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[subtle science]

I'm shameslessly stealing this idea from another poster on another forum...but it was too much fun not to try to introduce here...

The idea of the thread is to post rewrites of scenes from the HP books from Snape's point of view.  Now, I myself cheat a bit on this:  I tend to write scenes that did not necessarily appear in the books, but were implied--they must have happened, outside of Harry's realm of experience.  But other people have redone scenes that actually do occur in the books...whether angsty or humorous....

It's rather entertaining--if you care to give it a go... 

Here's one of mine...Quite the angst-festival.

****

Snape pushed his hair out of his face. It was actually wet, disgustingly enough...in part because of the steam rising from the cauldron, and in part from sweat. For good measure, he rubbed his eyes. He had no idea what time it was. However, judging by the sweat, the eyestrain, the state of his hair, and the pain in his lower back...hours had to have passed....

"Specialo Revelio," he said, for the fifth time, with a pass of his wand over the cauldron.

Nothing happened.

Dumbledore's blood, diluted, remained just that. Nothing separated this time. Dark brownish-red, with ominous flecks of black. No change.

Well. So four poisons, blended, and a binding curse of stupendous cruelty.

So.

Snape picked up the flasks on the worktable, one at a time, and emptied their contents into the cauldron. No splashes, no spills--each flask contained enough poison to wipe out an entire House.

The cauldron's contents resumed their roiling, turning again the threatening storm-gray with which he had begun.

Now start the antidote.

There isn't one, came the traitorous thought flashing across his mind, but he quelled it.

Ingredients.

He worked his way down the table. Liquids. Powders. Grinding fresh what needed to be ground fresh. A teaspoon, a cup, a pinch, an ounce. Stir. Clockwise. Counterclockwise. Snape blotted the sweat running down his face.

Last...the phial of unicorn blood. Never had Snape been so grateful for Hagrid. Hagrid and his odd communion with the wild things of the Forest. What could be more precious than this single tablespoon of blood, freely given...now, more than ever? More than Snape could ever have imagined...would never have wanted to have to imagine--

Stop.

He poured it in and stirred, counting.

The potion fizzed and turned an opalescent blue. A last sprinkling of powdered amethyst.

There.

Already it was turning--developing the proper hue and clarifying. Another half hour and it would be limpid and a royal purple...fitting, really, for Dumbledore.

A gobletful, then, every four hours. Dumbledore would like its sweetness. That would make the doses more bearable. Such an odd potion: boiling hot in the cauldron, but icy to drink, almost painfully so. Every four hours.

And it would not react well with the binding curse. Snape had tried his best to remove it--but the magic was so Dark, so bound to the very poisons it enhanced....

Tried his best....

His best was simply not good enough.

It could not be good enough.

He wasn't strong enough, smart enough, skilled enough. Maybe even Dark enough.

It wasn't enough.

Snape stared at the bubbling contents of the cauldron, already darkening and clearing, in just such a short time.

A short time.

All these hours of work. And that was all it would come down to, in the end. A short time.

Abruptly, Snape pulled out the stool next to the worktable and sat down.

Hours of work. Resulting in only hours of life, really. Because what were months, truth be told, but a matter of hours added up? After 150 years...time dwindled to a matter of hours.

Snape could not, no matter how hard he worked, no matter how long he researched, no matter what he did, add any more hours now....

The sob wrenched from him. It was a physical pain, as if something had torn loose, had ripped inside him.

He fell forward, burying his face in his arms on the worktable. He gave himself over to it, surrendered to the wild grief. He wept as he had not wept in sixteen years.

[Aoide]

Wow, you are one talented writer. I really liked this twist on the story. I actually felt sorry for Snape, a new emotion for me. Your description of his emotional fall from the moment of his mixing the potion to him sitting on the stool was touching. Well done.

[subtle science]

Thanks, Aoide!  You're very kind 

This is the sort of thing I referenced in the intro to this thread:  it's not exactly a scene from the books--but Dumbledore speaks of Snape's being the one to treat his hand injury...

[PotionStudent]

Subtle, thanks to open the thread with that classic one! Very believable!
I shall then dare to add mine...

Spinner's beginning

[/u]
First of August 1981
Hogsmeade, Madam Rosmerta’s “three broomsticks”



         A young man was walking away from the pub. Severus Snape had hoped to down himself in ale, to forget the news he had heard today from his master.

         Yes, his self-inflicted master – he could only blame himself. He forced himself to remember the morning, to make sure this was not a nightmare. A bad dream.

         As Severus was finishing the poison the other death eaters had ordered, Lucius Malfoy had came in, rubbing his hands in glee. “Good news, Severus. Between your last report on that prophecy, and that traitor’s help, we should soon take a huge step forward purification of the wizard race!”
         Snape had shrugged. Despite all his boasting, Malfoy did not know anything about the prophecy – except that it existed. While Snape – well, Snape had heard it, and of course dutifully reported it to Voldemort.
“Have you found out who that traitor is?” he asked nonchalantly.
Malfoy shrugged back, “The Dark Lord is keeping his identity hush-hush. But I think He is asking for you.”
         Snape had hurried to Voldemort. “Well, well, well, Severus… You will be happy to know that I identified the boy of the prophecy. Are you curious about who it is? I think you’ll like it… Or rather, you’ll like who his father is.”
Snape had nodded dutifully – when Voldemort gloated, it was not the moment to interrupt his self-congratulations.
“James Potter. The one who tried to lord it over you at Hogwarts, no? Perfect Potter, and the mudblood Lily Evans. My spy confirmed they just had a brat. Yesterday.”
It was as if an invisible fist had slammed in his stomach. Lily… For all his hate of James Potter, Lily was entirely something else. But he instinctively knew he mustn’t dwell on that in front of the best legilimens ever – he focused on his hatred of James, listened to the gloating, and took his leave as soon as doable without raising suspicion.

         He could not stand his potion utensils, he could not stand anything. That is why he had walked to Madam Rosmerta’s, to try to forget. But the people’s merriment did not suit his taut nerves either. They had no idea of what was happening.
         Snape did not realize where his feet were instinctively carrying him, toward Hogwarts.
         They had no idea that one of the kindest souls, one of the only persons to have treated Severus gently, was in deadly danger. Because of himself. His own fault. His own doing. “But I had no idea… No idea they had defied the Dark Lord three times… No idea she was pregnant!” he whispered.

         He didn’t see the man coming in the opposing direction until they had bumped into each other. Severus stood up, angry, ready to swear…
“Why, Severus?”
This was the headmaster. Dumbledore. Snape had not seen him since that night at the “Hog’s Head”.
Snape stammered, “Sorry, Headmaster, I…”
“Were you coming to see me?”
Snape blinked. He was not, but…
Dumbledore watched his former pupil shrewdly. A very different feeling from Voldemort’s legilimency, non-invasive, so to speak, but Snape felt exposed, naked. He knew that his pain and his shame were most visible to the headmaster.
Dumbledore nodded slowly. “Come, Severus. We are searching a new potion master – Horace Slughorn is retiring next year. And I think this could be a good place for you.”
Snape nodded, and silently followed Dumbledore to the school’s grounds.

         The afternoon was nearly worse than the morning – with his twinkling blue eyes, Albus Dumbledore had a way to get through your mental barriers and, before he knew it, Severus had given in. Forgotten the death-eater mask, forgotten the last years of building that composed façade – to hide Snivelus. His anger for the marauders, his feelings for Lily, his despair and shame at the situation he had created himself, all had come out.

         Dumbledore watched the young man sobbing before him, one of the most impressive meltdowns he had ever seen in his already long life. And he saw the solution.
“Severus. You have a way out. A way to help Lily and her son, and to help bring Voldemort down. But you will need to be extremely strong. I have never asked anything that hard to anyone yet.”
Snape looked up. “Anything…” Anything for a second chance.
“You have already started learning occlumency, right? Build it, and… I will need you to be our spy in Voldemort’s circle. Can you do that?”
Snape blinked, and nodded slowly. Until today, he had thought Voldemort the best legilimens, but he knew now there were things more powerful than his legilimency.
“You realise he wanted me to teach here... to spy on you?” Snape asked, unable to believe his chance.
“I do, Severus, I do. That's why he will see only fire in our plan... if you can learn to conceal the memories and emotions he must not see. A spy, but not the way he'll think. Are you willing to take that risk?”
Severus nodded slowly, watching the old man squarely in the eyes. “Anything to help.”
“You already helped more than you can know, telling us who he is targeting, and that he has a spy close to the Potters.” He patted Severus’s shoulder. “Lily will be all right, you will see. And so will their baby.”
Severus stood up slowly. “I hope. How does he look?”
“He has his mother’s eyes”
And for the first time since long, Severus Snape smiled.

[Mysto]

Wow those are all fantastic! I might try to come up with one...my writing skills aren't very good but I'll try sometime...

Mysto

[Morgan Emerald-Incantata]

subtle science: no matter how often I read your stories I find them breathtakingly gripping, each and every time! Thank you for bringing it over to this thread (and for starting this thread in the first place ;-) I'm still hoping for a spark of inspiration myself... but I'm afraid I can wait till infinity and back for that...

PotionStudent: very, very good! One of my favourite lines:

Yes, his self-inflicted master – he could only blame himself. [...]

[Serpentine]

Thanks for starting a Snape's POV thread here too, Subtle!

Here's one of mine I did some time ago.


Snape's POV: GoF, chapter 27 "Padfoot Returns" (p.448-450)
-----------------------------------

"And then, Potter..." I lean closer over his desk, shaking the bottle with Veritaserum slightly, my voice very low and vicious. "Then we'll find out whether you've been in my office or not."

As if it were necessary - the guilty look in his eyes is telling enough, but it'll teach the little thief to break into my office. He turns his gaze away, silently picks up his knife and starts slicing his ginger roots again. Good... it seems that we have an understanding.

Really, I don't understand Dumbledore's attitude. This snotty brat is supposed to be our asset against the Dark Lord? Hard enough to believe. Look how spoilt he has become because he's so fawned over, he can do nothing wrong, even breaking into his teachers' offices and stealing ingredients is fine for the sunny little thing... Rubbish! Somebody has to teach him respect for the rules by whatever means necessary, or else he'll become even worse than his father. And if the Headmaster won't do it, I'll have to.

Just as Potter tips his half-mangled ginger slices into the cauldron, there's a knock on the dungeon door. Haven't I told these foolish house-elves often enough that during class my classroom is out of bounds for them? They'll get to hear a thing or two from me... I straighten up. "Enter", I say, and the door opens.

But it's no house-elf who comes in now, it's Igor Karkaroff. He looks even more agitated than he did last time, twisting a finger around his stupid goatee as if he were about to rip it off. I give an inward groan as he strides towards my desk - he has no business to disturb me in class! - and mutters to me, barely opening his lips: "We need to talk." Still under the delusion that "not visible" means "not audible". Fool. I wonder who was the even greater fool in the Bulgarian Ministry who made him Headmaster.

"I'll talk to you after my lesson, Karkaroff -" I say quietly, but he interrupts me. "I want to talk to you while you can't slip off, Severus. You've been avoiding me."

True, but who wouldn't? "After my lesson", I snap angrily. From the worried look on his face I can see it coming, he intends to drone about his Dark Mark again - knows only that one subject, that man. As if I hadn't noticed the changes in my own Mark! But that's nothing to discuss in front of students, least of all Potter's entourage and my own Slytherins. We have to tread very carefully in this class. Not that Igor were aware of the implications, he's never been prone to subtlety... He doesn't leave, but he remains silent and restricts himself to hover behind my desk. Well, you have to be grateful for small favours.

And that's where he remains for the rest of the double period, his presence a constant source of tension for me as I prowl between the lines of cauldrons. It must be boring the pants off him, since the students have already been given their task and keep working silently - but my former "colleague" is obviously intent on preventing me slipping away at the end of the class. I can't even throw him out, the students would get even more suspicious than they are already, and give word to one or another parent who doesn't need to know. Not to mention the impeccable Potter brat, always keen to poke his nose wherever it doesn't belong. If curiosity kills the cat, Potter is dead a dozen times over already.

The class itself isn't much more or less eventful than usual. In an unnoticed moment I slip Parkinson her "Witches Weekly" back - that Skeeter article made my day! -, and prevent Goyle behind her from knocking over his jar of beetle eyes. Longbottom thankfully provides me with an opportunity to vent my anger. His potion turns brown instead of green and starts to produce a heavy purple smoke, I have to vanish it before it eats through the cauldron and into the floor. Twenty points from Gryffindor and a detention with Filch - ahh, now I feel slightly better.

Finally the bell announces the end of class. The students deliver their potion bottles and, chattering noisily, begin to jostle towards the door. I walk slowly to Igor, irked again by his agitated look, and hiss: "What's so urgent?"

I shouldn't have asked. "This", he whispers and pulls up the left-hand sleeve of his robe - the darkened Mark on his inner forearm really doesn't look any different than mine. His lips are still ridiculously motionless as he mutters: "Well? Do you see? It's never been this clear, never since -"

"Put it away!", I snarl, my eyes sweeping the classroom. Igor has no idea how curious these kids can be, and if a single one of them were still in earshot... But the hint is not obvious enough for Igor. "But you must have noticed -" he pleads in an agitated voice. I'm not in the mood to listen though. Certainly not now that I have spotted the crouched, bespectacled shape behind the foremost cauldron.

A surge of rage courses through my veins, mingled with the tiniest bit of apprehension. "We can talk later, Karkaroff!" I snarl, and in a louder voice: "Potter! What are you doing?" A gasp beside me tells me that even Igor has realized his idiocy now.

The insolent... little... bugger... doesn't even have the grace to look ashamed of his eavesdropping as he straightens up. "Clearing up my armadillo bile, Professor", he says with an air of mock innocence and shows his sodden rag. So, armadillo bile...? Which has fallen over by its own accord just in time for our little chat, I suppose?

I must be looking as murderous as I feel, for Potter starts to throw his books into his bag at top speed. Igor brushes past me, looking both worried and angry, and strides out of the dungeon, closely followed by the future Gryffindor mincemeat. Never before have I been so sorely tempted to Avada the brat on the spot, Dumbledore's protege or not.

Dumbledore... The thought of the Headmaster forces me to calm down a bit. Of course he needs to know about the growing strength of the Dark Lord. Both Igor's and my own Dark Mark should be proof enough that his reappearence is imminent... and, I think with another flicker of apprehension, so is my own old-and-new task in this lethal game. I'll have to inform the Headmaster as soon as possible.
--------------------------------

[Nyctalus]

Excellent, subtle science and PotionStudent!   To me these stories ('classics' both of them, I believe?) so much reflect Snape's angst, guilt and feeling of beeing powerless towards what he has done and what he can't do with people's lives, especially people he cares a lot for... It's really moving.

Subtle, I'm so happy you opened this thread ! Seems like we (SA ) have most of what we need here now + a friendly environment and lots of other interesting threads to explore.

I actually have a story in brewing, myself, since long ago... I thought it had vanished with my computer's break down, and maybe it was not a great loss . Anyway, now the machine is fixed and somehow the hard drive survived. But I don't know if it would fit here, because it's from Harry's and Snape's POV, and it takes place in the future (the very last chapter, actually).  It's also kind of long... But it's very much about Snape. Maybe if I devide it in parts and use this guy:  , what do you say?

ETA: Somehow I missed your POV, Serpentine. Good stuff! 

[Annika]

 :thumbsup:Awsome, as usual, Subtle Science, PotionStudent and Serpentine. I don´t understand how you can be so brilliant.
I´m really gratefull to have been invited over to this new forum, great place to lurk. Looking forward to your POV Nyctalus.

[PotionStudent]

Blush for the compliments - some on this thread are way more gifted than I am 
Anyhow, it is so cool being here! (makes the silly Snape POV dance)

[Billywiggy]

Yippee! Now all my favorite threads are here in the Room of Requirement!   

Here's an old piece of mine.  It's a Snape POV, but a little different, as it takes place back when he was attending Hogwarts as a student.  It explores one type of possible relationship between Snape and Lily.

Severus heard the footfalls and knew who it was before even looking up.  How strange that he would recognize her individual tread.  He smiled to himself at the secret knowledge.  He was ensconced at a little study table in the corner of the library that afforded a clear view of the entryway through a slit in a row of bookshelves.  ‘They’ usually left him alone while in the library, but it didn’t hurt to be careful and keep an eye out on the entrances all the same.  He took advantage of his position to look at her secretly.  She was so damn beautiful.  Lily.  Just like the flower, white and pure.  He frowned a little as he noticed her looking around warily, her steps now hesitant.  When she finally came around the corner where she could spot him, he heard a small startled gasp before a broad, warm smile stretched across her face.  He could swear the room just got a little brighter.

“I’m so glad it’s you, Severus!” she exclaimed in greeting. “But I should have known – who else would spend a Sunday afternoon in the library?”  His eyebrows shot up a little at that remark.

“Oh? Looking for me, or avoiding someone else?” Severus asked by way of reply.  Then, his eyes widening in shock, he finally noticed what he had been unable to see from a distance; Lily was sporting a vivid bruise on her left eye.

“What happened?” he asked at once, daring to reach up to her face, turning it so that he could more easily assess the damage.

“It’s nothing, Severus,” Lily answered, laughing lightly. He looked at her face, trying to read her expression – was the laughter forced, her tone of voice a little too bright?

“I got hit by a stray Bludger down at the pitch last night,” she continued. “I didn’t want to disturb Madam Pomfrey so late, so I waited until morning.  Bad idea – she’s out until this evening.  So, my vanity is making me hide out here, I’m ashamed to say.  I must admit I’m glad that you’re here though – you can keep me company in my self-imposed exile!”

“An accident?” he asked with skepticism, “I take it you were with him?” His voice was very quiet now. He didn’t like the implications of this. If that bastard hurt a hair on her head . . .

“Yes, you ninny, I was with him!” Lily rolled her eyes in exasperation. “You can say his name, you know. James.  Say it after me, Ja – “

“Stop.  Please just stop,” Severus interrupted her. He looked away and down at the table in front of him, his fingers resting very still on the book he had been reading.  He had to consciously make an effort not to ball his hands into fists.

“All right, sorry,” Lily responded, gently.  “Maybe I should go . . . “ she said tentatively, and started to pull away.  His mind was frantically racing for something to say in the awkward pause, something to make her stay, if only for another moment.

“You know, my mum would call what you’ve got a real blue beauty - a true cold rose.” At her look of confusion, he added, “you know, bruises that bloom overnight . . .” Oh God, why did he say that? What possessed him to say that? He closed his eyes and groaned inwardly.  Unbidden, memories flashed through his mind; his father screaming at his mother, his mother’s countless bruises, her stammered excuses, the healing charms Severus learned to perform, when she couldn’t heal herself.

Lily was looking at him with a strange mixture of compassion and pity.  He didn’t want pity, and especially not from her.

“Look, I . . . I know this certain spell for anti-bruising,” he stammered. “Here, why don’t you let me – “ and he pulled out his wand and gestured toward the bruise on her eye.  She looked at him a moment, then nodded slightly.  He murmured the spell and saw the color drain from her eye, the swelling recede.

“Just like new,” he said.  She reached up a hand to touch it, and smiled at him.

“Thanks,” she said to him, then added teasingly, “Severus Snape, healer-in-training, who could have guessed?”

“You’re welcome,” he replied.  “You know, you can tell me . . . anything, right?” he asked hesitantly.  Would she tell him? Would she tell him if James had done this to her? She’d seen how they overpowered him.  Would she think he couldn’t do anything for her?

“Yes, Severus,” she replied, a sweet smile on her face.  The smile faded a bit as she added, “you know you can too, right?”  And there was that look again.  Pity.  Emotion threatened to overpower him - he couldn’t stand to have her looking at him that way.

“I’ve – ah – got to get back to my homework here,” he said.  He would rather she slapped him in the face than give him that look she was giving him right now. His eyes were lowered, his body already twisted away from hers.

“Oh, all right,” she replied, a note of hurt in her voice, “I’ll leave you to it then.” 

He kept his eyes on his book while he listened to her footsteps as she walked away from him.  When he heard her nearing the entryway, he looked through the slit in the stacks.  She paused there, her hand on the doorknob, a worried frown on her face as she looked towards the back of the library, in his general direction.  Then, turning, she opened the door and was gone. 

Severus stared at the doorway for a long while after she’d gone, lost in thought.  Lily.  Sweet, perfect Lily.  He will never deserve you.  He will never love you like I do.  And if I find out he’s hurt you, he won’t live to see another day.  Then, with a heavy feeling in his heart that he was quite used to by now, he bent down his head and continued to read.

[Morgan Emerald-Incantata]

Ok, here it is... my first steps on the literary track! Please, be kind (oh, stupid thing to ask, I already know you are! ;-)

***

In his rage he slammed the door shut as if he aimed to wreck it into a myriad of splinters. Its hinges creaked ominously. Several of the jewel coloured liquid filled jars trembled on their shelves. Anger was pounding through his veins, hammering inside his head like echoes of the bang the door had caused only seconds before. He could clearly feel the adrenaline surging through his body. Like a poison it worked its way into each cell and every fibre of his being. Like a poison. An acid that effectively dissolved his mental defences, the wall behind which he was … in control. Gradually, though, his mind cleared. He found himself standing at his desk with his hands clawing at the wood as if he had tried to dig himself a way through. Or … as if he had tried to strangle the little … he took in a sharp breath, closed his eyes for a second and pushed back the uncomfortable prickling in his cheeks that always preceded these explosions of desperate fury. Ignore. Just ... ignore. One of his nails was torn, there was a little blood. And there was a large mess of pickled cockroaches and viscous liquid throughout the entire classroom. His eyes saw it, but his mind didn’t register. In his head there was a different image. His gaze drifted towards the shallow stone basin in front of him. Mesmerised he stared into the silvery light. He shivered. Almost unwillingly, as if under a spell, he prodded the shimmering substance with his wand. A small, ghostly figure emerged. Slowly revolving in the basin there was a young woman with a fiery posture and long flowing hair. Red, he knew. Lily. “What has he ever done to you?” she said in a clear and angry voice. He cringed. Always the same words. “What has he ever done to ... ?” Her. Lily. He screamed. In silence. Behind his wall.

***

I'm not a native English speaker, so I really hope I haven't made too many stupid mistakes... it's difficult sometimes to find the right words...

[Nyctalus]

Billywiggy, that's amazing! Maybe it was your POV that flashed through my mind today on the DevSev thread, when I was imagining Snape spending time with Lily in the library, just like Krum and Hermione. Really moving and upsetting, this one about abuse; it's easy to feel his anger and sadness mixed with pride (pity being the worst thing, maintaining distance). Nice work! 
And subtle, this was a completely angsty one!  *sensing chills down her spine when thinking of Dumbledore's unavoidable fate*. I liked how you described him using his hair 'curtains' for emotional protection (there's a lot of curtains in Snape's life, I believe).
Morgan Emerald, I do like that one!  Terrible to be reminded that way of one's worst moment ever *shudders*.

Well now *crossing fingers* I  guess it's time for the first part of my 'kind of' POV. I find it hard to use a 'no-nonsens' approach  and recommend some antidote against too much sentimentality  . This story takes place more than three years after Voldemort's downfall, it's a kind of epilogue, but written as if in present time. Please have mercy with my English, too! Anyway, here goes:

The Last Chapter (Part one)

Harry walked with a forceful, rather brisk pace, making his way through Hagrid’s pumpkin patch and heading towards the towering castle. The autumn sky was grey but fairly clear, like a pretty good Quiddich-day. He glanced at the distant Quiddich-court and sighed longingly; so long ago, it felt like a whole lifetime since last time he was chasing the ephemeral golden snitch over those grounds. Three years and a half had passed since he last saw Hogwarts; the grounds looked just the same, but he knew perfectly well that it was all different now. The thorough reconstruction-works that had been done to the huge castle were very much visible for Harry, who had every detail of his beloved old school painted carefully inside his head. He noticed that the greenhouses had been considerably enlarged. Several parts of the castle, especially the towers, had many stones in a lighter shade of grey.

Even with Hagrid’s encouraging words ringing through his head, he still dreaded the probably short conversation that lay ahead of him. He didn’t have great expectations, but he knew he must try this at all costs, if he ever would be able to reach any peace of mind. The nearer he got to his destination, though, the heavier his legs were feeling. When Harry entered the front oak doors he was surprised to find the entrance hall almost deserted. Then he realized that most students must be in class this time in the afternoon. Only a couple of tiny first or second years were chattering happily as they climbed up the stairs, without recognizing him or paying any attention at all as he passed them.

Harry took a familiar shortcut and reached the spot of the hidden, winding staircase to Headmaster’s office in just a little while. “Aconitum” he said quietly to the gargoyle – the password that Hagrid had given him – and the old stone creature sprang to life. Setting his foot on the spiralling staircase, he heard noises from above:
“Well, I’ll take Xotchi with me down to the dungeons, there are letters to be written…See you at dinner then, dear!”, echoed a melodic female voice with a foreign accent, and he heard the office door shut with a silent snap before he reached the landing. A witch in very colourful robes, red with patterns in bluish stripes, almost walked into him. She was about forty, quite good looking, with a sort of dignified air about her. Her skin was rather dark and stretched over high cheekbones and she had dark-brown, glittering, almond-shaped eyes. Over one of her shoulders she had thrown her long, black plait, and on the other sat an astonishingly beautiful bird. It was shining in metallic red and green colours and its tail feathers reached down below the woman’s waist, just like her plait did.

“Oh sorry, Sir, I didn’t notice I was not alone… I suppose you’ve come to see the Headmaster?” she asked with a slightly curious smile in her mild face. The bird gave him an equally curious glance. Her lips twitched somewhat when she noticed the scar on his forehead, but she didn’t comment on it.
“Well…. yes…, certainly Madam! Is he there?” Harry managed to say, quite taken aback. Was this really what it seemed to bee? “Of course he is, please go ahead!” she replied and continued down with the moving stairs, leaving him with a totally confused feeling.
Harry took a deep breath and knocked on the wooden door. “Enter!” he heard from within.

The circular room was a bit darker than he remembered it, but with enough light for him to immediately spot another big bird perched inside the door, this one’s feathers were shining in red and gold. It shot a look at him sideways with a beady eye and made a recognizing sound. “Fawkes!” breathed Harry, as the phoenix went soaring down onto his shoulder. This was even more surprising, something he definitely hadn’t counted on. He had not seen Fawkes for over four years - Harry thought he had vanished after Dumbledore’s death - but here he was, in Dumbledores old office, as if nothing had really changed. Harry stroked the bird’s head before looking up on the portraits of the slumbering old headmasters, and for the shadow of a moment he thought he saw Dumbledore’s dozing portrait blink to him.

Instantly regaining his courage, Harry gazed at the new Headmaster who suddenly had showed up beside his desk, where a silver ink pot and a long, bright-green quill were placed. The man in front of him looked as intimidating as ever, though his face was a little more lined than Harry remembered. Some silver streaks in his two curtains of long, black hair gave him a distinguished air and his elegant black robes were lined with a slightly shiny, dark green material.

“Good afternoon, Sir!” said Harry at once and moved towards him with his hand outstretched, as Fawkes fluttered back to his perch. Severus Snape curtly returned his greeting and hastily shook his hand, letting go almost immediately. “I heard you have become Headmaster – a worthy choice…” Harry went on; reminding himself with disgust of someone he rather would have forgotten. “I’m really glad to see this school is getting on its feet again, after so much loss and damage, that’s bringing hope to all of us.”  Harry didn’t even know himself capable of sounding so pompous, almost like his old schoolmate Ernie Macmillan. But the nerves before this meeting had made him feel very stiff and uncertain.

“I highly doubt that being your most sincere opinion, Potter!” said Snape with a sneer. “And as I have been receiving about twenty hate-owls a week the last couple of months, I suppose that most people would not agree on that statement either. But anyway, sit down and tell me the real reason for you wanting to see me”.  The sarcasm was unmistakable.

“Well, actually, I was hoping to make an appointment for tonight with you Sir”, said Harry, remaining at feet and trying, with a faint smile, to fight down his usual irritation at Snape’s refined rudeness. “You see, I would really like to talk to you, but rather in a more relaxed environment than this. How about seeing me at seven in Hogs Head over a drink?”

Snape’s face showed the most curious expression at these words, something between a scowl and a frown. “And what exactly makes you think that I have not more important or, for that matter, more pleasant things to do than to spend my evening with you in a pub?” he asked, in a contemptuous, almost angry tone. “Have I still not repaid you enough for vouching for me before the Wizengamot in the murder charge against me? You already know I was grateful for that, what else do you want, Potter?”

“Don’t mention that, Professor!” replied Harry, unable to avoid getting upset and raising his voice. “It was the very least I could do for you. For God’s sake, you saved Ginny’s life, and Voldemort almost killed you for it!!” he exclaimed, looking up at Snape’s derisive face.

“Well, why suddenly this then? Your girlfriend Miss Weasley at least visited me at St Mungo’s after the battle, bringing me dark chocolate and flowers and pitying my wounded leg…” remembered Snape with narrowed eyes. “I never saw any sign of you, though…neither before nor after the trials… So, Potter, what do you want from me, actually?” he asked again, in a somewhat milder, but still suspicious voice.

“Well, the truth is I sometimes find it hard living up to my supposed Gryffindor courage”, answered Harry slowly in a tone of self-contempt, looking down at his feet. “Actually I would like to ask you for something that only you can give me, Sir. So, what do you say? Will you see me at seven?” He looked straight into Snape’s black eyes.

“Hmm… it seems like you have managed to summon my curiosity Potter, believe it or not, so I will meet you at the Hogs Head. But do not count on any willingness on my behalf, giving you whatever you are after. And I am having dinner first, so let us say at eight o’clock”, he added.

“Agreed then, I do appreciate that, Sir. Of course you must dine first”, said Harry. “By the way…”, he couldn’t resist asking, “That colourful lady I met in the stairs to your office…is she…?”

“… I see you have met Madam Izabal, our new Potions mistress”, replied Snape, “She replaced Professor Slughorn when he went back to retirement a couple of years ago. A tremendously skilful witch from Central America, also specialized in shamanism”.

“Oh…”, said Harry. “By the sound of her greeting to you, I got the impression that maybe…”

“It is satisfying to notice that you finally prefer to ask right away, rather than trying to peak into people’s private affairs”, said Snape, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Yes Potter, you assumed the right thing: since last summer she is also my wedded wife”, declared the Headmaster proudly. “Some people find each other late in life, you see”, he added.

“Well, I’m glad for you, and I wish you luck, Sir… In my Muggle upbringing I was always told never to ask questions”, he added thoughtfully. “Maybe that’s why I sometimes have tried a little too hard to find out things on my own…” said Harry with a guilty smile.

It was with a more than puzzled feeling that Severus Snape shut the door after Potter’s “see you later Professor”, leaving him to ponder over what had made the young man suddenly become so polite with him, even using his titles. An entirely new experience, he thought with a sneer to himself. What on earth was Potter after? He also wondered why the so familiar glasses were missing, as if Potter had chosen to use contact lenses like the Muggles. Most peculiar…

To be continued...

[PotionStudent]

Nyctalus! You are ordered to continue! 

[Thestralgrin]

Subtle - kudos for starting this thread  (and to serpentine fas well or pointing it out to me ... duh, I can be thick sometimes >< ). Also, a great choice of opener, I remember that one as being one of my favorites of your's. Morgan Emerald, I remember seeing your PoV on the other site as well, but had been too forgetful tied up with a few other things to comment  . It certainly packs a punch, and an interesting idea. nyctalus, I like your start - I have a bit of a fondness for post-war fics (write a few myself ...). You've got a nice handle on the characters already.

Anyway, to keep with the theme, here's an old clunker of mine - based on one of my impressions of Snape's arrival at Hogwarts, plus his Sorting Hat experience. Here goes ...

MEMORIES

He remembered how hard it had rained on that first day, when the train had finally stopped, and he had to get off and wait in the downpour until the rest of the first-years had assembled. He remembered too how drenched he had become by the time the boats finally arrived to ferry them across the lake. How he had shivered under his cloak in the dark, while watching the carriages take the older students away in comfort.

He recalled the first time he set foot on the steps of the castle, and the way his long wet hair stuck to his face as they were formally greeted by a stern, respectable-looking woman (who was later to become his colleague). He remembered how amazed he had been when she dried them with a spell, and how overwhelmed he had felt when walking through the great hall for the very first time. He remembered the eyes of all the other students upon him and the others, and how uncomfortable he had felt from that.

He remembered, with a still-lingering shame, how he had to fight off the stupid urge to cry at that moment – and that he had only succeeded after the first two tears had formed. He remembered how he had twice lost control of himself on the train, and how during the second time a tall, well-dressed boy with long black hair had snapped at him for being a crybaby. He still sometimes shuddered at this memory – not for receiving the remonstrance, but for failing to contain his own weakness that day.

He remembered waiting for his turn to be sorted. He had heard, from somewhere behind him, the voice of the boy who had scolded him on the train. The way he was talking, he had sounded like he’d found a friend already. He had wondered at the time if he too would find anyone to share company with sometimes. He recalled how the boy was one of the first ones called to the sorting stool - because his surname was Black – and how, after a few seconds, the hat had shouted out “Griffindor!” to the cheering crowd.

He knew then that he himself would be waiting longer, since his own name was much further down in the alphabet. He remembered wondering if, by the time his turn came, whether the crowd would become too tired or bored to cheer. He had hoped the hat wouldn’t take too long to sort him, like it seemed to do so with some of them. He remembered how the two tears that he had been unable to stop still hung annoyingly at the corners of his eyes, threatening to fall at any moment. He remembered hoping desperately that they wouldn’t.

He remembered the moment his name had been called, and the almost paralysing knot of fear in his stomach when he realised that this meant that he had to step out alone to the stool Now!, with everybody watching. He recalled that he had hesitated for a split second, and a boy behind muttering at him to hurry up. He remembered forcing himself forward before Professor McGonagall could call his name again. He remembered the feel of the hat as it touched his head. He remembered thinking at that moment that it was too late to try and surreptitiously dry those tears.

There were voices in the hat. Voices that whispered questions to him. And whispered things about him to itself. He recalled how the voices went through names of all the houses – Hufflepuff, Griffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw – and how afraid he had become when he wondered whether the hat would unable to sort him. He wondered what would happen to him if he couldn’t be put into any of the houses. He remembered how the dreaded urge to cry had started to come back …

It was the softest of the whispering voices that had finally saved him. He remembered well what it had said to him: “Though you are not of pure blood,” it had told him, “I can still see that you have the desire to become a great wizard”. He remembered whispering, “yes” to the voice. “Is that what you wish for the most?” it had asked him next. “Yes”, he had said again, and he had meant it. “Then it is decided,” the voice replied, and he heard the hat triumphantly shout out: “Slytherin!”

And so then, a Slytherin he had become. He remembered a fat, balding wizard beaming at him from the staff table as he was shown to his place. He remembered the boy who had muttered behind him hiss “finally, you slowpoke!” as he went past. He never did find out who he was – he remembered being too preoccupied with making a good impression on his new housemates. Especially when he recognised an older boy at the top of his house table, sitting next to a girl as blonde as he was. He remembered that he was Mr. Malfoy’s son, Lucius.

It was his father, after all, that had helped to fund his own place in the school. If it hadn’t been for that, he remembered, he probably would have had to stay on in that Muggle School. He would have been forced to learn his magic only whenever his father wasn’t home, and when his mother wasn’t either too busy or depressed to bother teaching him. He had forgotten that Mr. Malfoy’s son was in Slytherin too.

And even when a mean-looking girl at his table – Bellatrix – snidely commented that she hadn’t even heard of the Snape family name before, Lucius himself had been quick to cut in and tell her that Severus was as pure-blooded as the rest of them. He remembered how much safer he had suddenly felt after that, how good it felt when Lucius stuck up for him. Lucius, who obviously had some pull and power among the others of his house. His mother had warned him that his being a half-blood could bring him problems, but with someone like Malfoy behind him, he knew now that things would be all right.

The man rested his chin against his hand as he remembered the unadulterated pleasure of the rest of that evening. He remembered feasting and joking with the other Slytherins, and glancing briefly at the Griffindor table to see the boy called Sirius Black chatting with another dark-haired boy. Little did he know what cruel enemies they were to later become for him. He had looked up at the staff table to see the jolly-looking fat man – Slughorn – still beaming in his direction. Lucius had told him that he was the head of their house. And he remembered his old headmaster, with his long beard and colourful robes, overseeing everything ...

As he quietly shut his mind to the dangerous feelings which threatened to rise from that memory (the Dark Lord could call on him at any time, he knew that), he remembered that he had been so distracted by happiness back then, that he had completely forgotten about wiping his eyes. When Bellatrix (rudely) pointed out to him that he had tears on his cheeks, Severus could (just as rudely) excuse himself by saying he had been laughing at a particularly good joke of Lucius’s. If his memory served him right, it was the one about what you got when you put ten mudbloods in a barrel, and then kicked it down a hill. Nowadays, he no longer found it funny. But he remembered how it had cracked him up listening to Lucius tell it, with his girlfriend Narcissa giggling beside him …

And so it was … it would have been nearly thirty years ago by now, he reckoned. A boy of eleven, seated among friends, scooping whipped cream onto his chocolate custard even though he was already too full. He remembered looking up to watch the rain swirling across the ceiling of the hall, while he and the others sat warm and safe in the candlelight below. He remembered tasting pumpkin juice for the very first time, while dreaming already of the magic he would learn to do, and the great wizard he would one day become.