron a worried look. He didn't want to flush three weeks of sleepless labor down the toilet. Nervously, he watched Hermione lift her hand above the simmering cauldron and release one sprig of narcissus. When the yellow blossoms touched the potion, it fizzed. Then a huge bubble erupted from the surface. Instantly, the delicate cerulean liquid congealed into a black paste.

Ron groaned.

Hermione smiled.

"You're sure it's not ruined?" Harry asked.

"It's perfect."

#

After another hour, Harry wasn't feeling so humorous. One in the morning, and he had to get some sleep. He didn't want to nod off in Advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts. Afternoon Quidditch practice would be useless if his reactions were sluggish. And if he wasn't alert that evening for meditation with Cho, she'd think he wasn't serious about learning Wudang Shen.

"Verbena, verjuice and a dollop of vermouth," Hermione said, adding the elements one by one. "The three vers of verity." The piss-yellow potion turned a bilious green. She reached back into her pocket.

"Don't tell me you're going to add vermin," Ron mumbled.

Hermione ignored him, gazing wistfully at the sapphire pendant now sparkling in her hand. "Sacrifice for a good cause." With a sigh, she dropped the glittering blue jewel into the revolting, turbid brew. The potion turned as crystal clear as a glacial spring.

"Brilliant," Harry said. "The truth is transparent. That has to be perfect."

Hermione nodded.

#

Twenty minutes later, Harry flung himself into the Little Nemo Hammock--for what he hoped would be the last time. Hermione had added a superstructure of glass tubing to the truth cauldron to trap solid particles while the remaining liquid steamed away. Then she and Ron had toddled off to Gryffindor. Harry had stayed to keep first watch over the distilling process. Hermione had rigged the tubes to sound a tiny bell if something needed checking. With luck, he'd be able to snooze in between.

Rolling over brought him face-to-face with Myrtle. She was perching on the stall divider, watching him tenderly. Some luck.

"You look so much like him," she sighed for possibly the hundredth time in three weeks.

"I know, I know. I remind you of Teach." Harry tried to keep from sounding disgruntled. Myrtle was so touchy that the wrong tone could send her wailing until dawn. "You liked him. I'm flattered."

Harry's first stay in the hammock, he'd asked Myrtle if she'd known the young Voldemort, Tom Riddle. Me know Thomas M. Riddle the Prefect? She'd giggled as if she'd have liked to, but Harry had realized a first-year student from a different house wouldn't have had much chance. With a wink, she'd said, The only fifth-year I knew was Teach. He was nicer than Prefect Riddle any old day. Her first year, spells had so flummoxed Myrtle that her Muggle parents had paid for a tutor. Harry wasn't sure whether Teach was his last name or his nickname, but he knew she'd adored him.

In low, mysterious tones, Myrtle chanted:

Not by four and never by two

Onward marching, guided on through

Down the halls, and up the walls

Ever silent, coming to you.

She closed her eyes dreamily. "He told me that, and I still remember. He made it up himself. That's what a Runes Master does--creates spells that are completely new."

Teach had taught Myrtle well. Harry figured this was at least the fiftieth example of his doggerel she'd recited. If his bad luck held, she'd be rattling off rhymes till sunup.

"Some people think runes only mean magical writing," Myrtle continued in a know-it-all tone of voice Harry suspected she'd copied from Hermione.

"But that's where they're wrong," he finished for her.

Myrtle looked perturbed at having her line stolen. "Right. They're wrong. Rune also means magical poem. And the ones Teach invented are very powerful."

"Tell me one of the sleep ones," Harry mumbled as his eyelids drifted closed.

Myrtle gave a loud cough. "Don't you want to know what the spell is for? Not by four and never by--"

Harry's eyes snapped open. "I already know." The truth was, he hadn't a clue, but he couldn't bear another sleepless three hours while Myrtle explained it to him."

"Bet you don't. Bet you can't even guess. Come on. Twenty-one questions. Animal, Mineral or Vegetable? What do you want to ask first?"

Harry stared at Myrtle, torn between pity for the loneliness that made her pester him and the torturing exhaustion that made his eyeballs feel like someone had rubbed them with sandpaper. Taking a deep breath, he said, "Okay. I have a question . . . What did you do to your hair tonight? It looks positively . . . beautiful."

"Beautiful?" Her ghostly white features scrunched into an injured expression. "Go on! Make fun of poor Myrtle. Look at her stringy hair. Look at her gawky glasses. Look at the pimple in the middle of her forehead. But she'd be really bea-u-ti-ful if she smiled once in awhile." She gulped as pearlescent tears dribbled down her nose. With a moan, she stretched her non-corporeal body into a misty arrow and aimed for the toilet. Water shot up like a geyser as she dived out of sight.

Wiping spray off his cheek, Harry grimaced, thinking of what a mean, petty rat he'd just been. A moment later, he fell asleep. He rested peacefully until Hermione woke him at six.

#

"This is embarrassing," Ron grumbled as Pigwidgeon did another barrel roll past his ear. "If Hagrid says today that familiars complement their guardians' natures, I think I'll explode."

Glancing from the fluttering owlet to Hedwig, perched sedately on his forearm, Harry had to admit he didn't buy that theory either. His animal wasn't displaying one twitch of the nervous excitement quivering inside him. Tonight was the night. Tonight he would interrogate Snape. He didn't know how he was going to get through a whole day of classes waiting.

Mud from last night's downpour squelched under Harry's feet, and he lifted his robes. Rounding a tumble of frost-encrusted blackberry vines, he and Ron joined the Magical Companions students already gathered by Hagrid's cabin. Hermione waved as Crookshanks wove around her ankles. Beside her, Neville poked through brambles on hands and knees. Evidently, he'd already lost his toad, Trevor. Ron acknowledged his sister Ginny with a curt nod, his eyes fixed jealously on the sleek silver fox she was hugging. The first day of class, Vixie had chosen her, bounding out of the woods straight into her arms. Harry had to agree--nobody else's familiar topped that.

Scowling at the tiny owl doing loop-de-loops around his head, Ron growled, "Behave, Pig."

Of the rest of the class, two Hufflepuffs had cats and three had dogs. The four Ravenclaws favored birds. No surprise, Crabbe had a pig. Eyeing the lazy green iguana perched atop Wilhelm's shoulder, Harry thought, There's a familiar that fits his guardian perfectly.

Pig back-flipped onto Ron's head. Before the owl could try another stunt, he thrust her under his arm. Without a word, Harry, Ron, and Hermione walked on, not stopping until they were huddled beneath a stand of pines still dripping with rain.

Harry leaned close. "Is the time-release powder ready?"

"Finished it last night." Hermione dropped her voice. "Let me emphasize that the interval between the truth granules and the dream granules kicking in will be brief--not more than ten minutes. You've got to be prepared."

Harry chafed his hands together to warm them. "I've had three sleepless weeks to think about it. I'll test him, then come right to the point. I'll ask where his loyalties--"

Ron nudged him. Looking back, Harry saw Hagrid plodding out of his hut, his pace unusually slow. Even so, Ariel Dane--barely reaching his elbow--slipped and slid across the mucky ground as she tried to keep up.

"More team teaching?" Harry asked. "How does the staff manage doubling up their classes?" Already McGonagall had guest lectured on animals and animagi, and Flitwick had described how familiars assisted wizards and witches in carrying out spells.

"The professors use Time-Turners," Hermione said knowledgeably. "At this very moment, Professor Dane is teaching first-years back in the castle. I guess she's here to tell us how familiars can give us warnings and help protect against dark magic."

"So long as Hagrid doesn't ask Trelawney to tell us how animals predict the future," Ron said. Then he frowned. "What's that hag doing here? She's not in this class."

Harry looked back to see Millicent lumbering out of the hut behind Professor Dane. Noticing the huge black cat draped around her neck like a great fur ruff, Harry surmised she'd hung back to avoid aggravating Hagrid's allergy. Even so, the half-giant exploded a sneeze into a red hanky the size of a tablecloth.

"I guess because she is a hag--from a long line of famous ones." Since claiming Millicent as a friend, Harry had looked up hags in the library. He'd learned they were women of exceptional clairvoyant abilities who'd chosen the guise of ugliness to avoid being dismissed as merely pretty. "She's probably here to assist Professor Dane."

Hermione nodded. "I wouldn't be surprised if her cat can predict the future."

Ron raised an eyebrow. "I thought you considered divination a load of codswallop."

"As Professor Trelawney does it, yes. She doesn't understand that divination by crystal ball has a lot more to do with temporal transfiguration than with eerie lighting."

Crookshanks meowed as if agreeing, and Harry glanced down. Following the ginger tom's yellow-eyed gaze to Millicent, he saw her black cat wink. Hedwig fluffed out her feathers, attempting to appear as large as possible in front of the bird-eaters.

"From what I've read," Hermione continued, "hags know their stuff."

"Bet she's aces at interpreting bat entrails," Ron said out the side of his mouth.

#

Millicent stood with her back to the class, her black cat peering over her shoulder. Harry passed his rock hand to hand, reluctant to throw it.

"Come on," Millicent said. "Bête Noire's beginning to think you don't trust him."

Faint laughter broke out around Harry. Swallowing hard, he raised his rock and tossed it. Neither Millicent nor Bête Noire flinched as it splashed in a puddle three feet short.

Crabbe tittered. "Potter, you throw like a girl."

"Oh, really?" Hermione muttered. She stepped up, aimed, and pitched her stone straight at the cat. Just before it would have hit, Millicent dodged to the left, saving both herself and the cat on her shoulder from getting smacked.

"Knew she'd do that," Hermione said.

Professor Dane smiled. "Milly's so attuned to Bête Noire, he's like eyes in the back of her head. Most animal companions will do that--warn you of danger--whether or not your bond is magical. But Milly's going to show us another level of communication. Bête Noire can help her read minds."

"Oh, right," Ron muttered.

Professor Dane turned her soft hazel eyes to him. "And you can help demonstrate. I'd like you and Neville to decide on a number using hand signs none of the rest of us can see."

The two walked off, hunched over to hide their gestures, then ambled back.

"Now, I want you both to imagine throwing that number of rocks at Milly."

Neville looked nervous but narrowed his eyes to stare at Millicent's back. Ron widened his eyes in a mockery of mental projection.

Bête Noire gazed at them, then nuzzled Millicent's ear. She broke out laughing. "Two-hundred and seventeen. But Longbottom wants everyone to know he would never do such a thing. And Weasley thinks this is one big joke."

Ron's gaping mouth told Harry his friend no longer scoffed at the possibility of communication between guardians and familiars. But an hour later, as the practice half of the period drew to a close and Harry's stomach rumbled for lunch, Ron was scoffing again--this time at the possibility of communication between him and Pigwidgeon.

"There's no way that flibbertigibbet is going to tell me anything. She won't even sit still." Ron glowered at his classmates' creatures--Hedwig who had told Harry how many twigs Hagrid held behind his back, Crookshanks who had guided a blindfolded Hermione around the boggy spots in the clearing, and all the other beasts that had given their guardians messages. When Ron's gaze lit on Neville, his frown deepened. Mr. Can't-Do-Anything-Right was still grinning at Trevor for having told him in which pocket he'd misplaced his wand.

"These things take time," Hermione said. "Most of us have been with our beasts a lot longer than--"

Ron jerked his head toward his sister who was sharing eye-to-eye communion with her fox. "About three months for Ginny, a year and a half for me. Though I have to say, I don't quite buy her claim that Vixie told her I love you."

Professor Dane strolled toward them. "Ron, you're the only one left. Won't you try again?"

Ron glared up at Pig zigzagging across the darkening sky. "Don't let me keep everyone from lunch. We'll starve before that bird even pays attention to me."

Professor Dane cocked her head. "I think she wants you to pay attention to her. Familiars, you know, complement their guardians' natures."

Please don't explode, Harry thought.

Instead, Ron looked defeated. "I was given that owl. I didn't pick her. She didn't pick me. She's okay for delivering letters short distances, but that's about it. For a real bond, I need a companion with something more than a birdbrain."

Wilhelm gave a superior snort. "Weasley, even bees can be familiars, even wasps or termites. The determining factor is not the animal but the wizard."

Harry saw Ron flush. In sympathy, he murmured, "I don't remember Avery's iguana telling him all that much."

Professor Dane shot Harry a warning glance, then laid her hand gently on Ron's shoulder. "I think Pigwidgeon zips around like that because she craves attention. She feels overshadowed, under-appreciated, untried. Look at me! she says. I'm special, too. All I need is a chance to show my stuff."

Harry sucked in a sharp breath. Professor Dane's evaluation was so accurate, it was frightening. If his friend had looked embarrassed before, he now looked stricken. The unpleasant truth was, Pig's behavior did complement her guardian's nature after all.

In subdued tones, Ron said, "Pigwidgeon. That's great. What an aerial gymnast you are. No bird can fly like you. Fantastic. Wow."

"There's the stuff," Hagrid whispered.

At first, Harry thought the owlet hadn't heard. Then she swooped down to Ron's shoulder and leaned her cheek against his, hooting softly. For once, he appeared to be concentrating on her. In a moment, his blue eyes widened.

"She says the rain is going to start up again, any minute now. She says it'll be a deluge."

Wilhelm snickered. The next instant, he threw his hood over his head.

En masse, students and animals raced through the pelting rain, up the slope to the castle.

#

Dripping and laughing, the Magical Companions class crowded into the entry way, hugging their animals and chattering about the morning. Only twelve more hours before I confront Snape, Harry told himself. If he didn't keep his mind off it, he'd never manage the wait. The way his stomach was growling, he wondered if he could wait the few minutes it would take for the Great Hall to open for lunch. He was eager to go inside, hang up his soggy cloak, and dip into a steaming stew.

Already, Hedwig had flown away to the owlery to sleep. Pigwidgeon remained cuddled against Ron's neck. Watching Crookshanks wander off with Bête Noire through a forest of ankles, Harry said, "I think they know each other."

"I've been wondering where he goes at night," Hermione answered.

Night. The word pulled Harry's thoughts straight back to Snape. Tonight, after three weeks of laborious preparation, they would finally settle the question of his loyalty once and for all.

As that certainty crossed his mind, Harry caught sight of the man himself trudging up the dungeon steps. When Snape paused to scowl at the sodden crowd, Harry resisted the urge to return a challenging grin. Just you wait, he thought.

Behind him, Harry could hear Hagrid gabbing with Professor Dane about the differences between British and American hinkypunks. When Snape fixed his cold black eyes on the half-giant's back, Harry tensed.

Raising his chin, the professor strode forward and stopped in front of Hagrid. "About that umbrella incident. I've sent my letter to the Ministry." His dark eyes flicked over to Professor Dane. He inclined his head in mocking acknowledgment of her presence, then swept on across the entry and down another corridor.

Anger boiled up inside Harry. Snape had ordered Malfoy not to complain to the Ministry of Magic. Instead, he was doing it himself. By what right! Hadn't Hagrid's unauthorized use of his old school wand helped save Dumbledore?

Gritting his teeth, Harry elbowed his way between students to tug on the sleeve of Hagrid's moleskin coat. The half-giant gave a start, then whirled around, almost knocking Harry over.

"I just want you to know I'm writing the Ministry, too," Harry said. "I'm going to tell them the truth about what happened."

A grin appeared under Hagrid's bristly beard. "Oh, will yeh, now?"

Ron and Hermione wedged in beside Harry.

"We weren't there, but we heard all about it," Hermione said. "We'll write, too."

"Tha's good news fer me. The word o' the professors will coun' more in a situation like this, but yer letters'll mean somethin'."

"It's the least we could do," Harry said.

Hagrid's smile broadened, and his dark eyes seemed to twinkle. "An' I have good news fer yeh, too. Le'me whisper it." Harry stood on tiptoes, while the half-giant lowered his shaggy head. "Professors Dumbledore an' McGonagall had quite a time convincin' the Board of Gov'ners, bu' we finally go' permission."

Perplexed, Harry stretched higher to catch Hagrid's excited murmur.

"Gryffindor gets ter show off a griffin after all. Waldo, this time. No mix-ups. He'll be comin' tomorrow, Saturday."

Slowly, Harry settled back down on his heels. He tried his best to return Hagrid's smile. Another griffin . . . as if he didn't have enough to worry about.

#

A minute past midnight, Harry stood with Hermione and Ron, tapping his foot on the damp tile floor of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. He tried to ignore the sobs coming from the end stall. Tonight the sight of him had set Myrtle wailing louder than the storm blowing outside. I'll make it up to her, he promised himself. After all of this was over, he'd steel himself for a visit and let her unload some more runes on him.

"What's keeping Dobby?" Ron muttered.

"Be patient," Hermione said. "You want him to make sure Professor Snape is asleep before he fetches us, don't you?"

I certainly do, Harry thought. Even so, these last few minutes of waiting were the hardest of the entire three weeks. To distract himself, he trailed his gaze over the bathroom's mold-spotted walls. They appeared to be crawling. The rain outside had brought ants--legions of them. By the flickering light of Hermione's magical blue fire, he could make out nine separate lines. At least there aren't any spiders.

"I wish this were over," Ron said. "I already know what Harry's going to find out. Ever since our first Potions class, Snape's given me the creeps."

Hermione shrugged. "I just remember being embarrassed. I came to Hogwarts believing that I'd already learned everything there was to know from reading my textbooks. Professor Snape put me soundly in my place. I remember finding it a bit exciting having such an authority for a teacher. I didn't actually think him creepy."

Harry stared at her. "Not even when he said he could show us how to stopper death? I couldn't believe a professor would boast he could teach us how to make poisons."

"How to make poisons?" Hermione's eyes went wide in amazement. "Is that what you thought he was saying?"

"Of course," Ron said. "Death equals poisons. He was saying he could show us how to make poisons we could put in bottles with stoppers. What else could he have meant?"

Hermione blew out her breath, clearly exasperated. "Antidotes, you idiots. Exactly what he did teach us last year. To stopper death meant to contain it so it has no effect--by learning how to make antidotes to poisons."

Harry's eyebrows knitted together. That interpretation had never occurred to him. From Ron's chagrined frown, he saw it was news to him, too.

"Well," Ron said grumpily, "remember the time Snape was so eager to poison Neville's toad? You've got to admit, that was creepy."

"I never said his teaching methods were gentle. He was just trying to emphasize the dangers of a badly made potion. And after demonstrating that Neville's concoction wasn't working, the professor would have given Trevor an antidote."

Ron cocked his head. "If that's your theory, why did you fix Neville's potion?"

Hermione returned a crooked smile. "Just in case."

The next moment, Harry heard a loud pop. He and his friends jumped, then turned to see Dobby grinning at them.

"It's time. Professor Severus is resting peacefully, ready to be liberated by Harry Potter."

#

When Harry entered Snape's office, the professor was lying silent and motionless on his massive mahogany desk--cheek to the blotter, arms akimbo, lank black hair tumbled everywhere. Only a slight flaring of his nostrils showed he wasn't actually dead. In succumbing to sleep, he'd knocked over a black metal statue of a gargoyle and rolled a crystal ball precariously close to the desk's edge. A lit candle a spare half-inch from Snape's splayed fingers told Harry how close they'd come to setting the professor on fire. The glass that had held the amontillado lay shattered on the floor. Some of the wine had splashed into four cages pushed up against the wall. The dozen fat white rats they housed were all sound asleep as well. Harry wrinkled his nose in distaste. Rats. Just the type of familiar he'd expect Snape to have.

Cautiously, Harry picked up the crystal ball and returned it to its stand. He wondered whether Snape had more success gazing into one than Trelawney did. Obviously, he hadn't foreseen a house elf slipping Somnoleveritaphantasmagoria powder into his evening goblet of wine. Harry just hoped he was conscious enough to be questioned.

Pulling his invisibility cloak low over his forehead, he began, "What is your name?" Hearing timidity in his tone, he coughed and tried again. "Tell me your name."

Slowly, Snape raised his head, drawn to attention by Harry's commanding voice. Thankfully, his eyes remained closed. "Professor Severus Snape," he answered. "Twelve Substantive Consummate Omnifarious Wizarding Levels with Honors, Certified Public Concoctionist, Grand Master Apotropaist, Head of Slytherin House, Potions Master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Harry shook his head. Even in sleep, Snape wanted to be sure of getting every scrap of respect he could. To verify he was truly under the influence of Verita Powder, Harry now had to ask an embarrassing question--one Snape would never answer unless compelled. "Two years ago, in the Shrieking Shack, who took away your wand and knocked you out?"

Harry heard a rumble deep in Snape's throat. The corners of his mouth turned down in a horrible grimace. At last he spat out, "Those brats. Granger, Weasley, and Potter. With a spell I taught them."

Harry smiled. "And who was the traitor, Black or Pettigrew?" Wherever Snape's loyalties lay, Harry surmised the professor knew the answer to that one. Either he really had thought Sirius guilty and his grudging handshake the year before had been evidence that Dumbledore had convinced him of the truth--or, as Voldemort's servant, Snape had known the truth all along and had been faking his righteous anger.

"Pettigrew," the professor snarled.

Good. Harry couldn't resist one more. "And who correctly identified the traitor, you or--?"

"Those brats."

"Who was wrong?"

"I was wrong."

Harry took a deep breath. The time had come. "Tell me: to whom do you owe your loyalty?"

This time Snape didn't answer. His eyelids trembled as if he were trying to wake up. His thin lips quivered, fighting their compulsion to release his secret. Harry leaned forward, anxious to resolve the issue once and for all: Voldemort or Dumbledore? He watched lines furrow Snape's forehead as he struggled against the Verita Powder, until at last he groaned, "Lily."

Harry gave such a start that his cloak dropped from his shoulders. "Wh-what did you say?"

Snape ran his tongue across his lips as if recalling a sweet long forgotten. More softly, he repeated, "Lily." Then he sighed, breathing the name in tones of deepest reverence, "Liiiileee."

Quickly, Harry grabbed his cloak and hid himself in it. Snape was awake, that was it. Snape was awake and playing a trick on him. He couldn't possibly be talking about . . . "My moth--Lily Potter?"

Snape growled. "Potter. A mistake. A deadly mistake. Lily should never have become . . . Potter."

Harry peered out from between the folds. As impossible as it was to fathom, Snape was still asleep--and he was talking about his mother.

"Lily!" Snape's head lolled to one side. "So kind . . . so wise . . . so gentle, so . . . giving."

Harry watched Snape's scowl relax into a tender smile he'd never seen before. And he didn't like it one bit. A cold lump forming in his stomach, he repeated, "Giving?"

Drowsily, Snape nodded. "Too giving . . . gave everything for . . . that boy . . . Potter's son. Lily . . . she gave her life."

Harry went cold all over. In a very small voice, he answered, "That's what mothers do."

"Mothers?" Snape snorted so loudly, Harry feared he'd wake himself up. "Not my mother . . . the only thing she ever gave me was . . . my name . . . ." His voice rose in a stilted imitation of a Mayfair dame. "Yes, darling. I thought having you in our lives would bring your father and me closer together . . . . Instead, all you did was . . . sever us." His head sank to the desk, and his shoulders shuddered.

Oh, no. He's crying. Embarrassed, Harry looked aside. "It's not your fault your mother . . . didn't love you." And it's not my fault my mother loved me. When he stole another glance at the professor, Harry realized Snape wasn't crying. He was laughing. And the sound was bitterer than tears.

"Not even . . . a Christmas present . . . . Posy picked them."

Harry frowned. Didn't people pick posies? Snape's mind was drifting toward the dream phase of the potion, leaving more questions than when Harry had begun. The ones about his mother were too disturbing. Resolutely, he returned to his original mission. "To whom are you faithful? Dumbledore or--"

"Door?" Snape raked his fingers through his disheveled black hair. "Waiting at . . . the door . . . faithful Posy . . . never gave her . . . even a Christmas present."

A house elf. Posy had been Snape's childhood house elf. Rich, snobbish, wizarding families always seemed to give them cutesy names like that. Exasperated, Harry said, "Forget Posy. Do you follow--"

"I did forget Posy." Snape's moan sounded bleak and lonely. "Posy . . . rosy . . . rosemary . . ." his head began rocking as if in time to a nursery tune ". . . pansy . . . fennel . . . columbine . . . rue . . . . Even an elf has the right to pursue . . . ." His words faded in a long sigh. "She's kind . . . and wise . . and gentle . . . and . . . ."

Harry gaped at Snape in horrified frustration. That hadn't been ten minutes--more like five. Three sleepless weeks slaving over Somnoleveritaphantasmagoria powder in Moaning Myrtle's dank restroom were going to waste before his eyes. Desperately, he shouted, "Tell me! Do you follow Voldemort!"

Too late. Snape's eyes were moving rapidly beneath the lids. "Lily! Stay back! I see him, the foul Bandersnatch--slithering through the violets . . . Lily, I can save you . . . please, Lily . . . don't go . . . ."

Harry stared at the sleeping professor. He'd lost him to phantasmagoria. And if he didn't leave soon, Snape would wake up, and he'd be in more of a fix than he'd ever been in before.

From the other side of the door that led to the staircase where Ron kept watch, Harry heard a clamorous crash as if every pot and pan in Hogwarts's kitchen had been heaved down the steps. Snape's eyelids started to rise.