The Master Plan

Chapter 15: Harry the Immeasurably Clumsy, and Some Exploding Balls

Harry was horrified that Hermione knew about his interest in the Potions Master--at least, he was at first. But Hermione didn't tease him about it (come to think of it, he should have known she wouldn't) and, in fact, didn't even bring it up again. And her suggestion about the journal turned out to be pure gold. Harry even figured out a sure fire way of getting everyone else to stay out of it. When Ron leaned over and asked what he was writing, Harry simply smiled and said, "I'm the secretary of S.P.E.W. Hermione wants me to keep good notes." Ron looked vaguely upset about this, and never brought it up again. Harry did the same thing whenever anyone showed an interest, telling them that they should have a look at all the facts and figures he'd copied down. He enjoyed watching people pull nasty faces and back away, and once or twice, he shared a secret, guilty smile with Hermione over the whole thing. He felt she was being a really good sport about it, considering.

Harry found the journal rough going, in the beginning. He'd never taken the time to sort through things like feelings, let alone put them into words or coherent sentences. At first, he just scribbled in disjointed thoughts; how he was uncomfortable with himself, how he wondered what the wizarding world thought of gays, whether Snape was interested in men, and how Harry could get the man interested in him. And whether he was completely insane for even wanting it. He had to assume he was; he didn't see anyone else following the man about, hanging off his every word and falling into those dark, dark eyes.

He found himself watching Lavender, one day, as she penned Lee Jordan's name on the cover of her notebook and proceeded to lavishly decorate it with tiny hearts and lip shapes. Harry was revolted. Then he tried doing the same with Snape's name in his journal, and had to scratch it out. It just didn't look right. Maybe if he decorated it with tiny bats and spider webs. He gave it a try, just out of curiosity, and ended up nearly having to leave Charms, he was so convulsed with laughter. It did look somehow right, though. In a fit of whimsy, he covered the front of his own notebook with Snape's ambivalent faces.

He began taking the journal with him everywhere, paranoid that if he left it about, someone would read it. He tried to be careful not to name names very frequently, but he often forgot himself, especially when he was writing about Snape. He wrote about the time Snape laughed, after Harry's incident involving the trash can, and how, afterward, Harry slyly referred to the man by his whole name, just to see what it was like to say 'Severus' out loud in front of him. Harry thought the name quite sexy, and wondered if he'd ever get a chance to use it again. He also wrote of how his heart fluttered a little the first time the man called Harry by his first name, when he was having that panic attack. He liked the idea that they might call each other by their first names, become friends, even.

He watched Snape out of the corner of his eye, a week later, as Harry wrote, 'SOMEDAY I WILL THANK PROFESSOR SNAPE FOR THIS,' which he thought was somehow kind of sweet...and THAT would have to go in the journal as one of the sickest thoughts he'd ever had. The Potions Master was working on Hermione's Occlumency, which Harry found rather more entertaining now that he knew one or two things Hermione might like to keep to herself.

"Really, Granger, I do wish you'd work harder at this," the man told her after one long and particularly grueling battle for her memories. Hermione had ended up on the floor, scowling at Snape. He shuddered a little, adding, "There are some things a man should NOT have to witness, even in the name of attempting to save the world from the Dark Lord's clutches. If you insist on DOING things like that to Mr. Weasley, I suggest you invest in a Pensieve, and let me instruct you in how to remove such thoughts before class."

Hermione got to her feet, inflamed with embarrassment, and for some reason shot Harry a dirty look. He glanced at Snape and hid his half-smile by turning back to his work. "That's all right," he heard Hermione testify testily. "I'll try harder, that's all."

Harry himself was improving greatly at Occlumency, perhaps prodded into action by the terrifying thought of Snape discovering some of Harry's own fantasies about his teacher. When it was his turn, Harry tried to picture a white room, with white windows, walls, doors, and bright white light seeping in from everywhere, obliterating every other thought. He indistinctly felt Snape prodding at this vision, but though it wobbled a bit when the man spoke, Harry managed to hold on. Finally, Snape dropped the attack.

"That was...a new approach," the professor commented quietly. "I doubt you would have been able to keep it up, were you surrounded by Death Eaters and exposed to physical torment, as well, but...perhaps a useful idea, none the less. I am...probably less horribly displeased with you than ever."

When Harry's face lit up and he swelled like he was ready to burst, Snape attacked again. Suddenly, Harry found himself staring at Snape as he stalked Harry in the Forest, moving swiftly and predatorily. Harry gulped at this memory, and threw a curse blindly. He heard something shatter, but it must not have hit Snape, because the memory shifted, showing a vision of Harry's notebook, riddled with ambivalent faces. This was disastrous! Harry HAD to stop thinking these thoughts! He shouted out curses, right and left; hearing them ricochet and careen wildly around the room, to no effect. Snape was still in his head, sifting through those exquisite memories; the Potion Master's hand, making a graceful gesture; the man's voice, a whiskey-tinged timbre sliding past a pink tongue; his lips, twisted in a smirk; his eyes, with that eyebrow in its characteristic position. Harry shot a couple of hexes and spells out randomly and still, nothing happened. The dream he'd had last night. God, no, not that one! The Potion Master leaned down, lips parted slightly, and Harry thought desperately of that room. White room! White walls! White floor, ceiling, windows, white white white! He clutched at the colour with his mind, willing his thoughts not to stray. Finally, the attack subsided.

"You are far too trusting, Mister Potter," he heard Snape's self-satisfied voice above him, and looked up at the man through crooked glasses. The professor was offering his hand, one brow raised as Harry had pictured. Bashfully, Harry let him help him to his feet. "If your enemies flatter you, will you let them in so easily as you did me?"

Harry glanced around the room in bewilderment, taking in the damage he had wrought. The students' desks were overturned and looked as though they'd been thrown haphazardly around the chamber. A bottle of ink had burst, and covered the floor and one wall with a dark blue mist. Ron and Hermione were peering cautiously around McGonagall's sturdy desk. Some of the chairs had been broken into matchsticks, others merely beaten and abused. "Did I do that?" Harry wondered in a hushed voice.

"Indeed," Snape replied, trying to take his hand back. Harry was not yet willing to relinquish the man's unexpectedly warm grasp, and refused to let go. This meant he was pulled toward the teacher and, thinking quickly, made a calculated stumble into the man's arms. Since the Potions Master had not anticipated this, he tried to step away from Harry, slid on a loose chair leg, and lost his balance. The Potions Master found himself in a brief plummet with an abrupt stop at the end. Harry determinedly kept hold of his hand, so he was yanked off his feet atop the man. Harry came to rest with arms and legs akimbo, flopped on Snape's body, head resting on the man's chest.

"Do. You. Mind. Mister Potter?" Snape asked him coldly. Harry had to tilt his head very far back to see the man's face, as Severus had managed to land in a position where he was half sitting up. Harry blew his wayward hair out of his eyes and tried to give the man his most appealing, repentant expression. The Potion Master's face was a little out of focus (by now, Harry's glasses hung from one ear) but he did hear a disgruntled 'Humph,' from above. "I never thought I'd be in the most undignified position of being able to say this," Snape informed him, "but I think you ought to consider un-straddling me and getting up. This is the way unfortunate rumors start, and besides that, your chin is very sharp. It's digging into my ribs."

Harry, relieved at how well the man seemed to be taking it, levered himself into a different position. Not COMPLETLEY different, it must be said, because he figured that if Snape really wanted him gone, he could damn well throw him off, but he tried to adjust his chin at least so that it wasn't quite as uncomfortable for the professor. He watched interestedly as Snape grimaced and felt the floor beneath him, gently extracting the chair leg that had caused such trouble. He glared at the offending piece of wood and tossed it aside. "Well," the man finally said with a sour sigh, "disaster-prone Potter does it again." Harry attempted to give him a winning smile. "Stop leering at me, you insufferable brat. Did I not instruct you to GET THE HELL OUT OF MY LAP?" Startled, Harry scrambled off the man. "Better." He dusted himself off. "I know I professed myself captivated by your previous singular footwork in that mesmerizing comic ballet; what I still occasionally like to refer to as 'Harry's Epic Battle with the Wastepaper Basket of Doom,' I cannot fathom why you would think I felt the urge to participate in a sequel."

"Um. Gosh. I am really, extremely sorry," Harry began, but Snape waved the words away. Harry offered his own hand to the professor, who glowered at it balefully for a moment before hauling himself to his feet without assistance. Harry risked a glance back at Ron and Hermione, who were looking aghast and speechless. He gave them a sheepish grin before turning back to the matter at hand. "I--I. You're not hurt, are you?" Harry bit his lip as he watched the man inspect a tear at the elbow of his robe.

Snape gave him a withering look. "While YOU might enjoy intermittently, violently throwing yourself to the floor at random, I can assure you that I am far less accustomed to it. I'm going to have bruises on bruises after this, and the state of my joints will be even more lamentable." He flicked a glance at the youth and muttered, "I suppose you have not suffered, overmuch?" His tone was deliberately indifferent, but Harry's heart soared.

"Um. My ear hurts," Harry admitted, rubbing it. He took his hand away, and was surprised to see blood.

"Harry! You're cut!" he heard Hermione exclaim, and suddenly she and Ron were next to him, checking to see if he was all right. "Ohhh...Harry," Hermione breathed. "You've got a shard of glass in there."

Ron flinched and looked away. "Yuck, mate. It's sticking right up out of your ear. Gruesome. Fred and George'll have wished they hadn't missed it."

"All right, all right, push off, the both of you," Snape chased them away. "One of you find my wand, and the other some kind of cloth, or something. We'll have to wipe a bit of the blood away so I can see where I'm aiming." Hermione handed him his wand, while Ron used the sleeve of his robe to delicately wipe away some of the gore. Harry flinched a little, and Snape said, "That's enough." He very gently tilted Harry's head to one side, and drew the glass from his flesh. A fresh surge of blood followed its removal, and Harry whimpered a little at the appalled looks on Ron and Hermione's faces. "Oh, stop being such a baby, Potter," Snape replied, dabbing at the wound with his own sleeve. "I've seen far worse than this little nick, I think you'll live." He quickly cast a healing spell, and the wound mended itself neatly. "That ought to do it," he said, wiping some more of the blood away, examining the ear for further damage. As the ear no longer hurt to be touched, Harry felt himself give an excited shiver when Snape softly ran his finger along the back. Unconsciously, he lifted one hand to grasp the front of the Potion Master's robes. "Did that hurt?" Snape inquired, concerned.

Harry's mouth was dry. "Just a little," he murmured, praying that the man would keep touching him. Snape leaned in for a closer inspection, and Harry's eyes fell half shut when he felt warm breath on his neck. "I don't think there are any additional shards," Snape said in a low voice, looking closely and contemplatively stroking Harry's ear. "I imagine it came from your glasses. You've probably mangled them, as you've done to everything else within sight." Harry wrinkled his nose, and was just about to protest that he hadn't meant to, when a high-pitched scream rent the air.

Snape jerked back, head pivoting to face the door. Another jarring shriek penetrated the night. Ron gulped and looked to the professor. "I thought you put a Silencing Charm up. You always do."

Snape made his way toward the door, already in clandestine prowler mode. "The wards keep our noises in, Weasley," he informed them in a hushed voice. "They do not keep other noises out." He cocked his head at the door, and did not seem surprised when a third scream followed the others. "You three. Stay here," he commanded, and slipped out into the darkness of the castle.

"It sounded like a banshee," Hermione whispered tautly.

"Do you reckon we should follow him?" Ron asked, glancing at the other two for approval. Hermione looked disapproving, and Harry caught his breath. He didn't want anything to happen to Ron or Hermione, but what if something happened to Snape?

"He'll be fine, Harry," Hermione told him sharply, once again proving how observant she was. "He's spent plenty of years playing with the big, bad, Death Eaters; a little banshee isn't going to bother him much."

Another cry floated up to them, and it was faint and indistinct. Good God, what if that time it wasn't a banshee at all? What if it was Snape, yelling for help? "I can't, Hermione," he said to her raggedly, "I can't stand not knowing. I have to do something."

He darted to the door, Ron right at his heels. With a moan of frustration, Hermione followed.

They crept down the hall, trying to keep in mind everything Snape had taught them. No talking, not even whispering. They communicated with muted gestures and quick nods. Stay close to the walls. Wands at the ready. If you see something, don't hesitate to curse it like crazy, just in case it plans on doing the same to you. Regulate your breathing, quietly, quietly...close your eyes. Harry's hand tightened on his wand. What was that? He felt Hermione's hand touch his arm, a signal to stop. They halted in the shadowy hall, hearts beating.

All of a sudden, the world seemed to explode. The brightest light Harry had ever seen burst into the hall, and a tumultuous racket reached them. They threw themselves to the floor, hands covering their heads. The light wavered and died, but the sound continued. It gradually diminished, changing from one overwhelming crash to a discordant, clanging, rattling, tinkling clamor. Harry lifted his head, trying to discern the origin of the din. He pointed unsteadily down the hall.

A thought struck him: if Snape had been anywhere near the source of the blast, it would be HIS ears bleeding. Calm down, calm down, Harry told himself. Pomfrey can probably fix deafness just as promptly as she can broken bones.

Ron helped Hermione to her feet, eyebrows raised in concern. She nodded shortly, as if to say she was fine, and Harry gingerly picked himself up as well. Ron pointed north, and Harry nodded. With a determined chin, Ron led the way swiftly toward the unknown. The noises were still coming, less continuous, but with no reduction of racket. They could hear other sounds now, too; the castle was waking up.

Harry began to hurry, knowing he had to make the scene before there were other teachers there to bar the way. At the back of his mind, an agitated little voice was hissing, 'Snape, Snape, Snape.' He forced himself to be calm, logical. They were heading ever north, and going up where ever they could. The source was high above the rest of the castle, and Harry's legs ached from climbing staircase after staircase. Hermione waved a hand at them and mouthed, 'The North Tower.' It had to be right; nothing else was this high or this far north. Now knowing their destination, they ran more briskly, racing up the narrow winding stairway.

At the base of the silvery ladder beneath the Divination classroom, a glittering, sharp, field of ruin lie at their feet. "What happened?" Ron whispered hoarsely.

"Who's there?" Snape's voice barked in response. His face appeared framed in the trapdoor, and he looked distinctly unhappy to see them. "Idiot children," he growled. "Get out of here this instant!"

In the background, they heard Trelawney sobbing. "Oh, oh, Severus," she choked, and the Potion Master's head whipped up.

"Don't come over here, Sybil," he warned. "There's glass all over the place." He looked down at them again and made a shooing motion.

They began to back away, hearing the Divination teacher's wavering voice still moaning, "My crystal balls! Every last one of them! Oh, oh, oh!" She broke down into garbled snuffles once more. Hermione jerked on their arms, and led them sprinting back down the stairs, dodging the inquisitive voices of Dumbledore and McGonagall, home to the safety of Gryffindor Tower.

Once there, back among their newly awakened classmates, the three looked at each other gravely. "They were shattered," Harry commented in a soft voice. "Every last one of them. Do you know how thick and heavy one of those things is? It'd be like blowing apart a cement brick!" Hermione's eyes were wide and she nodded seriously.

Ron came and put his arms around her, resting his chin on her head. He smirked just a little at Harry and mouthed, 'Bet Trelawney didn't see THAT one coming.'

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