Hubble, Bubble, Double Trouble

Hubble, Bubble, Double Trouble

Hogwarts: June 16th 1996, Late evening

Severus Snape ascended the final stair to the third floor of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry carrying a tray full of vials with the Wound-Cleaning potion requested by Poppy Pomfrey. She had just used the last to treat some of the injuries received by Potter's band of misguided friends after they returned from their (unauthorised) trip to the Ministry of Magic an hour earlier, and had sent him an urgent request for more. He strode down the corridor towards the hospital wing, black cape billowing turbulently behind him as he used an elbow to push his way through the double doors into Madam Pomfrey's domain.

"Ah, Severus," greeted the harried hospital nurse from halfway down the large, airy room. "Thank you for being so quick about it. If you could just pop them on the table at Mr Longbottom's bed, I'll be down there in a few minutes to tend to him."

She indicated towards the far left of the room with a nod of her greying head, but he couldn't see the Longbottom boy due to the (very alarming) number of woolly-jumpered Weasleys milling about one of the nearer beds.

Snape suppressed a sigh. How wonderful. The teenaged misfits had barely returned to the school grounds after their jolly jaunt to London and already their grieving families were here.

Nodding briefly, he left Poppy to attend to Granger (whose Muggle parents were blissfully absent - and a good thing too. If they were half as insufferable as their know-it-all daughter, he wasn't sure he'd be able to resist the urge to hex them) and headed towards the rear of the wing. His long strides soon had him level with the Weasley clan and he spared a brief glance at the beds they were currently huddled around.

Molly Weasley was busy flitting between her younger brats, straightening sheets and planting gooey kisses on their freckled foreheads (how revolting). Her husband, assured of his offspring's recovery, had wandered across the room to support Granger (no doubt using that as an excuse to rifle through her bedside cabinet for any errant Muggle contraptions she happened to have with her) and several of their older brats (including the Diseasley twins - the sight of whom curdled his stomach) were demanding a full account of their siblings' thrilling adventures with 'bonkers Bella' and her band of not-so-merry-men (the twins' exact words).

Ronald Weasley was half-reclining on his bed in a pair of very woeful-looking Chudley Cannon pyjamas, his lacerated face twisted in a maniacal grin while pointing at his bare foot as if he had never laid sight on such a thing in his life.

"Hahaha! Look, Mum, Dad. Toes! Five of them! Right on the end of my foot! How'd they get there?"

The youngest Weasley boy wiggled his toes in fascination and began pointing a finger at each in turn.

"One, two, buckle my shoe," he chuckled, eliciting sniggers from his twin siblings.

Snape resisted the urge to locate the brat's shoe and stuff it in his mouth, knowing his parents might take exception to it.

"Where is my shoe, anyway?" the teenager asked airily (as if reading his mind). Molly Weasley yanked his crumpled sheet back over his (stinking) foot. The boy frowned as she bustled away towards the neighbouring bed to fuss over her daughter's injury again (broken ankle, by the look of it. Pity the break wasn't a bit farther north - somewhere in the area of her neck, for example) then yanked the sheet back off his malodorous appendage to resume his count.

"Three, four, shut the door...oh! The door! Oi, shut the door, Snape. Were you born in a park?"

Snape?

The Potions Master clenched his jaw in annoyance.

"Were you born in a park?" prattled the delirious brat. "Hahaha! Hey, Ginny. Professor Snape was born in a park! A breezy, wheezy, windy park! What a gasbag! Hahaha!"

"Shut up, Ron!" hissed his sister, stealing a furtive glance at the glowering professor as her mother cuffed the raving red-headed boy.

"That's enough of that, Ronald Weasley!" barked the matronly witch, throwing a look of apology at Snape. "Injury is no excuse for rudeness!"

The Diseasley twins looked first at each other, then at their former teacher, and exploded into hearty guffaws.

"Windy gasbag!" gasped Fred. Or George.

Snape scowled at them as they rocked with laughter on the edge of Ron's bed (the younger Weasley boy would be getting a year's detention when he recovered, curse him), but they soon stopped when their mother turned to cuff them, too.

"Sorry, sir," offered their sister (not looking sorry at all. Probably only being polite because her parents were there. Brat!). "He doesn't mean it. We think he's been hit by a Confundus charm or something."

He paused momentarily at the foot of her bed to frown first at her, then at the (still grinning) Weasley boy. He'd like to hit the idiot with something a lot more dangerous than a Confundus charm - and he might have too, if he knew for certain that Poppy wouldn't flatten him with a bedpan (the school nurse could be a vicious shrew when the safety of her patients was at stake).

"Is that so?" the professor drawled. "And here I was, assuming that he had escaped his ill-advised adventure to the Department of Mysteries entirely unscathed."

His comment took the girl by surprise. She raised her eyebrows in question.

"His exhibition of utter idiocy does not seem too out of character to me," explained the professor silkily. His comment was lost on the rest of the noisy Weasleys, but she heard him loud and clear.

The girl clenched her jaw, looking very much as if she wanted to hobble off the bed and knee him in the unmentionables.

"And what of you, Miss Weasley? Not minding your step, I see. How very graceless of you."

"Actually I was minding my step..." began the girl in an equally soft, but deceptively sweet tone.

Too sweet. Snape frowned suspiciously as she opened her mouth to elaborate.

"...but one of your friends grabbed my ankle in the Room of Celestial Bodies after I escaped his Cruciatus curse and it broke when he toppled me."

Her face was a picture of innocence. Snape scowled. The brat had just called him a Death Eater (which was sort of true, but completely beside the point) under the very noses of her family, and she was gazing at him as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth!

He briefly considered breaking her other ankle, before dismissing it as an option.

Too many witnesses, after all.

Instead, he curled his lip into a sneer and marched past the freckled fright's hospital bed, determined to punish her for her cheek once she was released from Poppy's care (and, therefore, safely away from the watchful eye of her clueless parents).

Before he could get very far, a slight figure swayed towards him and came to a halt. He looked down to see the wispy blonde head of Luna Lovegood angled up in his direction, her protruding blue eyes staring at him with unnerving focus (for once).

"Hello, Professor Snape."

"Miss Lovegood," he acknowledged, wondering why in Merlin's name she was gawking at him. "I trust you are well?"

Not that he cared.

"Oh, I'm in the very best of health, Professor," she assured him with a genuine smile.

"Then why have you not returned to your dormitory? Madam Pomfrey is busy enough without your unnecessary presence to distract her."

The girl was unfazed by the sharpness of his tone. In fact, now that he thought about it, he had never seen anything rattle the blonde's ethereal composure.

"It's very nice of you to think about Madam Pomfrey's comfort, Professor," she replied serenely. "But then, that's the sort of person you are. Always so mindful of others."

Snape stared at her in disbelief. Was she serious? He carefully scrutinised her pale face, looking for signs of mischief, but it was as disgustingly sweet and open as ever.

"I am?" he enquired, before he could stop himself.

"Of course! You always help me in the classroom when I have trouble opening my jars..."

Hmph. Impatiently hexing the lid off the top of her ingredients jars because she usually spent ten precious minutes of her lessons futilely trying to untwist them would not be considered 'help' by anyone else.

"...and you let me count all the lacewing flies in your store cupboard last week. I enjoyed that very much..."

That had been a detention, damn it, for breaking his dragon-skull mortar and pestle with her shoe (which had somehow fallen from the ceiling of his classroom with enough force to destroy not only his potions accoutrements, but also to leave a foot-wide hole in his desk. What were her shoes made of, to cause such wanton destruction? And how could she lift her miniscule feet under the weight of them?).

"...and now, here you are, coming all the way up to the hospital wing just to make sure we're all safe and well!"

She beamed at him from under her lashes.

Make sure they were all safe and well? Merlin's beard! Clearly, the child was delusional.

"I'm taking a leaf from your book, Professor. I'm helping others, too. As a matter of fact, that's exactly why I'm still here."

Lovegood stole a cautious look around the room to check that no one could hear her, then rose on her tiptoes and whispered: "This room is full of Carnivorous Bumble-Bots, you know."

Carnivorous what? What in Merlin's name was the child blabbering on about this time?

Snape's forehead furrowed in confusion and, seeing his expression, Lovegood strove to educate him.

"You've never heard of them? Oh. That's surprising. They're little green fairies who live in hospitals. At least, I think they're green. No one's ever actually seen one. They're also invisible..."

Of course they were. Like her much-touted, but mysteriously elusive Crumple-Horned Wartbacks, apparently - or whatever it was she was always banging on about.

Lovegood, oblivious to his mental meanderings, carried on with her outrageous explanation. "...and lay their eggs in open wounds, where they hatch. The babies consume their unsuspecting host from the inside out."

What utter rubbish. Perhaps the girl had been injured at the Ministry, after all? She must have taken a blow to the head (probably fleeing from his 'friends' - a thought which made him throw another scowl at the Weasley girl). He returned his attention to Lovegood to see her thrusting a hand out in his direction. She uncurled a fist and showed him a soggy clump of dark pellets nestled in her pretty white handkerchief.

"Bumble-Bot droppings. I thought you might like them."

He scowled again, this time at her.

"Are you actually offering me a fistful of faeces?"

Her steady gaze never wavered. "It's more a handful of poo. But, yes. The droppings are very effective in sleeping draughts and Pain-Free potions. I thought you might like to use them in class."

Huffing in disgust, he shook his head.

"I have no need to scour the floors of a hospital wing for potions ingredients, Miss Lovegood," he snapped impatiently. "Though, it is strange that the waste products of these creatures are visible when they themselves are not. Don't you agree?"

"No, sir. Not at all," she answered, blithely contradicting him. "We couldn't see the droppings before because they were inside their bodies. But now that they're outside..."

She waved her hand in front of him and he took a disgusted step back as the faint smell of rotten eggs, old cabbage and vomit floated up his nostrils.

"...we can see them without any bother at all. So that means there are Bumble-Bots in the hospital wing. I'm keeping an eye out for them so they don't attack my friends while Madam Pomfrey's trying to heal them."

Lovegood swayed dreamily on the spot, fistful of (possible) poo in one hand and gripping her skirt with the other to swish it about her knees.

"I have lots of friends now, you know," she announced proudly, beaming in the Weasleys' direction, then over at Granger (who was busy swallowing a veritable plethora of steaming potions under the watchful gaze of Poppy Pomfrey - Arthur Weasley was using their joint distraction to discreetly hunt through the injured girl's cabinet). "More than I had before."

Ugh. How touching. It was a wonder she had any friends at all, if she went around offering people handfuls of something that looked as if it had been freshly excavated from between Ronald Weasley's newly-discovered toes.

"How truly fascinating, Miss Lovegood," he said (meaning exactly the opposite). "Nevertheless, I believe that Madam Pomfrey has enough to do without you getting in the way."

"Madam Pomfrey's not told her to leave yet," offered the unmistakable voice of one of the Weasley twins.

Snape turned his head to the left to see that both boys had sidled over to the far end of their brat sister's bed and were eavesdropping on his conversation with his younger student.

"I thought you gentlemen..."

He spat the word as if it were an insult.

"...had left Hogwarts for greener pastures," he said with a note of accusation (offended that they had dared to return).

One of the terrors sprang off the bed and sauntered over to stand beside Lovegood.

"True. But we needed some Bumble-Bot droppings to keep those pastures green. Didn't we, George?"

"Right you are, Fred..." said the other, moving to stand on the opposite side of the blonde. The brothers simultaneously put an arm each around the bemused girl. "...and our friend, Luna, offered to get some for us."

Lovegood beamed at the unexpected addition to the now-swelling ranks of her friends.

"Handy of Ron to get himself injured so that we had a good reason to come back and get them in the first place," said the first Weasley twin.

"That's not very nice, Fred," piped the Lovegood girl, admonishing her new friend. "Poor Ron didn't mean to get himself injured. That horrible brain hurt him a lot."

"Why am I not surprised to hear that Mr Weasley was injured by a brain?" said Snape sarcastically. "No doubt he did not recognise it for what it was, having none of his own to compare it with."

With that, he strode off with his tray of vials in hand, leaving the flushing Diseasleys and the manure-mad Lovegood girl gaping in his wake.

Insufferable idiots! Why on earth had Albus allowed the Terrible Twosome back onto school grounds? It wasn't as if their brother had died (unfortunately).

Unlike Sirius Black.

A smile threatened to break out over his sallow face.

Ah, yes. Sirius Black had finally done him the biggest favour of his life by dropping dead. How wonderful! How absolutely delightful! What a superb ending to the day!

In fact, the only thing that would have made the news perfect, would be if he had been witness to the actual event itself. As it was, he'd had to content himself with hearing it second-hand from Minerva McGonagall, who had received a brief note from the Headmaster before Dumbledore had locked himself in his office with Potter.

Still, dead was dead, whether he'd witnessed it or not. He must remember to thank bonkers Bella the next time he saw her (something which he would never normally deign to do, but his gratitude would at least have the added effect of making his cover as a spy for the Dark Lord that much more convincing).

This happy thought carried him down the hospital wing, past the few remaining empty beds and portraits of long-gone patients and staff that hung on the wall, and towards the bed at the foot of the room. Sitting on the edge of the bed nearest the cabinet and leaning over a bowl on top of it, was the worst excuse for a student ever to (dis)grace his Potions class. Neville Longbottom gingerly mopped blood from his face with a damp cloth. The boy hadn't noticed his approach yet, as absorbed in carefully wiping at his ruined nose as he was. Smirking, Snape slammed his tray of vials on the table at the foot of the bed with a bit more force than was strictly necessary. The boy jumped in fright, then yowled in pain as his hand inadvertently connected with his damaged nose.

"OW!"

He rolled his eyes in disgust. What an unmitigated wimp.

"Clumsy as ever, I see. Get a hold of yourself, Longbottom. It's only a broken nose, by the look of it, not a missing arm."

The boy glared - actually glared - at him. Snape's eyebrows climbed up his forehead in surprise. He would've expected more of a cringe from the useless idiot (which was his usual stance whenever the Potions Master was near), but, no. Apparently, the boy's little adventure in London had gifted him with a bit of backbone.

Time to strip it back out of him.

"Of all the students I would have expected to see trundling off to face the Dark Lord - based on some very poor intelligence provided by Harry Potter, no less - you would not have been one of them," he began. "No, I would have thought it more likely that your sense of self-preservation would have you cowering beneath your dormitory bed."

Longbottom flushed at the insult, but didn't answer. Instead, he dipped the cloth back in the bowl, wrung it out, and continued to wipe at his mangled features.

"Have you nothing to say for yourself?"

"I'b busy," mumbled the boy (rather impertinently, he thought. Another first).

"So I see. I must admit to surprise that you managed to escape the Ministry with little more than a minor injury to your face. What a relief it will be for your grandmother that you are marginally better at Defence Against the Dark Arts than you are at Potions - not that that would be difficult."

Longbottom paused in the act mopping of his face to clench his jaw and mumbled, "Dad's because I had a bedder deacher in Defence."

Despite the low tone he had used and the garbled words, the message was crystal clear. Snape was too shocked at first to reply. Had the boy given him cheek? Longbottom giving him cheek? What was the world coming to?

He reined in his surprise and found that he was torn between anger and amusement.

"Is that so? Then perhaps I should ask Professor Umbridge what the secret of her success is, if she is so able to make you pay attention and absorb your lessons," he snapped, knowing that the much-loathed professor was the last person on earth capable of keeping anyone absorbed in one of her 'lessons'.

He sighed in satisfaction when the boy dropped his cloth and turned to look at him fully.

"I wasn'd dalking aboud her. I mend Harry," replied Longbottom, with surprising firmness. Snape narrowed his eyes, but the boy did not so much as flinch.

Hmm. Interesting. If he'd known violence was the key to shaking the brat out of his cringing ways, he would have happily thumped him in his first year.

Come to think of it, he may very well have thumped him in his first year (and every year since). How odd that it had taken until now for the brat to demonstrate the fire lurking in his belly...

"Harry's da besd deacher I'b eber had, abard frob Brofessors Sbroud and Lubin," added the glowering boy, almost as if he had known it was the one thing guaranteed to irritate his teacher.

And irritate his teacher it did. "Don't be so ridiculous, Longbottom!" he growled unpleasantly. "Potter is hardly qualified to pass as a teacher. That takes years of dedicated study - a skill quite beyond the grasp of a fifteen-year-old boy!"

"Brofessor Lubin's nod fifdeen," Longbottom said with a note of unmistakable smugness.

Snape gripped the table at the end of the bed and leaned over it. The boy's eyes widened slightly (which pleased him), but he still didn't flinch (which annoyed him).

"But Lupin..."

He spat the name out without the title.

"...is no longer a member of staff at this school, is he? And we all know why that is, don't we?"

"Yes. It's because some interfering busybody let it be known that the poor chap suffers from lycanthropy," said a crisp, no-nonsense voice from a few feet away. Both professor and student stopped glaring at each other long enough to swivel round and see the newcomer.

"Gran!" exclaimed Longbottom, breaking into a grin - and then a worried frown (Snape sighed in satisfaction) - as his grandmother came to a halt by his teacher.

Dumbledore had spoken of Longbottom's grandmother on occasion, though Snape himself had never actually met the woman. By all accounts, she was a formidable person with a sharp tongue who fiercely opposed the Dark Lord and all his minions, even more so after her son's and daughter-in-law's torture at his servants' hands. As such, he found himself mildly curious as to her character and therefore, he took a few seconds to study her. She was clad in a green coat, with a fox stole wrapped around her neck. A red handbag hung over her right arm and she topped the look off with a small pointy hat decorated with a stuffed vulture.

Hmm. Her taste in clothes was certainly...eccentric. She couldn't be more than seventy, though she looked older than Dumbledore himself (who, at roughly one hundred and forty nine, was the oldest person Snape had ever known). Her iron grey hair was pinned back off her face and hidden somewhere under her hat, and there was an unmistakable air of authority around her.

How interesting...

His fascination with the old woman abruptly turned to offence when her sharp blue gaze swept insolently over his form. He stood stiffly and suffered it. The ugly bird wobbled violently as her head moved down over his robes and back up to his face. She wore an expression that clearly stated she had just found him lacking.

"Mr Snape, I presume?" she enquired, not waiting for his reply as she marched towards her grandson and inspected the damage to his face.

"Professor Snape," he corrected, irked at both her impudent inspection and deliberate omission of his hard-earned title.

She ignored him. "So. What's all this I hear about you flying down to London, hmm? And poking someone's eye out? Still, at least you had the sense to aim for a Death Eater and not one of your friends. I'm very proud of you, Neville. When Minerva told me the news, it reminded me very much of something your father might have done."

Longbottom was practically glowing with happiness (making Snape want to vomit). His grandmother tipped the boy's chin up and took further inventory of his injury.

"Ah, that's not so bad. A mere break. Poppy will have that fixed in a jiffy once she's tended the more serious injuries of your fellow students."

The elderly witch released her hold on the boy's chin and, without waiting for his response, turned to look at the (still fuming) man at the end of the bed.

"How kind of you to keep my grandson company until I arrived, Mr Snape. I had no idea you were so fond of him."

Mr

again! And he was more likely to be 'fond' of the Dark Lord than that bumbling idiot Longbottom. The old battleaxe was deliberately provoking him!

Still, he would die before he let an old woman best him.

"I am as...fond...of Mr Longbottom as I am of all my students," he said truthfully (he hated them all equally - with the exception of Draco Malfoy, who was tolerable enough). Longbottom snorted in disbelief (then yowled in pain).

"Oh, get a hold of yourself, Neville," muttered his (ancient) relative, unknowingly echoing his own remark to the boy a few minutes ago. She returned her attention to Snape, her blue eyes boring into his black ones. "Well, I'm pleased to hear that. And surprised. Neville never talks about you."

"Obviously, he realises that I value my privacy," replied Snape casually.

"Hmm. Would that be the same sort of privacy that the aforementioned Professor Lupin valued, I wonder?"

Again, Snape stiffened. Why on earth was the old bat so concerned with a mangy werewolf when her grandson sat bleeding on the bed a few inches away?

"I fail to see the relevance, madam."

"Then let me explain it to you. It's no secret that you and Professor Lupin are not exactly friends."

"Again, madam, I see no relevance to the subject at hand," he said, wondering where she got her information from if (as she alleged) her inept grandson hadn't told her - a grandson that, despite the pain of his nose, was watching the pair with interest.

"Come now, Mr Snape. It's perfectly clear to me that you are the very person who unmasked the poor fellow."

"How very astute you are, madam. Yet I fail to see what that has to do with my privacy," he countered, wishing now that he'd left as soon as she arrived.

"Really? You can't possibly be that obtuse, young man. It makes you a hypocrite, of course. How can you stand there and preach about your privacy when you have no compunction in denying others their own?"

Merlin! The old woman was irritating beyond belief! How dare she call him obtuse! And a hypocrite! Or stand there and lecture him about morals in front of her (smirking) grandson!

Unwilling to be cowed by the walking corpse, he drew himself to his full height and cocked an eyebrow at her, keeping his voice as level as possible (wouldn't do to be openly rude to a student's relative - and on school grounds, too).

"You surprise me, madam. I would have thought the safety of your grandson was more important to you than the reputation of a mere stranger. Or does it not concern you that he may have been in serious danger from his own teacher, someone who was supposed to protect him?"

The withered hag arched one of her own pencil-thin eyebrows right back at him.

"Nonsense! Albus Dumbledore would hardly have let the man enter the school grounds without making adequate provision for his unfortunate condition."

Snape almost balked. "Madam, the man in question almost ripped apart three students because he forgot to take his potions!"

She was unperturbed by his declaration. "I believe that that was down to some rather extenuating circumstances, or so Albus told me after the fact."

Dumbledore! So that's where she had her information from! He should've known. More than one concerned parent had not been content to merely send the Headmaster a letter expressing their disapproval at his selection of staff members - quite a few had found it necessary to visit and voice their opinions. But the old wizard hadn't let slip that Augusta Longbottom had expressed disappointment at his acceptance of Lupin's resignation.

How very typical of Dumbledore! Always at least one secret tucked away in the dark corners of his lemon sherbet-riddled mind.

And how very typical of him to let slip the less than friendly relationship he 'enjoyed' with Lupin to the wolfman's only admirer. If he had let it slip. Knowing the Headmaster, he had more than likely deliberately hinted at the animosity between the two and let her draw her own conclusions so that he, Severus, would feel at least some wrath for forcing the resignation of Albus' pet werewolf. It was, after all, inevitable that she, as Longbottom's guardian, would one day run in to him and take him to task for it.

He silently fumed at the Headmaster's sly ways.

"The only extenuating circumstances were that he forgot to take his potion and almost slaughtered three students and a member of staff," stated Snape in a voice of authority - which was completely lost on his opponent (Longbottom looked as if he was about to pull out a placard of support in his grandmother's favour and start waving it around the hospital wing).

"Then what a jolly good thing the member of staff in question was yourself. Aware as you are of the duty of a teacher to - what did you say? - protect his students, you would have had no hesitation in throwing yourself into the werewolf's path before it sank its teeth into young Mr Potter or his brave friends. That would have distracted it long enough to allow their escape. Not that you would have made much of a meal, skinny as you are, but it would've given them enough time to reach the school. And, better your life than theirs, as I'm sure you'll agree."

Merlin's wand! She had more or less just wished him dead to his face - and in front of her grinning brat, too!

The witch stared at him expectantly, as if waiting for him to confirm that he would have been happy to make himself werewolf fodder (and for that particular werewolf) for the likes of Potter, Weasley and Granger. He gnashed his teeth and fought the urge to cast a Constriction curse on the fox stole which was draped so invitingly around her shrivelled neck.

"I am certain that the Headmaster would have already informed you that it did not come to that. Lupin was distracted by something else," he drawled as nonchalantly as possible.

"I do believe you mean that the werewolf was distracted by someone else," she drawled right back, "namely young Harry Potter. As for Professor Lupin, he was not responsible for his actions, being trapped in his own mind as he was."

Longbottom was nodding in agreement beside his decrepit relative and Snape almost sneered in disgust at the obvious Lupin love-fest that was unfolding before his very eyes. What was it about that insufferable mutt that inspired such devotion in people? It was nauseating!

"You are aware, are you not, that it is almost impossible for anyone suffering from lycanthropy to find gainful employment once their condition becomes common knowledge? And that your callous disregard for his welfare has no doubt left the young professor in considerable hardship these past two years?" demanded the witch.

"I am sure that Mr Lupin would be delighted to know you are so concerned for his welfare," he said, flicking lint off the arm of his robe. "But then, if you are so concerned by it, perhaps you should offer him employment yourself? As a private tutor for your grandson, perhaps? That way, you may kill two birds with one stone..."

And Lupin may kill two Longbottoms with one swipe - something that he would now consider a personal favour.

"...firstly by seeing the former professor in gainful employment, and secondly by furnishing your grandson with some much-needed remedial tuition."

The old hag straightened herself up and favoured him with a hot glare (not that it bothered him. No one could glare with quite the same effectiveness as the Dark Lord).

"My grandson has no need for remedial lessons of any kind," she barked in affront, laying a hand on the boy's knee and gripping it with such force that her fingers turned white (and Longbottom's face turned red).

Delighted at her reaction, Snape leaned into the table and arched a brow. "Indeed? Then it appears he has not kept you abreast of his lamentable efforts in my Potions classroom. I would be very surprised if he achieves a grade higher than a Troll when he receives his O.W.L. results. Perhaps you should consider remedial lessons in that subject? Lupin is a passable potioneer - or rather, he is at least able enough to teach Mr Longbottom the basics."

Longbottom flushed a dull, dark red and shot his grandmother a wary glance. But the old woman was too busy engaged in battle elsewhere to bother about him (for the present).

"I beg your pardon, Mr Snape..."

His hackles rose again.

"...obviously, I have not made myself clear: my grandson is in no need of remedial lessons in any subject of worth."

Had the old bat just called his area of academic expertise worthless?

"Potions is one of the most demanding and rewarding subjects on offer at this school. It is a most desirable subject with depth and passion, one which requires skill and dedication - both to learn and to teach!" he snapped, trying to rein in his temper and restrict his fury to no more than a dark glower (he would have much preferred to see her writhing on the ground under one of his Cruciatus curses, but Poppy may object to that on the grounds that it would disturb her patients).

"Then perhaps it is high time Albus found someone suitable to teach it," barked the old woman (loud enough to draw curious gazes from the Weasleys - the youngest of whom gave Longbottom a wink of support).

"Are you suggesting I am not?" he demanded, unconsciously taking a dangerous step forward (which made the boy frown).

"You are extrapolating that suggestion of your own volition," she retorted (taking a step forward of her own).

Snape fumed. He'd like to extrapolate her heart - through her annoyingly big mouth.

"But, as you have seen fit to mention it," she continued in a tone of excessive (and obviously false) politeness, "I have to wonder at your effectiveness in the post, given the rate of cauldrons Neville makes his way through each year under your tutelage."

"I am afraid I cannot take credit for that," Snape seethed, attempting to control his anger by breathing deeply through his (enormous) nose. "That is down to his own ineptness in the subject matter."

The witch huffed in what could only be disbelief. "Is that so? Are you telling me that after five years of Potions under your allegedly superior instruction, he is unable to concoct so much as a Boil-Cure potion without burning a hole in his cauldron? Because if you are, that tells me more about your method of teaching than his adeptness of the subject matter."

She uttered the last two words as if they were curses and Snape clenched his fists at his sides. The urge to smite her on the spot was becoming an almost living thing, twisting in his gut. How the devil did Longbottom put up with the infuriating hag for an entire summer each year? Perhaps he should give the brat House points simply for surviving those eight weeks without returning to Hogwarts a snivelling wreck.

"My teaching methods are not at fault, madam," he growled, "as Headmaster Dumbledore himself would tell you, if you cared to ask. He holds my skill in very high regard."

"The regard in which your students hold you should be of more import to you, young man," the Longbottom matriarch said with a note of disapproval.

"Forgive me, madam. I was not aware that you were speaking from your own experience as a teacher," he replied smoothly, knowing full well that she had never been one at all (in Hogwarts, at least). "In my humble experience, however, it is of greater import to meet the approval of my employer and to carry out my duties to the best of my abilities, than it is to coddle a class full of teenagers. I merely expect them to attend their lessons, pay attention to what I say and be adequate students. I do not care if I win any popularity contests."

"That's a jolly good thing then, isn't it? Because, from what I've heard, your chances of winning a popularity contest are directly proportionate to your chances of wearing a splash of colour. But I am disappointed that you merely expect your students to be adequate. If you took any sort of pride in your work, I would have thought you preferred them to excel."

Slytherin's eyeballs, but the old bat was sharp! That was a slip on his part that he had regretted as soon as he'd said it, but he had hoped that she wouldn't pick up on it.

A rather foolish hope, as it appeared.

Damn Dumbledore for putting him in her bad books! Damn Lupin for being the cause of all this grief in the first place! And damn the newly-confident Longbottom for smirking in that annoyingly Potter-esque manner! No doubt the brat was loving this!

The (very) peeved professor and the (really very) grim granny stood locked in a battle of wills, glaring at each other as they waited to see who would throw the next barb. Snape briefly debated leaving the (very unexpected) face-off (he'd only come in to drop off a blasted tray full of Wound-Cleaning potion, damn it!), but he would rather snog Potter Jnr than admit defeat to either the (hideous) Pure-blood princess glowering at him a few feet away, or her smug grand-spawn (Longbottom was violently sucking in his cheeks in an attempt to control his laughter).

Counting to ten, Snape took another deep breath and allowed it to slowly cleanse him of his ire before he replied.

"I expect all my students to excel...within the boundaries of their own abilities, of course. Some achieve this better than others..."

He threw a disdainful glance at the bleeding behemoth on the bed.

"...while those that don't... Well, their strengths may lie in other directions."

As a (slowly) moving target, for example. Longbottom wasn't good for anything else.

To his surprise, the old woman nodded.

"I quite agree," she said conversationally. "Some people, like my brave grandson here, tend to make excellent Aurors, while others, less skilled, may have to concentrate on a more sedate, less demanding profession..."

If she said what he thought she was going to say...

"...teaching, for example."

She offered him a thin-lipped smile of barely concealed scorn.

That was it! The gauntlet had been thrown and the gloves were off! She would pay for that insult!

Pulling himself up to his full height (to prove his physical superiority) and staring straight into her wrinkle-ridden face (to intimidate her), Snape attempted an expression of innocent serenity (à la Lovegood) and launched his (very polite) assault.

"Do you mean the type of profession favoured by Mr Lupin? Or Professor McGonagall? Headmaster Dumbledore? I, for one, would not count these venerable personages among the - oh, what was that term you used? - less skilled."

It pleased him no end to see her flush.

Then it annoyed him no end to hear Longbottom mumble: "You didn'd dink so ruddy buch ob Brofessor Lubin den binutes ago."

Longbottom Snr frowned. "I appreciate the input, Neville, but if I hear you using language like that again, I'll scrub your tongue with a wire brush."

The brat paled at his grandmother's threat, which the woman had uttered without removing her piercing blue gaze from Snape's face (he tightened his Occlumency shields, just in case).

"As for skills, I don't recall stating that teaching required none at all. Heavens, just imagine if that were the case! Why, any idiot off the street could just walk in and pass himself off as a professor..."

Which Snape had more or less done. He'd had no official training before Dumbledore offered him the post (not having needed any. His skill in the subject he taught was absolutely, and without question, superior to anyone else's). Not that the venomous crow could possibly know that, but her glib remark touched a nerve.

"...although, it can't be denied that Hogwarts has had its share of idiot professors. That buffoon Lockhart, for example. And, more recently, that incompetent Ministry sycophant, Umbridge. Where is the deuced woman, anyway?"

"Oud in de foresd wid de cendaurs," offered Longbottom helpfully.

His grandmother frowned. "What? Why the devil is she frolicking around with centaurs when her students are in danger? What is the stupid woman all about? Still, there you have a prime example of some of the chaff still infesting the wheat of Hogwarts staff, Mr Snape. Even in the most respected of institutions, there is bound to be the odd idiot or two floating around..."

She was clearly referring to him.

"...though, for the most part, the professors of this establishment are very highly skilled. As a general rule, though, it is hardly necessary for, say, an Astronomy or Potions professor, to be as competent in the art of duelling as an Auror. Unless of course, said Potions professor is teaching a class full of Death Eaters..."

"Which he is. Dey're de Slydderins," mumbled the brat (Snape was livid).

"...which is highly unlikely, I'm sure," said his grandmother, rolling her eyes at her young relative's remark. "Therefore, he - or she - may not be as adept with their wands in battle as my Neville, for instance."

Even Longbottom flushed at the witch's insinuation that Snape was less competent with a wand than he was.

But the boy didn't flush as much as the beleaguered Potions Master. He was seething.

Less adept with a wand than Longbottom? Less adept with a wand than Longbottom? Was the miserable old wart completely serious?

"Albus is an exception to the rule, of course," prattled the current bane of his existence. "We all know about his competence in battle after his defeat of Grindelwald. Minerva, as Deputy Headmistress, would have to be adept given that she is responsible for the school when he is absent. And Professor Lupin was - and is - superb with his wand, which is only natural, given that he was responsible for instructing students in Defence Against the Darks Arts. No doubt his excellent tutelage was partly responsible for Neville's spectacular performance at the Ministry this evening, as well as the instruction he received from young Harry Potter. Of course, there's a great deal of natural talent involved as well, but Neville is a Longbottom, so it's only natural he has that in abundance..."

Longbottom was cringing in embarrassment on the edge of his blood-spattered bed.

"...but teachers in less demanding positions have the luxury of relaxing a little more. Basic defence is all that's required - enough to fight off milder threats while they see their students to safety and let the more seasoned fighters deal with the bigger ones. It must be a great comfort to you, Mr Snape, to know that there are those present who are willing to sacrifice themselves - Albus, Minerva, Neville and Harry Potter - so that you may reach safety in the event of a school-wide attack."

MERLIN'S BEARD!!!

Was she actually suggesting that he would turn tail and run for the hills while old-aged pensioners and children covered his back?

"I do believe that I am competent enough to fight off a mild threat," he hissed (not trusting himself to raise his voice any louder in case he started screaming at her and alerted the already curious people in the hospital wing to his dilemma - they were still staring down in his direction). "Although, I'm not entirely certain that the same could be said about young Mr Longbottom, here. Not any more."

He jerked his head in the (grinning) boy's direction (the grin promptly slid off the brat's face as he wondered what his teacher had in store next).

"Don't be so absurd. If he can confront a group of Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries, an intruder at his school shouldn't pose too much of a challenge," retorted the witch primly.

It took an almost Herculean effort not to reach out and wring her scrawny neck, but there were other, more civil, ways of bursting her bubble of familial pride.

Especially when he knew something that she did not. Something which the Deputy Headmistress obviously hadn't told her before she'd sent the hag up to the hospital wing (waiting for the brat to spill the beans to his crusty relative himself, no doubt).

Something which the Deputy Headmistress had told him.

Sensing victory, he plastered a look of (false) regret on his face and shook his head theatrically.

"Under any other circumstances, I would, of course, agree with you..."

A lie.

"...however, I fear the sad destruction of his wand at the Ministry this evening would prove a barrier in his effectiveness against any future threats that may arise at school. Unless he was willing to fend off the threat by throwing a cauldron or two at his unfortunate opponent."

His barb hit home. The elderly witch's face turned ashen, and her not-so-brave-now grandson was actually trying to flatten himself against the headboard of his bed (in the vain hope of escaping her attention).

Well, well, well. How nicely the tables had turned! Now she was the one fighting to breathe normally (she had turned from white with shock to scarlet with fury and, for one golden moment, he thought she might actually give in to her advanced years and infarct on the spot - how very fortunate they were in the hospital wing). He, however, was in full control of his faculties once more. It seemed that Minerva had been correct about how 'devastated' she would be to hear of the wand's loss, given that it had been her son's before it was her grandson's.

But his triumph turned sour when her eyes moistened suspiciously. Slytherin's sockets! If she started howling, he might actually infarct before she ever did. Did the blasted wand really mean that much to her?

A sliver of guilt crawled up his spine. Of course it must. It was the last true connection to the man her son had once been. What on earth had possessed him to be so petty?

But the woman recovered herself admirably with a (massive, watery) sniff and blinked back the evidence of her distress.

"Well, then. I suppose we'll just have to get him a new one, won't we?"

Longbottom slumped away from the headboard in relief.

"He'll need it to protect defenceless students..."

She pierced him with her canny gaze and he knew that she knew he had only told her about the wand to provoke her.

"...and equally defenceless teachers."

All feelings of guilt vanished.

"And now, Mr Snape..."

He bristled.

"...as much as I am grateful to you for keeping my boy company until my arrival..."

Her tone clearly said she was anything but grateful (not that he had been 'keeping her boy company' in the first place. Not in a million years).

"...you can see for yourself that I have now arrived..."

All five feet one inch of her (five and a half feet, with the vulture-topped hat).

"...and would now be grateful if you would do me the courtesy of departing, so that I may spend some quality time with him. Alone."

In other words: get lost.

Which was fine with him. He had absolutely no desire to linger and watch her fawn over her incompetent grand-spawn (not that she struck him for one minute as the sort of person who would fawn over anyone. Indeed, she was so crisp and prim - and unexpectedly vicious - that he was staggered her late husband had risked his life to reproduce with her in the first place).

"It would be my pleasure, madam," Snape said solicitously, offering a courteous nod and turning on his heel. He threw the Longbottom brat a glare, and saw the boy was glaring right back at him (obviously angry that Snape had upset his grandmother - either that or furious that he had tried get him into trouble with her for breaking his father's wand before he had a chance to explain what happened). "Mr Longbottom, I trust you will be well enough to attend your class in the morning?"

Something Snape was looking forward to. It would give him the chance to assign the mother of all detentions to the brat - half for his own cheek, half for his rabid grandmother's.

"I'll be der," the boy promised, then added, "wouldn't biss id for de world, Mr Snabe."

A low growl began to build at the bottom of his throat, and Snape knew he'd better escape the hospital wing before it escaped his mouth (and he bodily launched himself at the impudent half-wit).

Curse the brat!!!

With a final sneer, he stalked away from the gormless Gryffindor and his uncanny granny and stormed swiftly down the middle of the room, in far too much of a bad mood to acknowledge Poppy's gratitude for the Wound-Cleaning potion he had brought her (she was heading towards the Lupin-loving Longbottoms as he departed and he briefly debated warning her against that unwise course of action. Let the brat bleed to death). He snarled in the Diseasley's direction when they offered him a Pleasant Breath pastille (inferring that he suffered from halitosis - their brother and sister would pay for that on their behalf); scowled at Lovegood when she renewed her offer of Bumble-Bot droppings (her pretty white handkerchief was now pretty bloody disgusting, having absorbed much of the grey-brown moisture oozing off the pellets nestling in its centre) and swerved past Arthur Weasley (who was jigging his way across the wing, holding a flat, circular contraption with wires hanging out of it that he'd inserted into his ears. It seemed that - against all odds - he had discovered some Muggle device in Granger's cabinet after all).

Mr Snabe

, indeed!

It appeared that the only thing more unpleasant than one Longbottom, was two of them. But, although Junior may be on some sort of momentary adrenaline rush after his lucky escape at the Ministry, he would soon plummet from those lofty heights of exhilaration and discover that he was nothing more than a useless lump.

And 'Mr Snabe' would be there to reinforce that.

Not only that, but he would suffer for all the grief his ghastly grandmother had thrown at him, too. Oh, yes. Longbottom Snr would not be able to protect her precious grandson from his wrath in the safety of his own classroom (unless she accompanied him into it - a thought which made him shudder). Junior would pay for all those snide comments about his idiocy, his cowardice, his inability to wield a wand, his hypocrisy, his reliance on the elderly to protect his own, fleeing back!

And for each and every time she had called him Mr Snape (all seven of them)!

With one final growl of disgust, he barged his way through the wing's double doors and set off to plan the next seventy years of Longbottom's life - in detention, of course.

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