The Ivory Backbone

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Ch. 4: After the Hunt
 
To say the least, things had not gone according to Severus’ plan. He held a drippy ice bag to his new black eye as Potter explained what had happened.
The hatred he felt for Potter (a.k.a. Everybody’s Darling, Mr. I-Can-Do-No-Wrong) had always gnawed at him, like Cadogan’s phantom wolves. This was a new pain, though. Potter had always been brash and petty and self-absorbed. And he was charming. Oh so charming. He charmed his teachers into giving him great marks. He charmed Dumbledore into keeping him out of the dungeons. He charmed Lily. Severus didn’t want to think about Lily right now. He pushed her from his mind gently, with the promise of returning to her later. Right now, he wanted to think about Potter, who set him up. Potter, who pulled him out of the Shrieking Shack. Potter, who would probably get a medal of honor for his efforts.
“So,” Potter said, with that endearing twinkle in his downcast blue eyes. “It was really Sirius and me who got Severus into this mess.” He looked up at Dumbledore like Jesus on the cross. He was suffering for all of humanity in that moment. Suffering because of the wicked thing he’d done.
McGonagall wiped a tear from one bespectacled eye. “Oh, James. I know you never meant any harm.”
Sirius Black was sitting to Severus’ left. Hating Potter and hating Black went hand-in-hand. Black had that same roguish but-I-didn’t-really-mean-to-hurt-anyone charm. He also got away with things that a Slytherin would be expelled for just thinking about.
All of Black’s charm was gone here. His face cemented itself in a look of cold fury. He, unlike James, had seen the silver blade ready in Severus’ hand. Lupin, so small and frail, was very close to Sirius’ heart. A little too close, Severus speculated.
“It’s your own damn fault!” his mind screamed at the sullen Black. “Would have served you right if I had killed him!”
Mostly, Severus was angry with himself for falling for such an obvious set-up. Of course, Potter and Black would know where and why Lupin went. In his eagerness, Severus had forgotten to look beyond luck for motive. Why would Sirius let out any secrets about this campus?
No time for regret. Once Sirius had his turn to speak, Severus would surely be expelled. He wasn’t intending murder, but that’s surely what it looked like.
Dumbledore was looking down on James with that benign no-harm-done stare. He would be forgiven, and Severus would be expelled. How typical. Sirius looked to be chomping at the bit to tell his side of the story.
“That’ll be enough, I think,” Dumbledore said to Sirius and Severus. “You, Severus, are a Prefect and should know better. Fifty points from Slytherin and a detention with Mr. Cadogan. And you will keep Remus Lupin’s disease secret or face expulsion.”
“Yes, sir.” Severus carefully kept a dejected tone in his voice. Secretly, though, he was relieved. It could have been worse. It could have been expulsion.
“You Sirius--” Dumbledore began, with steel in his voice.
“But, sir,” Sirius interrupted.
“Sirius Black, you knowingly attempted to cause the death of an innocent boy!” Dumbledore roared. “Whether the death you almost caused was that of a friend or foe is immaterial. Five hundred points from Gryffindor, and a ten day suspension.”
James’ eyes widened in shock. “F-f-five hundred...sir? Ten days?”
Sirius’ black eyes fixed on Severus, and murder seemed the float inside them. Severus couldn’t help himself; he smirked at Sirius. Sirius restrained himself admirably.
Dumbledore’s eyes softened a bit. “And you James. You behaved with courage and valor. One thousand points to Gryffindor, and a commendation for you at the next feast.”
The blood and the smirk fled Severus’ face. “A...a...a thousand?”
“He did save your life, Severus,” said McGonagall with a sniffle. “Such a brave boy. Going into the very belly of the beast to save a boy that has shown him nothing but hostility. You shouldn’t be so ungrateful.”
He opened his mouth for a very scathing retort, and wisely closed it again. For the first time in his scholastic career, Severus wished that Professor Sullivan were with him. It was an injustice, having McGonagall here for Potter and Black and nobody to speak for him. Sullivan, much as he hated Severus, would have heartily protested this blatant favoritism if he’d had the chance. Severus still couldn’t believe that Gryffindor got what amounted to a slap on the wrist and five hundred points. For a moment he thought about breakfast in the Great Hall. How would he explain to the other Slytherins, make them understand? He hung his head in defeat. It looked like he was going to die at the hands of his own housemates.
Sirius was grinning quite smugly at Severus when Dumbledore showed them the door. Thankfully, McGonagall was escorting them to their respective dormitories. Otherwise, Severus would have liked very much to carve that smile from Black’s face with Grandpa’s knife.
 

* * * * *

 
Severus watched the moldy brick door slide back in place. The fire was glowing green and his musty books were calling to him. If he would die tomorrow, why spend his last night on earth sleeping? It was close enough to sunrise anyway.
Severus was so busy dreading his imminent demise that he almost sat on Professor Sullivan, who was glaring at the green fire and muttering to himself.
“Sorry, sir,” Severus mumbled quickly.
Saluan Sullivan turned his cold green eyes to Severus. “What’s the damage, Snape?”
“Detention.”
“The points, Boy!” Sullivan demanded.
“Fifty points from Slytherin. Five hundred to Gryffindor.”
Sullivan stroked his silver rattail goatee. His eyebrows pulled in closer together, and his forehead creased into neat stairs up to his receding hairline. He assumed this same calculating look whenever Severus contradicted him in class.
“Not so bad,” he remarked thoughtfully. “With Malfoy Splinching himself, we’re a hundred under Ravenclaw.”
“Malfoy Splinched himself?!” said Severus, with feigned astonishment.
“Yes, indeed. His arms and legs and head were in the stairwell by the kitchens, his torso was behind my chair.”
Severus stared at him slack-jawed and knowing what was coming. Sullivan’s hand flew quickly, slapping his mouth closed hard enough to crack teeth.
“Shut your damn mouth, boy. You’ll catch fists.” You never caught flies with an open mouth in Slytherin dormitory, just fists.
Severus rubbed his chin lightly and checked his teeth. No harm done and the pain would pass quickly. Sullivan seemed satisfied that he’d not known about the Splinching.
“You’re both lucky we’ve got a good Quidditch team this year, or we’d be out of the running for house cup entirely.”
“Yes, sir.” The answers were automatic at this point. Severus’ mind was wandering around what was said in Dumbledore’s office.
“What possessed you, Snape?” Sullivan asked in his most condescending voice. “Your much touted grandfather was never such a fool. Pulled out by a bloody Gryffindor.” Sullivan massaged the bridge of his nose.
Severus hated Sullivan’s lectures more than anything else in the world. The old man used to play Keeper on the house team, and later, the Caerphilly Catapults. He wasn’t very good at brewing potions, or anything academic. He was just biding his time until Madam Hooch retired and he could teach Flying. (That would suit Severus just fine, he didn’t have Flying lessons after his first year.) Sullivan expected his students to be just like him. In his mind, you were nothing if you didn’t play Quidditch. Just fine for Lucius; he was the best Keeper Slytherin had ever seen. Fine for Crabbe and Goyle, who were damn good Beaters. People who only did well in class, like Severus, turned Sullivan’s stomach.
“Weak pansies, why don’t we all run off and join Hufflepuff, right Coach?” Severus thought.
“You’re weak, Snape,” Sullivan began. “You’re problem is that you’re so delicate. Undisciplined. Undisciplined and afraid. You’ve got no spine. No bloody backbone.”
Severus wanted to tell Sullivan that it would be fundamentally impossible for him to live without a spine, but decided against it.
“You ought to take a page out of Lucius Malfoy’s book!”
“Here it comes,” Severus thought.
Sullivan loved to compare the two of them. His very favorite student versus the-one-that-the-Snapes-should-have-drowned-at-birth. Over the years, Sullivan had learned exactly how to carve Severus down to two inches tall. He honed his technique every time that Severus pointed out an error in his potion-making. Midway through Sullivan’s soliloquy on the perfect shape of Lucius’ nose, Severus began to wish that Madam Hooch would just retire.
It was during the lecture on personal hygiene (“Bulbotuber pus will clear up that oily complexion, Snape,”) that Severus managed to inject a few words that would guarantee him a moment of peace.
“I’d like to go check on Malfoy, sir.”
“Excuse me?”
Severus stared at the floor. “He’s all alone, and I just wanted to go check on him. He is my best friend.”
“I’ll never understand that,” Sullivan began, threatening to turn that statement into another speech. “However, the infirmary is closed.”
“Plan B then,” Severus thought. “Could you go sit with him, then?” Severus asked innocently. “He’s just been Splinched, I don’t think he should be alone.”
“He’s not a spineless pansy like you, he can be alone in the infirmary without piddling his pants.” Sullivan’s nostrils flared the way they always did when he knew Severus was right. “Still, the nurse needed a draught of Good as New for him, and I should get it to her. I think I’ve said all I need to say to you.”
Without another word, Sullivan stood up and pulled his wool cloak on and left. Severus listened to his retreating footsteps before heading for the Prefect’s bathroom. All he wanted was a long soak before breakfast.