Better Be Slytherin!

Harry gaped at him. 'I didn't . . . I don't . . . How?'

'That is a very good question, and one I hope you will ask your Professor Severus Snape.'

With a sigh of resignation, Harry nodded. 'All right. Tomorrow though, okay? I don't think . . .' He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of Snape's office. 'I don't think he wants to see me just now.'

'Tomorrow will do, Harry Potter.' The Bloody Baron gave him the smallest of smiles and a slight bow. 'I shall see you anon.'

Harry nodded in return and went into his common room. He did not look forward to telling Teddy and Millie how he had ground their plan into dust. Nor was he looking forward to writing an essay on why he thought his life was worthless. Stupid, sodding bastard.

The next morning was Saturday. The Bloody Baron accompanied Harry to Snape's office, and left him there. Though he often wanted the Baron to leave him alone, mostly because he felt like he had so little time to himself, Harry almost wished the ghost would stay with him this time. But he wasn't afraid. Of course not. Not of Snape.

Of course not.

Still, it took him a minute to gather his courage to knock on the office door. He hadn't had such a hard time of it since one of his early detentions. At the barked, 'Enter!' Harry eased the door open and slid inside.

The Professor, wearing a black, heavy looking cloak and dark gloves, looked him up and down. Harry glanced down at his own attire. He'd worn wool trousers and his new winter cloak and boots, as well as gloves, his green and silver Slytherin scarf, and a knit hat that covered his ears, as well as his scar. 'Acceptable,' Snape said. 'Do you have your wand?'

'Yes, sir,' Harry said, and pulled it out of the inner pocket of his cloak.

'Good. Keep it ready.' Snape held out a small, half-crushed matchbox.

Harry stared. 'What's that, sir?'

Snape shook the box impatiently, as if he wanted Harry to take it. 'Portkey.'

'Er . . . what's a portkey?'

Snape's eyes narrowed, then his mouth twisted with a sigh. 'I forget sometimes,' he said in an undertone, 'that--'

'I was raised by Muggles.' Harry scowled. 'I get that a lot.'

Snape lifted one eyebrow. 'I imagine you would, in Slytherin.' He twisted his hand sharply to indicate the matchbox, and when he spoke again it was in his lecturing voice. 'A portkey is a Wizarding method of travel, moving people and sometimes objects quickly from one place to another, without the danger of splinching or the need for a fireplace connected to the Floo Network. They are thus heavily regulated by the ministry.' Harry didn't bother asking what a Floo was, figuring he'd find out eventually. 'It can be a bit disorienting for novices, but I will be with you, so you should not have any trouble at the other end.'

'Er, thank you, sir.' He wondered if this portkey was regulation, but decided not to ask. If it was, he would look like a fool who thought his teacher would do something illegal, and if it wasn't, he'd be in on the illegal something. The situation was a no win, for him, unless he kept his gob shut.

'Now, take hold of the box, Potter, and don't let go.'

'Yes, sir.' Harry reached for the matchbox, curling thumb and index finger around his end. He looked up into the fathomless eyes of his professor, who had drawn his wand and had his own fingers wrapped tight on the other end of the box.

'Portus,' Snape said, and there was a sudden lurch in Harry's gut, strong enough he was glad he had skipped breakfast, and felt as if a giant hook had snagged him right behind his navel and jerked him backwards through his own spine. Wind whooshed in his ears, louder than when he was on a broom, but unlike when he was flying, he could not tell up from down or left from right, but kept falling, falling . . . sideways?

The sensation continued for some time, which felt almost like forever, but could only have been a minute or two, and then he was definitely falling down and toward the ground, which rushed up to meet him. Harry braced himself for impact with the ground, but instead of smashing to his death, he just felt a rather soft bump. The feel was like going downstairs and thinking there was one more step, only to find you had already reached the bottom. Jarring. That was it. Harry stumbled from the non-step, and fell to one knee. His stomach lurched again, and he squeezed his eyes shut tight to keep from spewing.

'Easy there, Potter,' Snape said, and put a hand on his shoulder.

Harry flinched violently, and the hand went away quick enough he didn't have to shove it off his shoulder. Feeling his face redden with shame, even in the sudden cold of outdoors, Harry forced himself to his feet. 'Sorry,' he mumbled and opened his eyes. 'I'm all right, though.'

The professor's eyes were unreadable, and his expression was that careful blank that Harry hated to see. But then Snape just nodded, and turned to start walking along a path in front of them. Harry could see they were in a dense copse of woods, thoroughly overgrown but for the narrow footpath . . . which might have even been merely a game trail. The air was very cold, despite the autumn sunlight that managed to creep through the canopy, and Harry's breath escaped his mouth in white clouds as they walked.

'Where are we, sir?' he ventured after a few minutes.

Snape didn't answer, but led him around another bend in the path to where it opened up into a clearing of sorts, with a small building off to one side that looked like a church. Snape moved to the right so Harry could join him, and gestured again, this time to what was all around them.

Gravestones. Hundreds of them.

'A cemetery?' Harry asked. 'Why did you bring me here?'

'You have never been here before.' It was not quite a question, but Harry answered it anyway.

'No. Should I have?'