Harry Potter and the Sticking Broom

Chapter 17: Snape's Happiest Memory

It was Thursday, barely mid-morning, not even time for morning tea. Yet, the heat radiated from the cobblestones with such force that it penetrated the soles of Severus Snape's shoes, and caused his feet to sweat. Snape did not care. It was going to be a good day.

It was of little consequence that the past three days astride a broom had left Snape with numerous niggling aches, not to mention a painful disinclination to sit down. Snape swiftly paced the winding streets to Hogsmeade Station, swinging his briefcase and letting his unbuttoned traveling cloak flutter behind him. As he whistled a tune, an old ballad by The Hobgoblins, his heart was gladdened with hard fought peace and righteous contentment. He felt as happy as a Runespoor with only two heads.

Unfortunately, the day's perfection was slightly marred by three people waiting in line in the station's ticket office. The first of the three was an ancient witch, with frizzy white hair and a hump the size of a largish knapsack. She was counting her fare (an Old Crone Day-Away Ticket, Snape supposed) from a green glass jar full of Knuts. She talked continuously while she counted.

"Hottest Hogsmeade day in living memory. I heard 'em say it on the wireless." Her bony, liver spotted hands pushed another handful of Knuts through the ticket seller's window. "Well, I'll be one hundred and ninety-four next March, and I can tell you young man, I've never known a day as hot. I blame the dirty Muggles and their global warmies. It's like a dragon's nest out there -"

"You're still sixty-two Knuts short," the ticket seller interrupted.

"Am I? Are you sure?" The old witch sounded flustered. She pulled the mound of coins back through the ticket window and began to painstakingly count them again. This caused the two teenage wizards standing next in line to groan loudly.

Snape stopped at the threshold of the ticket office's door. Although he had made no secret of catching the train to Pitlochry that morning, he did not wish to be observed by curious eyes at Hogsmeade Station. He had not expected to be waiting for the train with a pair of Hogwarts students. And, his plans had definitely not included encountering the Weasley twins.

The twins' attention was directed towards the ticket window. They had apparently not seen the Potions Master. So Snape decided to remain just outside the doorway, out of sight, until he could think of a way of getting rid of the boys with the minimum of fuss.

"We're going to miss the London train at this rate," George complained. He lowered his school trunk, which had been levitating beside him, and sat heavily upon it. He had been carrying a bulky object, which he now placed across his knees. He then adjusted the gold-rimmed sunglasses, with purple lenses, that were slipping down his nose. "And these bloody glasses won't stay put," he added unhappily.

"Don't be ungrateful," Fred chastised him wryly. "Katie had to deliver a very impressive right hook to get those glasses from Lee. She's quite the little Muggle dueler, isn't she?"

"Yes," George answered through gritted teeth. His memories of Katie's right hook had not always been so agreeable. "And, I guess we should thank Angelina, too. She did a lovely job intimidating Lee into paying over your money. But I still don't understand why we even had to come here. Why couldn't we just Apparate from Hogsmeade? Or hide at school until everything blows over?"

"You can't Apparate because you're obviously suffering from Potions Abuse," Fred replied impatiently. "I mean - purple eyes aside, you're blind as a newt. You practically let that Snitch fly up your nose -"

"I told you, I thought it was a dragon fly. Things went really fuzzy -"

"And it'd be just your luck to be pulled over by somebody from the Department of Magical Transportation and charged with Apparating Under the Influence."

"But if we went back to school -" George fumbled with the object he was carrying, and it clattered to the ground. It was a toilet seat, made from varnished wood, which emitted an odour that was patently unhygienic.

Fred picked it up for his brother. "Eurgh! Couldn't you nick a clean one?" he asked as he handed the toilet seat to George.

"Well, you didn't give me a lot of time. I'll Scourgify it before I give it to Ginny."

"Ginny's quite capable of stealing her own toilet seats now, you know."

"A promise is a promise," George said with mock nobility. "I'm a man of my word. And you haven't answered my question. Why don't we just go back to school and hide?"

Fred tried to stay calm. George was clearly under the weather; he deserved sympathy. "Well, I just thought the sight of your darling violet eyes might just be a bit too much for old McGonagall. I seem to recall her mentioning something about expulsion, not so long ago. And they know about all our best hiding places, now. But, if we do a runner, then hopefully our N.E.W.T.s letters will be posted before the school figures out what happened to us." He continued sarcastically. "But, I suppose we could go back to school. You could sit in the Great Hall, if you like, and just wait for a teacher to come along and say -"

"Remove those sunglasses, Mr Weasley." Snape's icy drawl took the twins by surprise. Fred spun around to see Snape's thin, black clad figure standing directly in front of him.

Both twins were initially too shocked to speak or move. Snape silently swept past Fred, bent low over George, and took the sunglasses away. The professor's sallow face betrayed no emotion as he surveyed the eerie phenomenon of George Weasley's eyes. Both irises and whites were covered in a shining film, which hypnotically swirled with colours. The eyes slowly flickered with the whole range of purple hues, shifting from magenta to indigo and back again. The effect was not unlike looking into two huge opals.

"Irides Violetta," Snape observed casually. "A common side effect of a massive overdose of truth serum antidote." He placed the sunglasses back on George's nose and sneered, "Particularly common where the antidote is of low quality."

"Yes," Fred said, loudly and altogether too eagerly. "It's that stuff they were handing out at the tent on Tuesday. Shoddy rubbish. We were just on our way to the factory to give them a piece of our mind."

"The symptoms take three to five weeks to show," Snape said sharply. His lips curled into sinister smile and he spoke in a velvety whisper. "Now, why would two senior Gryffindors be taking truth serum antidote?" Snape's hawk-like eyes stared penetratingly at Fred as he continued. "Why would they be taking it in such quantity that they were willing to risk lasting harm? And, why would they be prepared to flee the school, and risk expulsion, -" Snape lingered over this last word, which was without a doubt one of his favourites, " - rather than admit to their House Mistress that they had recklessly and stupidly made themselves ill?"

Fred and George had excellent answers to all these questions, but not the sort of answers they could share with Professor Snape. So instead, they opened and closed their mouths like suffocating fish.

Snape was also experiencing an internal conflict. He had just been handed the chance to finally defeat two of the worst rule breakers that Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had ever known. The expulsion of the Weasley twins, albeit seven years too late, would bring him great personal and professional satisfaction. But, he had pressing business to attend to. Snape was on his way to two appointments that morning, and neither of them could be delayed. It was simply impossible for him to march these delinquents back to the school, and it would be imprudent for him to allow them to stay at the station. Grimly, Snape realised that the only available course of action was to set them free.

"And why," Snape continued softly, "would those two Gryffindors be prepared to pay such a large sum for train tickets to London?" He nodded knowingly at the boys' school trunks. "It seems an excessive price to pay, when for a mere fourteen Sickles, the High Street apothecary would sell them Tincture of Jobberknoll Feathers, which would cure them instantly."

Snape flicked his wand and levitated the school trunks, sending George and his toilet seat tumbling to the floor. The Potions Master directed the trunks out of the ticket office and then directed a look of withering contempt at the twins. "You are to go to the apothecary, buy the medicine and get back to school. If I learn that you have spoken of this meeting to anyone, you will be expelled. Now, be gone."

Fred grabbed George's robes and the pair bolted for the door. In all their seven years at Hogwarts, the Weasley twins had never been so keen to obey a teacher's order.

Snape considered the toilet seat at his feet. It was school property. He should bring it back to the school. Yet, it would be a trifle inconvenient to carry it with him until his return to Hogwarts in the afternoon. The white-haired witch had finally purchased her ticket and was shuffling through the platform barrier, where the London train was waiting. With a playful swish of his wand, Snape transfigured the seat into a sizeable, meaty bone, wrapped in brown paper. The parcel flew from the floor into Snape's outstretched hand and he slipped it into his black briefcase. Snape's dark eyes were twinkling with mirth as he stepped up to the ticket seller's window.

* * * * * * *

The two boys had run after their flying school trunks all the way along the High Street, with George stumbling many times as Fred guided him roughly. The trunks dropped onto the baking cobblestones outside the apothecary's shop and the twins bent over double and gasped for breath. When he had recovered, Fred stood up and began to laugh.

"Well, paint me grey and call me Gandalf!" Fred declared cheerily, wiping his sweating brow on his sleeve. "Who'd have though that Snape was the one who could get us out of this mess."

"Don't - be - so - sure," George puffed. "How do we know this Tincture of Jobbythingy's going to work? What if makes it worse?"

"Oh, it'll work," Fred stated with confidence. "Snape seemed very keen to get rid of us. He wants us back at school and keeping quiet. I wonder what he's up to?" A train whistle sounded from the direction of the station. "Anyway," Fred said decisively, "that's the London train gone. We won't be going home till tomorrow. So, we might as well give Professor Snape's Wonder Cure a try." He fished in his jangling pockets and drew out a Galleon.

"How much money have you got there?" George asked.

"Pretty much all of it," Fred said with a grin.

"So, we don't need to keep hounding Brews-U-Like for compensation?"

"It hardly seems necessary, when we can cure you for fourteen Sickles," Fred said. "We'll have heaps of money left over." He began to chuckle. "Maybe we could get the girls a thank you present, after we've fixed you. Zonkos' has some wicked new lip-gloss. Makes the wearer want to kiss whoever's standing next to her -"

"Perhaps just something from Honeydukes," George suggested firmly.

"Oh, all right." Fred thought that his brother could be a bit of a spoilsport at times. He led George into the apothecary's shop, and added thoughtfully, "And, maybe we should buy a get well soon present for Lee. Something that explodes ..."

* * * * * * *

Snape stepped through the barricade, onto the station platform, just as the London train pulled away. He had a few minutes before his own train, which was long enough to keep his first appointment. At the end of the platform stood a wizard in shabby robes, holding the leash of a massive, black wolfhound. The hot tar on the platform yielded under Snape's shoes as he walked towards them. The dog produced a low and vicious growl when Snape drew near.

"We received your owl," Remus Lupin said. "Did you get our reply?" Lupin had a real concern that the black and brown Post Office owl might not have completed its return trip to Hogwarts. Sirius had fed the bird nearly all his dinner before it departed. But then, Sirius never did like frog's legs.

"Obviously." The thin line of Snape's mouth twitched in disgust. "You look sick, werewolf." Even for Professor Snape, it was an impolite start to a conversation. But the remark was provoked not just by an intention to demean, but also by Snape's surprise at how very ill Lupin appeared. Lupin's cheeks were sunken, his skin pale and the dark circles under his eyes so pronounced that they could pass for bruises.

"The full moon was - I've just - transformed," Lupin said haltingly. It still felt strange to Lupin to talk openly about something he had kept a secret for so many years.

From his briefcase, Snape drew a brown bottle stoppered with a pewter cork. "There's enough Wolfsbane Potion in here to see you though the summer. Dilute it the way I've shown you," he said, handing the bottle to Lupin. Lest this act be misconstrued as kindness, he added condescendingly, "You're of no use to the Order if you can't keep your condition under control."

"Thank you." Lupin was too nonplussed to be anything but grateful.

"We'll talk in the waiting room," Snape said, shooting a disdainful look at the dog. Hogsmeade's Station Master had left his post in the ticket office, and was watering the platform's wilting potted plants, all the while keeping a sharp eye on the disreputable looking wizard with the dog. However, Snape had noted as he walked down the platform, that the waiting room was deserted. The professor needed a place where he could talk unobserved. He wanted the Animagus to show himself - to see the look on Black's face. This was, after all, Snape's moment of triumph. He also suspected that Lupin should not be standing in his sorry state.

"I don't think so," Lupin said. He nodded towards a sign over the waiting room door, which read NO DOGS, TROLLS OR WEREWOLVES. The Station Master stood a little way along the platform, holding his watering can and watching Lupin with suspicion.

"As you wish," said Snape stiffly.

Lupin reached into the pockets of his patched robes and produced a scruffy moneybag. "I suppose we owe you some money." He tried to sound cheerful. "I mean, Sirius did bet you that you couldn't do the Sticking Broom again. He told me he put that in his letter. Five Galleons, wasn't it?"

"That is not why I am here." Snape's eyes flashed fiercely. "As you well know. I am here to ensure that you understand the full impact of our agreement. The Headmaster has asked me to obtain assurances that you, and your mongrel, will leave Potter alone."

"Sirius has already talked to Harry. He'll go back to the Dursleys." Lupin's brow furrowed. "But really Severus, you don't know those people. The things the boy has told us. They're Muggles of the very worst sort."

"They are his family," Snape pronounced with finality. "It is their job to raise him and their duty to protect him. From what you saw yesterday, it must be abundantly clear, even to you, that Potter lacks the wit to protect himself." Snape permitted himself a small smile, while he recollected the image of the Boy Who Lived plunging head first into the Quidditch pitch, before resuming his speech. "He was so eager to lunge at glory, that he failed to heed the most blatant threats." A vicious spark flickered in Snape's eyes as he spat his final insult. "Just like his father."

"We can give Harry the sort of home he needs." Remus said, reaching down to rub the fur beneath the wolfhound's chin.

"So that's what you think the brat needs, is it?" Snape looked with disgust at the hound. "Cheerful companionship and freakish displays of affection?" The dog snarled, but Snape continued, "Potter needs to be disciplined - and armed."

Remus chose to ignore this open rudeness. "We'll teach him to take care of himself. We already have - "

"A fuzzy Patronus and a Shield Charm won't get him very far with the Dark Lord next time," the Potions Master interrupted. "Potter will have to curse and mean it - with sincere hatred." Snape's bloodless lips contorted into neither a smile nor a snarl, but the type of expression that lingers as the relic of a happy memory. "And his family - his whole family - are singularly placed to teach the boy to hate."

While Snape and Lupin had argued, smoke from the funnel of the Pitlochry train had been curling out of the forest. The train appeared through the trees. As it drew closer, Lupin made a final attempt to break the uncomfortable silence by leading their conversation towards civility.

"I heard you were going to Uluru this summer," Lupin said pleasantly.

"I am obliged to give a speech there," was Snape's curt response.

"Maybe you'll get a chance to see some Ashes matches?"

"I don't care much for Quidditch," Snape lied.

The train came to a halt at the station and Lupin extended his hand. "Goodbye, Severus," he said. Begrudgingly, Snape shook hands, and then he took the brown paper package from his briefcase.

"A going away present," he said, dropping the parcel in front of the wolfhound's paws. The dog instinctively ripped at the paper and hungrily chewed the bone. Snape stepped onto the train.

"You shouldn't have," Lupin said, momentarily concerned that the bone could be poisoned. However, the dog showed no immediate ill effects. Lupin looked up and smiled at Snape, whose hooked nose profile was visible through the grimy windows of the train. "It wasn't necessary," said Lupin quietly while he patted the dog. "Your going away, Severus, is always the best present we can hope for."

The train pulled away from the platform.

* * * * * * *

The town of Pitlochry stands on the banks of the River Tummel, just east of its entrance into Loch Tummel. An attractive Muggle village, it serves as a tourist centre in the Highlands, and has a number of comfortable hotels. The crystal waters of the Tummel have helped Pitlochry become an important whisky-making centre and tourists may visit a number of the town's distilleries. However, one archaic distillery, near the still waters of the loch, has never been open to the public. Pitlochry residents have long assumed that the distiller who owns this crumbling, dark stone building, is simply more jealous than most of his whisky-making secrets. However, any wizard or witch could tell you the real reason this particular distillery is off limits to the general public. Muggles are not welcome to visit, because the factory is the world headquarters of the Brews-U-Like Corporation.

From time to time, a Muggle tourist will call upon the headquarters of Brews-U-Like by mistake. He will be startled to see the many exotically dressed workers stirring strangely smelling cauldrons, dissecting slimy creatures or decanting jars of briny Murtlap's spines. These tourists will often flee back to their hotels, with wild stories about steaming vats of acrid, lime green goo. However, their fellow travelers are always ready to dismiss these claims as the deluded talk of somebody who has had one dram too many.

The world headquarters of the Brews-U-Like Corporation was the venue for Professor Snape's second appointment that morning. However, as Snape locked the door of his vacant train compartment behind him, and worked a sturdy Cushioning Charm on the seat, he was grateful that the train trip to Pitlochry took about an hour. There was still much to do.

Firstly, Snape drew four slender scrolls from his bag and put them to one side. These were the contest essays for the Brews-U-Like International Potions Essay Contest, which had been prepared by Snape's seventh year students. The professor had come to expect an abysmally low standard from for his seventh year Potions class. And, once again, the seventh years had failed to meet their teacher's meager expectations.

The next scroll the Potions Master took from his briefcase was thicker than the Sunday edition of the Daily Prophet. This was Hermione Granger's essay, which Minerva McGonagall had proudly shown him at breakfast time. When Snape saw it, he had immediately volunteered to personally deliver the contest essays to Brews-U-Like. Which was convenient because, to please Lucius Malfoy and unbeknownst to anybody at Hogwarts, Snape had already arranged a meeting with Declan McManus at 11 o'clock.

Snape could see why Minerva had been so delighted with the essay. It was thoroughly researched and incisive - a clear winner. It was exactly the sort of essay Snape would have written. In fact, it was exactly the essay Snape had written. Miss Granger had copied, word for word, the essay that he had hidden in the Restricted Section.

At first, he had joined McGonagall in effusive praise, all the while wondering how he had been so wrong. His strategy had been to discourage Granger, not to hand her the prize on a plate. He could not let her win. Not just because the insufferable girl was already big-headed enough, but also because he could not bear the thought of Hogwarts' name being associated with a corrupt bottler of third-rate bilge water. And so, he had offered to deliver the contest essays, with the firm intention of turning Hermione Granger's essay into a big rock and throwing it out the train window.

However, as McGonagall had handed the essay to him, Snape had seen something that had escaped the normally sharp eyes of the Head of Gryffindor House. Apparently, virtuous, sanctimonious little Gryffindors like Miss Granger were above Minerva's suspicion. Therefore, Snape alone noticed the edge of the scroll glistening, almost imperceptibly, with a Disillusionment Charm.

"Now, Miss Granger, what are you hiding?" Snape whispered, while he sat alone in the train compartment, working to dismantle the charm. It did not come away easily. It seemed Granger had intended the scroll to remain Disillusioned for at least a couple of days. However, some deft wand work gradually caused the girl's neat, closely spaced writing to dissolve, revealing someone else's rough and ready hand on the top edge of the scroll. Snape recognised the scrawl as Ron Weasley's.

Dear Brews-U-Like Scum,

By the time you see this, your rotten company will be smashed to bits. Good riddance! If you want to know why, just read this essay by Hermione Granger, who is bloody brilliant.

Hermione Granger's writing followed. But, the scroll no longer displayed a prize worthy essay on pain inducing potions. Rather, it contained the most comprehensive indictment of slipshod potions manufacture that Snape had ever had the extreme pleasure to peruse. He ran his wand over the rest of the parchment eagerly, removing the Disillusionment Charm as he read.

She had fully documented the cause and symptoms of Irides Violetta and its irrefutable link to Sneakypop. Snape suspected that she had been observing the Weasley twins for the last few weeks, because her discourse on the disease had the precision and detail of clinical notes. She had also included an amusing critique of Atlas Balm, which caused gigantism in the muscles of underage wizards. Granger had reported numerous instances where the balm had prompted certain underage wizards' external male organs to shrink to the size of peas. Her discussion on the misuse of WhatYouWishFor Potion went so far as to include photographic evidence of unfortunate accidents, which made Snape smile. And, her criticism of Veelapop noted the link between that potion's consumption and total vapidity of mind. However, to be fair, Granger was prepared to accept that such vapidity might not have been a symptom of Veelapop use, but rather a necessary precondition of its users.

There were many other assertions, each one backed up by a solid wall of medical evidence. Snape thought the essay was, indeed, bloody brilliant.

"There will be no denying the talents of our Miss Granger," Snape mused quietly, as he pulled a bright blue Kwikcopyquill from his bag. He also extracted a long roll of blank parchment, before muttering, "I may say what I like about her infuriating personality, or even her ghastly teeth and hair, but the girl has a formidable mind."

Strangely, while the quill set to work scratching a replica of Hermione's astonishingly clever work (sans Ron Weasley's annotations), Snape was overwhelmed with happiness. He began to laugh. It was not a belittling snigger or a cynical snort, but low, rumbling, joyful laughter. And as the Potions Master threw back his head and laughed, as he marveled at how right the world had suddenly become, Snape's happiest memory resurfaced, unbidden, in his elated mind.

It had been a hot summer's day, and he had been crawling on the ground. The cool, long grass tickled his belly. He seemed to recall he had been wearing a T-shirt, but it had ridden up under his arms as he wriggled about, looking for bugs. His best friend in the world was lying in the grass beside him. He could not have been more than four years old.

His best friend found a snail under some rotting leaves and picked the animal up with her pudgy fingers. Her freckled nose crinkled as the snail's slimy body slipped in her hand, but her startlingly green, almond-shaped eyes were smiling. "Let'th make him pretty," she had lisped.

Whenever grown-ups saw him with his best friend, their reactions had always been the same. They used to look at the pair curiously and then say, "They're nothing alike." But, he knew that he was exactly like the girl with green eyes. On the inside, where it mattered, they were secretly identical.

Because they were exactly the same, they both knew just what to do with the snail. They stared at it for a minute or two, he gently stroked its boringly brown shell, and then they watched as the animal transformed into a thing of beauty. He made the shell glow as bright as sunshine, she put tiny pink polka dots along the spiral and then, by concentrating very hard together, they gave the snail glorious, rainbow butterfly wings. The snail, which was in retrospect probably rather confused, flapped its new wings slowly. It rested in his best friend's hand and no doubt wondered whether golden, polka dotted snails could fly.

Then their big sister had found them. Her patent leather shoes had stomped through the grass, squashing goodness knows how many fantastic bugs, and she had crossed her arms and scolded them. "What are you doing, down in the dirt? You're all grubby. I'm telling mum. You'll get in trouble. But first, you can turn my skipping rope."

His older sister had many incomprehensible obsessions. Neatness. Cleanliness. Skipping. As usual, she was wearing a dress that was rigidly starched and preposterously flounced. She wore her blonde hair tied up in a silly high ponytail, with an oversized, blue bow. It made her long, horsy face look even more equine.

"I don't want to play skipping," he had protested. He stood up to confront her and, when he did, the wonderful snail had been frightened into taking flight. It fluttered, slowly and uncertainly, right past his big sister's nose.

She had been horrified. "Eurgh! What is it? It was you, wasn't it? You made it, didn't you?"

"We both did it," his best friend had said.

"You little - you freaky little - just wait till I tell mum!" his big sister had shouted. "And I'm going to tell her all the other horrible things you've done. Don't think I haven't noticed. You made my school uniform go purple! You burned dad's Sunday suit! You're the reason he yelled at mum. I'm going to tell her, you ugly, skinny, little freak!" She had pushed him over. The grass was soft. He hadn't been hurt. But the indignity of it all had made him furious.

He had glared with hatred at the bow flopping on his big sister's head. Surprisingly quickly, it transformed into a large, grey squirrel. The animal had made frantic, rat-like squeaks as it clung to her hair with its sharp claws. She had screamed, and tried to punch the squirrel away, which seemed to make it cling even harder. Still screaming, she ran about in circles, until the squirrel jumped off and scampered to the trees at the end of the garden. His big sister, terrified beyond words, had fled back to the house in tears. He had flopped back in the long grass with his best friend, his twin, Lily, and they had giggled for ages.

Not long ago he had learnt that, to this day, Petunia despised all animals. Squirrels especially.

As the Kwikcopyquill diligently pressed on with its work, Snape wondered to what extent the happiest day of his life, the day that Petunia was attacked by a squirrel, had been the cause of all his later misery. In many ways, Petunia had been right. He had turned her school uniform purple. He had been driven to it by Petunia's incessant boasting that she was a schoolgirl, and therefore very smart, whereas he was a just a baby. He had also burned his dad's Sunday suit. But he didn't know it would make dad so mad. He certainly didn't know it would make dad shout at mum, and tell her how hopeless she was at ironing. He just burned the suit because he didn't feel like going to church any more.

He had been an unusually naughty, marginally hateful and exceptionally magical, little boy. The combination of these attributes was probably what marked him for the attention of the man who had "adopted" him. The tall, dark-haired wizard had found him playing alone at the bottom of the garden, not long after the squirrel incident, and simply whisked him far away. At first, although he was heartbroken for the loss of his mum and Lily, he had taken the man's claim that he was, "too wicked," for his family, and that they did not want him, at face value. As the years passed, he had forgotten his family, just like his adopted father told him he would. But later, he had called into question a great many of the things his adopted father had told him.

Why would his family let an unmarried man, a total stranger, take him away forever? Why would anybody consider the man, who had no interest in children, a suitable candidate to adopt a child? Snape had grown up neglected, like a plant kept in the dark. The only care his adopted father ever gave him was during his lessons, and the only things he was ever taught were how to poison, hex, jinx and curse. All things considered, Snape believed that a wizard with such an encyclopedic knowledge of the Dark Arts, not to mention a quirky penchant for anagrams, was an odd choice as an adoptive parent.

When he was sixteen, something happened that would make sense of it all. Sirius Black had tried to murder him, had sooled a monster on him, and Snape awoke, terrified and weeping, in a hospital bed. A girl was watching over him, with brilliantly green, almond-shaped eyes. She had called him by his name.

At that moment he had realised that the scraps of his earliest years, which he could only dimly recall, had not merely been happy dreams. He had wanted to embrace Lily, there and then, and tell her that he remembered, too. But instead, James Potter, who Snape loathed more than anybody, had draped his arms around Lily's shoulders and had kissed her. He watched Lily kiss Potter in return, so grateful that the arrogant prat had heroically bounded to the rescue.

Snape resolved that, no matter how close he had been to Lily Evans in the past, she could mean nothing to him any more. Lily had later taken him aside, and had tried to explain how her family had searched for him. He had called her filthy names. He told her she was insane. He vowed to curse her dirty Mudblood mouth shut for good if she ever spread lies about him again.

The Kwikcopyquill had stopped. Snape was not sure how long it had been silent. He had been lost in memories a good long time. He could see the swift waters of the Tummel River flowing alongside the railway tracks and realised, with a start, that he would be in Pitlochry soon. He had some small tasks to complete before his arrival.

It was apparent, from Ron Weasley's ranting, that a plot to publicise the findings of Granger's essay had already been hatched. However, Snape thought, Do not forget that Weasley is an imbecile. If Weasley had been behind any strategy to bring Brews-U-Like down, then Snape believed it would be wise to also have a back-up plan. Distasteful though it may be, Professor Snape had a foolproof method at his disposal to ensure Hermione Granger's expose' would be printed in full in tomorrow's Daily Prophet. He would need to make a sacrifice, as usual, to serve the greater good. However, he considered the opportunity to destroy the Brews-U-Like Corporation as a very great, good deed. All he needed was a large envelope and an owl, both of which he could borrow from the receptionist at the factory. He would also need to write a brief note.

Taking his quill, he wrote in miniscule and cramped handwriting on a blank piece of parchment.

Dear Miss Skeeter,

While visiting the offices of Brews-U-Like today, the enclosed document came into my possession. It is my wish that your newspaper print this document in full in tomorrow's edition. I do not wish my name to be attributed to this document. You may say that, "a disgruntled employee," gave it to you.

If you comply fully with my wishes, I will consent to have tea at the home of Mrs Peebles, with you and a press photographer attending, as suggested during our brief meeting last Monday.

Prof. S. Snape

He bundled the note with the replica of Hermione's essay, ready for posting. The picturesque town of Pitlochry appeared through the forest as Snape replaced the Disillusionment Charm on Hermione's original work. He placed all the contest essays, including the four pitiful offerings by his seventh year dunderheads, back in his briefcase.

Snape's briefcase was not new. It had been a present, from Lucius Malfoy no less, when Snape had been made Head of Slytherin House. It was made of black leather and Snape's name had been embossed in gold near the handle. However, over the years, the Potions Master's tendency to store caustic substances in his briefcase had caused a number of unsightly scorches. The gold lettering had eroded when some Hebridean Black's blood had seeped through a cracked phial. So, instead of saying SEVERUS SNAPE, only some of the letters remained. The Potions Master's briefcase read VERUS PE.

The train came to a halt. It was time for the professor to do his anti-heroic duty. Severus Snape stepped out into the searing heat of the hottest Pitlochry day in living memory. As he strode the length of the dusty platform, he decided that, all things considered, his family would have been proud of their little, lost Perseus.