Better Be Slytherin!

Severus did not mistake the tightening of the boy's grip on the knife, and the way his shoulders were now hitched a bit higher. There was a long pause, in which Severus had to keep a firm hold on his temper, but he knew the boy was gathering his courage, and so he waited. He was rewarded with, 'I cooked. For them, from when I was little.'

'This would be the same them who starved you.'

'I wasn't starved.' The knife came down hard on a poor, unsuspecting flobberworm and reduced it to mush.

'Ah.'

'I wasn't. Sir.' The boy took the few moments of Severus' silence to recapture his equilibrium and quiet his breaths. But there were still spots of color on the boy's cheeks, and the knife was held too tightly for fine work. 'Why'd you have to go and say that in front of Malfoy anyway?'

Severus smiled to himself. 'I'm sure I don't know what you mean.'

'You told him I was injured. You told him I needed to be put back together. Now he knows stuff he that, that he has no right to!'

'I did no such thing.'

'Well, you yelled it in front of him. Same difference.'

'Mr. Potter. I do not appreciate your tone of voice.'

Another twitch, and the shoulders hitched higher. Then a soft, 'I'm sorry, sir.'

Severus stared at the boy's back for several long minutes, letting the boy get his breathing under control again. Then, in an equally quiet voice, he said, 'Draco Malfoy will use any weapons at his disposal in his interactions with others. You would do well to remember that, and that I did not play favorites.'

The silence went on far longer this time, and the boy's shoulders relaxed, only to twitch again as Severus moved back a few paces. His startle reflex was rather well honed, for someone who was only terrorized at school as he claimed. There was quite a lot more to this situation, and Severus planned to get to the bottom of it.

Despite his careful scrutiny, and what he thought the silence meant, he was very surprised when the Brat said, almost too quietly to hear, 'But I wouldn't use a weapon like that against him.'

Severus took a moment to recover from this admission, then sneered at the Brat Who Lived to Confound Expectations. 'Then he will always have you at a disadvantage, Potter.'

When the boy sighed and made as if to turn around at last, Severus growled, 'Get to work! Those flobberworms won't cut themselves.'

Later, he had to admit – though he was sorely tempted not to – that he hadn't seen worms diced so well by a student in years.

The next day was the first Potions class with the Brat and the rest of the first year Slytherins. Severus was prepared for anything. Every year, against Severus' explicit requests, Albus grouped the Gryffindors and Slytherins together. It was all he could do not to howl in frustration. The combined Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff class was, frankly, dull by comparison.

But this group . . . he had to watch them more closely than any other class. Untrained and prone to taunts and tricks, they were forty times more likely to blow up his classroom. He swept in, scowling, and set the tone immediately, his voice pitched so they could only hear him if they were perfectly still, with a hint of wonder, and a hint of madness, in it.

They all watched him, enraptured, as he went through his introduction, promised them glory, beauty, a stopper for death, if only they would apply themselves . . . all of them watching and waiting, eager young dunderheads that they were.

Abruptly, he began taking roll. He paused only once, at, 'Harry Potter,' letting the syllables linger in the air. 'Our new . . . celebrity,' he intoned, watching the Brat's expression carefully. Potter's head came up, eyes narrowed. Beside him, to Severus' surprise, Theodore Nott stiffened, his own gaze piercing. Severus suppressed a smile. Seemed Potter had a fan club already. Time to find out for certain, who he could count on.

When he was done with calling names, he snapped, 'Potter! What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?'

Potter glanced at Nott looked as stumped as he was. The bushy-haired girl, Miss Granger, was it? – who'd stepped forward on Potter's behalf yesterday, shot her hand in the air.

'I don't know, sir,' said Potter, as Severus knew he would.

His lips curled into a sneer. 'Tut, tut -- fame clearly isn't everything.' He ignored Granger's hand. She wasn't going to aid his fact finding mission.

'Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?'

The Granger crane stretched as high into the air as she could go without

leaving her seat, but Potter was obviously stumped. Behind him, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, were shaking with laughter. Interesting. He shot them a glare, and they subsided, but only barely.

'I don't know, sir.'

'Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?'

Potter flushed, and Severus knew immediately that the boy had not had access to his books before the term started in that house full of Muggles who disdained him. Still, the Brat held his gaze, not an easy feat for grown men, and even a couple of the Gryffindors looked put out on his behalf.

'What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?'

At this, the Granger chit stood up, her hand stretching toward the dungeon ceiling.

'I don't know,' said Potter quietly. 'I think she does, though, why don't you try her?'