PML: How to Hex Enemies and Influence Wizards

If there was one thing Severus hated more than class with the Gryffindors, it was Flying Class with the Gryffindors. He hated being forced to show his inadequacies to anyone, but for Potter and Black to see them.... It was simply too much.

It had been bad enough First Year (when he'd been the last in his group to get more than three feet off the ground), and Second Year had been worse (when he couldn't bear to fly more than ten feet high without turning green with nausea and fear). But Third Year was Advanced Flying Maneuvers, and he knew his incompetence was going to get a massive and ignominious showing. He'd done his damndest over the summer hol, practising with Matthew's old Clean Sweep: he'd even begged Lord Snape to help him (not Matthew -- never Matthew). The old man had tried... and admitted defeat.

"Face it, boy," the Lord Snape had finally said, quite gruffly, irked by the rheumatism that flared with all the activity. "You'll never be a decent flyer. It's the one Snape failing, and you've got it in bloody spades."

"It's not a terrible thing, Severus," he said. "Flamel couldn't fly three yards without falling off the damned thing, they say. And it took me two tries to pass my proficiency test."

"Matthew's like his father and grandmother. Flying was second nature to them, not that that helped Marcus in the long run, the damned fool. You're a scholar like me, lad, not an athlete. Just accept it and do your best."

But in this instance his best that wasn't good enough for Severus. He poured over the texts in the Lord's library, nearly driving the old man mad with his single-mindedness: he concocted various potions to counteract the nausea and calm his itchy nerves, all to no avail. Lord Snape, finally exasperated to the point of roaring, Apparated him to St. Mungo's where a Mediwizard pronounced that Severus had an hereditary oddity of the inner-ear that upset his balance just enough to make flying a grueling experience -- not impossible, but quite unpleasant.

"Nothing to do about it," the healer had said. "We don't muck about with things like that -- we simply don't know enough about the way the brain interprets the signals from the ear. I understand Muggles have developed some treatments, though --"

"Ah, no, thank you," Lord Snape had said hastily. "The lad will simply have to adapt."

Muggle surgery was, after all, exceedingly expensive for non-Muggles and quite painful. (To give credit where due, Lord Snape did investigate -- unbeknownst to Severus -- and didn't care for the potential for a negative outcome if the procedure were botched. The boy would simply have to live with the situation.)

So here Severus was, miserable with the certainty that he would humiliate himself (if not today, then next class), broom clenched in sweaty palms, and trying to quell the nerve-induced nausea that already threatened.

Potter (the bloody show-off) was champing at the bit. Severus had overhead him in the corridor, bragging that he'd already been practising many of the new moves. (You weren't supposed to: during the hol you were only to practise those things you'd learnt the previous year.)

As usual, Potter thinks it's his gods-given right to break the rules, Severus thought sourly, and turned his attention to the instructor: an ancient French wizard whose past skill at flying was only matched by the incomprehensibility of his mixed French and execrably-pronounced English speech.

"L'année dernière we made our swoops and roll-ovairs parfaits, n'est-ce pas?" wheezed Maître Claude. "And we 'ave done our répétition ovair ze 'oliday, oui? Bon. To-day we will learn le looping -- en anglais, ze loop-dee-loop. Regardez!"

The scrawny old man (who looked as though the first breeze would knock him off his broom, but who was once renown as France's greatest Seeker) launched himself, climbed to a dizzying height, performed a graceful and perfect 360-degree circle in the air -- arse over head -- and landed gently.

"C'est simple, n'est-ce pas? We must remembair to keep ze 'ead claire, les yeux ouverts, et le derrière -- ze bum -- plastaired to ze broom."

"Eyes open, you twit," Severus hissed back. Merlin's beard, what kind of tutoring have these people had? It's a bloody wonder they can tie their shoes.

No, Severus thought wildly, no, she's not, and willed himself to puke now so he could excuse himself to the Infirmary.

Claude asked the dreaded question "Avons-nous un voluntaire?", and several hands shot up -- Potter's first, of course.

Potter confidently launched himself and skimmed upward, giving himself enough height to prevent smashing into the ground, and executed a respectable loop -- though he bobbled a bit before coming back to level and landing, Severus gleefully noted.

"Magnifique, M'sieur Pottaire," Claude said as the other students applauded (other than Severus, of course). "Next?"

Black, Potter's partner in crime, tried to go next, but Goyle was chosen and demonstrated a sloppy but adequate loop. Black followed with not one, but two loops -- nearly braining himself on a tree limb with the second one -- which earned him a scolding by Claude.

The queue kept getting shorter and shorter... until only Severus and Peter Pettigrew were left.

Severus' stomach was now at full boil, but he didn't dare back out now: nor did he want to be the last, after that weed Pettigrew. So he stepped forward, took a deep breath, and pushed off.

Head clear, eyes open, and bum glued to the broom, he thought desperately as he gained height. Head clear, eyes open, bum glued -- head clear, eyes open, bum glued --

He glanced down to check his height from the ground and a wave of vertigo swept over him. He panicked, squeezed his eyes shut for a second, and then opened them and refocussed on the horizon.

He pulled up on the broom with white-knuckled fingers and shot upward, legs clutching the shaft in a death-grip to stay seated. He felt the blood suddenly drain into his head; one ear popped widly while pressure built in the other, and he tried to clear it before another wave of vertigo overtook him --

-- and before he knew it he was briefly back on the level, the horizon properly aligned where his brain insisted it ought to be.

And he had, quite nicely, too. But he hadn't relaxed his upward pressure on the broom shaft.

He heard Claude shout "Mettez-vous en palier! Mettez-vous en -- Level, M'sieur Snape!" as the broom obediently made a smart, sharp move to pull him into another loop -- with not nearly enough ground clearance to pull up at the end of the maneuver.

He managed to stay on through the rest of the loop, but he never quite got back to level. The last thing he remembered was the ground rushing up to meet him, a sickening snap which he fervently hoped was the broom and not his legs, and a blinding pain in his face.

When he came out of his stupor Claude was bent over him, dabbing at his face with a blood-stained hanky. One ham-fisted pass nudged his nose, and Severus howled as the pain brought tears to his eyes.

"Aw, look, James -- ickle Snapey's cwying," he distinctly heard Sirius Black mutter, and Potter sniggered in reply.

The entire class was clustered around him, staring (Potter and Black had made sure they had the best seats in the house). Severus pushed Claude's hands away and sat up, wincing.

"'m fide," Severus muttered, voice clotted, and spat a gob of blood onto the turf before scrubbing at his eyes. "Bud I dink by dose --"

"Broke a perfectly good school broom, too," Potter said, obscenely cheerful. "Bet it comes out of your pocket mon-- oh, yeah, wait, you don't get much, do you? Bet they make you work it off."

"Sod off, Bodder," Severus managed, and tried to struggle to his feet -- and fell back with a cry.

"Ah, c'est le cheville. Une foulure, je suppose," Claude said. "Donc, M'sieur Pettigrew, aidez-le à l'infirmerie, s'il vous plaît."

"Allons-y, les etudiantes, to our brooms. Encores une fois," Claude said, and they drifted away back to the queue, Lupin staying behind to help Pettigrew pull Severus to his feet.

"That was brilliant, Snape," Pettigrew said under his breath as they hobbled inside. "First one looked good, at least --"

"Oh, shud ub," Severus snarled as best he could, intensely humiliated. "You're just habby to get oud ob it."

"Well, there's that too, yeah. If you'd only leveled the shaft out --" Pettigrew babbled on as they struggled up the stairs.

Professor McGonagall had rounded a corner and stood staring at literally-bloody Severus.

"He fell off his broom, Professor -- we were doing loops and he did two in a row but he smashed into the --"

"Thank you, Mr. Pettigrew, but I believe I was addressing Mr. Snape, not you. Where should you be?"

"Then you go back there straightaway -- can't have you missing an important lesson."

Pettigrew reluctantly pried himself off Severus and wandered back the way they'd come.

"Hmmmph. I don't suppose you'd care for the indignity of Mobilicorpus, so we shall have to muddle along as best we can. Put your arm about my waist -- come on, come on, you're bleeding all over the floor, lad --"

She thrust another handkerchief at him and he pressed it -- gingerly -- against his nose, and they made their slow way to the Infirmary.

"And why did you attempt two loops, Mr. Snape? Not showing off, were you?" she said briskly.

-- because I was so excited, he almost added, and stopped himself just in time.

"Oh. Well, that's easy to do -- to forget, I mean." Her voice gentled ever so slightly, and she squeezed his shoulder. "I remember how wonderful it is to do them for the first time."

He could have taken all this as an additional humilitation -- being escorted to the Infirmary by a teacher like some blubbering First -- but McGonagall was so matter-of-fact and so uncondescending that it wasn't as bad as he feared. In fact, some aspects of it were downright pleasant -- the feel of her arm across his shoulders, the warmth of her body under his own arm -- or would have been had it not been for the intense pain radiating across his face. He wasn't at all used to being touched by anyone but Nanny Moira (and he was now too old for even that), and was surprised that his discomfort at the thought had largely dissappated.

"Oh, no, Mr. Snape. Not due to an honest mistake. Misadventure due to foolishness might be another matter, but not this," she explained as they entered the Infirmary. "It certainly looks as though the broom got its revenge on you, so I'd say it's even. Maître Claude will probably be thrilled to order a newer model, at any rate."

Madam Pomfrey poked her head out of her office and started when she saw the mess.

"Just a fall from his broom, Madam Pomfrey. I shouldn't be surprised if his nose is broken, and he has a dickey ankle as well."

"Pop up on the bed, here," Pomfrey ordered, and McGonagall helped him boost himself up.

"There you are -- you're in excellent hands now. I'm just going to go owl Lord Snape --"

"But I must, Mr. Snape, it's my job. I'll tell him you'll be fine, don't worry."

"Ah, I see." She stared at him for a moment, brow furrowed. "Well, I shall tell him you had a bump but you are fine, and there's nothing to worry about."

"Should you, Professor McGonagall? If this is what happens --" Pomfrey interjected.

"You let me worry about that, Poppy," McGonagall said, quite firmly. "But I shall minimise the damage in my report on one condition, Mr. Snape: you are to report to me every Sunday afternoon at two o'clock for the rest of term, and we shall see what we can do about improving your skills. Agreed?"

Severus' jaw dropped. Additional flying lessons? From McGonagall, one of the finest Quidditch players at Hogwarts, ever? Bloody hell, yes. He nodded so fast that his head swum and another gout of blood gushed from his nose.

"Very well. We'll start week after next, then, unless Madam Pomfrey says you may sooner."

Severus was so elated that he hardly minded when Pomfrey set his nose. And by the end of his first private lesson with McGonagall he was able to execute respectable, if somewhat wobbly, loops -- without breaking his neck or losing his lunch.

The hex that hit him three weeks later came from nowhere, and Severus wasn't prepared for it. (It would, regrettably, not be the last time he was struck first -- but he was damned certain it would be the last time he didn't get his own back afterward.)

He'd been in the Library, trying to finish the last four inches of parchment for Professor Binns' class -- working through lunch, as it happened -- when the bells chimed for the start of the afternoon classes, and he hurriedly pulled his things together and ran for Transfigurations. Consequently he overlooked Sirius Black and James Potter, lurking at the end of the corridor. Lying in wait -- for him.

The next thing he knew he was lying flat on his back in the middle of the corridor -- which was rapidly filling with students on their way to class (but, unfortunately, no teachers) -- with a copious stream of bogies shooting from his nose. It was quite amusing to everyone but Severus. Especially Potter and Black.

"Don't even think about it," Black warned, his own wand pointed at Severus' chest: the other students scattered, suddenly and conveniently remembering they were supposed to be on their way to class.

"We don't know for sure how you got McGonagall to tutor you, Snape, but it might be better if she didn't."

"She's our Head, not yours," Potter chimed in with a distinct air of righteous indignation. "You're a Slytherin, for Merlin's sake."

"Jealous, Black? What's the matter, won't she tutor her precious Gryffindors?"

On reflection, that probably wasn't a smart thing to say (nor was it particularly fair to McGonagall, but fairness was the furthest thing from Severus' mind at the moment). Black's own bullying grin faded, replaced with rage: he muttered "Finite Incantatum," reached down and grabbed Severus by his slimey jumper-front, and pulled his torso off the floor.

"You'd better bloody well stop it if you know what's good for you," he hissed. "You stick to your own and stay out of Gryffindor business --"

"That's funny, coming from you," Severus shot back. "What's really bothering you, Black? Just McGonagall, or are you still ashamed you weren't Sorted to Slytherin? I bet your grandmother wasn't pleased -- I hear she's a real old-fashioned pureblood when it comes to that --"

"You leave my family out of it," he yelled. "You're one to talk with a crazy father, living off the charity of high-and-mighty Lord Snape --"

"Sirius, that's enough," Potter said, and put a restraining hand on Black's wand arm.

"At least neither one of them's ashamed of me," Severus said, making no attempt to conceal his triumph. "And I'm bloody well going to keep it that way."

Black stared at Severus with absolute loathing and shoved him backward: Severus' head hit the floor, the gesture was so violent.

"I know how you did it," Black spat, wiping his hand on his trouser-leg in disgust. "You sat there, all bloody, and whinged about what a poor, pitiful thing you are until she gave in and offered to tutor you, didn't you? Pettigrew said you blubbered the whole way to the Infirmary --"

"-- or did you beg for it? She's a softie for anyone who wants to fly, and she probably played right into your hands."

"Oh, yeah, she'd admit something like that. You're the worst one of your whole bloody lot, you know, Snape? Not only a useless berk, but determined to worm your way in where you don't belong. Hell, Pettigrew's just as incompetent, but he admits it, at least. But you, you'll lower yourself to bawling like a baby --"

"-- always trying to show me up, like that stunt with the broom -- and then you try to flaunt your superiority in everything else." A very unpleasant smile creased Black's face. "Well, from now on I'm going to keep reminding you that you're not, Snivellus."

Potter couldn't restrain a snort at Snape's new nickname, but sobered and said, "C'mon, Sirius, we'll be late for class."

"You watch your idiot friend," Severus shot back, wiping his dripping face on the back of his arm. "He's a bloody menace."

"He started it, if you recall," Severus said. "You both did, so just stuff it, Potter, before I hex your bollocks off."

This, Severus thought as he tried to clean himself up in the Boy's Loo, is War.

Severus knew about The Book, of course -- Matthew had acquired a dog-eared copy of it the first summer he'd returned from Beauxbatons, which he'd gleefully consulted to "experiment" on Severus with -- until Severus had demonstrated an alarming ability to dodge the hexes and return them. (Matthew was more ponderously built and slower to respond, and often ended up the victim of a hex he'd intended for the younger boy.) Lo and behold, upon consulting the catalogue in the Library Severus discovered that Hogwarts owned a copy of The Book.

It took some searching. 101 Ways to Hex Enemies and Influence Wizards -- a pitiful, poorly-bound paperback -- had slid off the shelf and fallen behind the lowest row. It took some scrabbling, but Severus finally held it in dust-grubby hands:

Severus already knew most of these hexes existed of course -- he just hadn't had to practise all of them, as Matthew had been a slow learner. But he'd skimmed a lot of the other information before, and now, with more careful reading, one paragraph in particular caught his eye:

He decided he was willing to compromise on honour where Black was concerned. He didn't care much about Potter at this point: Potter was obnoxious and superior, but he hadn't thrown the Bogie Curse. Black had. All Severus had to do was put Potter out of commission if he interfered -- the Tickling Charm looked good for that -- but Black was the primary target, and he required something spectacular.

He spoke the incantations a few times until they rolled fluidly off his tongue, picked up his wand, and summoned the long-suffering but ultimately willing Slytherin Scout Elf on whom to practise the hexes.

But despite much skulking throughout the autumn term, his chance didn't come until the beginning of the next one. It was, unfortunately, a public venue -- no chance to practise the stealth component -- but, on reflection, it promised to be even more spectacular given the occasion.

"Gather around," Flitwick chirped nervously, "and pay close attention. Headmaster feels Dueling would be a good exercise of your skill and coordination, and I quite agree in principle. However, the last time we tried this -- 1952, it was -- we had to quit immediately because of, ah, persistent foul play. So the very first thing I want to make clear is that there will be no taking advantage of the situation. I don't wish to have anyone in the Infirmary or St. Mungo's. There are some ground rules before we start. Firstly --"

"Why's he the coach?" Goyle muttered in Severus' ear. "Why not Martius? He's DADA."

"Size isn't everything, Goyle," Severus said with an exasperated sigh. "Now, will you shut it?"

"--no consecutive hexes thrown. Once your opponent is disarmed, the match is over. And simply as a point of form, certain of the more juvenile hexes are to be avoided, as they shan't do you much good in a real duel. This," he said, indicating the long, narrow platform on which he stood, "is the field of play, and all movement must be confined to it in traditional competition; in outdoor tournaments the rules differ, and one may move freely about the space provided -- even physically dodge the opponent's hex, if desired. Here, however, shielding or deflection is the rule.

"Every proper duel begins with address of the opponent -- Mr. Gudgeon, would you help me demonstrate, please?"

"And then they present their wand, like so -- yes, very good, Mr. Gudgeon -- then wand down, pivot on the heels, take ten paces, and face the opponent."

Gudgeon and Flitwick paced off the distance -- Flitwick looking faintly ridiculous, as his strides were barely half of Gudgeon's -- and they faced each other once again.

"Now we reach the opening stance. There are two distinct approaches: the traditional French school in which the opening stance -- the en garde -- is with wand extended, the leg on that side forward, and free hand at the waist...."

Flitwick demonstrated en garde, his dumpy little body suddenly attaining grace and poise; Gudgeon awkwardly mimicked the pose.

"Spine extended, Mr. Gudgeon," Flitwick sang out. "You must feel as though there's a string pulling you up toward the sky -- yes, yes, that's much better! Bend your knees a bit. The hex is cast with a lunge forward on the front leg."

Flitwick's initial trepidation had vanished; he was absolutely in his element, and more animated than Severus had ever seen him. He obviously loved dueling.

"A muggle sport -- well, it was for serious dueling, just like this," she said impatiently, and rolled her eyes at his ignorance. "But they use foils instead of wands."

"Foils, Mr. Black," Flitwick said, "a very slender and flexible type of rapier -- and spot on, Miss Evans. In fact, one of the muggles who first codified the rules of fencing observed several wizarding duels. Next there is the English form, which is known as the coiled stance."

He suddenly drew his wand-arm back behind his head and extended his free arm in front of him. "The hex is delivered with a forward thrust of the wand-arm, and a lunge forward on the back leg -- the same side as the wand arm." He demonstrated the move a few times.

"Well, it's simply a matter of preference -- though the French would say the en garde is the superior form," he added with a sniff (and everyone knew he was referring to Maître Claude's undisguised and arrogant assertions that the French were superior in everything). Flitwick and Claude never saw things eye-to-eye, and it had nothing whatsoever to do with the difference in their heights. "It's simply a difference in technique -- both are beautiful in their own way. It's like..." he suddenly brightened. "It's like the difference between classical ballet and the dancing you see in West End musicals. Between Pavlova and Gene Kelly!"

No one got it but Evans and one or two other Muggleborns, and Flitwick wilted ever so slightly before adding, "It's really a matter of what's more comfortable for you -- it makes no difference in the effectiveness of the hex, providing your focus is appropriate. Now, usually once the opponents have taken their stances, the casting begins on the count of three. But since none of you have had dueling training, we will take turns instead -- that will allow you to practice your shielding as well. Mr. Gudgeon, have you determined which stance you'd like to try?"

"Very well -- stretch your spine, stretch your spine -- good. As soon as I have settled into my stance, you may have the honour of the first casting."

"Duel, Mr. Gudgeon, duel, and you certainly may as I've given you permission," Flitwick shot back, eyes sparkling. "You shan't harm me, I assure you: I may not have practised for a while, but it's one of those things one never forgets. Might I suggest Rictusempra? You know that, surely?"

Gudgeon nodded, a bit dazed: then shrugged, blew out a breath, and focussed on the tiny man facing him on the field.

A blast of energy from Gudgeon's wand hurtled toward Flitwick, who nudged it aside with a flick of his wand and a quiet "Deflecto cantiones," followed by an equally subtle "Expelliarmus," which sent Gudgeon's wand sailing into Flitwick's free hand.

"Very good, Mr. Gudgeon," Flitwick squeaked over applause from the students, bowed to acknowledge the praise, and considerately sent Gudgeon's wand back to him. "Now, you'll notice I chose Deflecto rather than Defendo. A skilled duelist will always choose the defense requiring the least expenditure of power and the most focus, and it's considered more elegant form. In juried competitions where the opponents are stalemated or evenly matched, that can mean the difference between winning and losing. For our purposes, however," he added with an anxious look to the younger students, "I wish the Lower Forms to restrict themselves to Defendo -- it's much safer in the long run until you've attained more skill at dueling. Sixths and Sevenths may choose to try Deflecto if they feel up to it."

"But Professor, he barely gave you time to take your stance," Amaryllis Mugwort noted.

"Oh, that's perfectly acceptable, Miss Mugwort, if a little, ah, gauche, begging your pardon, Mr. Gudgeon. One may wait as long as one feels necessary for purposes of initimidation. There's no time limit -- in fact, Guy Pennyfeather and Sven Bjornson set a record of six hours before beginning casting at the International Dueling Championship of 1667. Now, who would like to partner with Mr. Gundgeon? -- No, Mr. Malfoy, another Third, I think -- Mr. Potter?"

"Very good, up you come. Since Mr. Gudgeon had the first casting last time, Mr. Potter shall have the honour now."

Flitwick trotted to the end of the field as Potter ascended and met Gudgeon in the middle of the platform.

"Address your opponent -- yes, very nice, don't be stingy with the bow -- ten paces... pivot... and stance... now at will, Mr. Potter."

Potter, who had also chosen the coiled stance, stared Gudgeon down for a moment and then lunged and cried, "Vomitem verbi!"

Gudgeon immediately lunged and countered with "Defendo!", and Potter's hex bounced, harmless, off the magical shield.

"Cruris vacille!" Gudgeon shot back -- after belatedly taking the en garde stance.

"Deflecto --" Potter began, then realised what he'd blurted out and hurriedly added "-- Incantantum!"

It was the wrong counter, of course, and Severus had the immense satisfaction of seeing Potter stumble about the field on Jelly-Legs.

"All right, that's enough for now," Flitwick chortled. "Let's analyse what's happened so far -- oh I do beg your pardon, Mr. Potter --"

"Firstly, Mr. Potter's initial curse -- an excellent choice, the Babbling Curse, because very often your opponent is unable to articulate a return curse, and you've effectively won the match. Note, however, that I say often, not always.

"The interesting thing about Mr. Gudgeon's counter is that it demonstrates the one disadvantage to the coiled stance: until it is second nature, the tendency is to relax and to forget to shift ones' weight to resume it. While switching back and forth between the two stances is acceptable in tourney play -- and in fact in the more rough-and-tumble matches stances might be dispensed with altogether -- it's very bad form in classical competitive play. Were this a point match, Mr. Gudgeon would have received a significant demerit.

"And, Mr. Potter, the correct counter with Deflecto is cantiones, not Incantatum. It's a very specific counter to deflect malevolent spells, not to remove general enchantments or spells, and it simply doesn't work with the substitution. Very good -- who's next?"

It was Black, of course, ever eager to prove his prowess. Severus had suspected as much, and had wormed his way through the crowd to be near the stairs.

Severus jabbed an elbow in Bertha Jorkins' side (the mingy cow was blocking his path) and scrambled up the stairs.

"-- and Mr. Snape, very good, very good," Flitwick chirped. "Mr. Snape, you may have the honour --"

"Oh, that's quite all right -- I... I cede it to Black," Severus said. (If he couldn't sneak up on Black, he could at least give him reason to be paranoid.)

"Oh. That's unusual, but there's certainly no rule prohibiting it. You have first cast, Mr. Black."

Black's eyes narrowed at the unexpected courtesy, and he took the en garde stance: Severus, simply on principle of doing what Black didn't, took coiled. Black smirked, seeing a possible advantage.

"Defendo!" Severus lunged and shielded, and immediately shifted his weight back into the coiled stance: he might be more scrawny than Black, but he was lighter on his feet. "Pullus cruris!"

Black hadn't expected him to recover and to cast so quickly, and barely managed to get out "Defen--" before Severus' cast hit him at kneecap level.

Severus' aim had been perfect. The hex worked beautifully, and had a very satisfying effect: Black was so shocked at suddenly acquiring chicken legs that he dropped his wand. He tried to pick the wand up and overbalanced -- not being used to his knees being hinged in the opposite direction, as are chickens' -- and stumbled and fell flat on his face, scrabbling for the wand that was now trapped under his body.

"Oh, really, Mr. Snape, I said --" Flitwick shrieked above the guffaws of the students.

Severus ignored the laughter, knowing it would goad Black into a misstep (so to speak) or a particularly nasty hex: it wouldn't do to let his guard down now. And sure enough, Black, still on the floor but wand now in hand, shouted "Vomitem verbi!"

"Furnunculus!" Black added in a snarl before Severus had even quite finished the first shielding charm.

Severus didn't have time to retake the coiled stance; he dropped into the en garde and cried "Defendo!" and then cast his pièce de résistance:

And that was all she wrote, as they say, for both the Black-Snape match and the immediate resurrection of the Dueling Club.

The fracas was over. Severus and Black had been disarmed by an irate and jittery Flitwick; Potter had been restrained from hexing Severus behind his back, and Goyle from punching Potter in retaliation for the attempt; Black -- with chicken legs and and an armadillo snout which Flitwick was unable to remove -- had been sent to the Infirmary, Mobilicorpused by two Gryffindor Sevenths; and the rest of the students dismissed to their normal Saturday afternoon activities with the instruction to watch the notice-board for an announcement as to when -- or whether -- the Club would resume.

"I don't understand this, Mr. Snape," Flitwick was saying earnestly. "I said that the more silly hexes were not to be used." He heaved a sigh. "I suppose you've been reading that idiotic book of Gates's...."

"You said they wouldn't help in a real-life duel. You didn't say they were forbidden," Severus muttered.

"I didn't think I --" Flitwick huffed, and then his body sagged. "No, you're quite right, I didn't, and I should have done. Fifty years of teaching ought to have taught me to be explicit.

"The reason they shouldn't be used -- or, rather, shouldn't be used in conjunction with another -- is quite simple: the more those hexes are layered, the more difficult it is to reverse them. I'm perfectly capable of reversing any single hex thrown by a student, but it becomes much more difficult when they're layered, particularly... particularly when they've been cast with extreme animosity. Which, I think it's fair to say, appears to be the case with you and Mr. Black."

"Yes, he was unsportsman-like enough to throw two consecutive hexes, which I absolutely forbade. But you could have cast Expelliarmus instead of Rostrum armadillus and prevented any further pain and embarrassment to Mr. Black."

Well, that was the whole point. Mission accomplished, and the Slytherin is in the lead.

"I'm afraid that now he's facing a week in the Infirmary and a great deal of time and attention from Madam Pomfrey to reverse those hexes. That's quite a shame, don't you think?"

Flitwick peered hopefully at Severus for some sign of contrition or regret -- and, finding none, sighed again.

"Very well, Mr. Snape. I must say, however, that you've grievously disappointed me. I thought you were more perceptive and had more self-control than this."

"-- although I would like to judge your actions as the result of simple poor judgement and impulse, I cannot entirely believe that is the case," Flitwick continued with a severe look. "Therefore, you are suspended from the Dueling Club for the remainder of term -- assuming Headmaster allows it to continue, after this."

"Mr. Black is as well, Mr. Snape," Flitwick said patiently. "And you're both docked ten points for your Houses. You may re-join the Club next term, providing it meets -- as may he. The remainder of his punishment is undoubtedly being administered by Madam Pomfrey as we speak. As for you.... I should like a twenty-four-inch scroll on the medical complications of layered hexes, in detail and with at least two case studies, on my desk by next Saturday."

Severus trudged his way back to the Slytherin Common Room, defiant and bitter. It was all Black's fault, of course; if the bloody prat hadn't broken the rules in the first place, Severus never would have followed through on the plan. Probably.

He was greeted in the Common Room by a surprisingly cheerful group of Slytherins, congratulating him on soundly trouncing the obnoxious Gryffindor. (Even Malfoy seemed just a bit impressed, and Goyle threw a matey arm about Severus' neck, nearly choking him with enthusiasm.) They weren't at all concerned about the possibility that the Dueling Club might be disbanded, and grumbled only a bit at the ten-point loss. Severus plastered what passed for a smile onto his face and took the accolades and the sweets thrust into his hands.

The little man was busy marking, humming to himself all the while -- something relentlessly cheery and innocuous -- and didn't hear him.

Severus handed it over and Flitwick opened and scanned it, squinting through his pince-nez.

"Done a day early, too -- very good. I see Mr. Black is up and about and back to his old self," he noted as he read Severus' cramped, precise handwriting. "Quite a testament to Madam Pomfrey's skill, don't you think?"

"Yes, sir," Severus replied mechanically. ('Old self' was accurate, although to be absolutely precise Black's nose looked a trifle longer than it had before the hexing: he had glowered at Severus all day, at every opportunity, and at one point in Transfigurations when McGonagall's back was turned he'd mouthed the words "You're dead.")

"Well, this looks quite complete. I think it's satisfactory, Mr. Snape," Flitwick finally said, and tucked the scroll away in a cubbyhole in his desk.

"-- there was something... Now what was it?" Flitwick puzzled. "Oh, yes. There are just one or two things I should like you to think about, Mr. Snape."

"Firstly," Flitwick said gravely, "Competitive dueling is not an appropriate forum for exercising ones', ah, hostilities. For one, it's not sporting: it's far better to show some restraint and compassion for ones' opponent. And strong emotion tends to throw one off, you know -- I think you were very fortunate. Secondly," he added, more gently, "one should be very careful of those one acquires as enemies, and if necessary it should be for a very important reason -- something that matters. You never know when you might need peoples' help in the long term. And if I might say so, it seems at my advanced age that you're very young to be making that kind of decision."

For about five seconds Severus felt like confiding in the little man: to tell him of Black's bullying -- of the arrogance, the name-calling, the deliberate mockery, and the ambush and attack last term.

"Yes, Mr. Snape. Enjoy your week-end," Flitwick said softly, and turned back to his marking.

Compassion -- for Black? For a bloody git of a bullying idiot who thinks he's Merlin's gift to the Wizarding World?

He immediately put Flitwick's advice out of his mind -- long before his head even hit the pillow that night -- and he neither remembered nor appreciated it for a very, very long time.

How To Hex Enemies and Influence Wizards