That you must teach me. But let me conjure you ... be even and direct with me, / whether you were sent for, or no? — Hamlet, Act II, Scene 2

Dissemblance

I retire to my room with the Potions rolls Professor Dumbledore gave me and a pounding headache. Ever since my new dosages were started, I have not quite got the timing right with my headache remedy. A normal person can take one teaspoonful a day and be right as rain, but I have to stomach that green muck every eight hours. Or at least it used to be eight. I may have to try every six hours, now.

Though I cannot say I am not accustomed to this headache remedy, after the number of times my mother gave it to me, when I was younger. I often told her that there was something wrong with my head. Of course, my father being the violent drunk that he was, and considering Ophelia's death, at first she immediately took that to mean my head was somehow hurting or injured. After a frantic search of my scalp for any blood, she told me to stop wasting her time. And then, after a while, she simply took to shovelling this gelatinous mess into my mouth, instead.

I was too young, and evidently too sick, to explain that the problem was with my brain, rather than my head. But I knew, even then, that something was amiss.

Once the headache finally begins to subside, I stretch out on my bed with the pieces of parchment, to look them all over. I mark a few sixth years' names, to investigate later and make certain that they did indeed earn an "Outstanding" on their OWLs, and then immediately shuffle to the list of first years. And halfway down the page, I smile. "Malfoy, Draco." So Lucius and Narcissa have decided to send him to Hogwarts, after all. I know there has been some contention on the subject.

Lucius wanted to send Draco to Durmstrang, but Narcissa didn't like the idea of him going to school so far away. I thought, knowing that I would be Draco's Head of House might have tipped the scales in favour of Durmstrang in Narcissa's mind, as well, but apparently she has finally forgiven me, or at least to the extent that she will trust Draco to my care nine months of the year. Provided he writes to her often, I imagine, to report on any questionable behaviours that I may exhibit. Hopefully, I will provide no such fodder for his letters.

That is reason enough to continue taking my potions with renewed vigilance, even if I weren't concerned with hurting the boy when I am unmedicated. But I am. Concerned, that is, as opposed to unmedicated. That memory—amongst others, of course—haunts me still, though it has been years, now. To know that I myself hurt Draco when I wanted nothing more than to protect him ... it is a bitter potion to swallow, even after all this time. I know now that it is the truth, however, after having witnessed my own memory of the event.

A bit further down the roll, I encounter another name that jolts something within me. "Potter, Harry." I am not entirely certain how to feel about that. Teaching the boy whose parents I got killed.

The Headmaster said it was not my fault, of course, but that is solely his opinion. Whatever Dumbledore may think, and however many may look up to him, he is not the final arbiter of moral rectitude in the wizarding world. So his pronouncement that the blame does not, in fact, rest upon my shoulders does little to assuage my feelings of guilt. Either about the Potters or that Muggle woman I killed. The Dark Lord may have killed the former two, and Lucius might have precipitated the death of the latter, but without my assistance, none of them would have died. At least in my opinion, even if Dumbledore may disagree.

"Wake up, you lazy whelp! You'll miss the Sorting!"

My eyes snap open at the shouting from just above my head, and I reach up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes with a groan. "I'm awake," I murmur, gathering up the Potions rolls that have scattered themselves on the bed during my nap, and stacking them neatly on the bedside table, once I sit up.

"About time, too!" my great grandfather's portrait answers, with a disdainful sniff. "Thought I was going to have to enlist half the Heads to rouse you."

"Well, I'm awake now," I say, smirking, as I shake my head. "And I wouldn't miss the sorting, anyway. I have a Time-Turner, haven't I?"

"I have a Time-Turner, haven't I?" he repeats, his tone mocking. "I'll have none of your cheek either, boy."

"I'm not a boy any longer, in case you haven't noticed," I say, as he folds his arms over his chest, fixing me with a glare that looks remarkably like my mother's. "And Dumbledore gave me that Time-Turner to make certain I got enough sleep."

"Hmph. Thought of everything, haven't you? Well, we'll see if I do you any more favours."

With that, he stalks off, leaving his frame empty. But it's just as well. Smartening myself up whilst arguing with a portrait is hardly my favourite pastime, even if I wanted to ask how jolting me awake from a restful nap qualifies as doing me a favour. In the loo, I brush my teeth and comb my hair, avoiding my reflection entirely, and not ten minutes later, I've arrived at the High Table. I sit in the last available chair, second from the end, which is unfortunately next to Quirrell. Hopefully Dumbledore hasn't mentioned our little altercation this afternoon to him. I can scarcely abide the odious smell coming from his turban, but I don't think the stench is my imagination. The other members of the staff pull faces, as well, whenever he gets too close these days.

"D-didn't th-think you were going t-to m-make it, Severus," Quirrell says, with a small but knowing smile as I sit.

"Well, I have," I answer shortly, trying my best not to sigh.

The doors to entrance hall open not a second later, and Professor McGonagall leads in the first years. The lot of them will be some combination of fascinated and terrified, as always, so it hardly matters that I can barely make out their faces at this distance. I simply imagine wide eyes and round mouths, and that is likely a close enough approximation. Though I can clearly make out one head of white blond hair, which brings an undeniable smile to my face. He'd better be in Slytherin is all I can say.

The hat barely touches his silver head before I get my wish, along with eight other proud, young faces: Millicent Bulstrode, Vincent Crabbe, Tracey Davis, Gregory Goyle, Daphne Greengrass, Theodore Nott, Pansy Parkinson, and Blaise Zabini. I would like to have another girl, to make a complete set, but still, I give each a satisfied smile and nod as they join the Slytherin table, and I can only hope that I do not let them down.

Professor Dumbledore rises once Zabini is seated, to welcome them all, though his "speech", such as it is, leaves a great deal to be desired.

"Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"

Good God! I think, rolling my eyes. And yet, I'm the "crazy" one.

The Great Hall dissolves into a buzz of conversations, and as expected, Quirrell turns to me, wearing an expectant look. "Q-quite the f-fuss a-b-bout P-potter, eh?"

"I suppose," I answer with a shrug, serving myself some potatoes. If the boy is anything at all like his father, no doubt the applause will have already gone to his head.

"A r-real celebrity," Quirrell continues, undaunted by my all too apparent reticence.

The last thing I want to talk about is Potter. That, along with the odour from his turban, will successfully put me off my food.

"I m-met him, you know. In D-diagon Alley. When he was b-buying his b-books and sup-p-plies."

"Hmm," is my only answer, around a bite of roast.

When I lean forward, to get a drink, the Potter boy is staring straight at me, looking like a perfect miniature of his father. Except for the eyes. His eyes are silver, just like his mother's.

Next to me at the table, I hear Quirrell inhale with a hiss, and at that precise moment, my left forearm gives a twinge. Except when I turn to face him, Quirrell is happily chewing, so he couldn't have made that sound, and my Dark Mark has been dormant for nearly ten years.

No—green. Lily Potter's eyes were green, not silver. I am only imagining things again. The pain, the hiss, the eyes, the odour ... well, perhaps not the odour, but I cannot be certain that I am smelling the same exact scent that the other staff have. I've worked it out, now. That's right, senses. Do you hear me? You are only trying to hoodwink me again, but I've got your number, this time. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me fifty times, shame on me.

Still, I find it much easier not to look in the direction of the Gryffindor table for the remainder of the feast, just in case.

Finally, Dumbledore rises and decides to lead those assembled in the Hogwarts School Song. Why, I've no idea. Perhaps he got a bit too much sun over the summer holidays. That would also explain giving Quirrell the Defence job, come to think of it. None of the other staff appear nearly as enthusiastic as he at reviving this old tradition, and Quirrell looks positively petrified, though that is rather the norm, these days.

As the song begins, however, I swear I can hear a few words that are decidedly out of place: "fool" and "suspicious" and "connect us" have no business in our school song. And what's worse is that the voice sounds vaguely familiar. That same sibilant whisper from so long ago. I stop singing—or at least I stop the pretence I made at singing—nearly immediately, in order to listen, but I hear nothing else. Even as the voices all around me die off one by one, until only the Weasley twins are left singing, no other hisses meet my ears.

Usually when Slytherin "spoke" to me, the words were all too clear. I never had to strain to hear them before. I heard him as clearly as if, for lack of a better phrase, he were inside my head. In actuality, he was only inside my head, as in I imagined him, but the point would be that I heard the words as plain as day. So this, I can only hope, is just another hallucination fighting to get out, and having a great deal of trouble due to my potion regimen. Though if occurrences such as these keep up, I may need to visit Madam Pomfrey again.

~*~*~#~*~*~

The break-in at Gringotts would have been most vexing, if I hadn't the foresight to charge Hagrid with retrieving the Philosopher's Stone ahead of time. I never intended for my vault to be the Stone's final resting place, as it were. More of a geological purgatory, if you will, before it was brought here, to Hogwarts. After Nicholas informed me of the attempted burglary at his home over the summer, however, we agreed that steps needed to be taken in order to secure the Stone. Alas, the would-be thief has undoubtedly improved his technique, if he managed to get the better of goblins and still escape. Then again, that could only be because he left my vault empty-handed. Had the Stone actually been stolen, the outcome might have been worse—or much worse, possibly, knowing the Gringotts goblins.

I have since asked my staff to devise their own special protections for the Stone, but ones that I might be able to circumvent, once the guilty party is caught. Nicholas was only too happy to entrust the Stone to my care temporarily, although he and Perenelle will need more Elixir eventually. I cannot keep the thing forever, nor would I wish to. So far, those who have submitted ideas are Hagrid (who is always willing to go above and beyond), Minerva (I do look forward to playing such a thrilling game of chess), Filius (although I must remind him that I am not as agile on a broom as I once was), and of course, Severus.

He was naturally alarmed that I solved his potion riddle so readily. Almost as alarmed as I was to discover that wine made its way into the bottles for the puzzle. Nettle wine is not unduly strong, although I do believe it is a bit more potent a drink than he should be partaking. I have to trust him, however, just as he must trust me, when I assured him that I only solved the riddle with such haste because I have been blessed with an above average intellect.

Taken with all the other protections that are sure to follow from the staff, as well as the enchantments to keep intruders from the castle and grounds, I do believe that the Stone will be quite safe here, in spite of the ease with which I solved Severus' puzzle. Hagrid's three-headed hound is already patrolling the antechamber, Filius' enchanted keys are fluttering about the second chamber as we speak, Minerva's chessmen are standing at attention, and Severus' enchanted fire is poised to spring to life. If only even a few more staff members come through, I can pronounce the Stone safe as safe can be.

The knock at my office door causes me to look up from the calculations I am performing. These are necessary for my own measure of protection for the Stone, but I have reached an impasse at this precise moment. Therefore, this sudden interruption is a more than welcome break, and so I smile as I call, "Come in!"

Quirinus enters, ashen-faced, and sits across from my desk. "D-dementors," he says, without preamble. If he were wearing a normal hat, instead of that turban, I imagine he would have long since taken it off and would be rotating the brim in his hands.

My eyebrows rise. "I beg your pardon?"

"T-to p-pro-t-tect the St-stone," he continues. "My i-d-dea is d-dem-mentors."

I fight to keep a frown from crossing my face at the very suggestion, but it is indeed a struggle. "No, I fear that I cannot allow that, Quirinus," I answer with a shake of my head. "Dementors are far too difficult to control. They would never remain in the chamber to which they were assigned, in favour of roaming the corridors of the castle, to feast on the pupils' emotions and—if they have the chance—souls. I'm afraid that no dementor will cross the threshold of this castle whilst I am Headmaster."

"Right," he says with a nod, rising from his chair

Just then I notice that he takes a quick look at the parchments lying on the desk in front of me. He flushes when he sees that I have observed his attempt at a surreptitious glace. Nevertheless, I smile to show that I do not believe his curiosity is anything approaching a sin.

"B-back to the d-drawing b-board, then, eh?"

At least he hasn't taken the news too badly. As he leaves, closing the door softly behind him, I give him a bracing smile, in spite of the questions circulating in my mind. Why he would have thought dementors a good idea, I could not possibly say—especially since the very idea seems to have frightened him, as well.

To be fair, however, he knew at the outset that he would not have to face them himself. Only I would have that dubious honour. On the other hand, those loathsome creatures pose more than enough danger for adult witches and wizards—as evidenced by Quirinus' pallor. I would hate to think of them preying on small children. And teenagers are prone to enough natural depressions, as it is. Not to mention that winters in Scotland are quite cold enough without their artificial climate adjustments. No, my personal distaste for them aside, dementors are a decidedly bad idea. Not on my watch, thank you.

~*~*~#~*~*~

Following breakfast on Friday, the first year Slytherins and Gryffindors file into the dungeon classroom—some quietly, some loudly, some displaying shyness, others with a swagger. Most of it is exactly the same as every year. Though this year's class is remarkably different, for one very good reason: Draco flashes a smile in my direction, which I acknowledge with a nod, before he takes his seat. It is so good to see him again, to be able to see him again. Though I have known Lucius for most of my life, his son is, sadly, a relative stranger to me now. I have been absent from Draco's life for far too long. He knows of me, naturally, and my friendship with his father, even if no one—to my knowledge—has ever bothered to explain why I am no longer a presence in his life. Or at least why I wasn't, before this year.

Not that I would want them to explain. What would he think if he knew I was banished because I attacked him in a demented haze? It is probably just as well, this way. Now I can get to know him all over again, since I am once again in full control of my faculties. I hope that I am in control of them, that is. After last night's hallucinations at the start-of-term feast, I am not entirely certain. One thing of which I am sure, however, is that I will visit Madam Pomfrey regularly—every day, if I have to—to ensure that I will never hurt Draco again.

Bringing up the rear of the students are the Potter and Weasley spawn. Somehow I am not the least bit surprised. Judging by most of his older brothers, I would expect Ronald Weasley—as my roll tells me—to be a bit lax, and Potter never set much store by punctuality, either. His miniature doppelgänger would be no different, I daresay, as the boy saunters in the door, thoroughly unconcerned that the bell has already rung. During the commotion accompanying both boys' taking their seats, I count the bodies in the room and compare that to the names on my roll. Nineteen of each. So far, so good.

Now, if only each of the nineteen makes some sort of response when I call their names. Or, more accurately, if their fellow students do. Their reactions are the most telling, because they never noticed little Kevin Tipton, did they? Never stepped around him on their way to the student store cupboard. Never acknowledged his "presence" at all. I didn't realize it at the time, but I do now. Somehow, it is always easier to see a hallucination for what it is in hindsight, which is, as they say, 20/20. I only wish that my vision in the moment weren't quite so myopic, but I have become a master of searching for clues to the objective reality in any given situation.

As with my avoidance of mirrors, I have learnt to adjust. To keep my condition as hidden as possible—hidden in plain sight, as it were. Over the years I have become fairly adept at reading others' reactions in order to determine whether my current behaviour might be considered odd. Rather like learning a new vocabulary word from the context in a book, actually, though books tend to be more reliable than people, overall. The technique isn't always fool proof, as the hallucinations themselves tend to skew those context clues in favour of the illusion they are attempting to present. When it comes to my own actions or posture or facial expressions, however, it is a habit that I have come to rely upon heavily.

And so, I take heart from the titter of suppressed laughter in Draco's general direction when I mentioned the new celebrity joining us today. That does, of course, mean that Harry Potter is not a figment of my imagination. Would that he were, perhaps, because if the boy is anything like his father, chaos will soon erupt all around him. James Potter could not abide order during any Potions lesson. Undoubtedly, the subject was nowhere near flashy enough to suit him. Which was why I rarely left the Potions classroom not covered from head to toe in some brew or other, for the entirety of my academic career.

In fact, before this puny Potter gets it in his head that the path to even more notoriety is to misbehave during my lessons, I realise that it might be a good idea to take him down a peg or two. Before his inflated head is in danger of floating him straight out of the dungeon, that is. So, following my usual start-of-term speech—in which I make a point to emphasise that, flashy or not, this is indeed magic—I decide to start the lesson with a little impromptu quiz.

"Potter! What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

The boy stares at me blankly, but I am thoroughly unsurprised. His father never set much store by being prepared for lessons, either, trusting in his good looks and charm to carry him through. And it worked, unfortunately. Slughorn always seemed to find his antics amusing, and so he looked the other way more often than not. But he won't get away with such things on my watch.

"I don't know, sir," he finally manages to answer, and though I see another hand in the air nearby, I pay it no mind.

"Tut, tut," I answer with a slight shake. "Fame clearly isn't everything."

The general reaction—including more sniggers from Draco and his friends now, as well—provides proof positive that Potter is indeed present in Potions. Unfortunately, he is not a mere figment of my insidious and continually subversive imagination. How he's managed it, on the other hand, I have no idea. I will not, however, allow him to get away with it. I shall unmask the charlatan, one way or another.

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

He has to know the answer to this question. After all, he always managed to locate fresh, sticky, smelly bezoars to chuck at me during Potions lessons at school. My suspicion has always been that he acquired them from the goats in the barn behind the Hog's Head, though I've no concrete proof, of course. He and his friends always managed to cover their tracks exceedingly well.

The same reply comes again, and the boy—boldly, brazenly—never breaks eye contact: "I don't know, sir."

I must admire the ability to lie with a straight face that way. The talent is wholly undiminished, even after all these years. That expertise allowed him to get away with murder—almost literally, in my case—for his previous seven years at Hogwarts, and he obviously intends to keep at it, now he's returned. Of course, it has been a long time. It's possible he's forgotten. Though one would think, if he wished for this charade to succeed—with everyone except me, that is—that he would have at least made the attempt to refresh his memory on the subjects he would soon be studying once more. Lazy as ever. I shouldn't be surprised, I suppose.

"Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

By now, it has become a tad difficult to ignore the reactions of the other students—most specifically, the girl with her hand in the air. Especially when she stands, following my next question.

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

Of course he knows this answer, as well. He would have made a point to learn all the names of the plant that would have been so dangerous to his friend with the "furry little problem," as he used to term it. I watch his face for any betrayal of that knowledge—and that I myself, of course, have not forgotten, even if a great deal of time has passed—but the only hint I can divine that he knows the game is up is that just the tiniest bit of the defiance seems to have gone out of his voice this time when he answers that he doesn't know. He is exceedingly skilful at deceit. I will give him credit for that.

"I think Hermione does, though," he adds after a beat, with a bit more bravado. "Why don't you try her?"

This earns him a bit of laughter, and though I fear that I shall be unable to unmask the impostor in my midst just now, for the moment, I can at least remind him of who is in charge, here. He may have been able to attack me with impunity when I was a student, but I am a student no longer, and I will not be so easily overpowered now.

"Sit down," I tell the girl, before turning my attention upon Potter once more. Granted, he knows every bit of what I am about to say already, but the display of authority will not go amiss. "For your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite." I pause just a fraction of a second before looking around the room at everyone else. "Well? Why aren't you all copying that down?"

When they all begin to scramble, searching for parchment and quills, it is all I can do not to smile. Still, I manage to repress the urge, instead raising my voice just enough to be heard, as I add, "And a point will be taken from Gryffindor House for your cheek, Potter."

Take that, you pint-sized pissant. My classroom, my rules.

That firmly established, I divide the group into pairs and start them on the day's task of producing a boil cure. The brew is simple enough and the text's instructions relatively clear. The rationale behind this assignment is not so much successfully making the potion as it is allowing me ample time to observe each student's technique, or lack thereof. As a few first years always come from Muggle backgrounds, this assessment is essential to identify those who may be in need of extra instruction. They are not always the Muggle-borns, of course—in fact, this year, it seems that Goyle and Crabbe may have the distinction of being my worst brewers—though the correlation is undoubtedly high, most years.

I make the rounds of the room, showing a student here and there the proper way to hold the pestle, and not only so that there is less danger of an inadvertent stabbing with a snake fang during the crushing (even if I do have the anti-venom on hand). Over the years I have found that the more effort I put in on this first day, the fewer bad habits pupils tend to pick up in the subsequent years, and I save myself a great deal of frustration in the long run. Better to nit-pick now, before the incorrect techniques become ingrained down the road.

Though there is one pupil in particular whom I have no need to criticise. He is truly his mother's son, and I have just held a ladleful of Draco's horned slugs aloft, to show everyone the perfect way to stew them, when a hissing noise stops me. Brewing accidents are part and parcel of teaching Potions, and I have seen far, far more than my fair share. The elevated total, of course, is owing to the fact that I've imagined a number of them, as well as actually having witnessed the genuine article. This time, the green cloud that greets me—devoid of a single trace of silver—and the students hopping onto their stools to spare their soles from this unfortunate mishap of a brew leaves me in little doubt that this instance belongs in the latter category. As do the blisters now rising on the unhappy brewer's exposed skin.

"Idiot boy!" I practically growl, waving my wand to Vanish the offending liquid, though I fear that there is nothing to be done for the melted mess of cauldron left in its wake. "I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?"

A pitiful whimper is the only reply I receive, and while that inadvisable addition would explain the cloud of green smoke as well as the potion erupting from the cauldron, never before have I seen the cauldron actually melt from it, prior to today. Either Longbottom is a remarkably bad potion-maker—which I find highly unlikely, as I happen to know both of his parents were quite competent in the subject—or there is more to this matter than meets the eye. One thing is clear, however: Longbottom has told me all that he is able, and so I address the boy standing next to him.

"Take him up to the hospital wing," I snap, before turning to Potter, who is making every effort to look innocent. "You—Potter—why didn't you tell him not to add the quills? Thought he'd make you look good if he got it wrong, did you? That's another point you've lost for Gryffindor."

Because I also happen to know that Potter used to sabotage other people's potions—namely mine—to the same end. I wouldn't be surprised at all if he were up to his old tricks and Longbottom is only his latest victim. I shall make a point to keep a closer eye on him from now on. Potter opens his mouth to answer back, of course; indeed, I would expect no less. Though I cannot be certain precisely what causes him to stop, I suspect it has something to do with Weasley's sudden movement behind the cauldron. Perhaps they sabotaged Longbottom's cauldron together. Considering Weasley's older twin brothers, I wouldn't put it past him, either.

It appears that I shall have to keep a closer eye on them both.

A/N: I know that this update is shamefully overdue, and I am really terribly sorry about that. I'm sure some of you imagined I'd completely abandoned this story, and for a while I was afraid that would have to be the case. Up until recently, I've been trapped in an increasingly disheartening job situation, and it just sucked away all my creativity. But now I have a new job (yay!), and after resting up a bit, and getting my head on straight, I think I'm in a good enough place, emotion-wise, to continue Snape's journey. I hope, anyway. Thanks to all of you who were good enough to bear with me through the long absence, and welcome to any new readers, as well. :-)