"See?" she said evenly. "I can go see him if you--"
"No," he interrupted. "I know what I can do."
With a frown, Millie said, "What?"
"I can go get the Stone myself."
TBC . . .
A/N: Thanks to everyone who reads and/or reviews! Alas, my thoughts on this chapter before I wrote it were different from those when I did write, so there was no Draco in it, my apologies. The text between the two sets of () is ripped straight from JK Rowling's first book.
I figure there're about five or so chapters left of this story before it's done. I still have a line for Reviewer Number Five Thousand which I need to find a place for, and we still need to have the actual Rescue of the Stone thing, not to mention find out if Harry and Snape will reconcile before the end of the school year. Good times ahead!
*Chapter 48*: Chapter 48
Better Be Slytherin! – Chapter 48
By jharad17
Warnings for language.
--HPHPHPHPHPHPHP--
Previously on Better Be Slytherin:
What was Dumbledore getting at? He decided to ask. Perhaps, this once, Albus would give him a straight answer. "What are you talking about, Albus? Do you suspect Quirrell knows I'm not one of His agents anymore?"
Dumbledore smiled softly. "Not at all. I merely speculate that, to the untrained eye seeking knowledge, a conversation of that sort would terribly, mistakenly illuminating."
No. Not even this once.
--HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS--
AND:
Harry closed his mouth and fumed. He had no idea, really, how he could save the Stone. He couldn't tell Dumbledore, as if he'd be believed anyway . . . maybe he could tell the Bloody Baron, if he could find the ghost, but he wasn't sure that would do any good. As it was, the Bloody Baron couldn't stop anyone from stealing the Stone, either, as he didn't have a real body. Unless . . .
"See?" Millie said evenly. "I can go see him if you--"
"No," he interrupted. "I know what I can do."
With a frown, she said, "What?"
"I can go get the Stone myself."
--HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS--
Severus Snape did not care for springtime. Every April, he sneered at pretty little flowers erupting from the soil and harrumphed at the sight of birds returning from the south, and he scowled at the itch of pollen in his eyes. Wizards did not have allergies, of course. Just . . . discomfort and an occasional sneeze. So, no, Severus did not care for spring or spring like things, but he tolerated the change of seasons fairly well, if only because it meant the end of another school year was nigh.
This year, however, spring was especially bleak. Little things annoyed the professor, things he normally overlooked. He snapped at students for stirring their cauldrons too loudly and snarled at Third Years who added ingredients from too great a height above their cauldrons. He got headaches from the bursts of sunlight in the Great Hall's tall windows. Mrs. Norris' paws hitting the flagstones were like cymbals in his head, and he gave Filch a tongue lashing for letting "that fleabag" wander about on its own. When the fleabag in question tried rubbing against his leg through his not-quite-cat-hair-proof robes, he growled at her. There may even have been some cursing.
This spring, in fact, everything seemed duller and tepid and annoying, from the children's piping voices to the pitter pat of the warm rains on the windows. Everyone else around him, he felt, was uncivil and discourteous and overwhelmingly obtuse, and he greatly wished he could take a cane to each of their backsides. Half the student population he'd like to hang by their thumbs -- one area in which he was in complete agreement with Filch -- and the other half he wanted to send to bed without supper.
Of course, Severus did not say any of this. He did not even complain overmuch about any of his students or colleagues, their actions or attitudes, no matter what chiding the Headmaster gave him about the issue. He was just . . . frustrated. Yes, that was it. But even worse, his frustrations sank deep into his core and had pervaded every one of his daily tasks. He could not pinpoint the cause for the longest time, until he realized that when the First Year Slytherins came in for class or dinner or tutoring, his level of ennui rose exponentially. It was then he realized that his sense of frustration and annoyance increased whenever Harry Potter appeared to notice Severus, and his young face turned to stone, whether at meal times or during class or when the brat was coming inside, drenched and shivering, from Quidditch practice in the rain.
All in all, Severus did not understand what was wrong with Harry Potter, and it frustrated him greatly. This frustration had finally led to his current situation, a little more than a week after his discussion with the Headmaster about Quirrell.
Severus was in his office, seated at his desk. Two Slytherin First Years occupied the seats opposite him. It was heading into late May . . . and Severus had just concluded a conversation with the Bloody Baron that made him wish the man were corporeal so Severus could blast him to smithereens.
The ghost was just so . . . frustrating! He would never divulge Harry Potter's secrets, the bloody Bloody Baron had pronounced, and he seemed to take a great deal of satisfaction in relaying the message, too.
With a shake of his head, Severus glared at the two children. He would not dwell on the Baron now. Not when he had fresh victims, er, students to question. First, to take them off guard and loosen their tongues. "You know, of course, why I have called you into my office, correct?"
The two students exchanged a glance. "No, sir," they said together.
Right. The hard way, then.
"From my records," he said, flipping through one of his grade books, the one which automatically updated First Years' grades after he finished marking one of their assignments, "I see neither of you have failed to submit a single one of my assigned essays and yet, you, Miss Bulstrode, seem incapable of rendering your work in penmanship which does not cause my retinas to bleed, and as for you, Mr. Nott, your footnotes often rival your essays for length and relevant content."
He paused, letting them work out what he had said before listening to their promises to do better. Mr. Nott's assurances were especially piquant, and Severus was hard pressed not to smile at the boy's wit even whilst wondering how he'd come by it; Nott Senior was not known for his stimulating repartee, after all.
And now to drop the boom: "Alas, the third part of your little trio, if I may use the term, is not present to receive due criticism on his work for my class. This is most vexing. I trust you understand."
Another exchanged glance between them. Another, "No, sir."
Severus drew himself up and slapped his palm on his desk top. "Where is Harry Potter?"
The children jumped.
"I don't know, sir," said Bulstrode, the first to recover. "Have you checked the pitch? He's often there."
"I have, and he was not, and that is not the point at all. Mr. Potter has been absent in more ways than one of late, and I wish to know why. Since you two seem his closest . . . comrades, I find it prudent to put you to the question." He smiled, a quick baring of teeth. The girl visibly recoiled.
"He's indisposed," Nott said a moment later. He had the same rat face as his father, but it seemed that was the only thing he possessed of the man, if he was truly chums with Potter.
"For three months?" Severus growled.
The brats exchanged another look. One would think they were Legilimens, or at the very least, plotting something. Something of a rules-breaking nature. He would have none of it. He gestured to Bulstrode with his wand. "Tell me what you know."