Games of Skill And Chance

Games of skill and chance

By Snowballjane

1 - A Game of Risk

***

Tap-tap-tap.

The click of the wooden cane on the grey stone floor echoed along the second floor corridor causing Severus Snape to inwardly curse the loss of the element of surprise. Would his dratted hip never heal? He sighed. He could almost hear Poppy Pomfrey's voice in reply: Not if you keep over-exerting it, prowling the corridors at night.

Still, he thought best while walking, even if that did cause him a certain amount of pain these days. And there was a lot to think about. It would be well worth the pain if walking brought some clarity to his endlessly circling thoughts about where he might find his place in this strange post-war world.

He had agreed to see the school through the autumn term, to give McGonagall chance to find her feet as headmistress before she had to start recruiting additional new staff. All through the first week of lessons he had been mentally ticking off potions, saying to himself, that's the last time I'll ever have to teach that one.

But while he was counting down the days until he could put this absurd sham of a teaching career behind him, every ticked off potion brought him a step closer to making the dreaded decision about what came next.

A burst of laughter rang out from the far end of the corridor, followed by voices and urgent shushing. Snape lifted his stick and inelegantly but silently hobbled the rest of the length of the second floor without it. The voices were coming from an alcove beside the stairwell.

"Gentlemen," said Snape, stepping into the alcove and resting his weight back on the cane with some relief. "What have we here?"

Four boys looked up at him with identical expressions of surprise and horror. As they jumped to their feet, one of them knocked a cardboard world map spread on the floor, causing a tiny yellow soldier to tumble into the Pacific Ocean.

"S-sir," stammered a first-year Snape recognised as Rupert Dingwall, a Ravenclaw. "We were just finishing the game."

"And why couldn't you do this in your Common Room?" demanded Snape. He realised the answer as he asked. The other three boys were Slytherin first years. Inter-house late night board games were still impossible. The greater evil might have been defeated, but the stupid cruelty of the house system remained. It looked like it was to be hard luck on Dingwall - custom dictated that this fragile new friendship between the first years would not last in the face of house loyalties. "Never mind. Put the game away and get to your rooms. And this will cost you five points each for being out late."

The boys looked despondent at having lost their houses the points, but stooped to put away the game with no further backchat.

"Wait," said Snape. "You said you were almost finished?"

The boys looked up with nervous hope shining in their eyes. Interesting, thought Snape. They haven't been here long enough to decide whether what the older brats say about me is true. He sighed and pulled out his wand.

"Commoro" he said, tapping the board. "That will hold your pieces in place until you get a chance to finish the game."

"Thank you, sir," mumbled Nicolas Kohler, the smallest of the Slytherins. The first years gathered up the rest of the game and shuffled out of the alcove setting off towards their dormitories.

As Snape took a few steps along the corridor he discovered his leg had stiffened up while he had stopped to deal with the gaming students. He hissed through his teeth at the pain which was momentarily dizzying and was forced to stop for a moment, leaning against the wall and screwing his eyes tightly shut. There was a patter of running footsteps and when he opened his eyes, four boys were gathered in front of him looking concerned.

"Sir?"

"Are you all right?"

"Do you need Madame Pomfrey?"

"No!" he shouted, then rolled his eyes as the students backed away nervously. He tried to make his voice sound reassuring, the last thing he needed was students running off to the hospital wing to report that he too was illicitly out of bed. "She'll only fuss."

He might have succeeded in preventing them running off to Pomfrey, but the youngsters didn't seem as though they would be satisfied by anything less than seeing him safely to his rooms. The situation was so very ironic that contemplating it lightened his mood considerably. On the way to the dungeons he quizzed the quartet on the nature of the game.

"It's a Muggle game," explained Kohler with enthusiasm. "Rupert brought it with him. It's brilliant, all about tactics and stuff, but it goes on for hours until someone wins."

Looking back on his next comment, Snape would later conclude that it must have been the lasting effects of the dizziness and pain fuddling his head.

"If you need somewhere to complete the game, I'll be marking papers in the potions classroom on Thursday evening," he said.

Having been safely delivered to his rooms and shooed the first years off to theirs, Severus Snape collapsed into a deep armchair, shaking his head.

Definitely the dizziness

, he thought to himself.

2 - Solitaire

Dark, bitter and powerful. Strange, how characteristics so dangerous in a wizard could be so perfect in a cup of coffee, thought Snape as he breathed in the steam rising from his breakfast cup.

In front of him the hall was filling up with students. A team fresh from early morning practice was piling bacon onto plates, a bleary-eyed sixth year girl appeared to be making a last ditch attempt to finish homework with quill in one hand and toast in the other, first years made light-hearted fun of each other's morning hair.

The cacophony of laughter and banter grated on his nerves. Your last term, he reminded himself, flicking to the jobs pages of the Daily Prophet spread in front of him. Shop work, hospital work, no, he didn't think he was cut of for either of those. Pen-pusher at the ministry, not bloody likely.

He looked up at the hall again. The dark-haired Ravenclaw boy, Dingwall, was sitting alone at his house table with a wistful, lost air. Despite his best efforts, Snape felt a pang of sympathy for the boy.

Damn stupid hat, damn stupid system. He took another gulp of coffee.

It was only then that he remembered his idiotic offer the previous evening. Why? What on earth was he thinking giving away the peace of his dungeons at the drop of a hat to a group of undoubtedly noisy boys? Well, perhaps they wouldn't take him up on the offer after all. He would be teaching them all before Thursday and could certainly scare them off.

***

The last ever essays on the interactions of mercury with magical ingredients

, he thought as his quill scratched its way across yet another hopeless piece of homework.

There was a knock at the door and in answer to his sharp "Yes!" four boys tumbled into the room carrying their game.

Snape was astonished. He had shouted at their classes and picked unkindly at their faults in potions brewing. Was there no way of putting them off? Had one moment of weakness marked him out forever as a kindly teacher who ran some kind of games club?

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell them he'd changed his mind, that the room wasn't available for games. But the cheerful young Ravenclaw in front of him was such a contrast with the one who he had observed sitting alone at meals every day this week - a pointed reminder of another boy who had so often eaten alone.

"Keep the noise down," he told them, waving them over to a table where they could spread out the game.

An hour later he was distracted from his marking by a cheer and looked up to see the skinny Slytherin Roger Treaster doing a victory dance. He frowned at the noise, but was forced to admit to himself that the quiet buzz of voices and rattle of dice hadn't actually been all that bad while he was marking.

"Well done, Mr Treaster, I take it the game is over."

"Yeah, sir, I whopped their asses!"

"Be very careful Mr Treaster, I have been known to remove points for vulgar Americanisms," he said, keeping a straight face despite the surprising laughter threatening to bubble up.

The boys packed away the game and made their way out of the classroom. The door thudded to behind them. A second later it opened again.

"Sir?" said a clearly nervously Kohler. "Are you always marking here on a Thursday evening?"

"As a general rule Mr Kohler."

"Then could we meet down here again?" he asked, then suddenly blurted out: "Or could we get Rupert switched into Slytherin? Because none of the Ravenclaws talk to him, just because he started hanging around with us on the train before we were even sorted."

"There's no going against the hat Mr Kohler." Snape paused, hardly able to believe what he was about to allow. "But so long as you play quietly you may use the dungeons once a week."

***

What is Pomfrey putting in that Slow Skele-gro?

he wondered after Kohler left. The medi-witch had devised the potion that would knit his shattered hip back together. Being no simple break it was taking time to heal correctly even with magical cures. Could the new potion have some kind of mood altering side-effects?

He pulled down some books and began to search for information.

3 - Exploding Snap

He awoke with a start, drawing a rasping breath as though he had been drowning in the tangle of his dreams. Images scattered leaving only an impression of noise and confusion as he felt his pulse rate gradually settle to normal. He realised he had been fighting Voldemort in his sleep once again.

As if in response to the thought, his hip twinged painfully. "Lumos," he muttered, conjuring a light by which he could find the painkilling potion tucked between the stacks of books piled on the table beside his bed.

As he waited for the potion to take effect he flicked lazily through one of the books. There was nothing to suggest that the potions he was taking would suddenly cause him to start coddling the pupils. It was inexplicable. There had been plenty of lonely children who had passed through his lessons and he had never before felt compelled to interfere in the nasty politics of boys' friendships. Life was tough and it was as well to learn early that you could only really rely on yourself.

Keeping an eye on Potter had been different. Part repayment of debt, part essential duty to ensure the boy fulfilled the prophecy.

Which made it all the funnier really that they'd got it all so wrong.

His grip on the book loosened and he slipped into sleep.

***

In his dream he lies on the Quidditch pitch-turned-battlefield, unable to move. All around him are Hogwarts staff, Order members and Aurors, locked in combat with Death Eaters who are letting rip with Unforgivables with no more qualms than a second year using tickling charms.

He sees Potter fighting his way across the field towards Voldemort, the seventh year student looking grim and determined, flanked by his ever-present friends.

The dark wizard turns to focus his attention on the boy. It will all be over soon, one way or the other.

Then, out of nowhere, a zigzagging bolt of green fire striking Voldemort in the head. The Dark Lord crumpling to the ground.

Off to one side of the action Neville Longbottom is standing, wide-eyed in shock at the effects of his spectacular misfire.

"Oops," says Longbottom in the dream, although Snape knows there was too much battle noise for him to have heard the boy speak in reality. And then Snape is laughing, high-pitched, hysterically, unstoppably. And the war is over.

***

The first year students returned the next Thursday and played their game while he marked papers. It was not entirely annoying. Roger, Rupert, Nicolas and the quietest of the Slytherins, Dafydd, were polite, quiet and respectful. All were obviously bright and he had been pleased to see they all worked diligently in potions classes.

Perhaps there was no harm in it. After all this was his last term in teaching. There was little need to worry about his reputation any longer. And anyway, somehow the marking was less of a chore with the gamers present than it was in a silent, empty laboratory.

By the third Thursday he greeted them with an almost-cheerful "good evening" that would have left his older students stunned.

The friends set up their game and Snape turned to a pile of third year homework, dipping his quill into a well of red ink. He had almost reached the bottom of the pile when Nicolas' voice reached his ears.

"Ah-ha," crowed the boy. "My black armies have swept across Europe destroying everything in their path. Tremble in fear puny ones!"

Crash! A bottle of red ink shattered as it landed in the middle of their map.

"Out," said Snape in a low growl, struggling to his feet behind his desk.

"Get out."

"Sir?" The boys exchanged frightened, confused glances.

"GET OUT!" roared Snape. They fled, leaving the ruined board game behind them.

***

Snape held the tiny black plastic cavalryman between his fingers, trying to stop his hand from trembling. Under his breath he cursed his stupid loss of control in front of the students. He dabbed ineffectually at the red ink covering the board. Having made up the magically indelible ink himself, he knew for certain that the game was completely destroyed.

That should put an end to these absurdly cosy evenings

, he thought.

He sat staring at the mess for a long time.

4 - Sorry!

"... and I completely over-reacted. Ow!" exclaimed Snape, snarling at his torturer.

"Just a little further," said Poppy Pomfrey. "It's not exactly unusual for you to snap at the students Severus. What were they doing in your classroom anyway? It's not like you to allow games in detention. Right, flex your foot and stretch your calf."

"Oh, I found them..." He hesitated. Drat! He'd been about to give away that he'd been 'prowling'. All those years of lying to Voldemort and he still slipped up when trying to deceive Pomfrey.

"Go on," said the medi-witch, folding her arms across her chest and looking stern.

"Never mind that. What's wrong with me? Being stupidly nice to the brats one minute, yelling at them over a harmless joke the next," he said gloomily, finishing the stretch and flopping down to sit on the end of a neatly made bed.

"Oh, Severus," she said, sitting down next to him and putting a gentle hand on his arm. "If you didn't have some reaction to everything you've been through, that's when I'd think there was something wrong with you. Have you seen any of the other Order members lately?"

He shook his head. Lupin, Fletcher, the surviving Weasleys - they hadn't bothered to seek him out and he wasn't especially surprised at that as their acceptance of him had always been uneasy, even after he had earned their trust a dozen times over. Dumbledore had been the bond that held them all together and now he was gone. The most powerful force for light in a hundred years had died doing what he believed in the most, protecting his young charges.

"Severus?" Pomfrey's voice roused him from his reverie.

"Sorry. I was just thinking."

"I know," she said. "Look, I'm worried about Remus Lupin. He's not keeping in touch with anyone. Have you heard from him?"

Snape snorted, half in amusement, half in disgust. "Sorry Poppy, he's not exactly likely to stay in touch with me."

Pomfrey continued to look worried, but patted Snape on the shoulder as she stood up. "We're all finished here for today. It looks like it's healing nicely, but seriously Severus, wandering the castle at night won't help."

"Yes ma'am," he grumbled, but his lips threatened to quirk into a smile.

***

He was going to have to apologise to the students. The very idea stuck in his craw, but then he had ruined their blasted game, he thought as he approached his rooms, limping painfully. Treatment - or should that be torture - sessions always made his leg ache even worse.

As he pushed open his door he spotted a folded piece of parchment on the floor. He picked it up and read the neatly hand-written note.

Dear Professor Snape,

We are very sorry about what happened yesterday. We only realised later what Nicolas had said and how it might sound. We were all kept safe at home during the fighting and Rupert is Muggleborn so doesn't really understand about what happened in the past few years although we've told him quite a lot.

Anyway, even though we only know what our parents and the older students have told us we want you to know that we think you were really brave.

Signed,

Roger, Rupert, Dafydd and Nicolas.

Oh dear

, thought Snape, blinking furiously. An apology really wasn't going to be enough. Do any of the shops in Hogsmeade sell Muggle games?

***

"Stay behind a moment Mr Dingwall," said Snape as the class packed away their cauldrons after a relatively successful attempt at sticky sealing potions. A few Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff students threw the boy sympathetic glances.

Once the door had closed, Snape drew a deep breath. Apologies really weren't his forte.

"I'm afraid none of the shops in Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley stock your game Mr Dingwall, so I haven't been able to replace it. If you would like a wizard chess set I could order one, otherwise I am happy to give you some money to buy a new game."

"Sir?"

"I'm sorry Mr Dingwall. I over-reacted. I'd appreciate it if you would pass my thanks for the note and my apology on to your friends, but the game was yours as I understand."

"Yes, sir," said the boy, staring at his teacher.

"Well, how much money do you need?"

"I'm not sure, sir. Does this mean we can still come and play in the potions room?"

"Er," said Snape, taken aback. "Yes, if you wish."

"Wicked!" said Rupert, breaking into a grin.

5 - Scrabble

Thursday evening saw Professor Snape hurrying through the castle towards his classroom. The staff meeting had gone on and on, with long debate about modifying the curriculum to include some basic grounding in the subjects taught in Muggle schools. He was all in favour of someone giving the students a basic grounding in correct grammar - it would certainly make marking their essays easier - but the discussion about who might actually have time to teach the course had been tedious and lengthy and had made him late.

Finally, limping and a little out of breath, he rounded the corner into the potions corridor and found eight impatient students waiting for him, carrying a collection of battered boxes.

Eight? Seeing double Severus?

he asked himself, blinking. But indeed the four first year gamers had been joined by a pair of Ravenclaw second year boys, and two identical tiny button-nosed blond girls one of whom was Bridget Grote, another of his new young Slytherins. He racked his memory for a moment before remembering Grote had a twin in Hufflepuff.

"What's this?" he snapped.

The newcomers immediately looked worried, backing away a few steps. "They wanted somewhere to play, sir," piped up Roger, looking all swagger and bravado but sounding a little nervous. "It's all right if they join us isn't it? Mike and Alistair said it was too noisy in the common room to play chess properly and Bridget and Sally hardly ever get to see each other except in Charms class."

It was an invasion, damn it! However, Snape suspected that getting rid of the extra students would be far more hassle than just letting them in to play. What was that about not running a games club? he thought, shaking his head as he ushered them all through the door.

"I have work to do," he told them brusquely, "so keep the noise down."

To their credit, the gamers were actually a remarkably quiet bunch for Hogwarts students. The two Ravenclaws barely spoke at all, just glared at their wizard chess board with fierce concentration. The twin girls kept up a low murmur of conversation as they played some kind of Muggle game with lettered tiles, while the four usual Thursday players had apparently found some old school sets of draughts and settled down to two separate games.

Snape sat down at his desk and stared at the blank parchment in front of him. He dabbed his quill into a well of black ink and began.

Dear Remu--

He stopped and crumpled up the sheet. It was far too insincere, the werewolf certainly wasn't dear to him, no matter what horrors they'd been through together. Really, it was absurd to be writing at all. It wasn't as if he normally sent any note with the monthly dose of potion, but Pomfrey's concern for Lupin had been nagging at his conscience. He pulled a fresh sheet of parchment towards him.

Lupin,

Here is the potion.

He paused. That was all he had to say really, but five words made for a pretty poor letter, so he pressed on, deciding to fill out the missive with a few general details about the term so far.

Life at Hogwarts is strangely quiet after the past few years of frantic activity. Professor McGonagall has made few changes so far although I cannot help but support her plans to tackle the students' hopeless ignorance of how to compose a proper essay.

I also appear to be swamped with students who wish to use the potions classroom for a games club. It is therefore a great relief that this is to be my last term in residence here, although I have not as yet made any decision as to what I will be doing next year.

Again he paused and moved to screw up the overly revealing personal letter, but then he hesitated. It wasn't as if Lupin was likely to read the letter anyway. He'd probably just bin it as soon as the owl bearing the potion arrived.

Ravenclaw are ahead on points so far, but it is early days yet. The Slytherin Quidditch team looks promising for the season. Gryffindor are struggling to find a worthy successor to Potter.

Does the wolfsbane potion remain effective? It may have to be brewed in stronger concentration if you develop a tolerance to it.

Sincerely,

SS.

6 - Hungry Hippos!

His last class had left for the day and he was scrubbing away the splattered remnants of the third years' sleeping potions, conscious of the disastrous results if the crushed asphodel accidentally found its way into tomorrow's shrinking solutions. Normally he would clear up with a quick spell, but the work seemed a good way to burn off some excess energy in the hope of a good night's sleep. A soft knock at his classroom door caught his attention and he called out a brusque

"Come in," without stopping to consider who his visitor might be.

"Professor Snape," said a soft voice which did not belong in Hogwarts - not anymore anyway. He turned to see a young woman in light-coloured, casual Muggle clothes, too summery for the early November cold, her bushy brown hair obscuring most of her face.

"Miss Granger," he said in neutral greeting, through clenched teeth. Drat! he thought, where on earth did she spring from? "Whatever can I do for you?"

"Actually, I brought you something," she said, swinging a plain canvas draw-string bag off her shoulder, placing it on one of the students' desks and starting to rummage inside it. "Ah-ha, here it is."

She held out a small jar, which he took tentatively, peering at the viscous fluid it contained, tipping it sideways and watching the silvery substance ooze.

"Erumpment exploding fluid," he murmured. It was only available through illegal and highly expensive sources these days, partly as an attempt to curb hunting of the rare beasts, but mainly because it was bloody dangerous stuff. Bloody useful stuff too, of course. How on earth had a goody-two-shoes ex-prefect Gryffindor come by it? He didn't have to wait long for an answer, in fact the Granger girl was already rattling off the story.

"There was a mating fight right outside the village - which was completely amazing, incredibly noisy and nothing like I'd imagined from books or Care of Magical Creatures lessons. Anyway one of them exploded there and then, so as soon as the other one had gone I grabbed a jar and scooped up all the available fluid. That's it - one hundred percent naturally and ethically obtained exploding fluid. I knew you'd have a better use for it than I would."

Finally she stopped to draw breath and Snape felt his mouth twitch into a half smile. Partly he recognised her natural tendency to jabber on if not interrupted, but he also guessed that she had been keying herself up to bring this liquid treasure to her least favourite teacher - always wanting to do the right thing. Still, she could have dropped it off with McGonagall, it did seem a little odd that she should take the trouble to visit him with it.

"Thank you, Miss Granger, it will be useful," he said as he hobbled over to his most heavily locked and warded ingredients cabinet and carefully placed the jar inside. The young woman closed up her bag and swung it back onto her shoulder, turning to leave.

"So what were you doing in Africa then?" he asked. What? screamed a part of his mind, why are you making idle chatter with this pesky know-it-all brat?

"I've been out there these past three months, working with some of the village wise-women and witch-doctors in the DRC," she explained. "I wanted to do the equivalent of a Muggle gap year before deciding what to do next, so I arranged this with the Ministry."

Snape racked his brain, trying to recall what he had read about the Democratic Republic of Congo during the period when he had been studying the Muggle press for clues about Death Eater activity that he hadn't heard about any other way. It was a war zone of some kind. Deep, desperate poverty and images of lost-eyed children, carrying guns taller than they were, sprang to mind.

"I'm surprised," he said, weighing his words carefully. "I'd have thought you'd want to avoid wars for a while. Take a rest after everything that happened last year."

If she was absolutely gob-smacked by the fact that he was making polite and thoughtful conversation with her, she didn't show it.

"It's hard work, but it helps somehow, " she said. As she spoke, she tossed her head and Snape caught a glimpse of the devastated flesh of her left cheek. He sincerely hoped that he managed to disguise the shudder that ran up his spine, suspecting that the girl would be sensitive about her battle-scarred appearance.

"Just going back to the Muggle world, where no-one really knows what happened, it would be unbearable," she went on. "And I'm not really certain where I fit into wizarding Britain any more. In Africa I know I'm making a difference. Still fighting for the light, just in a different way."

He nodded. He knew only too well how that felt. How sometimes the fight was the only thing that kept you going.

"So what are you doing back here then?" he asked.

"Just a flying - well, apparating - visit," she said. "Dropping this off, visiting my parents and the Weasleys, collecting a few things from Diagon Alley that I need out there."

He didn't recall inviting her to sit down, but the Granger girl appeared to have made herself comfortable on a tall stool, resting her elbows on the desk and her chin on her hands. He thought he understood now the reason for her visit. The girl was testing out her adulthood, holding her own in a grown up conversation with a teacher who had treated her as a precocious 11-year-old right up until the end of her seventh year. Only after she had proved herself in exams and battle -- on the very same day -- had he given her three thin words of praise: "Well done, Granger."

They chatted for a while longer as he quizzed her on the traditional African magical style, the non-Latinate magic command words used on the immense continent, the indigenous magical creatures and plants.

"I'd better go," she said eventually. "I'm expected for dinner at The Burrow."

He walked her to the door.

"Peacetime suits you, sir," she said, frowning as though trying to put her finger on something. "You seem somehow more... real." She grimaced - although whether it was at the inadequate phraseology or at the thought that she might have annoyed him with the comment, he was not quite certain.

"Humph," he said, closing the door behind her.

7 - Chess

Yet another Thursday evening rolled around and Snape dropped an enormous pile of sixth year essays onto his classroom desk before turning to wedge open the door of the potions lab, ready for the by now familiar and unavoidable arrival of the games club.

The Grote twins were the first to appear, the two girls choosing seats at the back of the room and setting up the pieces for their game. The Ravenclaw chess-players arrived a few minutes later, accompanied by (of all things) a pair of Gryffindors. A spotty-faced boy and a girl with pigtails politely stammered their request to make use of the room, since Michael and Alistair had challenged them to pitch bravery against brains on the chessboard.

It's cunning you need on the chessboard,

he thought privately. Aloud he gave them the same glowering warning about playing quietly as all of the others had received and turned back to the homework mountain, vaguely wondering where the four original gamers had got to. Their absence joined several other irritating concerns dancing distractingly around his concentration.

There had been no reply from Lupin to his letter. The owl had returned, with potion and letter removed, but there was no answering note to be found. The werewolf had survived the war, no doubt he could look after himself, but the silence was bothersome. Obviously, he wasn't going to fret over the well-being of one of his childhood tormentors -- he just didn't like sending off complex potions into the ether, with no idea if they were even being used. And that's all there is to it, he told himself.

The upcoming trials of the captured Death Eaters also preyed on his mind. It would be satisfying to see justice done, but he wasn't looking forward to giving evidence. A lot of families had to face up to what their members had done, but some wouldn't hesitate to curse the messenger who brought them the details. At least the Ministry had followed his suggestion to transfer all of the dozen or so Hogwarts children whose parents or older siblings were awaiting trial, to wizarding schools in other countries - for their own safety as well as his.

Added to all that, it was already mid-November and he still had no more idea of what he would do after the end of term. No one had been found to take his job, but he would not stay on a day longer than necessary, damn it. Hermione Granger's surprisingly pleasant visit had brought the subject back to the forefront of his thoughts. Perhaps he too should travel abroad, escape from the limitations of wizarding Britain, filled as it was with people who remembered him either as a loathsome teacher, as a Death Eater or as a war hero.

Half an hour passed, during which he achieved very little actual marking, before Roger, Nicolas and Dafydd arrived at the classroom door, all looking rather weary and worried. Their Ravenclaw friend was absent and inwardly Snape heaved a disappointed sigh - house loyalties had got the better of them already, then. The glittering circle of friendship had tightened and Rupert was to be left in the darkness, peering enviously in. "Good evening gentlemen," he said coolly, feeling the need to make some snide comment about their petty ousting of the fourth boy.

"Your numbers are somewhat depleted."

Roger made a face. "Rupert's in the hospital wing after falling off his broom and breaking his wrist," he explained. "Madam Pomfrey just kicked us out so he could get some rest."

Snape's carefully masked emotions made a complete volte-face, although the boys would have been none the wiser, even if they had known to look for the change. He could picture them huddled around the hospital bed, trying to make their pained chum feel better. He suppressed a smirk at the sickeningly sentimental image his mind had conjured up, but felt oddly warmed nonetheless.

The trio scuttled to the cupboard which had been cleared of cracked old cauldrons to make way for the battered collection of games that had been gathered from various common rooms or owled from the students' homes over the past few weeks. Apparently they couldn't find anything suitable for three players as eventually Nicolas and Dafydd set up a game of draughts while Roger sat off to one side, watching.

Snape made a third attempt to make sense of the opening paragraph of the essay in front of him. He wasn't entirely sure whether the student was simply writing gobbledegook or whether he was just reading it wrong. Either way, his ability to concentrate on marking was clearly shot to pieces. Throwing down his quill, he glanced up at the room full of gamers. A full set of houses, he noted, and not a squabble in sight. Some fairly fierce competition, for certain, but it was a friendly and peaceable atmosphere for all that.

His gaze settled on the one youngster who was not participating in a game. "Do you play chess, Mr Treaster?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," said the boy, eyes widening as he realised he was being invited to take on his housemaster in a match.

Ten minutes into the game and Snape was disturbed to find himself at a tactical disadvantage. Of course, he was fairly rusty at the game - the last time he'd played had probably been when he was at school, he reflected. And even in Slytherin he'd struggled to find someone willing to give him a game. But it wasn't as if the rules had changed and his mind had undoubtedly had plenty of exercise at thinking several moves ahead of the opposition.

He applied himself to out-thinking the boy with renewed vigour and was eventually rewarded with victory, although he had to admit it had been a close-run thing.

"Checkmate," he announced. "Good game, Mr Treaster, thank you."

The good thing about chess, he remembered, was how it required one's uppermost thoughts to focus on the here and now, and the next several moves. For 40 minutes he hadn't once given a thought to the things that had been worrying him earlier. And apparently he had made a decision while his conscious mind had been distracted by the game. He was going to visit Remus Lupin.

8 - What's the time Mr Wolf?

It was only late afternoon, but already the sky showed black in the few patches where it was not softened by grey cloud, from which fell a listless drizzle of rain. Apparently Lupin had chosen to live in the darkest, dingiest street in Derbyshire -- the terrace of damp houses were barely illuminated by a distant sickly streetlight.

Snape had Apparated into the street a few moments earlier and was limping caneless along the row of houses, peering at the numbers on the doors while the thin rain seeped into his robes. Drat the wolf for not being on the Floo network, drat him for not replying to letters, drat him for his stupid disappearing act.

Still

, thought Snape, on the bright side it's the first time I've been outdoors without the stupid stick since the battle. He stopped dead in the middle of the pavement, frowning and shaking his head in bewilderment.

Since when did you start looking on the blasted 'bright side'?

he muttered to himself. At the same moment he spotted the number 15 painted on a door at the top of a short flight of steps. A few seconds later he rapped firmly on the peeling blue paintwork.

There was a long pause before a light came on in the hallway behind the door and Snape heard the rattle of a chain being fixed before the door opened a crack and a pale face peered out. The face looked a little worn, the grey-flecked hair was unkempt, but otherwise, Snape noted, on first observation there didn't seem to be much visibly wrong with Remus Lupin.

"What...?"

"The Wolfsbane potion," said Snape, holding out a vial of thick, gloopy liquid. Lupin's hand reached through the door and his fingers closed around the potion. Clutching the vial, the hand rapidly retreated inside, the movement seeming jerky and unnatural. So, there was something wrong then.

Lupin made to shut the door in his face and Snape jammed his foot into the small gap, intending to continue to force the door until he had a satisfactory answer, although what the question was he was not entirely certain.

"That's not all, Lupin," he snarled, feeling the comfortable familiarity of an old animosity awaken in his chest. "I want to be sure you're taking it properly. I'd hate to feel responsible if there's suddenly a rash of news stories about the Beast of Bakewell, tearing Muggles to pieces on the full moon..."

"Sod off, Snape!" growled Lupin, throwing his weight against the door. Instinctively Snape tried to hold the door open with his hip and immediately regretted it. Bright pain exploded behind his eyes.

When the green sparkles faded and he could finally see and think clearly again, he found he was lying on his back on the gravel path at the bottom of the short flight of stone steps. The sharp agony in his hip was gradually fading to an excruciating ache. A shabby shadow was bending over him, fussing frantically.

"Severus, can you hear me? Merlin, I'm so sorry Severus. I forgot about your leg. I didn't mean to hurt you, it was just such a shock seeing you there..."

Eventually, and with a lot of what Snape considered unnecessary worrying, Lupin propped him into a sitting position, then proposed levitating him inside.

"I rather think not," he snarled. The last time he had been levitated anywhere by Lupin he had been unconscious, but the bumps to his head and bruises on his feet had made him distrustful of the werewolf's co-ordination. Unless the bastard had been bumping him into things on purpose, which -- given how things had gone that night -- wasn't entirely unlikely. Or had the bumps and bruises been Black's fault...? Yes, probably.

Of course, a lot of water had passed under the bridge since then and they had formed an uneasy truce while they fought side by side. However, whatever the truth of the matter, he was still reluctant to be levitated, so with a burst of effort he attempted to stand.

The jabbing, searing pain that resulted was the last thing he knew until his eyes fluttered open inside a warm bright room. He was lying on a tattered but very comfortable soda and had been covered with a soft yellow blanket of fleece. His shoes had been removed.

Lupin was sitting a few feet away on a wooden dining chair, observing him, his head cocked to one side like a watchful animal. "Ah," said Lupin. "You're back with us. I'm afraid I had to levitate you in the end, you were getting rather wet out there."

From the audible clatter of rain against the window pane it was clear to Snape that the drizzle had stepped up a gear while he was out cold. His robes were dry however, so he assumed Lupin had used a drying charm on him.

"Now, are you going to explain why you're really making personal deliveries of potions? Something wrong with the school owls, maybe?" The question was asked lightly, the interrogator looking curious now, rather than angry at the visit.

"It's gone kind of quiet in the espionage business," said Snape, a hint of sarcasm colouring his words. "I'm afraid I'm reduced to spying for Pomfrey on patients who don't keep in touch."

Lupin's eyes narrowed suspiciously. Snape dropped the sarcastic tone. "Honestly Lupin, she was worried. She said no one in the Order had heard from you."

"I've been busy," said Lupin. "And most of the people I'd have stayed in touch with are dead."

The statement sounded matter-of-fact rather than maudlin, but Snape was well aware that it didn't stand up to examination. "McGonagall's not dead, Pomfrey's not dead," he pointed out. "Potter's in America -- and while I can see where you'd make the mistake, it's not actually the same as being dead. None of them have heard from you."

Lupin harrumphed. The sound contained just the barest suggestion of amusement.

"Well, I've checked up on you and I can tell Pomfrey you're certainly still alive," said Snape, "So I'll just be Apparating back to Hogwarts then."

"You'll do nothing of the sort!" snapped Lupin. "No one who's just fainted twice from pain should be Apparating anywhere."

"It wouldn't be the first time," murmured Snape, although he had to admit the sofa was very comfortable and he was loathe to move for a while.

Lupin's eyes softened. Was that pity there? Oh bloody marvellous. "I know," said the grey-haired man. "You did a lot of dangerous things when you had to. But there's really no need right now and I'd rather you didn't splinch yourself six ways to Sunday just to avoid my company. I can go and work at the kitchen table."

"Work?" asked Snape, deciding the sofa really was too good to give up and thus changing the subject to avoid the appearance of having capitulated.

"I'm writing a piece for the International Journal of Dark Creature Studies. It's the first time they've ever actually agreed to accept something from a living breathing dark creature. Who knows, maybe it marks a change in attitude..."

An awkward silence pervaded the room, the almost jokey atmosphere dissipating instantly at the mention of attitudes to lycanthropy. Snape felt his jaw clench. There was no way he would ever apologise for believing a werewolf could be a danger to the school. He was right about that and he knew it.

"Right then," said Lupin, breaking the silence at last, his voice a level, dead calm. "I'll go and get on with it."

9 - Othello

Jarveys made of jelly were chasing him across the sloping roof of the great hall. The grey slate tiles tinkled tunefully beneath his fleeing feet. Giggling dementedly, the creatures kept up their pursuit. He ran out of roof and started to climb a thick metal drainpipe, but the jarveys were gaining...

"Severus!" There was a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently.

"Quick, Lupin! Hex them, they're catching up!" He blinked. The roof of Hogwarts had gone and he was lying on the sofa in Lupin's homely sitting room. There were no novelty desserts pursuing him.

"It's okay," said Lupin, still leaning over him, hand resting on his shoulder. "It was just a nightmare." He paused then crouched beside the sofa. "Death Eaters, huh?" he asked.

Snape gnawed on his lower lip. It really was too funny - Lupin looking all kindly and concerned that his unwanted houseguest might be reliving some wartime trauma in his dreams.

"Not exactly," he said. A small bark of laughter bubbled out and Lupin's frown deepened. "I was being chased by jarveys..." -- the frown vanished, replaced by surprise - "made of jelly."

"No!" They both started to laugh.

"Across the roof of the great hall!" gasped Snape through his laughter.

When they eventually stopped laughing, Snape was uncertain what to say. All those years of being laughed at and mocked by others and he'd had no idea how good it might feel to laugh at himself.

In the end Lupin spoke first. "I've made a little dinner," he said. "I'm afraid it's corner shop surprise."

Snape raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Well, it always surprises me the things you can buy in that corner shop," added Lupin. "Not the least of which is some half-decent red wine."

Dinner turned out to be pasta shells in a slightly over-sweet tomato and pepper sauce, while the wine was a drinkable Chilean Merlot. Propped up with a stack of cushions, Snape remained on the sofa while Lupin pushed aside some books and papers to make a space to eat at a dark wood table on the other side of the room. Not that the other side of the room was far away - the sitting room was small and was further shrunk by the book cases which lined the two walls not occupied with fireplace or window.

They ate in silence, although it was a surprisingly easy and companionable silence, given all the history, both recent and long past that they shared. Then Lupin mentioned that he happened to have a local delicacy for dessert.

"How do you prefer your tarts? With custard or with cream?" Lupin made a decidedly comical leer at the double entendre.

"Ahem," said Snape, acknowledging the dreadful pun. "A little custard please."

"Ah, custard," mused Lupin. "I always suspected your tastes ran to the kinky."

Snape snorted so hard it made his ears hurt. Honestly, he thought as his host pottered back into the kitchen, one glass of wine and already I'm feeling decidedly silly and easily amused.

Rattles and clunks emerged from the kitchen as Snape flexed, then wriggled, his toes and was pleased to note that the pain had faded back to a dull ache. He was just making the effort to sit up properly when...

Thud! -crash!-splat! "Shit!"

In a few strides Snape had reached the kitchen. There was shattered pottery and a splash of thick yellow custard on the floor. Lupin stood staring at blankly his hands, which were shaking so hard that they were a pale blur. His breathing was shallow as though he had just received a terrible fright, but there seemed to be nothing fearsome or out of place in the old-fashioned kitchen.

Eventually he seemed to notice the other man's presence. His mouth quirked into a rueful half-smile. "Stupid tremors," he said, flatly.

"Damn it, Lupin," said Snape. "You should have told me you were suffering side effects from the potion."

"It's n-not the p-potion," stammered the trembling man as he allowed Snape to guide him back into the sitting room and over to the sofa. "It's just me, Remus Lupin, slowly falling to pieces."

"Aren't we all?" It was said under his breath, barely out loud at all, but it was clear from Lupin's sharp, surprised look that it had been heard. Two pairs of eyes met and held each other, half in challenge, half in understanding.

It seemed to Snape that in that moment an unspoken agreement was made. An agreement not to speak of their fears and weaknesses. An agreement not to mention their shared sense that the supposed forces of good had used them until they were worn to almost nothing, then abandoned them in lives they couldn't understand. An agreement that a great many things were past and they were just two tired veterans who knew - and therefore didn't need to talk about it.

Of course

, reflected Snape even as he thought it, it was entirely possible that Lupin saw something quite different in the moment.

They ate the Bakewell tart with cream.

"So," said Lupin eventually, leaning back on the sofa and holding the wine glass loosely in his now-stilled fingers, "how's that games club of yours coming along then?"

You did read my note then?

Snape wanted to ask, then wondered whether that was one of the things not to be talked about under his imaginary tacit agreement. Fine, he thought, polite conversation it is then.

"There's ten of them now - at least one from every house..." he began.

"Bloody hell! How'd you work that miracle?"

"I didn't, they sort of did it themselves. They just keep turning up on a Thursday night," said Snape.

Lupin looked incredulous. "So do you play?" he asked.

"Not usually. Normally I mark, although I did have an interesting game of chess with one of the Slytherin boys."

"Hmm, I don't have a chess set, but I think there's an old Othello board around here somewhere."

Rain continued to rattle the window. Wine gave way to a glass or two of firewhisky Lupin had stashed in his sideboard. And two damaged veterans wordlessly put aside ancient grudges and enjoyed the peaceable silence as darkness and light vied for dominance of the board.

10 - Take the Cake

December arrived, bringing with it an atmosphere of anticipation. McGonagall's decision to celebrate Hogwarts' religious and ethnic mix, rather than just marking the traditional Yule meant there were all the more festivities to look forward to and even with three weeks to go before the end of term, sparkly decorations started to appear. A Winter Ball was planned, as was a Christmas carol service, while Professor Sinistra put out an audition call for a pantomime.

Lupin, who called for a firechat to check a detail of the Wolfsbane process before submitting his paper, suggested Snape might try out for the role of wicked magician in the panto. For a moment Snape was almost offended - then he suggested he would have to offer coaching in 'especially menacing walks' to whoever did get the role. He was rewarded with a roar of laughter from the fireplace.

For Snape however, December brought with it the anticipation of freedom. He could almost scent it on the nippy winter air and the smell was not entirely sweet. Of course, he was still looking forward to it, was ticking the days off almost like an advent calendar of teaching. But he still didn't have a plan. And that worried him.

Thursday evening found him shirking his nightly marking of homework in favour of jotting down a list of increasingly ridiculous ideas for going into business by himself.

He had just scratched a thick line through 'market own range of bath elixirs' when he realised that the two Grote girls were standing beside his desk, waiting to catch his attention. Behind them the rest of the gamers rolled dice or pushed pieces around a variety of boards. It seemed that once a student had turned up one Thursday, they never stopped turning up - usually with a pal from another house in tow.

"Sir," said a small blonde girl, whose Hufflepuff badge was the only clue that she was Sally rather than Bridget. He wondered if they ever swapped houses and classes to see whether their classmates noticed. "Our mum sent this tin to school for our birthday, but there's a note attached to it for you to read before we can open it."

He took the tin and note from her hands. It wasn't entirely unusual for parents to send gifts care of the various housemasters and mistresses, especially if they were not certain whether the item was permitted in the school. However, he was only housemaster to one of the pair.

He slid one of his ingredients-slicing knives under the wax seal and popped open the note.

Dear Professor Snape,

The tin contains a perfectly ordinary birthday cake, but I know the girls would rather have one cake at the games club, where they can share it, than have one each in their own common rooms. I hope you will give them permission for them to open it and share it out among the other students.

I would also like to take this opportunity to express how grateful I am that you have given the girls this weekly chance to get together. When they first wrote to tell us they had been sorted into different houses it was clear that they were devastated - they have always been close friends as well as siblings. Although I am glad to hear that both are making friends of their new dorm mates, it is good to know that the old inter-house tensions will not destroy that bond from their childhood. I remember all too well from my own schooldays (you may recall that I was a few years above you) that many brothers and sisters were not even permitted to speak to each other in case they revealed some all-important Quidditch tactics or the like.

Please do take and enjoy a slice of the cake, with my thanks,

Yours sincerely,

Jennifer Grote.

The two girls looked at him expectantly as he finished reading the note. He coughed, testing his voice, for he was unexpectedly moved by Mrs Grote's words.

"Do open the tin, Miss Grote, Miss Grote. I will find a suitable knife."

Within a few minutes everyone in the room was chewing on the moist, delicious fudge cake.

Snape turned back to his list but, unable to come up with any further ideas, found himself doodling a triangular wedge shape instead. Once again he studied the scene in front of him. Students from all four houses, playing games and eating cake together. In all his long, tedious years of teaching, such a thing had never happened before.

He felt a twinge of guilt that his coming departure would put an end to it.

***

He was weary. After full day at the Wizengamot, reliving memories he would have preferred stayed buried, all he wanted to do was curl up with a book and imagine himself somewhere, anywhere, else. No matter how hard he scrubbed at his teeth, the unpleasant aftertaste of poor quality ministry veritaserum still lingered. And there was nothing he could scrub at to remove the bitter recollection of the words that had been thrown at him, not by his former Death Eater colleagues, but by their lawyers.

That was their job of course and he had been expecting it. But it still stung.

He was just settling into his chair when there was a brisk triple-knock at his door.

Yanking the door open he was about to launch into an annoyed recitation of his office hours when he noticed who the visitor was.

"Lupin?" he blinked. "What are you doing here?"

"I've just been to see Madame Pomfrey, about, um, those tremors." He sounded embarrassed to mention his condition. "She was very helpful actually, referred me to a specialist in London."

"Oh," said Snape. "Well, good."

"So I thought I'd drop around to say hello. And, er, thank you - since I wouldn't have gone to see her if not for your visit."

"Right," said Snape. "You're welcome." He moved to close the door, but Lupin had sneakily wedged his foot in it.

"What do I have to do to get an invite in? Faint on your doorstep?" Lupin mock-swooned, keeping his foot firmly wedged in position.

Snape snorted. "Fine, come in. I'll warn you that I'm not good company though. I've been giving evidence all day."

"Just a quick drink then," said his visitor, nodding his understanding as he strolled into the room.

"Actually, I wanted to show you this. I picked it up while I was presenting that paper in Brussels."

It was a jobs listing paper for positions within some international political body. Snape shrugged. "Muggle jobs... Why?"

"Tap it with your wand," said Lupin, pouring out two glasses of brandy. The most expensive stuff on the sideboard, noted Snape, amused. The man might live like a pauper, on corner-shop pasta sauce and cheap Chilean wine, but he obviously had refined tastes when given half a chance. He tapped the newspaper.

In an advert on the top left of the page, the words changed shape, eventually settling as:

The International Confederation of Wizards (Europe) requires an intelligent individual to head a five-year large-scale independent review of potions theory and practice throughout Europe, looking at issues ranging from quality control in medicinal potions to the variability of teaching and examination standards. The job would be based in Strasbourg but would involve travelling to various wizarding centres. Salary commensurate with experience.

11 - Diplomacy

"Thank you for coming, Professor Snape," said the grey-bearded wizard, his terse, clipped English barely revealing its German accent. "We have heard of your activities in Britain."

Oh great,

he thought, rejected before I've even got a word out. Why bother inviting me for interview at all? Why not just put a line in the advert: 'No ex-Death Eaters need apply'.

"Mais oui," added the elegant witch to the German's left, making no such effort to hide her accent. "We 'ave followed the improvements to the Wolfsbane potion with great interest. Such brilliance."

Oh.

The third member of the interview panel - a dark-skinned, beardless wizard of around Snape's own age - smiled. "And of course we all know that if you want a potions' expert these days, you want a Hogwarts-educated one."

We do?

"However, Professor Snape," said the German. "We were surprised that you applied for this position. Why are you planning to leave the noble profession of teaching?"

He had his answers ready. He spoke eloquently of the greater need to educate all of Europe about the importance of high quality potion making. Too long had the wizarding world been forced to accept second-rate products and too often was the subject badly taught because of its difficulty.

The panel nodded and scribbled notes. It really wasn't hard to enthuse about potions or to discuss the current problems in his field of magic. He was almost disappointed when it was over and the panel bid him farewell, assuring him that they would make their decision within the fortnight.

***

"Have you had any luck finding my replacement," he asked Minerva McGonagall, when he caught up with her in her study the next evening.

"No," she sighed, looking exhausted. "And still no one to take over transfiguration either, although Kingsley's agreed to start teaching Defence next term. I don't suppose you'd consider staying on a little longer?"

Eight weeks earlier he would have snapped out a 'no' and that would have been that, but a tiny part of him hesitated. This term's teaching really had been easier. No, you fool, that's just because you knew it would soon be over.

"I'm sorry, I really won't." He decided against revealing that he had been for the interview. If the International Confederation called in his references, she would find out then. If they didn't, no one would have to know about his failure. No one except Lupin, anyway.

"Would you consider Remus Lupin for Transfiguration?" he asked.

McGonagall blinked. "I thought you of all people would be against such an idea. But I rather agree with what you said back then. It isn't safe to have a werewolf on school premises. Even one as affable as Remus. The risk if anything does go wrong is just too great."

"He wouldn't have to stay at the school over the full moon. And the truth is that it was the secrecy that was dangerous, not the man. There weren't enough people who knew about it to enforce any kind of sensible policy." He couldn't believe he was saying this, but he had given a lot of thought of late to what had happened four years ago. He had been implicated in keeping the dangerous secret; had questioned his role and his later decision over and over.

"So what are you suggesting?"

"I'm not certain, but surely you could come up with something safer."

"I'll think about it. I certainly can't keep teaching as well as being headmistress," she said.

"There's one other thing," added Snape. "There's a group of students who play board games in the potion lab on Thursday nights. I'd be grateful if you could ensure they still have somewhere to play."

McGonagall gave him a soft, puzzled smile. "Of course, Severus, of course."

***

The pavement was seething with Muggles, pressing up against him and jostling him until his temper was so frayed that he almost pulled his wand on a woman who was braying into a tiny device she held to her mouth and ear as her elbow jabbed into his ribs.

If he expected to find some relief from the crowds once he had pushed through the massive plate glass doors, he was mistaken. The throng inside the shop seemed louder and certainly shriller than that outdoors. At least a half dozen babies were shrieking as if competing with banshees for volume. The shop was a vast space compared with anywhere in Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade but he couldn't see what he was looking for. Instead he seemed to have walked into a menagerie of garish toy creatures.

Cuddly rabbits grinned at him inanely from beside a great pile of improbably furry blue octopi and orange lobsters. Monkeys hung from the shelving and snakes curled around the shop displays. Magical creatures were also represented with appallingly cute miniature unicorns.

A young man with a forced smile was blowing soap bubbles across the shop, his T-shirt proclaiming him to be a Hamleys employee. Snape asked him where the board games department was and was pointed towards a huge metal staircase and told to try the first floor.

At least moving stairs were familiar, although these Muggle ones seemed designed to facilitate laziness, rather than keeping one on one's toes as the castle's stairs did. The first floor was marginally quieter, with most of the racket coming from a corner filled with more sweets than even Dumbledore might have been able to put names too.

In the board games department he quickly managed to find a box of Risk and then began to browse the other boxes on offer. The game with the lettered tiles was there, labelled as Scrabble, as were a number of classics he recognised. Many other games seemed to be completely mindless dice rollers or designed to be especially rowdy. Monopoly looked challenging and a game called Scotland Yard, in which one player's piece remained invisible to all the others, intrigued him. He picked up a box of each, piling them on top of the Risk box.

"If your kids like Risk, they might like this even better." It took him a moment to realise that the squeaky voice was addressing him, and he looked sideways to see a young teenager holding up a box labelled 'Diplomacy'.

He was about to silence the boy with a withering stare when he realised that the youthful Muggle's advice might be useful. Putting the three boxes on the ground he took the proffered game.

"It's more sneaky than Risk. I like it better although it's hard to find people clever enough to make an interesting game," went on the boy. Snape warmed to his condescending attitude but rather pitied the boy, who sounded as though his intelligence made it hard for him to have fun.

"It's a shame you don't go to the school where I teach," he said. "These are for the games club there - some of our players are fairly clever."

"A games club?" asked the boy. "There's nothing like that at my school. Probably no one else who would play."

"Oddly enough I found myself playing against a chap I was at school with the other day. We didn't exactly get on back then so I never knew there was someone who could have given me some properly challenging chess games. Maybe..."

He was cut off mid-suggestion by the arrival of a vast woman whose physical bulk filled most of the shop aisle. "There you are Thomas," she boomed. "Come on, we haven't all day."

"Bye," called Thomas meekly as he was dragged away.

"Thanks for your help," Snape called back, picking up the four boxes.

He headed back downstairs to pay and joined a long queue, gritting his teeth at the noise of howling children. As he gradually shuffled forwards, feeling more and more claustrophobic and annoyed, his eyes met a very familiar glower.

It was just like looking into a mirror, except that the face reflecting his typical expression was dark brown and furry. The small bear seemed to be appalled at the clamour of the store and the sickeningly cheery and tacky tastelessness of his stuffed toy compatriots. Before he realised what he was doing, Snape reached out and lifted this small kindred spirit off the shelf. The bear was traditionally jointed and stuffed almost solid, so that it barely squished in his hand. However do you bare this place? he pondered, before mentally berating himself for ascribing feelings to a creature with fluff for brains.

Still, we ascribe feelings to Trelawny and her brains are definitely made of fluff.

He smirked at the thought and shuffled forward as the queue moved again.

"Next!"

Unexpectedly he found himself at the front of the queue, still holding onto the bear. He could no longer reach the shelf to put it back and the Muggles behind him began to tut and mutter at his hesitation. He dropped the boxes onto the counter and put the bear down beside them. The woman waved a funny-looking wand across the boxes and before Snape could say 'not the bear' everything, including the bear, was wrapped in carrier bags and he was handing over a wad of Muggle banknotes. He didn't want to get into an argument - anything to get out of that noisy and overcrowded shop as quickly as possible.

By the time he reached the Leaky Cauldron, the bear had a name.

***

Well, Nash,

whispered Snape to the glowering bear sitting on his nightstand later that evening. Thank goodness we never have to go there again.

12 - Game Over

Severus Snape grinned at his second year Ravenclaw/Hufflepuff students. The class shuffled nervously and avoided meeting his eyes. Fear, anger, disgust -- these were things he had experience in disguising. This pleasant breathlessness of repressed laughter was a new feeling.

Stop it, Severus

, he told himself firmly. You're frightening the children.

The irony of that thought caught up with him a second later and a sound that could only be described as a chuckle escaped from his mouth. As one, the class jumped in shock.

The French post owl had arrived at breakfast in the Great Hall, but he had waited until he was back in the privacy of his own chambers before opening the letter with trembling fingers.

He read:

Professor Snape,

We have great pleasure in offering you the job of leading the European Potions Review. The job begins on January 4, we hope this gives you enough time to arrange relocating to Strasbourg.

We look forward to seeing you then.

Herr Manfred Edelmann.

International Confederation of Wizardry

He was out! No more teaching!

He had giggled like a maniac and let out a whoop or two of joy. There had perhaps even been a little dancing - which hadn't even hurt - although obviously no one needed to know about that. He had at least managed to prevent himself from skipping down the corridors, which obviously would have ruined the reputation he would leave behind him forever.

The students in front of him had unpacked their cauldrons and were waiting to be told what they would be making. He studied their scrubbed little faces - some bored before the lesson had even begun, some eager to learn, some clearly dreaming of being elsewhere - and searched his mind for any twinge of regret at the idea of leaving. No, none.

"This is the last lesson you will be taught by me," he announced, which got everyone's attention.

A few jaws dropped, eyebrows raised, but no one looked especially disappointed. Wait - that wasn't entirely fair. The two chess players looked surprisingly glum. Ah, well, they'd soon cheer up when they hear McGonagall had promised to keep the games club running.

"I do not intend to teach you any new potions today, but instead plan to go over some of the basic skills of ingredient preparation and so on, in order that whoever is teaching you next term might have some hope of not being blown up, shrunk or sent into a coma."

The students began to look bored again, clearly expecting a tedious revision lesson. Heh, sod the reputation he would leave behind him. He kept his glower stern for a moment longer for dramatic effect.

"We will therefore be making mince pies today."

***

The staff dutifully toasted his departure and he was surprised that the brief ceremony seemed warm and genuine. McGonagall, naturally, was kind in her good wishes and he didn't doubt it when she said he would be hard to replace. But he hadn't expected the small tokens of farewell his colleagues presented. Flitwick and Sprout presented him with what they described as an "experimental cheering cactus".

"It's been charmed at a cellular level, so that in sunlight it produces a mildly cheering effect, similar to looking at a cheerful picture or a Christmas tree," explained Flitwick.

"It's one of the first successful crop," added Sprout, handing over the small, prickly green plant around which they had tied a silver ribbon.

The rest of the staff had clubbed together to buy a bottle of really rather expensive brandy and a set of glasses. Splendid, he thought as Hagrid sent him flying across the staff room with an affectionate pat on the back, since Lupin has just about polished off the one good bottle I had.

Lupin had, of course, popped over to celebrate as soon as he heard the news and they had headed for the Three Broomsticks. Whether it existed or not, the unspoken agreement still held and even when somewhat tipsy they hadn't touched on uncomfortable subjects - such as most of the past.

Anyway, there was a great deal to discuss about the future.

Lupin announced that he was considering taking up the invitation to teach transfiguration - having agreed with the headmistress that he could take a few days leave each full moon. It might not make him the ideal employee, but it wasn't as if there was a queue of people waiting to take the post, and he did rather think he was cut out for teaching.

Snape's litany of Dreadful Things About Teaching (the stupid children, the irritating children, the noisy children, the rest of the children) only made Lupin splutter with laughter. When he stopped chuckling he turned serious for a moment.

"How did you do it for so long?" he asked. "If you hated it so much."

Snape shrugged, his gaze flicking briefly to the spot on his arm where the Dark Mark had once been emblazoned. "It was necessary," he said. Lupin looked as though he was about to apologise for bringing up the subject.

"It doesn't matter now," said Snape. "It's over."

***

If the staff's gifts were unexpected, he really wasn't prepared to be ambushed by more than a dozen first and second year students from all the houses.

Every one of the games club was waiting in the entrance to the dungeons after the staff ceremony - and for a moment he wondered if he had the days mixed up and the students expected a final games session before the end of term. If so, they would find the games he had bought and stashed in the games cupboard before he had left, which would be a dratted nuisance.

"Sir," said Rupert, the young Ravenclaw whose unlucky sorting had started this whole bizarre episode in teacher-student relations. "We just wanted to say good luck in your new job."

"And we'd like to give you this," added Victoria, the pigtailed Gryffindor, as the Slytherin Roger held out a parcel.

As he tore off the paper he realised for the first time that these were the only students he had ever thought of by their given names. Perhaps it was because having two Miss Grotes made it too confusing, or perhaps it marked the end of a lifetime's habit, passed down from his own teachers and reinforced by his hatred of his own first name and the taunts it had led to.

The thought was broken off as his gift eventually emerged from the students' slightly over-enthusiastic wrapping. A wizard chess set - well-made but not overly fancy like some, although it had probably cost them their combined pocket money for at least a week.

He lifted out a black pawn and studied the piece as it awakened and fidgeted. "Thank you," he said, his voice choked with emotion. "Thank you, all of you."

The students blushed a little and smiled in embarrassment at the sight of their usually stern teacher apparently on the brink of tears.

"I'll think of you all whenever I play with it," he added. "And I hope you'll keep this club going next term. The headmistresses says she'll make sure there's somewhere for you all to meet." He looked around, seeing something he had received from Slytherins in the past, but never from the others - gratitude and admiration shining in his students' eyes.

***

The transfer from platform nine and three-quarters at Kings Cross to the Eurostar terminal at Waterloo was a complex one and travelling on the Muggle's underground railway was crowded and unpleasant. So it wasn't until he was settled in a first class seat with a glass of champagne and a copy of a French potions journal that he really had a chance to realise that he had left Hogwarts for good.

Well, not exactly for good. The next time he'd be back would be to inspect the work of his replacement. And that would certainly be interesting.

The End