HP Magic Biography

You're late, Potter.

Snape said dryly as Harry closed the door.

Snape stood with his back to Harry, and, as usual, carefully removed some of the memories and placed them in Dumbledore's Pensieve. He lowered the last strand of silver thread into the stone basin, then turned to face Harry.

So, he said, have you been practicing?

Harry lied, staring intently at one of the legs of Snape's desk.

Well, we'll find out soon, won't we? Snape said smoothly. Get out your wand, Potter.

Harry moved to where he usually stood, facing Snape across the table. His heart was beating fast with anger at Cho and worry about how many memories Snape was going to wrest from his mind.

Start counting to three, said Snape lazily, one—, two—

The door to Snape's office slammed open, and Draco Malfoy rushed in.

Professor Snape, sir - oh - sorry - Malfoy looked at Snape and Harry with some surprise.

Never mind, Draco, said Snape, lowering his wand, Potter is here to catch up on Potions.

Harry hadn't been this happy to see Malfoy since Umbridge had popped up to censor Hagrid.

I don't know, Malfoy looked at Harry slyly.

Harry knew he was blushing. He wished he could yell the truth at Malfoy—or, better yet, cast him a powerful spell.

Okay, Draco, what's the matter? Snape asked.

Professor Ibdu, sir—he needs help, said Malfoy. They've found Warrington, sir, locked in a toilet on the fourth floor.

How did he get locked in? Snape asked.

I don't know, sir, he's a little delirious.

Very well, Potter, said Snape, we've rescheduled the make-up class to tomorrow night.

He turned and strode out of the office. Before following Snape, Malfoy said exaggeratedly to Harry behind Snape's back, Potions remedial?

Harry excitedly tucked his wand back into his robes and was about to leave.

At least he had 24 hours left to practice; he knew he should be grateful for getting away with this class, though the price would be high: Malfoy would tell the whole school that he needed a make-up Potions class.

When he walked to the door of the office, he suddenly noticed that there was a flickering spot of light dancing on the door frame. He stopped, stood there looking at it, and remembered something... and then he remembered: it was kind of like the light he saw in his dream last night, the one he walked through while walking around in the Department of Mysteries Light in the second room.

He turned around. That light came from the Pensieve on Snape's desk. The silver-white content was undulating and spinning in the basin. Snape's memory... something he absolutely didn't want Harry to see if he accidentally breached his defenses during practice. Harry stared at the Pensieve, intense curiosity surged from his heart... What kind of memory made Snape so eager to hide it from Harry? Silver spots trembled on the wall... Harry took two steps closer to the table, thinking hard.

Could this be information about the Department of Mysteries that Snape had made up his mind to keep from him? Harry turned his head to look behind him, his heart beating faster and faster now than ever. How long did it take Snape to get Warrington out of the toilet?

Would he go straight back to his office afterwards, or would he escort Warrington to the hospital?

Obviously the latter..., Warrington was captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team, and Snape had to make sure he was all right.

Harry took a few steps to the table and looked down at the Pensieve, peering into its depths. He hesitated, he listened and drew his wand again. There was silence in the office and at the end of the corridor.

He tapped the contents of the Pensieve lightly with the tip of his wand, and the silver object in the Pensieve began to spin rapidly. Harry leaned forward to watch it become transparent.

Once again he looked down into the interior of a room from above, as if looking down through a circular window in the ceiling... and, in fact, unless he was mistaken, what he was looking at The room is the auditorium. His breath literally formed a mist on the surface of Snape's memory..., his brain seemed to be on the brink of hell..., to do something he was so drawn to do was Crazy..., he trembled..., Snape could be back any moment..., but Harry thought of Cho's anger, of Mal's mocking face, and a wave of reckless courage seized him.

He took a sharp breath, then thrust his face into the surface of Snape's mind.

Immediately the office floor tipped over, dumping Harry headfirst into the Pensieve... He fell in icy darkness, twirling, and then - he was standing in the middle of the Great Hall, but the tables from the Four Houses were missing up. Instead, there were more than a hundred small tables, all facing one direction, and a student sat in front of each table, with his head lowered, writing quickly on a roll of parchment.

The only sound in the auditorium was the sound of the quill writing, or the occasional scratching of the parchment when someone changed an answer. Obviously, the exam is now.

The sun streamed from the high windows and fell on the drooping heads of the students, flashing maroons and coppers and golds in the bright sunlight. Harry looked around carefully. Snape must be here..., this is his memory....

There he was, at a table behind Harry. Harry stared at him.

The young Snape looked slender and pale, like a plant growing in the dark. His hair, straight and greasy, fell to the table, and his aquiline nose was barely half an inch from the parchment on which he was scribbling.

Harry walked around behind Snape and looked at the question on the exam paper, which read: Defense Against the Dark Arts - Ordinary Wizards, etc.

Snape must have been 15 or 16 then, about Harry's own age.

His pen darts across the parchment; his papers are at least a foot longer than his neighbor's table, and his handwriting is small and dense.

Five minutes!

The sound startled Harry. He turned around and saw the top of Professor Flitwick's head moving among the desks not far away. Professor Flitwick walked past a boy with wild black hair... very messy black hair...

Harry was running so fast, if he was real, he would have knocked the table away. Instead, he glides like a dream, down two aisles, to a third row of desks.

The back of the dark-haired boy was getting closer... and he sat up straight now, put down his quill, and pulled his parchment back a bit so he could reread his answer...

Harry stopped at the table, looking down at his five-year-old father. Harry's stomach exploded with excitement: it was as if he was looking at a wrong version of himself.

James' eyes were hazel, his nose was slightly longer than Harry's, and he didn't have a scar on his forehead, but they both had the same thin face, the same lips, and the same eyebrows; It was also standing upright at the back of his head, exactly like Harry's, and his hands could have been Harry's, and Harry could tell that when James stood up they were about the same height.

Please remember the first domain name of this book: .. The mobile version updates the fastest URL: m.