Author's Note: Thanks as ever go to my brilliant betas Nyarth Kyukon and Colorain, as well as to Ellen Fremedon for her helpful comments. This chapter is dedicated to Alexandra in thanks for the hilarious phone conversation regarding Snape's horribly out-of-character poetic challenge. (Just because a twelve-year-old Hermione Granger thinks his poem is "brilliant" doesn't mean that it is...)

Weakness and Power

Chapter Eighteen

"Where is he?"

"Severus, did you see him earlier?"

"No, I haven't seen him," I replied with irritation. "He would have to be late, tonight of all nights!" The first night of autumn term began with an official Feast, and it was a time-honoured tradition that the teaching faculty should enter the dining hall together. Had it been possible to act otherwise, we would have left the Staff Room ten minutes earlier.

My back was to the door, but I registered the moment he arrived by the stunned expressions and stifled reactions of the others. Turning around, I saw at once what had caused their consternation. Quirrell was wearing his usual brown suit and black silk robes, but wrapped around his head, hiding his hair completely, was a striking closely-folded purple turban. A length of purple sash fell from the left side to drape across his upper chest, the end disappearing over his right shoulder. It made him look a mixture of Eastern pasha and medieval European artist, and it was bizarre even by Hogwarts standards of dress.

He saw everyone's reaction and flushed with embarrassment. "It's a t-t-turban," he clarified unnecessarily. "M-met an African p-prince on my t-travels, he had a bit of z-zombie trouble, so I d-dealt with it and this was my th-thank you. N-Nice, isn't it?"

There was a stagnant silence until Sprout spoke up. "Very nice!" she replied with a forced jauntiness. "I love the way you've arranged that sash around your shoulders, it's so... elegant!"

"Very fetching," I commented. He winced.

"S-so s-s-sorry I'm l-late," he said, cowering visibly. "Ah-are you w-waiting for anyone else?"

"No, that's fine, Septimus. I believe we're ready now," Dumbledore replied before turning to Hooch. "Rolanda, would you care to lead the way?"

We entered the Great Hall from the side entrance in single file to climb the raised dais and sit on our seats at High Table. In the main hall a host of lighted candles hovered just beneath the raftered ceiling: flickering gravely, they cast innumerable twitching shadows across the flagstones, the dining tables and the students who sat on the long benches and waited. McGonagall emerged from the back of the hall, closing the doors behind her. When she cleared her throat, all sound ceased instantly.

"I have something to say to you all, and I want you to pay careful attention," she said briskly. "The new first-years are waiting in the antechamber outside. You will all be aware by now that one of them is The Boy Who Lived. Silence, please!" she added crossly, raising her voice slightly in an attempt to quell the excited whispering that rose from every corner of the hall. "You all should also be aware that he has been brought up as a Muggle for the past ten years, and that only recently has he been informed of his importance to the wizarding community. The purpose of sending him to live with his Muggle relatives was to allow him a normal upbringing, away from fame and adulation. When he starts at the school he will be no different from any other first-year, and for that reason we would ask you - all of you - not to treat him any differently from the others who will be starting tonight."

A hush of consent fell over the tables. A few students nodded earnestly; I noticed a handful of Slytherins exchanging confident smiles.

"Thank you all for your attention," she finished. "Sit quietly please, I shall go and fetch them now."

She walked along the narrow aisle between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables towards the back of the hall, and when she turned again a crocodile of eleven-year-olds followed her. I took a deep breath as my eyes fixed on one of them: a thin, black-haired boy wearing wire-rimmed spectacles that emphasised the bony look of his face. His eyes were fixed on the constellations and candles that shone above him, and his mouth was open in amazement. His formal black robes looked far too heavy for those thin shoulders, but in every other respect he was so much like his father it was almost unnerving.

Harry Potter had come to Hogwarts.

The Sorting ceremony took place immediately, and among those first-years who walked up to the stool was a sharp-featured boy with slick blond hair and a self-assured smile. Draco Malfoy. Well, Lucius had certainly brought up the boy in the proper manner - the Hat shouted "SLYTHERIN!" before it had even come to rest on his head. A few other children followed, including the Parkinson girl, until it was the Potter boy's turn. As the Hat squirmed on the boy's head I could see McGonagall, Sprout and Flitwick concentrating fiercely on it, silently pleading with it to direct him to their tables. Give me the Boy Who Lived. Give him to me.

I was equally fierce in my sentiments. Not Slytherin, I mentally told it, kindly put him anywhere but Slytherin. The last thing I wanted was to be responsible for the care of that particular child. Severus Snape in loco parentis to the offspring of Evans and Potter? It was a proposition too ghastly to contemplate. I would not be torn between my allegiance to my House and my feelings for his father. No, it would be safest to put him in -

"GRYFFINDOR!"

I allowed myself a small sigh of relief as he hopped off the stool and walked unsteadily to the Gryffindor table. Those on that table reacted with applause, cheering, and shouts of "We got Potter! WE GOT POTTER!" That's right, make the boy think he's something special. Swell his head before he even starts, I thought sourly, taking a sip of wine from my goblet to conceal the expression on my face. Well, if this Potter is anything like his father, you can have him. You're welcome to him.

At last the new intake were Sorted, and we settled down to eat. I had just finished my starter of watercress soup and was about to move onto the stuffed chicken breast when Quirrell turned to address me. "B-by the way, S-Severus, th-this afternoon I s-saw F-Filch p-putting up a s-sign on the th-third floor c-corridor, saying it was out of b-b-bounds. H-have you any idea what th-that's all about?"

It was the first time he had said anything longer than "W-would you p-pass the salt, please?" to me since that last meeting in his room. I was so surprised at his casual manner that it took a moment or two for me to answer. "No idea. Perhaps he's restoring the stonework? I'm sure we'll find out in due course."

"I s-see. Y-yes, that's p-probably it..." He bent his head to his food again. I continued eating, my mind on Quirrell and why he had chosen to break his silence after all this time. New academic year, new start? It was possible, and if so should I bother to respond? I was still debating the idea in my mind minutes later when the Dark Mark flared up, its pure red heat searing the underside of my left arm so violently that I dropped my fork.

Much as I longed to ease it, I had enough self-control not to peel back my sleeve in front of the others on High Table. With an effort I lowered the offending limb out of sight beneath the table-edge, then cast my gaze around the room for the possible source of the sensation. All the time I told myself, calmly, that there had to be a logical explanation for it. The Dark Lord could not have entered the precincts of Hogwarts. He was dead - and if by some horrible twist of fate he was not, the school's protective enchantments would have repelled him. He could not be here. Something else had to have occurred for the Mark to react in this manner.

There was a close, almost magnetic pull upon it now, coming from my left side. I looked in that direction, past the bulge of Quirrell's turban, and my eyes slid across to lock on a sudden movement on the Gryffindor Table. Potter. He'd raised his hand to his scar, his fingers pressing so hard against it that I could see them shaking, then he turned his head and stared at me accusingly.

I returned his stare with no less hostility, though privately I was immeasurably relieved. Finally, I understood why that had happened. I'd often heard that scars from failed Unforgivable Curses contained a little of the wizard that cast them, and evidently that early encounter with the Dark Lord had left a little of his potent venom inside the scar. Scar and Dark Mark had collided, striking momentary and painful sparks in both, but that was all.

Blasted Potter. Without knowing it, he'd given me yet another reason to dislike him.

Beside me Quirrell's robes rustled as he turned to see the object of my attention. When he turned back to look at me, it was with an ingratiating smile on his face. "Ah, Harry P-P-Potter, I see! P-Pity he wasn't g-good enough for S-Slytherin. Sh-shouldn't think he'll ever am-amount to m-m-much in Gryffindor, do you?"

"No, I shouldn't think so," I muttered, pressing the heel of my hand against the burn on my inner forearm. "Not if he's inherited his father's personality as well as his face."

"R-really?" Quirrell seemed interested. "Wh-why do you say that?"

I remember thinking at the time that he genuinely seemed prepared to relax hostilities at last - and, had I been in a better mood, I might have quietly welcomed it. However, with the Mark still pulsing its agony on my forearm a reconciliation with Quirrell was the last thing on my mind. "It's none of your business," I said sharply.

"Oh d-dear," he said, his eyes wandering down to where my right hand was gripping my left arm tightly. His face seemed the picture of concern. "Is anything the m-m-matter, S-Severus?"

"It's nothing!" As the last of the pain drained from my arm I turned to face Quirrell, who shrank back slightly. "You know what, Septimus? The first time I ever talked to you I suggested you should have been Sorted into Hufflepuff. Why weren't you? They've made stupid, misplaced devotion into a fine art, I imagine you would have felt right at home there!"

I admit I was surprised at the impact my words seemed to have on Quirrell - he froze, startled into immobility, then shut his eyes for a count of ten. Only after a very long interval did he pick up his knife and fork and resume eating.

*******

After the dinner we were just leaving the Great Hall when Sprout called Quirrell and myself back with news that Dumbledore wanted to see us in his office immediately. When we arrived we found McGonagall and Flitwick sitting in a pair of armchairs, wearing the sort of expressions that said clearly that they had no idea why they'd been summoned there either. Quirrell and I found seats at opposite sides of the circular room and waited for Dumbledore to arrive and enlighten us.

He swept in a few minutes after us and made his way to his ornate writing-desk. "Good evening, Professors, I hope you all had a pleasant dinner? Good! Now, before I begin, I would just like to be reassured that nothing of tonight's conversation will leave the walls of this office? This must be kept completely secret. The fate of the wizarding world may depend upon your discretion."

"Of course we won't say a word," replied Minerva, an irritated note in her voice. "Albus, what's going on?"

He didn't answer her immediately: instead, he lifted his wand, the end glowing as brightly as lit magnesium, and gently traced a trapezium into the air. The lines solidified and a fabric of red light began to mesh the edges together until the vision resembled a chunk of rough stone with the contours of quartz and the hue of dried blood. Fire briefly blazed at its heart before it vanished completely, leaving the spectators blinking and bemused. Only then did he speak. "Would anyone like to tell me what that was?"

For the best part of minute there was silence, then Quirrell timidly lifted his hand. "H-Headmaster, I th-think I kn-know what that was," he murmured quietly. "I've st-studied it, I g-gave a l-lesson on it for H-History of Magic... W-Wasn't that the Ph-Philosopher's Stone?"

"Correct! It was indeed the Philosopher's Stone," Dumbledore said, smiling. "And, since you've studied it, I think we'd all be very grateful if you could give everyone here a brief history of the Philosopher's Stone and its properties."

That was enough for Quirrell to launch into a long, involved and tedious history of the Philosopher's Stone: I wasn't the only one fidgeting with impatience as his stutter warred with his enthusiasm for the subject. It was a talk which ranged across topics as diverse as Zosimos the Greek, Arabian belief systems, the medieval French cleric Claude Frollo, the alchemist Paracelsus and the accidental discovery of porcelain in the West before ending on the basic facts we'd wanted to know in the first place. The Philosopher's Stone - a legendary substance able to turn base metals to gold and create an elixir of longevity - had only ever been created once, and that had been by Dumbledore's French colleague Nicholas Flamel.

"Oh, and one f-final thing - it's called the S-S-Sorcerer's S-Stone in America. P-p-presumably b-because Americans d-don't know what a 'Ph-Philosopher' is," he concluded wryly. "Th-that's all I know a-about it, I'm afraid."

"That was hardly charitable to our friends across the Atlantic, Professor, but I'll let it pass," Dumbledore answered, obviously amused. "Well, the reason why you're all here tonight is that Nicholas Flamel has entrusted me with the Stone itself. You have doubtless all heard of the recent break-in at Gringotts Bank? Well, I can reveal to you all now that Hagrid arrived at Gringotts to collect the stone just in time. Had he arrived two hours later, he would have found Nicholas's vault open and empty."

Everyone gaped. Finally Flitwick piped up. "So - whoever it was must have known that it was there - but how did they -?"

"Discover its location? I don't know, Filius, and neither does Nicholas. But at any rate, the Stone is in my possession. It is to be hidden here at Hogwarts, out of the reach of any thief, and I want you all to help me protect it."

"Hidden? But where?"

"Why, on the third-floor corridor, of course," Dumbledore answered with irritating simplicity. "The students have already been warned not to approach that area. Now, I would like you all to provide spells and enchantments to block any attempt to get the Stone. Hagrid's already agreed to provide me with one of his pets, but I need more than a mere animal, however ferocious, to keep the Stone safe. Accordingly I would like Flora to provide something that would prevent the thief from progressing - followed by similar traps from Filius, Minerva, Septimus and Severus, in that order. Naturally I want the tasks to be as difficult as you can manage: think of this as a chance to demonstrate your abilities." As we exchanged glances with each other, Dumbledore added, "Oh, and not a word to your colleagues, please! I'm sure you all appreciate the necessity."

"Of course, Albus, but there's just one thing I'd like to know," McGonagall interrupted. "Why did Nicholas want the Stone removed from Gringotts? He must have had a warning of some kind - what was that warning? I think we should know, if we're to be on the lookout for whoever might try to steal it."

"I'm afraid I cannot divulge that to anyone, Minerva." Dumbledore shook his head solemnly. "Nicholas and Perenelle bought my silence dearly - with a ticket to "Der Rosenkavalier" at the Royal Opera House, as a matter of fact. Ah, music!" he added rapturously. "Kiri te Kanawa. Quite, quite sublime. And on that note, I hope to receive your written suggestions for suitable tests on Saturday morning, before noon. I won't be here, but if you drop your suggestions into the box on Filius's desk that would be marvellous. Thank you all!"

Whenever Dumbledore resorted to irrelevant rhapsody it was a sure sign that the meeting was over.

*******

I spent the rest of the week with my mind on what I could submit as my part of Dumbledore's glorified obstacle course. The week itself passed without incident, save for the first lesson with Potter and his irritating Gryffindor friends. Quite apart from my problem with the brat's father I have never approved of those who have done nothing to deserve their fame, so I took care to take Hogwarts' little "celebrity" down a peg or two whenever he stepped out of line. Perhaps I might even say I took a certain pleasure in it.

On Saturday morning I arrived just in time to see McGonagall leaving Flitwick's classroom. She gave me a brief smile that indicated how pleased she was with herself before walking off in the opposite direction. The room itself dated from medieval times, with a single desk for the teacher and students seated in long tiered rows rather like choir stalls in a cathedral. I could remember the time I'd sat there myself, aged eleven, and found student graffiti from 1517 carved into the dark wood. Now Quirrell was sitting at the end of one of the rows, with the box directly opposite him. Sprout and Flitwick stood there too, and greeted me briefly before turning their attention back to their conversation.

"But are you sure we ought to be discussing it?" Sprout was saying dubiously. "I mean, Albus did say we had to keep it as secret as possible..."

"I d-d-don't see any h-harm in t-talking about it," Quirrell protested amiably. "N-not amongst ourselves! I'm r-rather f-f-frustrated with my own lack of inventiveness, as a m-m-m-matter of fact... St-stayed up half the night trying to think of something c-c-clever, and all I could c-c-come up with was Lollipop!" With a cringing smile, he continued, "You remember, that p-p-pet of Hagrid's I had a run-in with three years back? Well, I ch-checked with Hagrid, and I found L-Lollipop has an elder brother called M-M-Muffins, so I b-b-borrowed him. I p-plan to have Muffins waiting to p-pounce on anyone who enters. Poor f-fool... The c-c-carnage should be absolutely ghastly!"

Sprout reacted with a smile and a girlishly exaggerated shudder, but I shook my head. "I doubt it," I said contemptuously. "You forget, Hagrid's already installing a monster of his own at the very start of the maze. If whoever's after the Stone can defeat that, then a mountain troll later on should be no problem whatsoever."

He reacted as if I'd just kicked him in the stomach: a wordless exclamation, followed by a very visible deflation. "I'm sorry," he finally said, in an almost inaudible voice. "I hadn't c-c-considered - I d-didn't realize..."

Sprout shot a look she doubtless intended to be withering in my direction, then walked over to Quirrell and laid her arm across his shoulders. "Never mind Septimus dear, my trial's not very creative at all," she said gently. "It's just a bed of Devil's Snare. Anyone who keeps their wits about them could get out of it. But I'm counting on the average thief being so tense that the plant will keep tight hold of him until we find him."

"And if he ever gets out of the Snare, then he'd better be able to ride a broom!" Flitwick chortled, his small fists waving in glee. He'd been twitching to tell someone about his test since we first walked into the room, and now was his chance. "I borrowed some broomsticks from Rolanda and, if Albus approves, I'll be spending tomorrow putting Wingardium Charms on a thousand keys! Oh, the poor thief. Can you imagine his face when he walks into the room and sees a thick cloud of winged keys hovering high above him?"

"And the th-thief has to ride the broom and catch one key out of a th-th-thousand to open the door? Filius, that's g-g-genius!" Quirrell gushed. "He'd n-n-never be able to tell which one it was, would he?"

"Only if he looks carefully at the lock! There's a nice little pattern of chased silver that's replicated on the key. But I've put a hundred other silver keys into the batch, so he'll probably go bonkers after a few hours of trying to catch the right one."

"M-m-make sure he can't t-t-tear the wings off them!" Quirrell said helpfully, and looked casually over Filius's shoulder as he scratched down a reminder to himself when casting the Charms. "There must be n-nothing so soul-d-d-destroying as seeing the wrong k-keys go flying back to the c-crowd after you've tried them. Oh, how w-w-wonderful! But - just s-supposing he d-does get past - what else is there to s-stop him?"

"Well, Minerva's got a chessboard for her next stage," Sprout whispered conspiratorially. "Life-size with razor-keen blades, I saw her testing them. It'd be a clever thief that could beat her at chess!"

"And then afterwards, the menacing M-Muffins... N-n-not that you n-n-need him, with enchantments like that in p-p-place! And then who's n-next? S-S-Severus?" He turned to me with an innocent smile. "I c-can't begin to imagine what you've got p-p-planned. D-does it involve acids, or p-p-poisons?"

"Poisons. And fire. And nettle wine." The bemused looks on their faces prompted me to rashness. "It's a logic problem. I plan to block both the way forward and the way back with two kinds of enchanted fire, then give the thief a choice of seven bottles. Three poison, two nettle wine, one potion to advance through the fire and the other to retreat. He could leave it to chance, naturally, but I've chosen rather nasty poisons if they're unlucky. So, if they want to live, they'll have to unravel the puzzle in this parchment."

"I say, this looks rather fun!" Flitwick said, after scanning it a few times. Then he passed it to Quirrell. When Quirrell lifted his eyes from the page, I saw that now-familiar malicious curve to his smile.

"M-my word, Severus, t-two lines less and that would b-be a sonnet, you know. You've obviously p-put in a lot of w-work, I see. Did the P-Poetic Muse inspire you?"

"It was not written to rival Shakespeare," I replied calmly. "It's a logic puzzle, intended to confound the reader. In that respect, I daresay it serves its purpose."

"Oh no!" he protested effusively. "D-don't be so m-modest, Severus, I can d-d-definitely see the influence of Great Literature on this... this... m-masterpiece of yours. John D-Donne, p-perhaps? T-Tennyson? There's d-d-definitely a t-touch of Christopher M-Marlowe about the last three words..."

"Give it back," I said sternly, attempting to snatch it from his hands, but he'd already stepped backwards and was now poring over the scroll in a parody of deep thought.

"Hmmm, I see you added the n-nettle wine to the p-puzzle so you'd have a c-convenient r-rhyme for "hidden in line". Rhymes are so d-d-difficult, aren't they?... Hmmm, a f-few t-too many s-syllables in line seven, I th-think. M-mind you, the s-scansion in this line here is s-somewhat weak... And this line... Oh, and th-this one as well! And I'm n-not really all that k-k-keen on the inversion of "clues four", s-sounds a little d-desperate for a rhyme to me. Oh, and "size" and "insides" d-d-don't actually rhyme at all, S-Severus," he finished with a smirk, handing the scroll back to me. "J-just thought you ought to know."

"Have you quite finished?" I muttered, turning to deposit the scroll into the box on Flitwick's desk.

He hadn't. By the time I turned back to him that malicious grin of his looked positively demonic. "Do you often write p-poetry in your s-spare time, Severus?" he asked, his voice oily with fake admiration. "I n-never would have g-guessed... S-since you do, you m-might like to m-make more use of your h-hidden talents! Why d-don't you ask Albus to see if you could t-take a Poetry-Writing class as w-well as Potions? I'm s-sure the st-students would really appreciate it!"

Was I the only one present who saw the sheer barefaced insolence behind the innocent facade? If the others had seen it, they were too busy endeavouring to hide their amusement at the mental image of Severus Snape writing poetry to notice how very out-of-character this kind of speech was for Quirrell. Flitwick assumed an expression of glazed indifference which was in danger of crumbling: Sprout pressed one pudgy fist against her mouth, so that all that could be heard in the room was a succession of high-pitched squeaks.

"Well, I d-don't know wh-why everyone's amused," Quirrell protested mock-seriously. The grin he gave the others was wide and conspiratorial, gathering them into the joke. "N-no, really! I p-p-personally th-think it's absolutely l-lovely! I n-n-never knew S-Severus had a romantic side!"

He turned his gaze to me as he said these last words, and the look in his eyes was cold and ruthless.

In retrospect, I think it was then that I first truly began to suspect him - his mask had slipped for a second, no more than that, but it had been enough. However, those last words had been too much for Sprout and, however hard she tried, she couldn't conceal the silent quivering of her enormous frame. She finally gave in and exploded into giggling whilst Flitwick leant against the row and wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. That was the final straw: I turned on my heel sharply and started to walk out of the room.

"Oh, d-don't leave us, Severus!" Quirrell called after me, his mockery barely audible above the laughter. "W-won't you st-stay? Please?" Then, as my hand settled on the doorhandle, he delivered his parting shot. "B-by the way, Severus, M-Minerva's g-g-got a life-size ch-chess game planned. If whoever's after the St-Stone has enough l-logic to overcome that, w-wouldn't you agree that your little p-p-puzzle would be... no problem whatsoever?"

I left without dignifying that with an answer.

.