Harry had just settled onto his comfortable sofa with a mug of tea and a couple of choccy biccies, put his feet up onto the cushions and picked up the paperback book he'd just started reading, when the Floo turned green. He sighed and looked over to the fireplace to see who was disturbing him during his end-of-term break.

"Could you come through and give me a hand, Harry? I've got a problem."

"What's the matter?" Harry was rather alarmed. This had to be a real problem as Neville rarely bothered anyone, he was far too considerate.

"Please, just come and see. I'm not sure I could explain."

Neville sounded so plaintive and looked so downhearted that Harry could do nothing else but go immediately. He abandoned his tea, biscuits and book, leaving his lounge looking like a set from The Mystery of the Marie Celeste. Moments later he was stepping into Neville's own sitting room in the little cottage that came with his job as Under-gardener in Culpeper's Apothecary Garden, the wizarding version of Kew Gardens. Harry hardly had time to compare Neville's living space with his own before Neville bustled him out of the cottage and set off for a row of greenhouses that nestled under the tall boundary wall.

"What's the panic, Nev?" Harry asked, mystified. "And why have you called for me? If it's to do with plants there're tons of people round here who could help you better than I can."

As they hurried along, Harry eyed a squat, thickset witch standing by a patch of bare earth watching them pass by. She was leaning on a rake, her skin was tanned from spending most of her time outdoors and in colour at least she rather resembled the earth she was cultivating. Harry nodded at her as they passed and she grinned back, cackling. Understandably, this made Harry nervous. The witch continued to watch the two young men walk right by before turning back to her seedbed, chuckling to herself.

"It's like this, Harry…" Neville was saying when Harry's attention returned to his companion. The nut-brown witch's behaviour had rattled him, but he suspected Herbologists were a funny lot and decided to put it down to nothing more than that. "…I've recently come back from a field trip to Germany, the Black Forest actually. There are some very productive areas in the magical part of the forest where new species turn up from time to time. Anyway, I didn't find anything too stunning in the forest, but while I was there I took a trip to the Herbology market in Dresden. I returned to London a couple of weeks ago, bringing back some rather interesting specimens. I settled them into my main greenhouse for further study."

Neville had stopped speaking as they approached the greenhouses, which were lined up side by side in rows like soldiers on parade. All of them had doors in the short sides facing them. Neville paused now, as if after getting here so quickly he was suddenly in less of a hurry to go inside. Harry was getting an increasingly bad feeling about all of this, and was just about to demand that Neville tell him what the problem was, when Neville headed for the second greenhouse from the left.

"And?" Harry prompted, determined to keep his friend on topic.

"And this," Neville said, opening the door and inviting Harry inside with a wave of his arm.

As they walked into the warm greenhouse they were surrounded by the distinctive smell of damp compost and lush, growing vegetation. Harry couldn't help smiling as he looked around at the exotic plants growing everywhere. He'd always enjoyed the peaceful ambience of nature brought indoors. And so he did, until a strident voice suddenly blared into the quiet of the greenhouse, rattling the old wooden window-frames with the sheer force of its projected sound: "Mein Gott! Wer ist das? Verflucht, ist das Potter? Merlin, ich kann nichts sehen, und mein Kopf ist so… so… so bloody stuffed up!" it concluded, slipping into English. "Blast it and damn it all to blazes, man, I can't see!"

"Um… who is that?" Harry asked, looking around but unable to see anyone. At the sound of the larger-than-life voice he'd felt weird — he was currently suffering an extraordinary case of déjá vu.

"You see, it's not who," Neville replied, his voice shaking a little. "Not really… it's what. And that's what it is." Neville pointed to a low bench a little further along the row, where a large terracotta pot was standing as if in pride of place.

The plant that grew from that pot was one of the weirdest things Harry had ever seen, and he'd seen plenty of weird in his time. It had thick, rubbery leaves arranged in a rosette around the circumference of the pot and four shoots grew up from this base. Three of the shoots were moving restlessly. They were thick and appeared almost muscular, reminding Harry of arms. On the end of each of these 'arms' was a bundle of tight-packed leaves forming a globular green ball, something like a cheerleader's pompom. One paler green shoot was standing in the centre of the plant, rigidly upright and quite plain except for the startling structure that adorned its top. This looked something like a round gourd, bulbous and flushed red. As Harry stared at it he realised the gourd's shape was alarmingly testicular, and the dusting of dark bristles over its surface did nothing to lessen the resemblance.

There was, however, one anomaly that saved the magical plant from having been dubbed the 'Flushed Bollock Plant'. From one side of this ludicrous pair of balls grew something like an old gramophone horn, the sight reminding Harry of Professor Lupin's classroom. This structure was just as red as the 'balls' it grew out from, though mercifully it lacked the bristly coating. The 'trumpet' started off quite narrow but soon flared out into a bell-like mouth. And it was from this mouth that a voice Harry thought he'd never hear again in his lifetime now began to shout: "Answer me, damn you! Who are you?"

Harry gripped the sides of the bench lining the greenhouse. He was shaking his head, saying, "No, no, it can't be."

Neville slipped an arm under Harry's shoulders, supporting him. "Bit of a shock, isn't it? I had to call you, Harry. You heard it — it started yelling about you. I think it thought I was you."

"But he's a plant!"

"Yeah. Yeah, he is. A plant who's asking for you by name. So you see, we've got a real problem."

"Oh, Merlin!" Harry sagged against the bench again. His legs had turned to butter.

"Who the hell is that? Merlin, you say? I highly doubt I'd be so fortunate! Now pay attention and come over here and sort me out!"

The plant's stentorian tones made the two young men respond unconsciously, standing up straight and taking their hands out of their pockets. The only audience to their performance was the Mediterranean All-Seeing-Eye Vine which was growing up a trellis behind them. It blinked in amusement at their reactions, but was voiceless and so unable to share the sight with its beloved neighbour, the Touchee-Feelee Plant from Samoa.

"Potter! Is that you, you blithering idiot? But of course it's you! Who else is at the root of all my troubles! Argh! Root! What am I saying?"

The plant began to thrash its three tendrils with their ridiculous pompom growths on the ends. Its lower ring of leaves rustled agitatedly, flapping up and down around its thick, central stem. The pot began to wobble alarmingly.

"And I thought being bitten by that ruddy snake was punishment enough," the voice yelled. "But oh no! That was too easy an end for Severus Snape! He has to be turned into some form of vegetable! Admit it, Potter, that's what I am, isn't it?"

The plant sounded tormented, and Harry felt a sense of creeping horror at just what Snape — if such it be, because that was just impossible, right, even for the magical world — must be going through. Harry decided that it was time to live up to his heroic billing, so he squared his shoulders and stepped closer. "Yes, Professor," he said, addressing the weird — and he had to admit it,very ugly (but equally rare and special) — plant, "that's what you are. A plant."

The plant's bell-like mouth emitted a loud honking at this. It would have been comic, except somehow Harry knew it wasn't laughter or exuberance that was making it produce that noise. It was anguish.

Harry reached out to touch the plant, desperate to comfort it by stroking its leaves, only to be roughly yanked back by Neville.

"Don't touch it, Harry. It's poisonous!"

"Is it dangerous?" Harry asked some time later as they entered the greenhouse again. Neville had taken them back to his cottage for a cup of tea and Harry had calmed down a bit. He suspected Neville had slipped some Calming Draught into the pot and wouldn't blame him if he had. In the circumstances, they both needed it. "I mean, if it's poisonous shouldn't it be under some sort of shielding charm?"

"According to the literature it's poisonous to ingest," Neville explained, "and much of its surface is unpleasant to touch. It will bring you out in a nasty rash at best, infected boils at the worst. The specialised leaves on the end of the tendrils aren't poisonous though, the plant uses them to learn about its environment. I'm hoping when it settles down a bit that it will tell me how it does it."

"So…" Harry concluded. "Everything's dangerous except the pompoms, and the trumpet makes your eardrums rattle."

"That's about it," Neville said, grinning.

Harry stepped cautiously closer, examining the plant while being careful not to touch it. There was a metal tag attached to the base of the plant's large terracotta pot. The pot itself was stamped as 'Property of Culpeper's Apothecary Garden. Size N'. Words had been inscribed on the tag, presumably spelled there by the person who collected the specimen.

Species (if known): Giftiger Lautsprecher. Type: Perennial. Origin: Schwarzwald, Germany. Collected: 20th June 1999. Registered by: NL.

"So what does that mean, that German name?" Harry asked pointing at the tag.

"It means 'Poisonous Loudspeaker'," Neville answered. He ignored Harry's snort of laughter and slipped into lecture mode. "The species was first described in 1777 by Gunther Schweinhund but it's never been seen since. There's been a lot of discussion amongst Herbologists regarding the reality of its existence. Some maintain Schweinhund had gathered one too many magic mushrooms in his time and had got it confused with a Trumpeting Turnip, others that he was simply over-fond of schnapps and hallucinated the whole thing. Admittedly he was a bit eccentric, but he was a good Herbologist too. Trouble was, he was a single collector and didn't share his specimens with anyone else, so when his Lautsprecher died, that was that. And as another specimen hadn't been found until now, people were naturally sceptical."

"Hmm… eccentric is usually a polite way of saying he was insane," Harry muttered, looking his fill at the plant which was presently quiet, its three limb-like tendrils drooping over the side of its pot in a very dejected way, its pompoms trailing on the bench. The bulbous, balls-like 'head' was bowed on its strong neck.

"Well, Schweinhund's vindicated now, though it won't do him any good. He died in 1832. This is only the second specimen to be discovered, and I identified it, Harry!" Neville was obviously well pleased with his achievement.

"So why is it a problem then?"

"We-ell… because it's him, obviously," Neville hissed in a low voice, waggling his eyebrows towards the plant.

The plant's leaves stirred and Harry had the weirdest feeling that the thing could hear Neville, though how he knew that he couldn't say, nor could he have hazarded a guess where its ears were. "And?"

"And he has finally done what I asked." The stentorian voice emerged from the trumpet as the plant's head lifted a little, the words echoing around the greenhouse and causing the more tender plants to tremble in the passing sound waves.

The Giftiger Lautsprecher sounded just as impatient as the real Snape, but it was — mind-bogglingly — considerably noisier about it. Harry imagined that if the plant wanted to, it could be heard over vast distances within its native forest. He just hoped it didn't try that here in the Apothecary Garden or it might rupture the Muggle 'notice-me-not' wards.

"But why? Why did you want me?" Harry spoke quietly, hoping to encourage the plant to do the same.

The plant was quiet awhile, causing Harry to hope it was considering changing its cacophonous habits, but soon its leaves began stirring agitatedly again. An almost obscene flash of pale root briefly poked up from its soil bed, to be followed by a bout of trembling in all three limbs before the plant said quickly (if still far too loudly): "Because I trust you, Potter. I trust you to tell me the truth. And I trust you to help me."

This last was said in such a grudging tone, sounding as if the voice was being projected through clenched teeth. Harry could not imagine where those might be. He knew it would have cost the plant-professor a lot to admit his trust. To be helpless in this form must be desperately uncomfortable for a man whom Harry had finally come to accept as one of his staunchest supporters and just about the bravest person he'd ever had the privilege to know. He gulped. "Yeah, all right. I'll do what I can for you, sir. First off, I'll go and get Hermione."

"I did not ask for Granger," the plant trumpeted to his retreating back. The windows rattled and the door slammed, but Harry had already gone.

"Bad news, Nev," Harry told his friend when he returned through the Floo into Gardenia Cottage, Neville's quaint abode as Under-gardener. "Hermione's not available. She's just started her Unspeakable training, and there's no possibility of interrupting it. Ron might be able to spare some time, but I'm not sure how much use he'd be, to be honest."

Neville looked crestfallen. "Hermione could have done our research. I'm sure she'd know what to do next."

"Never mind, we already have some idea. First, we have to find out what sent him into this form and if anyone's been turned into a plant before."

"Oh, right. So we just discover whatever odd magic took a dying man and turned him into a plant," Neville said, sounding exasperated. "Right, yeah, Harry. It sounds so easy."

"Nev, you're just pants at sarcasm," Harry sniped back. "You'd better take lessons from the plant."

Neville laughed at that and gave Harry a friendly shove. Harry grinned back at him. "I'll start right now then, shall I?" Harry sounded enthusiastic. He was always happier when he had something to do."I'll ask it — er… him — how he got into the plant. Or whatever."

"Wow! That's precise," Neville observed sarcastically again, rolling his eyes. "I can tell he's going to be thrilled with your grasp of experimental magical methodology."

Which earned him another shove.

"So how did you get here?" Harry quizzed the plant a few minutes later as he settled himself down onto a padded kneeler in front of the pot. He had to adjust his jeans, quickly pulling them up a bit. They'd got trapped under his knees and cinched down, embarrassingly exposing the top of his bum.

It made him bloody nervous too. Earlier on, as he'd stood admiring the delicate expression in the limpid eyes of the All-Seeing-Eye Vine, the damned Touchee-Feelee plant had managed to insert a tendril down the back of his jeans. Harry swore he could still feel that invasive tendril tickling his bum-crack. As he knelt in front of the Lautsprecher he tightened his belt, hoping it would foil any repeat performance. He wasn't anything like far enough away from the groping greenery to feel comfortable. He could only hope that unlike the Giftiger Lautsprecher, the Touchee-Feelee Plant was harmless to touch. Now he fidgeted as he waited for the Lautsprecher to answer his question.

When it did, its voice was so loud that Harry doubted his sanity in sitting so close to it.

"I have absolutely no idea, you dunderhead! I merely count myself fortunate to have been reanimated as one of the few magical plants that are able to communicate in any meaningful way."

"Yeah… fortunate," Neville muttered from behind Harry, jiggling his forefingers inside his ears. He'd decided to follow Harry into the greenhouse and see if Harry was having any luck with the Lautsprecher.

Harry fought to keep a straight face. "It could have been worse," he hissed back. "He could have been turned into one of those damned touchy-feely things." The thought of Snape as a green groper made him squirm.

Determinedly getting back to the task at hand, Harry began again. "What's the last thing you remember, sir?" he asked respectfully. Harry's mind felt weird: it was still trying to boggle at hearing his mouth calling a plant 'sir'.

"Being dug up by some idiot and dragged to the Herbology market in Dresden's wizarding quarter, that's what," the plant snapped.

And when the Lautsprecher snapped, it was mighty impressive snapping. Harry waited for the window-glass to stop rattling in its putty before he could concentrate on the angry plant's words. "The bastard even truncated some of my roots! Speaking of which, this pot isn't the most comfortable, you know. The potter has been very careless with his fingers, which I suppose I should have expected. There's probably a magical curse involved due to the unfortunate association of the name of the craft with that of a family of most regrettable wizards. Yes, there are definite ridges chafing against—"

"Umm, look, I don't mean to interrupt," Harry said, even though he wanted to do just that before he could receive a comprehensive lecture on the pot's three-dimensional structure and its effect on his ex-professor's sensitive plant tissue. "I mean, what's the last thing you remember before you were a plant."

"Well for Circe's sake why didn't you say so, Potter? You're as imprecise as ever, I see. Now, let me think…"

The plant went blessedly quiet then, with only its leaves rustling gently as if in a nonexistent breeze. This reaction presumably indicated that Snape — or what remained of Snape inside the vegetable — was thinking.

"Hmmm…" The Lautsprecher's thoughtful murmur was so loud it caused a sonic wave which made the bench vibrate, setting the smaller flowerpots jiggling. One or two tiny ones at the end even fell onto the floor and smashed. Neville cried out in dismay and hurried along to rescue the seedlings.

"After I was bitten by a ruddy great snake — and let me tell you, a venomous magical snakebite is about as painful as anything gets, and I have had quite a bit of experience where pain is concerned, Potter, — I fell to the floor. I knew I was dying," the plant said, its voice was now merely uncomfortably loud rather than painfully deafening, leading Harry to interpret this lack of volume as a sign of sadness. "I remember that I managed to transfer my memories to you. Then everything went black."

There was a moment of silence as Neville, at the far end of the greenhouse, and Harry, still kneeling in front of Snape's pot, respectfully considered the tragedy of Snape's early death. Except…

"I wasn't dead at that point though," the Lautsprecher continued. "I could still feel the floor of the shack beneath me as I lay there. I remember moving my fingers a little and my nails scraped against… something earthy. Of course that was while I still had nails, Potter, and so it must have been while I was still in the shack, before I was… transferred. I have no memories of the Black Forest before I took on vegetative form."

Vegetative form… "So you're saying there was some sort of earth beneath you in the shack?" Harry asked, looking hopefully across at Neville, who'd returned cradling some seedlings in his cupped palms.

"If it was earth from the floor of the Forbidden Forest," Neville said helpfully, "it could have had magical properties. Though I have to say I've never heard of earth doing such a thing before."

This comment did not help the plant, seemingly, for it made its odd rasping noise again, and that really didn't sound like a very satisfied or happy noise at all. Though the two young men didn't know it, the plant was making the noise by scraping its roughest roots against the inside of its pot where the ridges it had already complained about were located. As there was no visible sign of the sound's origin, the noise was setting their teeth on edge. Harry soon realized it meant the plant was impatient, and sure enough, it honked loudly before beginning to shout again.

"Of course magic was involved, you halfwit! How else would a virtually dead body be transformed into a plant? Worse, I was catapulted somehow through time and space into the Black Forest, and my next conscious awareness was to feel my lower body — which subsequently turned out to be comprised of roots — buried in the earth. Naturally as I could not see anything I presumed I had been buried alive — it was just the sort of thing Bellatrix Lestrange or Walden MacNair might have done had my true allegiance been discovered. And so, as I could still speak I started to shout. Except at that time it turns out that I could not form words, the best I could do was honk. I am unsure whether that was to do with the magic that had transformed me or my smaller size at the time, because I know I have grown quite considerably since first finding myself in this form. Anyway, nobody took any notice of me, if indeed there was anybody nearby to do so. Worse, when I tried to move my arms to haul myself out or unearth myself, I discovered I had more than two upper limbs! That was alarming enough, let me tell you, but when I touched my face with one of my arms I discovered that my face had been transformed into something very strange covered with bristles. All of which were unpleasantly sharp. It was certainly not a good idea to touch it."

"That is your head, Professor," Neville told him helpfully from where he was potting his homeless seedlings into two new pots on the bench opposite the Giftiger Lautsprecher. Once done, he wiped his hands on his trousers and turned back to Harry and the plant. "Don't you remember? I told you about it yesterday. Your head is a hard, round pod that, according to your species' discoverer, is very durable. It has a tube protruding from it which looks rather like a modified daffodil trumpet. At the base of the tube there is a box-like structure that contains cords made of special fibres that vibrate to produce—"

"Snape's voice," Harry finished faintly. "However it's produced it's still the same voice, Nev, but it's considerably louder."

"The plant is famous for its volume," Neville agreed with a degree of satisfaction. "That's one part of its name — Lautsprecher. The other part…"

"Is the poisonous bit," Harry said, looking warily at the plant's muscular 'arms' which were currently resting on the sides of the pot.

"…is the adjective Giftiger," Neville continued as if Harry hadn't interrupted. "Meaning poisonous. I'm afraid the professor's — er, the plant's — arms, that is to say his, um, its tendrils are covered with fine hairs which secrete an irritant chemical once the plant is mature. Even the younger plant is capable of causing a nasty itch should anyone touch it. We know the professor has reached mature form as he… er, it — oh, bugger it! — he is fully vocal and able to converse. Until maturity the plant can do nothing more than honk. Because of its poisonous nature, dragonhide gloves are considered the minimum equipment for handling it, while most Herbologists would opt for a full-body dragon-hide suit."

During their conversation, the plant had been moving its bulbous red head from Neville to Harry and back again, almost as if it could see them. Its trumpet was pointed heavenwards in a very smug manner.

"You're sure it can't see us?" Harry whispered to Neville.

"I cannot see you, Potter," the plant yelled, "but I hear you very well. My hearing is, if anything, more acute than when I was still human, which is saying something. I was always able to hear your grubby little plots being hatched in my classroom, however secretive you and your little friends thought you were being. Even when you sat in the back row," it said with a definite smirk in its booming voice. "So do not bother whispering to Longbottom, just say what it is you have to say and be done with it."

"It's just the way your head moves, Professor," Neville told him, jiggling his ears with his fingers again. "It was making us wonder if you can see us at all."

The head duly moved from Harry to Neville and back again.

"Yeah, just like that," Harry said."It's as if you know where we are."

"Of course I know where you are!" Snape honked, scraping his roots impatiently again. "And while I'm thinking about it, where is that extra layer of mulch you promised me this morning, Longbottom? My roots are suffering abysmally in this draughty place, especially overnight when you are no doubt tucked up nice and warm in front of a roaring fire. This pot is lacking in adequate compost," he roared, slapping the offending pot with one of his pompoms. "Whatever manure you've potted me in is nothing like the luxurious layer of leaf litter I was used to in the Black Forest. Can't you find a place to keep me that is adequately insulated? If I get chilblains in my taproot there will be consequences, let me tell you!" The plant's muscular 'arms' flexed threateningly. "However," it continued more reasonably, though not much more quietly, "if you provide my mulch, I may consider telling you how I know where you are." The trumpet smugly lifted heavenwards again, the gourd looking quite magnificent on its thick central stem.

Yes, Harry decided, despite being no more than a glorified vegetable, the Giftiger Lautsprecher was definitely capable of looking smug — at least the Professor Snape version of it was.

Neville placated the plant, promising to get it some high quality mulch right away. Once the plant was quiet again, the two men set off with a wheelbarrow to find the extra-fine stuff the finicky plant demanded.

"I can't believe we're letting it boss us about," Neville said wonderingly as they went. "I'm used to dealing with demanding plants. Pinching Holly is a nightmare for goosing you until you give it extra plant food, and don't ask about the Touchee-Feelee Plant." He caught Harry's mischievous look and added, "I said don't ask, Harry, because I'm not about to tell you. Normally I just tell them all to behave or I'll give them a hard prune, and most of them understand well enough. Works like a charm."

"Didn't you try that with the GL?"

"The GL? Oh, you mean the Lautsprecher. Yeah, I tried it."

"And?"

"It wasn't pleasant. You think it's loud at the moment? I thought my eardrums were going to explode and afterwards I had this weird buzzing in my ears. I couldn't hear properly for hours! Even though I managed to cast an extra-strength silencing charm on it I still had to leave the greenhouse in a hurry. I was lucky to get out — my sense of balance was affected by the noise and I was swaying about and knocking into things like Trelawney after the staff Christmas party! Needless to say I won't be threatening it again."

Harry winced. "Which is why I'm sure it really is Snape," he told Neville. "And as annoying as the git is, I owe him."

"So, do you want to put the mulch in his pot for me?" Neville asked hopefully.

Harry sighed theatrically. "Yeah, if I must." He gave Neville a sly grin. "But I was actually thinking of doing something a little more complex to him."

Neville sighed, somehow knowing what Harry was going to say next.

"I'm going to turn him back."

Harry and Neville Apparated alongside the Shrieking Shack at dusk. They certainly didn't want their expedition to be observed, it would be too bizarre to explain just what they were up to. Neville was carrying a big old carpet bag, which was serving as a tool-bag and was stuffed full of different implements Harry had chucked in seemingly at random. The Apothecary Garden had shed-loads of tools and Harry had reacted like a fox in a hen coop, grabbing examples of nearly everything in sight. Neville had been forced to cast a Feather-light Charm on the bag, followed by a Silencing Charm because with every step he took he clanked like a 1950s B-movie robot. Harry was carrying a shovel over one shoulder, with a bucket and unlit lantern in the other hand. In the gloom of the rapidly falling darkness Neville thought he looked like a gravedigger, or maybe a resurrectionist. And that was appropriate, given their goal.

"Why had no one else at the Herbology market recognised the GL, Nev?" Harry asked as they headed round the back of the shack. "You said you found it in that famous market in Dresden. It's not exactly a Shrinking Violet, is it, so surely it should have been obvious?"

"Yeah, it should have been, you're right. There aren't many talking plants, though there are quite a few species of Eloquent Mosses, carnivorous bog plants that lure people to their doom in order to leach their body's nutrients into the bog where they grow." Neville totally failed to see Harry's grimace of distaste in the gathering gloom. "They're nothing like our plant though, just simple mosses, but they do whisper sweet nothings to travellers that are very alluring, if you follow me. Kind of plant sirens, they are. But as for the GL, you've got to bear in mind that while it was in the market, it didn't make a noise at all. It certainly didn't say a word there. No, I recognised it by its head — that embarrassing structure is quite distinctive if you're familiar with Schweinhund's narrative. I suppose not many Herbologists have ever read it. As I explained earlier, his work has largely been discounted. Schweinhund's eccentricities, especially in old age, made him a byword for loony ideas."

"Sort of nineteenth century Luna Lovegood, you mean?"

Neville gave him a reproving look, but couldn't keep it up, finally snorting with laughter. "Yeah, you could say that. Anyway, I bought the plant as an unidentified curiosity, which made it a bit pricier than I'd normally pay. But when I brought it home and was unpacking it in my sitting room, it honked! That was just as Schweinhund had said it would while it was still immature. It didn't start talking properly until I got it back here, bedded it into a deep pot and fed it well. Even then all it did at first was curse and swear in German. It finally switched to English, at least for some of the time, when it listened to me speaking to it."

They had reached the back door of the shack. Harry opened it as quietly as he could, but its rusty old hinges were almost as loud as the GL's voice and he winced, hoping no one in Hogsmeade would hear. Most folk thought the shack was genuinely haunted, so he assumed any noise would be put down to ghostly activity. Still, Harry squeezed in as soon as he could without opening the door any wider than was necessary. Neville squeezed in behind him, moving with more difficulty. Unfortunately, his tool-bag got caught in the door, pulling him up short. Harry heard him grumbling as he fought to free it, something protruding from the bag had got caught on the bolt.

"Merlin, this place is worse than ever," Harry said a little later when they were inside, looking around in the dim glow of the newly-lit lantern. He had to pause to wait for Neville to recover from a coughing fit. The dust was making Neville wheeze, but Harry couldn't help admiring the silvery play of the dust motes as they danced in a shaft of moonlight that spilled through one of the grimy windows of the Shrieking Shack.

Eventually Neville managed to croak, "I'm okay now," through the hanky he held over his nose and mouth. His streaming eyes made Harry doubt him, but he walked on, trusting Neville would follow. Harry was heading for the room where Snape had died.

The two men had come armed with magical boxes, trowels, a shovel and a dustpan and brush. They were going to get a sample of earth from the floor where Snape's body had lain. Neville was sceptical about the purity and usefulness of any sample they might be able to collect, but Harry remained stubbornly optimistic. If the magic was strong enough to do that to Snape, he averred, there would be traces of it to be found if they took the time to look. Harry was planning to do just that.

There was a clatter. "Bugger!" Neville swore as his shin connected with a piece of wood jutting out from a collapsed coffee table — it turned out to be one of its legs. Neville rubbed at his abused shin and immediately started coughing again as his hanky slipped a little, allowing the dusty air to invade his bronchi. Harry wasn't susceptible to the dirt and grime. He presumed his previous adventures, notably in the filth of the Chamber of Secrets, had rendered him less sensitive. Neville had suffered from asthma as a child though, and he was really struggling in the dusty environment of the decrepit old shack.

They were making slow progress. It was taking much longer than Harry expected and he had to prevent himself chivvying Neville along. It was good of Neville to help. He could have just sold the plant or handed it over to someone else instead of helping Harry restore the professor to his true self. Harry really had no choice about that, he owed Severus Snape and he was determined to start paying him back. He felt truly horrible about the professor's plight, at the same time feeling a huge sense of relief that Snape was still alive, even if in such an altered form.

Once in the room, which was filled not only with dust and dancing motes but with the sharp memories of that fateful day, Harry's heart sank. The floor here was different: it was clean.

Kneeling down and running a hand over the clean boards, Harry spoke. "Why?" he asked brokenly.

"Someone must have cleaned it because of the blood," Neville said, putting a hand on Harry's shoulder and staring down at the scrubbed boards. "As a sign of respect, I suppose, because none of the rest of the shack has been touched." He gave a small cough and then cleared his throat noisily and spat into his hanky. This room was less dusty than the others they'd walked through, no doubt because of the clean floor.

"I'm not giving up," Harry declared, his chin thrust forward stubbornly. "There must be something left. Pass me that hammer, Nev."

Neville rummaged in the toolbag. "I didn't know you'd brought a hammer."

"I brought all sorts of stuff. You never know what you might need and it saves time transfiguring things. I'm not that brilliant at transfiguration, to be honest. I usually let Hermione do it."

"I'm not either, sorry," Neville admitted as he handed Harry the claw hammer.

Harry immediately began prising up the nails holding the boards in place, making the wood pop and groan. Some of the nails were loose, which explained the creaking boards they'd walked over, and the job was easy. Harry was soon lifting one of the floorboards. Neville stood back, hanky pressed carefully over his nose and mouth, fearing a fresh gust of dirt and dust.

Harry took out the board and looked at it carefully, turning it in his fingers. There were a few brown smears along one edge, but spread too thinly to be useful. He put the board down, grabbed the lantern and put it on the floor beside him. Hunkering down by the hole he'd made, he muttered, "Still can't see," and stuck his wand inside. "Lumos."

From standing height Neville peered down into the now illuminated area beneath the floorboards. He could see the surface that lay below the space Harry had opened and it was far from clean. There was a small mound of dirt to one side. Harry smiled up at Neville. "I bet that's it."

"Er… it might be powdered blood," Neville ventured rather nervously.

"Nah, it just looks like dirt to me." Harry took out a small magical box, slid the lid to one side and inverted it over the small pile of dirt. "Effero."

The particles of earth began floating up into the box, settling against the ceiling it formed above them. Once they were all in, Harry slid the lid closed then turned the box right-side-up. He could feel the small sample moving about inside the box, the spell that attracted the earth ended as soon as the lid closed.

"This is it," Harry insisted. "I know it is." He gripped the box tightly in his hand as if he would guard it with his life.

"And you reckon we can find out what magic is involved just from that dirt?" Neville sounded sceptical again.

"I know I can, I can feel it."

"How do we know it's the same dirt Snape was lying on?"

"We have to try, that's all."

"What if it messes everything up?"

Neville really didn't seem to have any faith in what Harry was doing, which Harry was finding irritating. "How could it be worse — the man's a plant!" he said, exasperated.

"Yeah," Neville said, "I suppose you've got a point. But at least right now he can speak. Who knows what he might end up as if that sample's tainted."

Harry couldn't afford to listen to his friend, however much sense he might be making. He had to believe he could get Snape back.

Chapter notes:
"Effero." Latin, to lift up.
Resurrectionist: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Body-snatching. Those who practised body-snatching or grave robbing were often called "resurrectionists" or "resurrection-men."
Shrinking violet: noun, Informal. A shy or retiring person, and the Shrinking Violet Harry is referring to is a particularly reclusive magical plant. It's not that it's rare, but it's not seen very often.

"Ah, Potter, Longbottom!" the plant exclaimed, letting all the gardeners within half a mile of the greenhouse know the young men had returned to tend to it. "You did a passable job on the layer of mulch, but really, I demand better compost than this!" The plant raised one of its pale roots above its pot, obviously showing them some subtlety neither of them could see.

"Do you think I want all this dragon dung around my roots? It's ridiculous! The stuff is far too acidic. If you doubt me, try taking off your socks sometime and standing in a bucket of the stuff! No, I need something richer, something mellower, rather like a good Merlot or a pipe of fine St Bruno."

The two men looked at each other mystified. "I've no idea what type of compost that would be," Neville admitted.

"Horse manure?" Harry suggested, sniggering.

"Horse, you say? Hmm…" the GL pondered, humming and setting off another sonic wave along the bench. Neville had moved the seedlings farther from the edge after the last disaster, but he glanced at them nervously nevertheless. The GL hummed too often for Neville's comfort and he made a mental note to move the remaining seedlings to another bench. "Yes, I think horse would be more acceptable," the GL went on. "Certainly less acidic. Make sure it is well rotted though, Longbottom, I do not wish to be surrounded by a noxious miasma of fresh horse shit and its attendant flies!"

"I can't say I would, either," Harry agreed, laughing.

"We've got horse manure here too," Neville said, hurrying to reassure his plant. "Dragon dung is said to produce better results, but if you prefer horse, I can do that."

"Good. Off with you and do it now then!" the GL demanded, its trumpet honking loudly at the end and sending Neville off toward the door in a hurry. "Not you, Potter!" it added, bellowing even louder. "After his performance in my classroom I have no doubt that Longbottom is supremely qualified to dole out vast piles of crap, he won't need any help. Now, tell me what you're planning. I will not have you using me as an experiment without my express permission for each procedure."

Harry sighed. "If you'd just stop shouting in that offensive way, I might have a chance to tell you."

Like lightning, one of the tendrils shot out and slapped Harry across the cheek with its pompom. "Insolent whelp! I may be a vegetable, but I will not be disrespected!"

Harry rubbed his stinging cheek, thinking that was rather rich after Snape's total disrespect of Neville. "Look, Snape, if it wasn't for Neville, you wouldn't be here. You'd probably be chopped up for potions ingredients by now in some German brewer's cellar, so a little respect would be a good idea."

The plant harrumphed. It wasn't capable of making that exact noise, however. At least part of Snape's harrumph must have been caused by his lips or cheeks, or some part the plant didn't possess and couldn't mimic, but nevertheless it made a valiant effort. Harry got the idea, and felt mollified. Snape's harrumph was shorthand for: I know you're right, but I'll be damned if I'll admit it. However, I will modify my behaviour. A tiny bit. Satisfied, Harry got down to business, rubbing at his still-stinging cheek and hoping it wouldn't erupt in infected boils.

"We've obtained a sample of the soil from where you lay in the Shrieking Shack," Harry told the plant. He wasn't going to mention Neville's concerns (and his own, if he was honest) that the sample might not be the right one or might be contaminated. "I suppose we ought to analyse it and see if we can find out what magic is involved."

"Surprisingly sound thinking," the GL yelled.

The position of the plant's three arms denoted deep thought: one stroked the underside of its bulbous head (where the bristles were merely vestigial), one braced itself, 'elbow' out, on the side of the pot, while the final one fiddled with its lower leaves as if they were papers on the professor's long-lost desk. Given its studious posture, and knowing Snape as well as he did, Harry would have expected the GL to speak quietly, as if Snape was musing to himself more than Harry. As what emerged was a yell, Harry concluded that the GL really couldn't lower its volume below that. Harry determined to find a muffling spell, something that would lower the volume without any distortion of sound. He hadn't heard of any such thing and wished again that Hermione was available to help them. She probably knew the very spell he needed, or at least where to find it.

"You need to use Jenkinson's method on the soil…"

The GL started to hand out instructions, and Harry said, "Wait, wait! Let me take notes. I don't want to mess this up."

"Indeed you do not, Potter," the plant trumpeted somewhat more loudly. "I do not wish to end up in even worse case, though that would be hard to envisage I'm sure you could manage it."

Ignoring the thunderous sarcasm, Harry took out the self-inking quill and parchment he carried with him everywhere. "Right, Jenkinson's method. Where do I find that?"

The GL sighed. Its trumpet could produce a sigh quite nicely. Its head slumped a little, before rising again as Snape spoke. "Advanced Methodology for Potions Research, by W C Jenkinson. Utter tit of a man, but his method is sound."

Harry smirked as he wrote. Snape would just have to have a sarcastic opinion of Jenkinson, or of just about anyone who had contributed 'sound' research, Harry suspected. He really was a bitter git.

"Right, so what next?"

"Next? That is imponderable, Potter, until you have run Jenkinson's method on the sample. Do not use the whole sample, we shall need more later. Enough soil to cover your smallest fingernail will be adequate."

"Right, smallest fingernail," Harry muttered, adding that to his note. "So, we'd best get on with it then."

"We?" the GL thundered. "And just who is 'we'? Do you imagine I can wield a ladle, or did you manage to get Granger's help after all?

"No," Harry said, sticking his fingers in his ears and jiggling them, trying to ease his irritated eardrums. "I told you, Hermione can't help because she's in Unspeakable training. It's just me and Neville."

"Longbottom!" The GL moaned volubly. "Merlin protect me!"

"What? I'm quite capable of potting you into 100% pure dragon dung instead of this horse manure, you know." Neville, who had just returned, spoke up, offended. "I'll have you know I'm the first new Under-gardener to be appointed here in fifty years!"

The plant just moaned, head drooping lower.

"Don't mind him, he's just sick of being a plant," Harry said wisely.

Neville nodded at that. "Understandable. I mean, I'd love to be a plant for a day, just to feel what it's like, but not for that long." He looked rather sadly at the GL. "But he's an amazing sight, you have to admit. Nothing ordinary for Professor Snape."

"That is cold comfort, Longbottom," the GL shouted. It was, however, a particularly feeble shout. "Oh, just get on with the composting and then you and Potter can go off and start running tests on the soil. Come back and report what you find from your first test, and I will point you in the direction of what should happen thereafter."

"Right-o," Neville said donning his dragonhide gloves. "Now stay still as I lift you, or I could get injured. And then I won't be able to help you at all," he added before the GL could make a sarcastic comment.

Harry swore he heard another plant-y harrumph before Neville reached out and gripped the GL firmly around the base of its central stem. The lower leaves rustled excitedly at this and the pompoms on the GL's tendrils flared their multiple little leaves as if in approbation. Harry couldn't help it, the sight of Neville with his hand curled around that thick central stem, the GL's lower leaves forming a nest from which it reared, looked alarmingly sexual to him. "Guh!" he opined, but Neville took no notice, being far too occupied lifting the cranky plant from its deep, terracotta bed.

Harry thought that Neville would probably tell him that plants didn't feel sexual attraction anyway, at least not in that way, but Neville's grip around Snape's stem was making Harry squirm. Frankly, he couldn't understand his reaction. It was bizarre: not only was it Snape, it was Snape-the-vegetable that was turning him on. Blushing, Harry adjusted his trousers as he stepped back to watch Neville re-potting the Giftiger Lautsprecher into prime, well-rotted horse manure. Judging by the rippling of Snape's lower leaves throughout the process, the compost passed muster.

"Phew, he's heavy!" was Neville's opinion when he was done. He shook off his gloves and wiped the back of one hand over his brow. "He was quite good though, really. Kept his tendrils to himself."

"Yeah," Harry agreed rather weakly, still squirming. "He was good…"

"I am here, you know," Snape roared in his mellifluous, fruity voice. "Do not speak about me as if I were not. Just because I am temporarily assuming a vegetative mien…"

"Just who speaks like that?" Harry commented weakly.

"Yeah, there's no doubt about who's inside that plant, is there? I found it bloody difficult to accept it at first, but there's no one else, even in the wizarding world, quite like Snape."

"I'm just off to the loo!" Harry squawked suddenly, making Neville look at him oddly. But Harry knew he had to deal with his own firm, upright stem before they attempted to do anything scientific. Because of course Nev was right and Harry, to his eternal mortification, had just had the revelation that he found Snape very… very… stimulating. Even in plant form!

"Ugh," he muttered as he hurried away. He was as red as a beetroot by the time he reached the toilets. Really, he couldn't remember when he'd last embarrassed himself like this.

Three years earlier

The short, stout wizard hurried along the path through Hogsmeade village. He was an unusual sight as he was wearing a loden green Robe of Many Pockets™, a supremely practical garment beloved of Herbologists, Potions masters and kleptomaniacs everywhere. Herr von Spilderbinz had been a staff Herbologist at the German Akademie für Kräuterkunde for forty years. As a result his robe might have had many pockets, but precious few of them were unoccupied. Unfortunately for Herr von Spilderbinz, none of those pockets contained the mature specimen of the Alluring Lily which the powerful British Dark Lord had asked for, and so Helmut puffed like a steam engine as he waddled along, hanky in hand, anxiously mopping his brow and the back of his neck from time to time.

Helmut had been living in Britain for a couple of years as he was on secondment to the Apothecary Garden in London. He enjoyed life here, but he missed his home and was looking forward to returning to Dresden at the end of the year.

Right now Helmut was not enjoying Britain quite as much. He really did not want to report his failure because he had an inkling it would turn out to be painful. However, he also knew that it was an even worse idea not to turn up at all, so he retained a spark of hope that Lord Voldemort would understand what efforts he had made to find the lily. It was a rare plant in its own right, but what made it so tricky was that it was slow-growing and very, very difficult to propagate. None of the plant repositories currently had a specimen larger than a seedling. It was galling, but Helmut hadn't been particularly surprised. He had tried to warn Lord Voldemort of the unlikelihood of finding an Alluring Lily, but the man had been supremely confident that if he wanted a specimen, then a specimen existed somewhere, and it was up to Herr Helmut von Spilderbinz to find it and bring it to him. Quickly.

Helmut sighed again at the unreasonableness of the request. He'd gone to the Dark Lord because he had a regrettable fondness for gambling and had amassed quite a debt while in London. He had found a magical casino in Knockturn Alley that had welcomed him like a prodigal son, tempted him with the chimera of a large win, then proceeded to take his money away from him week after week. But Helmut had remained convinced that a big win was imminent and that it would happen on his next visit, so he had gone back again and again. It was there he had been spotted and approached by a gentleman. The dark-robed man had assured him that the Dark Lord would pay generously for just one plant and a man in his position would find it no trouble at all.

Helmut had been unable to resist. It was a chance to start again. Despite some misgivings about the secretive way his contact had behaved and the rumours circulating about the man he represented, Helmut had grasped the opportunity with both hands.

Now he could only hope for the best and keep his natural optimism — with which he had been blessed with copious amounts at birth — firmly to the fore.

Helmut saw the run-down shack just ahead of him at the end of the lane. What a place to meet somebody, let alone a man with money! Admittedly there was little fear of being overheard out here, but surely a powerful Dark Lord could have chosen somewhere more comfortable. Unless he was trying to make Helmut feel bad? But this was a negative thought and Helmut immediately dismissed it. Determined, he hurried up the overgrown track to the door of a building that looked as if it might fall down at any moment. He'd been told not to knock — to go around the back away from prying eyes — so Helmut did just that. He opened the back door, which had a solid, permanent feel to it despite its fragmentary appearance. There was no doubt this place was held up by magic.

The door creaked in the best haunted-house manner. Neat to a fault, Helmut closed it behind him and walked inside. He could hear voices ahead. Helmut made for their source.

The voices belonged to three dark-robed figures that stood in a gloomy room with boarded-up windows and a distinct lack of any kind of comfort.

"Welcome, Herr von Spilderbinz," said a man who was pushing back his hood.

He turned out to be startling — very handsome in a Northern European way, with ice-blue eyes and the fairest blond hair. His voice was mannered and aristocratic, and his smile — Merlin, his smile! — was positively scary. Helmut couldn't have said why, but he knew as soon as he saw him that Lucius Malfoy was a very dangerous wizard, a man who had killed… many times.

"Yes, be welcome," said a female voice, which encouraged Helmut to hope for a more sympathetic presence at this meeting… until the hood was pushed back from black, unmanaged hair exposing a face even more unsettling than Malfoy's. The woman's eyes held a wild look and Helmut immediately doubted her sanity. "We are so excited to see what you have brought for us." She cackled then, like a witch at a clichéd Muggle celebration of Halloween.

"You have what you were asked for, I've no doubt," came a much softer voice from behind him.

Helmut turned as the third figure emerged from the darkest corner in the room. Lord Voldemort — for Helmut immediately knew it must be he — was a wizard full of Darkness, so much so that it had affected him greatly. He was still human, but he was altered. He had red eyes — a red the colour of blood, as if he had seen so much blood and gore it had sunk into the very eyes that beheld it. His nose was vestigial, just two slit-like openings on his face, making his cheeks look over-large. His mouth was still pleasant — and the anomaly of seeing well-shaped lips on such a face was eerie — until he smiled widely, revealing teeth reminiscent of stonework, pitted and weathered as if left out in the elements for decades.

It was all too much… Helmut began to babble. "I-I-I do not, er, mein lord, I do not haff, that is to say that the sources do not haff a mature specimen of diese lily. I haf tried der repositories around the vorld, it is not possible…"

"You dare to tell the Dark Lord it is not possible, when he has ordered you to do something!" cried the witch, her voice sounding shrill now and definitely tinged with mania.

"I-I do not vish to disappoint, mein lord," von Spilderbinz grovelled, wringing his hands in front of his ample belly. "I assure you I haff tried, und tried again. Your lordship knows that I need the money…"

Malfoy chuckled, and the Dark Lord smiled his snake-like smile, his red eyes gleaming in the dim light cast by a few candles placed here and there around the dirty, dingy shack.

"I think, Herr von Spilderbinz, that you are a man devoted to your subject, are you not?"

Helmut nodded. "Yes, yes, mein lord. I am known as a first-class Herbologist. If I cannot obtain this plant, then it is not possible…"

"Again you deny our lord's desires!" shrieked the manic witch, but Voldemort made a gesture with his hand — a hand that Helmut now noted, to his consternation, contained a long, pale, evil-looking wand — and she quieted.

"I have given you time, von Spilderbinz, and more time than I thought reasonable for a man with your credentials. That you cannot deliver the one thing, the one little thing I asked you for, tells me that you are not worthy of such a high reputation in your field. Perhaps you need to get closer to your subject," the Dark Lord mused, all the while smiling his toothy, eerie smile.

Helmut was insulted at having his qualifications brought into disrepute, but he dared not say so. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end and he was only just in control of his body. He wanted to run away, shrieking like the manic witch, but he held himself upright despite his trembling limbs, determined to show a bit of backbone.

Voldemort continued his quiet musings. "Yes, Herr von Spilderbinz, I really think you need to experience a real joining with the source of the plants you so diligently, and yet so fruitlessly, seek out."

Helmut was confused now. "Mein lord?"

But his confusion did not last for long, because with a sweep of his wand Lord Voldemort cast a spell that nobody heard, for it was wordless, and that nobody knew because it had come from his own manipulation of transformation spells. Helmut von Spilderbinz was transformed indeed — made one with the subject he adored, with the very source of his plants.

Poor Helmut was now just a heap of soil on the wooden floor of the Shrieking Shack. Looking down at the pathetic sight, Bellatrix' cackles rose in volume and spilled out into the night, making the shack's nearest neighbours in Hogsmeade shudder and close their curtains. Lucius Malfoy chuckled warmly at the irony, looking at his lord with admiration. And Lord Voldemort, in a gesture designed to show his contempt of the Herbologist who had failed him, scattered the pile of soil with a kick as he left the shack, leaving it resembling no more than a smear of dirt. In the dark of the Shack it went unnoticed, just more dirt in the already dirty surroundings.

The Dark Lord considered such ignominy fitting for anyone who failed him. The German Herbologist had been inept, true, but he'd not been seriously working against Lord Voldemort and so the Dark Lord had spared him a painful end.

Really, the former Tom Riddle mused as he left the Shrieking Shack, he was far too magnanimous.

The next morning as they entered Snape's greenhouse, the two men were shocked by the agitated trumpeting of the GL, which was much louder than usual.

Neville hurried over to the pot, donning his dragonhide gloves and putting a hand on Snape's lower leaves to try to calm him. "What's the matter, sir?"

"Ah, Longbottom. Is Potter there?"

"I'm here," Harry confirmed. "What is it?"

"I have the most terrible affliction," the plant moaned. "An irritation of most alarming intensity around the base of my stem…" The GL's lower leaves moved in an approximation of a shudder.

Neville began pushing back the lower leaves, exposing the thick base of the GL's central stem.

"Right there, that's it!" the GL hooted urgently. "Scratch it, man!"

Neville did so, his dragonhide-encased fingers sounding like sandpaper as they rubbed the fibrous stem.

"Ahhh… that hits the spot," Snape moaned happily. "Really, I've no idea what the problem is. It is quite localised — ahhh, yes, rightthere — but it is unbearably irritating."

Neville leaned closer, looking intently at the spot where Snape had responded so enthusiastically. "Ah, I see," he muttered. "Merlin, poor you!"

"What is it?" Snape honked, his voice strident with alarm.

"Yeah, what is it?" Harry echoed.

"I'm afraid to say you have a nasty case of cancri legumini."

The GL groaned, Harry just looked confused. "What's that, Nev?" he asked his friend. "Is it serious?"

"Oh, don't worry, it's curable," Neville soothed. "But it explains why he's been so itchy."

"Yeah?"

"Crabs, Potter, you blithering idiot!" the GL roared. "I have vegetable crabs!"

Harry gaped at the GL's trumpet, goggled at the red testicular head perched on its thick shaft, and then finally broke into giggles. Giggles became laughter, which became belly-laughs until eventually Harry had to bend down, clutching his ribs and howling as tears of mirth ran down his cheeks.

"I fail to see what's funny!" Snape shouted, outraged. The window panes rattled in reaction far more than they normally did.

Neville was laughing too, but Harry was almost paralytic with it. He collapsed to the floor of the greenhouse and began to roll from side to side, still hugging his ribs and making little moaning sounds as his humour became painful.

"Potter, I warn you, when I am out of this pot I will—"

"Shh, Harry," Neville said, kneeling beside him and trying to make him see sense, "it's not that funny."

"Yes it is!" Harry forced out, before laughing again and whimpering from the sharp stabs in his ribcage caused by over-extending the laughter muscles he hadn't known he possessed. "Oh, Merlin, Vegetable Crabs!"

Harry finally shut up when Snape managed to stretch out one of his pompoms and swipe him sharply on top of the head. He gurgled, swallowed, took out his hanky, wiped his eyes and blew his nose — several times. "Sorry, sir," he said, trying to sound chastened between little snorts of amusement. "Really."

"Humf!" said the plant.

"Right, Nev. I'll run the magical signature trace, you run the usual soil analysis stuff," Harry said later once he'd finally recovered from his laughing fit. The two young men had gone to Harry's house for a bite of lunch before starting again.

"Yeah, that works for me. So I'll have half the sample?"

"Yep, here it is." Harry passed a small pouch to Neville. "I've already weighed it out. There's not much there, only about 30 grams."

"That should be plenty. I'll get started. See you in a bit."

Neville bustled off through the Floo from Harry's house, heading for the labs in the Apothecary Garden. Harry went to his kitchen, where he kept an adequate potions kit including several types of cauldron in a cupboard under the sink.

That afternoon, Neville Flooed back. Harry was sitting in an armchair by the fireplace, looking very thoughtful.

"I've got some interesting results," Neville began enthusiastically, until he noticed Harry's expression. "What's up?"

"That sample… when I touched the soil with my finger for the first time, just to feel it, get a hint of the signature, you know…"

Harry trailed off, and Neville watched as a slight shudder travelled down his body. "Harry?" Neville sounded — and was — worried.

"Yeah, Nev… hang on. I'm just trying to think how to say it. You see, I knew that signature right away. I didn't need to do the testing, but I did it anyway to double-check what my body had already told me. That signature is as familiar to me as my own, Nev. Hell, it was my own — or at least part of me — for nearly seventeen years of my life."

"Harry, you don't… do you mean… it's Voldemort's?"

"Yeah, Nev, it's his. The Dark Lord himself, the late, unlamented Dark Lord Voldemort. He cast the spell on that soil, and I reckon—" Harry swallowed, then grimaced as he forced himself to reveal the awful truth, "—he turned someone into that soil."

"What? Merlin, that's sick!" Neville said, unconsciously rubbing his fingers together where he'd handled the sample. "I've never heard of any spell that could do such a thing."

"Of course you haven't, Nev, because it's Dark. It's about as Dark as it gets, to turn a human into nothing more than dirt." Harry still looked sickened by what he was saying. "So, what can you tell me about the soil?" he asked, not wanting to say anything else.

"Well, I suppose what you've said might explain it," Neville mused. "I ran an identification test on the soil based on the composition of the various minerals and magical traces that occur naturally in the earth. They're different wherever you go, and so you can link soil to its place of origin quite easily if you have the relevant tables of comparison, which of course we have here in the Apothecary Garden. It's a useful analysis method that I reckon you'll learn during your Auror training. It can identify where a victim was attacked or killed, for example."

Neville noticed Harry was looking rather exasperated, and realised he'd strayed off the point. He gave a sheepish smile and got back to business. "Like you, I was immediately faced with the overwhelming trace of the spell you've described, but I knew that it wasn't part of the earth itself, it was just too strong. Natural earth magic is never that dominant. So I ignored that peak on the trace chart and followed the much smaller peaks formed by the almost invisible natural magic that lies within soil itself. Now I didn't know the sample was a transformed person, but even so it's possible the results can help us anyway. The analytical method was originally designed to show where soil comes from, but it works on other organic remains like leaf litter too, so I'm wondering if it's shown us where the person… um, the body… came from instead."

"Yeah, perhaps," Harry said, sitting a little straighter now. "So what did you discover?"

"That the soil parameters, perhaps unsurprisingly given Professor Snape's subsequent transformation, fit the area of the Black Forest in Germany. Whether that means that the person who was initially transformed into soil came from there… well, I think it's a good guess. After all, Professor Snape isn't German, is he?"

"No, he comes from just outside Manchester," Harry said, smirking. "But maybe he has German blood… do you fancy asking him?"

Neville's eyes widened. "Um… not unless we really need to." He swallowed. "And I don't think we do."

Harry grinned. "You're right. Let's go with your theory then — that this person Voldemort blasted came from the Black Forest. That makes some kind of sense about what happened to Snape."

"It does?"

"Yep. You see I reckon he lay there bleeding on that soil that used to be a German — and we all know how magical a wizard's blood is, let alone in such quantities. And believe me, Nev, there was a lot around Snape."

Neville nodded, looking rather green at the thought.

"And I'm thinking that maybe right at the end he cast some kind of spell to try to heal himself, or to keep himself in stasis perhaps until someone else could heal him…"

"Well, yeah, that makes sense."

"But he wouldn't have been able to speak because of his throat injury, so I reckon it would have been wordless. I think he still had his wand…" Harry frowned trying to remember those last, ghastly moments of Severus Snape's life. He shook his head, frustrated. "Either way, he was a strong enough wizard to cast some kind of spell. And… he was transformed."

"Right, yeah," Neville said, nodding. "But how does that help us get him back?"

"Well, I'm not sure. Maybe if we could do the spell in reverse… start with the plant and end up with the man?"

Neville looked highly doubtful. Harry sighed. Without Hermione around there was only one way to find out. "Let's go and speak to the GL."

Neville nodded and rummaged in his pocket. "I've got these new earplugs, Harry. Do you want to try a pair? They block out most sounds."

Harry smiled and took a pair. Maybe this conversation could take place without him ending up with a headache for once.

The snort of plant laughter the GL emitted through its trumpet was still painful to hear, but its conversation turned out to be far more bearable with their earplugs firmly inserted.

"Your theory is the most hare-brained scheme I have ever had the misfortune to hear," the GL bellowed. "And so, as Albus would most likely have said, it could possibly work. Anyway, it does no harm to try. I have resigned myself to the fact that any transmutation will be an improvement as life as a vegetable has little to recommend it."

The GL moved its roots irritably, scraping some of them against its pot as if it knew the noise set their teeth on edge. Now, with their new earplugs, it wasn't so noticeable… but it still set their teeth on edge. Harry winced. Neville would have liked to argue with Snape's low opinion of plant-life, but he knew they had more pressing concerns. Like getting their ex-professor back into human form. The GL was right — it was a hare-brained idea.

"So," Harry told the GL, "I've worked it out this far but now I'm stuck. Just how do I reverse it? I don't want to have to find large quantities of your blood, because I'm pretty sure it doesn't exist in any form except the residue left in our soil samples, which are now microscopic following our testing. The Shack was cleaned up, at least enough to remove all traces of blood apart from what we found beneath the floorboards."

"That was very persistent of you, Potter," the plant yelled. "I am almost impressed." Before Harry could do more than splutter in amazement, it continued: "I do, however, have an idea. I propose that you brew a magical fertilizer to the opposite parameters of that soil sample in order to restore me, and then I will teach you the spell I cast as I lay dying. And you, Potter, will cast it."

And that was the GL's idea. Harry thought the fertiliser plan was very woolly thinking, and said so. Snape was indignant. "For a vegetable, it is incisive," the Lautsprecher insisted with a window-rattling roar.

To Harry's surprise Neville spoke up for the GL's plan. "I know what he means and I think it makes sense. I can work out the correct composition," he said, sounding excited.

Harry's eyebrows shot up, but he saw that Neville was serious, so he shrugged. "That leaves me to do the brewing then."

The plant honked several times at this, very loudly, and then to Harry's surprise its leaves and gourd-like head suddenly drooped in sheer despondency.

"Hey! I'm not that bad at potions anymore!" Harry insisted. "I got into Auror training, you know. We brew stuff there all the time!" Harry knew Snape would be unimpressed with his claims though, especially now he'd used the word 'stuff'. Well, he'd just have to show him. "Come on, Nev, let's get this stuff worked out then we can make a start."

"Potter, Longbottom!" the plant yelled after them, "I insist you listen to me right now!"

The two young men turned in surprise to look at the formerly drooping vegetable. It had perked up and its three arm-like limbs were braced against its pot as if it would launch itself out and after them.

"Um… yes?"

"You will brew the fertilizer potion here. Right here," the GL insisted, pointing with a pompom to the space in front of its pot, "where I can observe it."

Harry shared a sad look with Neville. "He's lost it now, thinks he can see," he mouthed.

The GL either heard his lips moving or divined what he was saying. "I am perfectly aware — none better than I, I assure you, Potter, — that I cannot see. However, with the specialised fronds on the end of my tendrils—"

"You mean the pompoms?" Harry interrupted.

The GL's head swivelled around to look at Harry, even eyeless as it was its attention was quelling. "I would prefer if you would not call my sensitive appendages 'pompoms'. It is insulting." A noise very like a hugely magnified sniff emerged from the trumpet. "Now, as I was saying before I was so ridiculously interrupted, I can use my fronds to judge the potion by smell. I can hear what you are doing and tell if you are over or under-boiling it, I can listen to you preparing the ingredients and judge if you have them fine enough. I observed dunderheads mangling potions for decades, Potter, and thankfully I have an instinct for sensing trouble that I believe has not left me. An instinct, I must add, that Longbottom sharpened considerably during his years at Hogwarts.

"Now, gather the equipment you will need and bring it in here. If any of the plants are delicate, I suggest you move them to another greenhouse. For my part, I am thoroughly looking forward to being surrounded by a cloud of potion fumes again."

Harry couldn't help it, he mouthed 'weird' at Neville, who chortled.

"Are we agreed?" roared the GL.

"Yes, yes, we'll brew it here," Harry said placatingly. "Now settle down, let us go and get the formula worked out, okay?"

A trumpeted snort followed them out of the greenhouse.

The GL seemed to suffer from mood swings, though Harry had no idea plants could be hormonal. "What's wrong with it, Nev?" he whispered to his friend as they looked through the greenhouse window to see a very droopy Giftiger Lautsprecher.

"I think it's, er, he's just depressed. I'm pretty sure I'm caring for him adequately, even though I've only got old Schweinhund's records to go on."

"I'm sure you are," Harry soothed Neville's ruffled Herbologist's feathers. "It's worrying though. I hate to think it's him, you know… Snape, stuck inside that plant. However fascinating it is as a plant, Nev, it must be horrific to be stuck inside one. He's such a brilliant wizard."

Neville perked up a bit and glanced at Harry. "You sound like you really admire him. You used to hate him in school."

"We all changed a lot during that final year, Nev. You as much as me. No, I don't hate him. In fact, after seeing his memories, I'd almost say the opposite."

Harry's voice was quiet and wistful as he finished speaking, causing Neville to look closer. "I think we ought to get on with it. You need him back almost as much as he needs to be back," Neville commented.

They hurried into the greenhouse which was now empty except for the GL and an assortment of potion-making equipment which had been set up near its bench. The GL's lower leaves moved a little as if in greeting, but its head remained droopy and looked even more like a pair of bollocks than ever in that position.

"We're here," Harry said brightly, if inanely, hoping to get the plant to lift its head. It looked ridiculous at any angle, but this was definitely the worst.

"Is that supposed to be a comfort?" the plant snapped in a rather lacklustre manner.

Harry would have loved to be at the mercy of some more incisive sarcasm, as in Snape's glory days. "Um… yes?

"No."

"We've got all the equipment set up," Neville said firmly, trying to lift the aura of despondency that filled the greenhouse. "All the plants have been transferred to other areas until we've finished brewing. I'm a trifle concerned the fumes might affect your leaves badly…"

"Oh do stop blathering, Longbottom!" the GL interrupted, lifting its head a little so that its trumpet was aimed at Neville rather than down at its roots.

Harry was happy to see it. Quite apart from the improved appearance, any interest the GL showed was better than none. Harry had begun to fear that the Snape that remained in the plant was beginning to drift beyond their reach. Its snappy sarcasm was as welcome as the spring sunshine.

"Let's get on with this farce. I've little expectation that you and Potter can brew this potion correctly, but I suppose we should try."

"Very encouraging," Neville muttered as he wrote out the parameters for the fertiliser potion that he'd worked out by analysis.

"That looks a bit complicated," Harry said, squinting at the blackboard with its formula for the fertiliser base. So-many percent of phosphorus, so-many of nitrogen, so-many of iron, magnesium, copper and so on, all in an oily base. "Why is the base so oily?"

"It mimics the soil analysis from under Professor Snape. I've no doubt some of it was derived from the unfortunate victim, who might well have been a little… chubby, but we have to replicate it as much as we can if we've a hope of getting the magic to recreate itself," Neville explained. "Plus we have to multiply the remaining soil sample into a usable amount for the potion. We only have about ten grams left, and it will take repeated spelling to get it back to anything like the amount that was there at the start."

Harry nodded. "And it's only our best guess as to how much that was," he mused. "Oh well, can't be helped, we can only do our best." He turned to address the plant. "And you're sure, sir, of the last spell you uttered?" Harry asked bravely, mentally cringing at the expected volume of the trumpeted reply. The GL did not disappoint.

"Of course I am sure, Potter! Unlike you, my mind is a well-ordered, precise organ and I am unlikely to forget my final spell."

Right now your mind is inside a bloody pumpkin, Harry thought, but had the sense not to say it out loud or they'd never get started.

"I've weighed out the principal ingredients of the fertiliser in proportion," Neville was saying, pointing to several oddly-shaped piles of organic materials.

"Right, I'll get chopping," Harry said, picking up a withered green leaf. "What's this?"

"Spinach," Nev said, grinning. "Greens are good for you, aren't they, Professor?"

The GL's lower leaves rustled and one of its pompoms shot out and hit Neville in the stomach, causing him to make a satisfying 'oof'. Satisfying to the GL, that was. "Longbottom, I swear I will do something unspeakable to you if you do not stop your goading!"

"My gran always told me that," Neville said defensively. But despite his too-close encounter with the green pompom, he was still grinning as he poured a quart of water into the cauldron. "I got the impression you'd agree with her." He lit the flames under the cauldron and nodded with satisfaction as he saw Snape's leaves were now still.

"Naturally I agree with her," trumpeted the GL, twitching its pompoms. "But it is rather unfeeling of you to extol the virtues of eating that which currently forms my body." The lower leaves began to rustle more agitatedly than ever, and the draught they produced caused the flame to flicker. "I consist, do I not, of leaves?"

No one answered, there wasn't much they could say to cheer Snape. He was right, he was very green. Except where he was red and bristly, of course.

"Potter, are you chopping that vegetable finely enough?" the plant-that-was-Snape asked, its honking voice again sounding as if it had clenched a set of non-existent teeth. "Unless adequate juice leeches into the liquid it will be useless."

"He's doing fine, Professor," Neville replied, holding up a hand to halt Harry's likely outburst.

Ten minutes later Harry's arm was beginning to ache. Who would have thought chopping spinach would be such a chore?

"I'll start magnifying the remaining soil now, sir," Neville announced to the plant.

It shook its bristly gourd of a head in reply. "For Circe's sake let Potter do it! The magic is devilishly tricky. He's far from good, but you're a walking disaster, Longbottom. With the exception of your weeding technique," the plant continued, muttering. "Which I must admit was a pleasant surprise."

Neville shook his head at it, relieved the GL couldn't see him. "All right then, Harry can cast the amplifying spells. I'll have to prepare the other ingredients for the fertiliser base."

The plant made a sound with its roots that approximated "Tch!", but did not stop him. Neville took the chopping knife from Harry and set to work on the piles of leaves, which didn't seem to have gone down much. Next to the remaining leaves there was a basin of finest pork dripping waiting to be added in precise quantities to balance the oily base.

"So, Potter, what spell will you use?" the Lautsprecher bellowed.

Harry sighed. "Magnifico, if you approve."

"Hmf!" the plant managed, which was a truly remarkable noise when your vocal apparatus looked like a distorted daffodil. "It will do. If you put a lot of effort into it, boy, we might end up with enough soil."

"Professor, I am not a boy," Harry rebuked the plant. "Any more than you are currently a man," he added sarcastically.

The plant threw back its head, pointed its trumpet to the roof, and blew out a note that communicated anguish.

"Don't say things like that to him," Neville said urgently. "We want to encourage him, not cause him to wilt and die!"

Harry flushed with embarrassment. "I'm sorry, Nev, but he rubs me up the wrong way," he hissed. "Sorry, Professor, that was uncalled for!" he yelled at the GL, hoping he sounded sincere. But really, the damned plant was as exasperating as Snape had ever been. Because it is Snape, his mental voice reminded him.

"I'm going to cast the first Magnifico now, sir. Please stop trumpeting." Harry's voice cracked on the last word, shouting was rotten for the throat. If Snape was restored Harry thought he'd have the mother and father of a sore throat.

Thankfully, the GL did stop its anguished trumpeting, and Harry pointed his wand at the precious little scraping of soil that still remained from the Shrieking Shack. He concentrated on the wand movement and executed it precisely, saying a firm "Magnifico," at the end of it.

The soil in the bowl rippled as if it was a pool and a breeze had disturbed it. Harry watched carefully, hoping for something more to happen. Another ripple… and suddenly it mushroomed up into a larger sample, no longer a pitiful few grains but a definite little heap.

"Yeah!" Harry cried, punching the air. "It works! The soil looks just right, and there's at least four times as much as when I started."

"Don't get cocky, Potter," the GL-named-Snape warned. "It will get more difficult to magnify the sample with each repeated casting. You are making something from nothing, remember. It is a form of Conjuring. You are using the soil sample as a template and literally creating more from thin air. There is the risk of implosion if you do it all too quickly. I suggest a gap of at least half an hour between each repeat."

"Half an hour?" Harry sounded crestfallen. "What about the potion?"

"Obviously it cannot be finished until the correct quantity of soil is available to be added into the brew. Longbottom!"

Neville looked up from his chopping. He was making definite inroads on the spinach-mound-of-doom now. "Sir?"

"Once you have the fertiliser potion base prepared, ensure it remains simmering very gently under a non-evaporation shield until Potter has the requisite amount of soil. The efficacy of his spells will remain in doubt because of course the sample isn't just soil. It is, I suspect, all that is left of one of the Dark Lord's victims I did not hear of."

"Ugh," Harry said feelingly, looking down at the little bowl of dirt. "Thank Merlin I don't have to drink the bloody potion!"

"I, alas, do," said the GL, its leaves fluttering anxiously.

"You don't have taste buds," Harry pointed out.

"You think not?" the GL yelled. "I'll have you know my roots are very sensitive, Potter, very sensitive indeed. I can judge the quality and fineness of my compost to an exceptional degree." Its head drooped a little and it added, "And I'd love a cup of tea."

Neville pause in his chopping to look thoughtfully at the GL. "I could get you a cup if you like."

The pompoms rose up and did a little dance above the GL's testicular head. "That would be… acceptable," Snape's voice told him in its usual understated, unimpressed manner. Harry was amused watching the GL's body language, which the plant couldn't seem to repress. It revealed Snape's true feelings even while his voice was restrained. He wished Snape himself had been able to open up when he'd been alive, able to show when he was pleased, not just when he was angry.

"You're going to make tea for a plant?" Harry asked dumbfounded as he turned to look at Neville.

"Why not? Gran always gave the houseplants the used tealeaves. Swore that was why they looked so healthy."

"As I said earlier, a capital woman," the GL honked approvingly, slapping a pompom on the side of his pot for emphasis. "Potter, while you're waiting to cast the next spell, take over the chopping from Longbottom. Oh, and Longbottom, crumble up a digestive biscuit while you're at it, would you? Finely, mind… I believe it would make a… stimulating… mulch."

Following tea — Neville made them all a cup — Harry carefully cast repeated magnifying spells and Neville brewed a perfect fertiliser base. Professor-Snape-the-GL was then approached by two young men carrying flasks of fertiliser potion. The potion was quite thick, its colour was a drab mud-coloured brown with just the slightest green tinge and if they stopped swirling it inside its flask it went sludgy, settling out into a layer of mud with separated liquor.

"Are you ready, Professor?" Harry asked as they stood close to the terracotta pot.

The GL turned its head to face Harry. "Yes," it yelled, its shout sounding precise and determined. "There is no future for me like this, Potter. Though I hesitate to say it to you and Longbottom… do your worst, gentlemen."

Neville raised his eyebrows at Harry. Harry just shrugged and tipped the contents of his flask around the GL's roots at his side of the pot. He took out his wand, pointed it at the soil and cast Snape's final spell: "Eripere ad meum domum!" It was a spell of Snape's own devising, a kind of verbal Portkey to get him out of trouble and transfer him to his bedroom in Spinner's End where he had everything he might need laid out ready for emergencies. Whether he would have survived even had he got there was debatable, but it didn't matter because the spell had become mixed up when it contacted the soil pressed into Snape's clothing and had reacted strangely. The 'domum', or home, requested became Helmut von Spilderbinz's, not Snape's. And Helmut was a native of the Black Forest. Just how that equated to transforming Severus Snape into another native of that region was a mystery Harry couldn't begin to ponder. Perhaps one day Snape himself might be able to shed some light on it. If he survived this.

Neville, meanwhile, was tipping his flask of potion around the other side of the pot. Once done, the two men took a step back and watched. Neville took a notebook from his pocket and a stub of pencil from behind his ear, licked its point and began to take notes.

It was rather anticlimactic because nothing much happened. The GL didn't move but it did let out a softer trumpeting noise than usual, sounding rather as if someone had shoved a mute into its bell-shaped mouth. Harry and Neville waited.

A note that very much resembled Snape's 'hmm' emerged next.

Harry and Neville waited.

The lower leaves rustled, the testicular head moved slightly on its thick neck, then stilled.

Harry and Neville waited a bit longer.

"Yes, I see…" ruminated the plant eventually, obviously muttering to itself as the sound was no louder than a man's ferocious bellow. "Yes, indeed, it might do that." Its roots scratched inside the pot, its leaves rustled again.

And Harry and Neville waited.

Suddenly, three green pompoms were raised to the roof. "Yes-yes-yes! That works, I can feel it. I know it works!"

"Sounds good," Neville said to Harry, never taking his eyes from the GL even as he jotted words onto his notepad.

Harry nodded. "It sounds almost orgasmic," he said as the leaves trembled and the pompoms did a little dance. The central stem shuddered, the ridiculous red head wagged from side to side. "Gods, I never thought he could be uglier, but I was wrong. I hope he gets back to his human form. Even his nose will seem subtle compared to this."

Neville sniggered guiltily. "I must admit you've got a point."

Two pompoms quickly shot out and boxed Neville around the ears. "Have a little respect for your elders and betters, Longbottom!"

"I don't know about your age in your current form," Neville said angrily, rubbing his ears, "but I truly doubt if many wizards would declare you one of my betters right now. And anyway, Harry said it, not me."

Harry snorted. The pompoms attacked him too, but Harry's Seeker Reflexes™ saved him from pain as his arms shot up and fended off the attacker. "Calm down, Professor. And if you reckon it's working, when are you going to stop being a plant?"

"Plant physiology is slower than human, as you would know if you had studied in Herbology classes," Snape said scathingly.

"I did, it's my job," Neville replied huffily. "And you're right, of course. So now we wait."

Harry sighed. "Merlin, I thought this would be over with today. It seems I was wrong."

"Never mind, look on the bright side, Harry," Nev said, patting Harry's back. "It leaves us time to clear this equipment away and bring back the other plants."

Harry gave him an incredulous look. "That's the bright side? Neville, you need to get out more."

The GL shuddered a little, honked with something resembling humour, and went back to absorbing its potion.

Chapter notes:
Quart: A unit of volume or capacity in the British Imperial System, used in liquid and dry measure, equal to two pints (40 fl oz or 1.14 litres).
"Eripere ad meum domum!" is Latin and means 'take (rescue) me to my home'.

Neville and Harry closed up the greenhouse and headed back to Gardenia Cottage. Harry had been staying in the tiny guest room rather than Flooing home. He felt a real sense of comradeship with Neville over the GL dilemma and it was surprisingly cosy, making him realise how lonely he was a lot of the time. The two men prepared a quick dinner before settling into the armchairs by the fireplace, chatting and drinking beer for the rest of the evening.

"It's been a long day," Neville said later, sighing.

"Yep. I didn't realise it'd be quite so complicated to get him back."

"He's not back," Neville reminded Harry. "And we're not sure he ever will be. Just because the Giftiger Lautsprecher said it works, doesn't mean it really does. There were no visible changes when we left."

Harry nodded. "I know. But I hope it does work. I can't bear to think of him trapped in there forever. Or until the plant dies, anyway."

They stared into the fire, both feeling rather subdued now. It was a cruel end their professor had come to, maybe worse than dying on the floor of the shack. Both felt a little depressed as they headed up to bed soon after, leaving the fire to burn down in the grate and one solitary light burning in the hallway.

After using the bathroom, Harry slipped into the small single bed. He extinguished the light in his room, not wanting to stay awake and read tonight. The muscles in his chopping arm ached a little. Harry doubted Neville felt the same way. No doubt he chopped things on a regular basis. Moonlight spilled gently through the crack in the thin curtains and gleamed through the thin fabric even where they were closed properly, bathing the guest room in a soft glow. Harry let his eyes drift closed and his mind wander where it would….

Harry knew there was someone with him in the slightly moist air of the dark room. Harry didn't know where the room was, but that didn't matter, because he could feel the person here with him and knew he meant Harry no harm.

A gentle touch in the middle of his back…

"Stand still, all is well."

Whispered words tickled his ear and shivered down his spine. The man felt Harry's reaction and moved his hand in small stroking movements across Harry's back. It felt so good to be touched… Harry couldn't remember when anyone had touched him so intimately, so lovingly…

Harry sighed and leaned his head back, resting it on the man's shoulder. Now he could feel the body standing close behind him. He could smell the unique scent of sweet earth and something flowery surrounding him. His eyes slid closed. It was so dark it was foolish to keep them open anyway. Ah… that felt nice…

The man's other arm slipped around Harry's waist, holding him in place but not forcing him. Harry knew the choice was his and he knew what he would do. He would let this wonderful man do whatever he liked to him. Harry would let him touch him just like he was doing now, would even hope the man's hand would travel just a little lower, perhaps loosen his pyjama bottoms and…

Harry's eyes flew open and he could see the shape of the room he was in — a plain, rectangular room devoid of furniture. It was lighter now in the first grey light of dawn. Harry's cock was being held firmly, it was surrounded, caged somehow by the man behind him… and it didn't feel right. Harry struggled to turn his head, to look at who was doing this to him. It was difficult, he was tangled up somehow, he couldn't quite turn…

Harry fought with all his determination and managed to turn his head and swivel his eyes enough to see behind him. He yelled in shock and horror.

The Touchee-Feelee plant gave his cock a final squeeze but did not retreat. Its hand — which was a tendril, of course, spiralled around Harry's hard cock (and why the hell was his cock still hard in this situation?) before slipping lower, insinuating itself into the sweaty secret places between Harry's legs, heading for…

"Stop right there! Get off of me!" Harry yelled, struggling against the thickest tendrils that now pinned him in place. His dream, his fantasy of being with a man he could trust enough to have sex with, was shattered. He panicked.

Harry thrashed about wildly and finally the thickest tendril gave way, releasing him. He fell to the floor with a painful bump. His eyes shot open and

"Potter, what on Merlin's green earth is the matter with you?"

That voice! More — that face! Severus Snape was peering down at him with an expression of shocked concern. Harry's left foot was still tangled in his bed sheet, he was sprawled on the floor next to the bed and the Touchee-Feelee plant was, of course, shut up in its greenhouse next to its friend the All-Seeing-Eye Vine. Which was precisely where Snape should be, for he was the GL… or at least he had been. "Wha—?"

"Merlin, you're no more erudite than you were in your first year," Snape snapped. "Get up off the floor and help me, Potter. I have been forced to come up here to rouse you and—"

"You came here on your own? How did you—?" It was only then that Harry realised that something was very wrong with Snape. He looked down from the piercing black eyes, past the thin lips twisted into an exasperated sneer, only to pause over the slender body which was blessedly naked, exposing Snape's pale chest dusted with dark hairs. Harry's eyes gradually followed the trail of hair downwards, at that moment he couldn't have stopped their movement if Bellatrix Lestrange and half a dozen Death Eaters had entered the room. He had to see…

…Snape's gnarled taproot. The man was still a plant from the hips down. Harry groaned.

"As you see, it hasn't quite worked, Potter. The fact that I am partially transformed is more than I expected, quite frankly. Relying on the partnership of Potter and Longbottom was foolhardy, I realise that, but what could I do in the circumstances? I had no wish to be studied — cut apart and experimented on at the Ministry of Magic or worse, hybridised in some wretched research lab!"

Harry was still staring, horrified, at the gnarled root that divided into many smaller ones. The finest ones almost looked like hairs. There were traces of compost still nestling in the nooks and crannies. "How the hell did you get up here?"

"I can walk," Snape declared, "or rather, shuffle." His roots moved in an odd, undulating manner as he approached Harry. "While you, it seems, Mr Potter, find even simple locomotion a challenge." Snape extended a slender root and tweaked the edge of the sheet wrapped around Harry's foot.

"Oh, yeah," Harry admitted, chuckling. "I was dreaming, it was a bit of an odd one. Then I woke up when I fell on the floor only to be faced with you staring down at me. Can you blame me for being surprised?"

"Hmm, I suppose I cannot," Snape admitted. "However, I find myself in a very real dilemma. I have no idea how I can live in this condition." He waved an eloquent, elegant hand at his roots.

"I think we need to speak to Neville," Harry suggested. "Because I've no idea about all this. I'm thrilled you're back again though, sir," he added, his voice enthusiastic. "You are at least partly human now."

"Harrumph. Forgive me if I can only partly accept your compliment."

After his rude awakening, Harry had retired to the bathroom and got dressed there before he and Snape had walked (or in Snape's case, shuffled) across the landing to Neville's bedroom door. Neville woke up after they'd pounded on the door quite a few times. He'd always been slow in the mornings in the Gryffindor dorm and it appeared he was no different now. When Neville finally opened his door to see Harry and Snape standing there he'd initially looked overjoyed… until he looked down at Severus' 'feet'. "Oh."

"Yes, 'oh' just about sums it up, Mr Longbottom," Snape sneered. "What do you say to that?"

Neville looked up again, fixing his gaze boldly on Snape. "I say you'd better get back into your pot right away, sir. And hope the special fertiliser hasn't lost its potency," he added, sotto voce.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Get back in your pot!" Neville yelled, flapping his hands urgently.

Harry boggled. Neville had actually yelled at Snape. Once Harry got over his shock at the sight he assisted Neville, who was at least partly dressed in dressing gown and slippers, in shooing the semi-plant version of Snape down the stairs. Snape had firmly refused their offer to carry him, using his strong arms to hold onto the banisters for support. Harry tried to look everywhere but at Snape's flexing biceps and pectoral muscles, but he failed miserably. All that pale skin stretched over lean, rangy muscles was too bloody wonderful to miss. He vaguely wondered if he was drooling, but really couldn't bring himself to care.

"Please, sir," Neville begged once they were on the ground floor. "Let us lift you. It won't do your roots any good to be scraped like this."

Snape looked conflicted. "My taproot is very strong," he insisted. "However, you are correct, Mr. Longbottom, roots are not designed for ambulation. Very well, but you will support me under my arms. I will not be carried about like a fainting maiden!"

Harry and Neville stood on either side of Snape and slipped their arms under his arms and around his back, then with a joint effort lifted him off the ground. With a nod to each other they set off quickly, Snape's longest peripheral roots trailing behind them as they headed for the greenhouse and Snape's vacated pot.

They were just in time. An over-eager gardener was just about to slip a small purple palm tree into Snape's pot.

"Murgatroyd!" Neville yelled urgently as they hurried through the door, panting from their exertions. "Get away from that pot. I thought I'd told everyone to keep out of here."

"Eh?" the redheaded man turned to look at Neville. Murgatroyd didn't seem too surprised to see two men carrying a half-plant, half-man suspended between them. Harry really wondered about Herbologists. In some ways they were worse than Diviners.

"Did you?" Murgatroyd asked. "Well I wouldn't know, Longbottom. I only just came back from Outer Mongolia last night and I needed a large pot for this Violent Violet Palm. You know how hard it is to find the Nebuchadnezzar size."

"You size your plant pots like they were champagne bottles?" Snape asked, amazed.

Neville, his arms straining to support Snape as he contended with Murgatroyd, completely ignored him.

"Oh, right, I can understand you wanting to find that a home," Neville said, pausing halfway along the aisle and leaning Snape against a bench.

All three of them eyed Murgatroyd's purple plant with some respect, not wanting to upset such a notorious magical plant.

"Well, ever since I came back from Germany I've had this ongoing project, you see," Neville explained to Murgatroyd. "And this greenhouse has been closed off while I deal with this… plant," he finished lamely, looking sideways at Snape who was still supported between he and Harry. Taking his weight, they moved forward carefully again. Snape, meanwhile, was visibly bristling at being referred to as a plant. Again Neville ignored him to concentrate on Murgatroyd. "Now if you wouldn't mind…"

The odd trio had reached the pot by now and Harry and Neville set Snape down beside it, not too close to the purple palm, which was rustling its leaves ominously. "We'll need a stepladder," Harry remarked. "We'll never lift him high enough otherwise."

"How about Wingardium Leviosa?" Snape snarked. "After all, you only learned it in first year. It's understandable you might not be used to using it yet."

Murgatroyd let out a guffaw, and then looked closer at Snape. "Hey, that's Professor Snape, isn't it? I thought he was dead."

"The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated,*" Snape growled. "Now do as Longbottom suggests and bugger off, there's a good fellow."

"Oh, I say!" Murgatroyd exclaimed, but seeing Snape's glare mirrored on the other two's faces, he left rather unhappily, muttering about young Under-gardeners getting too big for their boots.

"I hope you won't get into trouble, Neville," Harry worried.

"Nope. Murgatroyd's only a Gardening Assistant. He went to Mongolia with Ivy Bellflower, she probably gathered that palm. He'll find somewhere else to put it, don't worry. Maybe even before it gets fed up with being lugged around and strangles him." Turning to Snape he added, "Thank Merlin he hadn't interfered with your compost, sir."

"Humph," Snape agreed, crossing his arms and glaring. "No pustulent purple palm is usurping my pot! I'll turn it into a doormat!"

Harry just rolled his eyes and said nothing but: "Accio stepladder." Which, it turned out, was a rather foolish thing to say, as there was such a loud clattering in response to his spell that they all instinctively ducked. A foldaway ladder of the sort Muggles kept for accessing those high cupboards in their homes that were seemingly specially designed to be awkward, (and was also the sort Herbologists kept in greenhouses for pruning over-enthusiastic, high-climbing vines) came sailing along the length of Neville's greenhouse banging into the benches at either side as it came. Its aim was not very good, which could only be expected from an insensate metal object. Harry grabbed at it, managing to stop its flight. He opened it up and placed it so that Snape could be lifted up to his pot.

"Hold onto him, Nev, I'll just climb up."

"Do not speak as if I was either absent or an imbecile like yourself, Potter! I am here and you should seek my permission before handing me over to Longbottom like a sack of spuds. I'll have you know I am quite capable of supporting myself on my own roots."

"Oops. Sorry, sir," Harry said sheepishly. "I forgot. Um, well, that is, I mean—"

"Do spare me your bumbling apologies," Snape said dejectedly. "Just allow me to stand here awhile in peace."

It was not to be though, because Harry was in position now on the top step of the ladder ready for the next step in the process. He leaned down. "Pass him up to me, Nev," he directed.

"I will not tolerate this!" Snape yelled and tapped his taproot against the bench in a plant-y imitation of stamping his foot. "You will ask my permission—"

Neville, who had grown quite tall and had the rugged, outdoor strength of one who tills the soil, moved decisively and grasped Snape around the waist, hauling him up to Harry. Snape raised his arms to try and grapple with Neville, but this allowed Harry to slip his arms beneath Snape's armpits and lift him off the floor.

Snape's outraged bellow at this move was cut short when Harry deftly swung him across the gap and plonked him into the crater Snape had left in his pot when he'd hauled himself out sometime before dawn. Snape made a kind of 'oomf'-ing sound and wriggled his roots around in the fine compost as if they were his toes digging into the sand of a tropical beach.

Harry and Neville shared a triumphant, knowing smirk, which Snape unfortunately saw. "So what now?" he asked waspishly, frowning.

"I think you need to soak up some more of the potion through your roots," Neville said. "It's only the potion that has restored you so far. Let it finish its job before you climb out again."

Snape looked down at his loamy bed. "You may have a point, Mr Longbottom."

That was Snape-speak for 'you're right', and Harry and Neville could see that Snape would now stay put for awhile.

"However, it is rather boring just sitting here," Snape complained, crossing his arms and glaring at them. "You have no idea how much I've missed being able to read, not to mention eating proper food. Fertiliser may provide everything a plant needs to grow, but it is low on satisfaction, believe me. It is equivalent to living on nutrient potions. In a word, it is bland. So you two will have to provide me with food, drink and entertainment while I wait for the transformation to complete."

Harry had been watching Snape bluster. He knew quite a bit about Severus Snape now and he could see the bravado for what it was. Severus was concerned his transformation might have stopped. Harry hoped not, because Snape was just too unique to lose, even to this extent. Harry wanted to see him restored to full health, to see him doing something he enjoyed — working with his potions perhaps and living a carefree life. Harry wondered where Snape would like to go on holiday. He was about to ask when Snape snapped: "What are you waiting for? Jump to it!"

"Come on, Harry." Neville grabbed Harry's jumper and tugged him towards the door. "We'll be back shortly, sir," he called back to the ex-GL.

Once outside, Neville said, "I hope we sort him out, Harry. But have you considered just what we're going to do with him once he's fully restored?"

Harry looked quizzically at Neville. "What do you mean? We won't have to do anything. He can go off and do whatever he wants."

Neville laughed. "I don't think he will, somehow."

But when Harry asked Neville what he meant by that, he could get no answer.

Harry and Neville spent a lot of time with their partially buried ex-Professor, providing him with seemingly endless cups of tea, sandwiches, slices of cake and selections of books to read. He was very fussy about the latter, considering both Neville's choice (Herbology texts and modern Muggle crime fiction) and Harry's (tending heavily to biographies of sportsmen with the occasional Star Trek novel) beneath him.

"Really, Potter," Snape groused, and Harry was sure he could hear a resonance in the man's voice that had never been there before, a resonance reminiscent of the Giftiger Lautsprecher's trumpet-like overtones. "My interests occasionally run to astronomical subjects, but Muggle space-travel of the fictional kind set centuries in the future, is of no interest. Do neither of you possess any literary taste at all?"

Neville and Harry looked at each other and sighed. "Presumably not," Harry muttered.

"Then there is nothing for it. You will have to go to my home and bring some of my books here. I have a shelf of American novels I've not read yet, or perhaps a little Hardy… no, wait! I am in need of something lighter, something intriguing. Ah, yes, fetch me some Sherlock Holmes, Longbottom. Even you might find that entertaining."

"Wow, even I've heard of him," Harry said.

Snape smirked. "Be off with you then. The password to my wards is 'Scamander'."

Snape did not offer directions to his home, nor did Harry ask. Harry had been privy to the information of its whereabouts. As an Auror trainee he'd helped close up the house ready for Snape's estate to be distributed according to his will. Harry hadn't heard what had happened next and was rather surprised to find the house still remained unaltered, ready for the returned Snape's use. The truth was that nothing had happened to the little house in Spinner's End because Snape had not made a will and the Ministry, unsurprisingly, had not yet decided what to do with it.

It was oddly cosy sitting around the GL's pot, relaxing on comfortable conservatory furniture reading The Hound of the Baskervilles to Snape. Snape had declared himself in need of someone to read to him so that he could concentrate on absorbing the potion through his roots. Harry suspected Snape was taking advantage of them, but did not say so. The man deserved a little coddling, if anyone did.

Neville was equally enthralled with the book as Snape was. Even Harry, the current reader, was interested. He'd had no idea such early fiction would be worth reading. As dusk drew in and it got hard to read, Harry suggested they have an evening meal. So they ate in company, Snape very much appreciating his first cooked dinner since his 'death'. Snape was now wearing one of his crisp white shirts, which Harry had collected along with his books, and he looked surprisingly good as long as you didn't look below waist-level.

After the reading, at Neville's suggestion they played cards by the light of a candelabra Harry had spelled to hover over the playing area, a cleared patch of bench beside Snape's pot. They started out with a simple game — whist — before venturing on to a game of poker. Snape won, of course, as he had the best poker-face in the wizarding world, according to Harry. Neville was pretty useless. Only Harry gave Snape a run for his money, gritting his teeth with annoyance each time Snape won. When Snape finally put his cards down with a triumphant, "Aha! I win again. And yet I have to admit you are almost competent at this game, Potter. Perhaps I can train you to be more of an opponent?"

Harry saw the offer and took it eagerly. "Yes, I'd like that. I enjoy playing and I'm sure you're one of the best. I hope your teaching skills are up to training an adult though, I'm no longer the boy you remember in Hogwarts."

"I had noticed," Snape muttered, his voice low and thoughtful. "I must say I am pleased by that, you were quite unbearable back then."

Harry snorted. "That's the cauldron calling the griddle black, don't you think, sir?"

Snape chuckled, a sound Harry was finding he liked. It was amazing to think the man actually had a sense of humour. Harry had seen no sign of it at school.

"Very well, Potter. When I get out of here I will owl you with an evening that will be convenient. Now, shall we have another hand?"

Harry looked outside. It was fully dark and had been for awhile, the stars could be seen twinkling in a clear, velvet sky. "I think we ought to get back to Gardenia Cottage. It might be best if you get a good night's sleep too, the potion probably works overnight."

Neville, as if on cue, yawned. "Yeah, I'm pretty pooped," he mumbled. "See you tomorrow, sir." With that he stood up.

Harry stood too and began gathering the cards, but Snape slapped his hands and took over. "I will deal with the cards. Get off with you."

Snape's tone was waspish now, the easy camaraderie of moments before nowhere in evidence. Harry sighed to himself and levitated the wicker sofa back to its normal position in one of the corners. The effortless friendship had obviously been too good to last…

"Good night, sir," Neville called, heading for the door.

Snape watched him go. "Good night, Longbottom. Good night, Potter."

Harry paused and looked at Snape, his upper body, arms, hands and his head were so normal. It looks incongruous seeing him in a ruddy great flowerpot. "Goodnight, sir," he said quietly. "I appreciate you offering to teach me poker."

With that Harry turned and hurried after Neville, unsure where his sudden reluctance to leave his ex-professor had come from. Because he didn't want to go and leave Snape here in this large greenhouse, surrounded by nothing but plants. It was warm, comfortably so, but it must feel alien to Snape. Harry had wanted to go over to him, lift him from his pot and carry him back with him to Neville's cottage… and do what? What on earth was he thinking of? He couldn't carry Snape around like an infant, and the mental image of tucking Snape's gnarled roots into the guest bed while Harry slept on the sofa was absurd! Shaking his head at his sudden foolishness, Harry concluded he needed a good night's sleep.

Harry woke next morning feeling far more himself and hurried to get up and dressed. He knew they had to hurry to the greenhouse soon to check up on the man-plant's condition. Could that be the reason he felt so content?

"I know I became a bit obsessed with him after I found out about all he'd done, Nev, but I shouldn't still feel obsessed now he's back relatively safe and sound," he complained to Neville over breakfast. "He's not my responsibility. He'll get himself some kind of job and live his life and there'll be no reason for us to see each other again. So why am I feeling like all I want to do is keep checking up on him?"

"It's probably just because he's still partly a plant right now," Neville said wisely. "Once you get back to work you'll forget all about this."

Harry looked doubtfully at Neville over a spoonful of cornflakes, but he nodded.

Once in the greenhouse they were greeted by Snape — who was standing beside his pot brushing soft soil off his long, slender and very naked legs. Harry gulped at the sight of those legs disappearing under the hemline of Snape's long shirt. Thank Merlin it covered his privates! Harry knew he wouldn't have coped seeing… that. As it was he was barely managing. He approached Snape on legs that no longer seemed to belong to him — they felt decidedly rubbery. Snape had regained his lower limbs only for something odd to happen to Harry's. Wasn't life just a bitch at times?

Pulling himself together and swallowing before looking up at the newly-restored, fully human Snape's face, Harry enthused, "This is marvellous, sir!"

"Thank you, Potter," Snape said. "I can only agree. However, it feels very strange having legs again." Snape attempted to take a side-step away from his pot and promptly fell over, legs akimbo, shirt flapping and those very parts Harry had been spared sight of earlier now paraded before his startled gaze.

Neville quickly covered his eyes, but Harry could only goggle, his own eyes wide, and say, "Um…"

"Help me up, you idiot!" Snape roared, his pale cheeks flushed red.

Harry wondered if it was really anger that made them so. Yes, Snape had sounded annoyed, but Harry thought that was probably a cover. He reckoned Snape was embarrassed by his nudity.

"Go and fetch the professor some clothes, Nev," Harry told Neville, who still had his hands pressed over his eyes. Urgently, Harry poked Neville in the ribs. "Hurry up!"

Neville took his hands away then, only to see Snape trying to cover his genitals with the tail of his shirt. He scampered off with a terrified, "Meep!"

Harry watched him go, shaking his head in amusement. He shrugged off his jumper, turned back to Snape and handed it to him.

Snape took it with alacrity but draped it over his groin with a deliberately elegant gesture, as if he was unconcerned. Smoothing it down with strokes of his long, elegant fingers, he said, "I will remain here until Longbottom returns. I fear I am not too steady on my feet at the moment. This sudden change from roots to limbs has left me rather disoriented. Roots provide a lot of stability, you know, Potter. Having just two legs is very awkward, there doesn't seem to be anything like enough of them to prop oneself up with, and I still miss my extra arm."

"Yeah, it must be odd," Harry agreed feelingly. "I've no idea what being a plant must've been like, but I'm sure being human is very different."

"Thankfully I remember every moment since my near-death experience clearly," Snape said. "Yes, I said 'thankfully', Potter. I have decided to write down my experiences, which can only add to our magical knowledge. I am well qualified to do so as my writings have always been well received."

Harry nodded. "I agree with that. The Half-blood Prince held me enthralled for a year, and that was with his Potions textbook, which just had to be my least favourite subject at the time. At least I was enthralled, until I found out who the Prince was," he added, sniggering.

Snape gave him a glare at that. Harry was saved from a verbal flaying by Neville's return. He came puffing into the greenhouse trailing a pair of trousers over one shoulder and hugging some folded garments close to his chest. Harry and Severus watched him approach, each lost in their own memories for a while.

"Here you are," Neville said, handing the trousers to Snape. "Um, and you'd better have these too," he added, blushing.

Snape took the trousers, which were plain charcoal grey, without comment, but he raised an eyebrow at the other garments. They proved to be a pair of boxers, a pair of socks and some slippers, all of which might have been expected. What was unexpected, however, was the pattern on the boxers. It displayed tall, elegant shrubs which were sprouting bumper crops of bright yellow bananas. The matching socks in sedate black had a pattern of similarly jaunty bananas liberally scattered over them and did nothing to minimise Snape's sneer.

"Blimey!" Harry observed as Snape held them up between his thumb and forefinger as if they might be poisonous.

"Thank Merlin the slippers are unexciting, if perhaps a trifle too much so," Snape said disconsolately. The slippers did indeed look like they might have belonged to Mrs Augusta Longbottom rather than her grandson. They were made of some woolly fabric in a tartan design that couldn't have been duller as it consisted of muted shades of brown.

Neville looked flustered. "It was all I could find in a hurry, sir."

"Yes, yes, it will do. It is a considerable improvement over lying here half-naked, anyway, and not the half most people prefer to expose," Snape groused. "Potter has spared my blushes, but it will be a relief to be clothed before I venture outside. I must confess it was not something I had to worry about while I was a vegetable."

Harry and Neville caught each other's gaze and laughed. It was impossible to keep a straight face when they thought of Snape's nakedness as the GL. "You were a rather rude vegetable though," Harry told him. "We should have put a pair of Nev's boxers over your head, come to think of it."

Snape gave him an incredulous look. "I have no idea what you are talking about now, so I will choose to ignore you."

Neville and Harry sniggered, remembering Snape's 'head' and its resemblance to a pair of bollocks.

Snape was getting exasperated by their laughter. "Well, what are you waiting for?" he snapped. "Turn your backs while I get dressed!"

They did so. Right then Harry wished he could cover his ears without looking an idiot, because all he could concentrate on was the rustle of clothing as Snape dressed and the visual images it conjured. Desperately looking around for a distraction his eye fell on the All-Seeing-Eye Vine, which was failing to ignore Snape too. The tall, delicate plant was bending its stem to stare unblinkingly at the spectacle of Snape — so recently its friend the Giftiger Lautsprecher plant — getting dressed. Harry did not want to turn his eyes on the Touchee-Feelee plant next to the vine. The sight of that blasted thing could only bring back the memory of his nightmare.

The images the sounds from behind him conjured were of Snape pulling the banana-pattern boxers up those long, pale, shapely legs, then smoothing them out to cover that impressive package the gods had so generously gifted him with. Those images were just making him nervous. He looked out of the side of his eyes at Neville, who seemed completely unconcerned. In fact Harry realised Neville was currently counting the leaves on the Touchee-Feelee plant as they waited for Snape to set himself in order.

"It's sprouted two new leaves!" Neville suddenly cried, making Harry jump. "Brilliant! One is a cause for celebration, Harry, but the Touchee-Feelee plant's got two. It's unheard of!"

Neville continued to enthuse about his charge's growth, but it only gave Harry a very bad feeling. What if the dream — the nightmare — had some awful basis in reality? What if the damned plant had doubly-sprouted because it had got a good grope at Harry's arse? Or worse, what if it had been taking advantage of Snape all this time, and as the GL Snape had had no way to stop it?

"Well, I am done," Snape announced, disturbing Harry's increasingly discomfited thoughts.

The young men turned to look at Snape. With trousers covering the boxers and the terrible slippers — which definitely looked like old lady's slippers — covering the socks, Snape looked quite sedate.

"You're looking greener than I did as a plant, Potter," Snape remarked when they said nothing.

Did Harry imagine it, or was there an edge of worry in his voice at Harry's peculiar expression?

"What, pray, is the matter?" Snape prompted.

"Nothing. It's just a bit stuffy in here," Harry invented. "Why don't we go back to Neville's? We can relax and you can tell us whatever you want about your experiences of being a plant."

"Much as I would like to entertain you with witty anecdotes of the goings-on in the Schwarzwald or the Herbology market in Dresden, not to mention the myriad of exciting activities I indulged in right here in this greenhouse," Snape snarked, "I assure you it was unremittingly dull. You would be bored witless."

"Yet you're going to write a book about it," Harry reminded him.

"Yes, I intend to do that. However, it will be more a series of observations on my transformation, both to and from plant-form, and my ideas concerning why it happened. The actual time spent in vegetative form will comprise relatively little of my narrative."

Neville sighed. "Come on, sir, let's get back and put the kettle on. I definitely feel the need for tea."

Snape was still sitting on the floor and he made no move to get up. Harry had a good idea why that was. He extended a hand. "Let me help you, sir," he said respectfully.

Snape glared at the offered hand, but took it anyway. He struggled to get his legs under him and wobbled alarmingly on the way up before swaying as he stood beside Harry.

"You're not very stable," Harry pointed out very unnecessarily.

"As I told you earlier, it's very disorienting having legs after having a fine set of roots, and mine were particularly fine, were they not? Thick and strong, they could spread out and support me in all directions. Limbs are so disappointingly few in comparison, and so awkward."

Harry helped Severus walk back to Gardenia Cottage, his hand holding Snape's. Neville stood on Snape's right side, not touching him, but ready to catch him if he toppled over. It didn't seem unlikely, given the difficulty Snape was having with walking. He could hardly stand unaided, let alone walk. Harry gripped Snape's hand tightly, then gave up and slipped his right arm around Severus' waist, gripping Snape's left arm with his own left hand for support. "I think it will take you awhile to get used to being human again, sir," he commented.

Snape huffed, but nodded. "Sadly, I must agree with you. I am… not sure what to do now."

"We can help you," Neville said from Snape's other side. "I don't know how much good we'll be, but we've seen it through this far. We can't just send you away now."

"I would not want to be a burden," Snape insisted.

"You're not," Neville said simply. "You're quite fascinating. The only human being who's been a plant."

"As far as we know," Snape allowed. "If you are sure it is not an imposition…"

"It's not a problem," Harry insisted. "Neville can get back to his job and I've still got some time off. I can keep you company during the day and help out with anything you can't quite manage yet."

"Very well," Snape agreed.

Over the next few days Severus did regain his human coordination. Harry had observed him as they moved around the house and finally as they ventured outside. Harry was jubilant they'd done the near-impossible and brought Snape back, but he found himself watching the man's increasing independence with oddly conflicted emotions. Snape was able-bodied. He could go back to his life now, Harry would return to his training and they would only see each other occasionally if Snape remembered he'd offered to improve Harry's poker skills.

Harry pondered as he lay looking up at the ceiling that night in bed, waiting for sleep to visit him. He could go back to his own life now too. The only problem was that now Harry took a good look at it, he realised it wasn't much of a life to go back to.

Loneliness. Harry hadn't realised he was so lonely, not until he'd started spending evenings with Neville planning a rescue mission of the oddest kind. And especially not once he'd started spending time with an irascible plant and then the emerging man that was Snape. It had been enthralling, entertaining, wonderful to hear Snape speak almost as if he was teaching Harry again. And it was much better than when they'd been in school. It was companionable, comfortable. Snape knew so much about so many subjects that Harry hadn't been bored once. He was going to miss their company, he knew it. He also knew he was going to miss Snape's company in particular. Harry would never have imagined feeling like this… it was all so odd. The whole thing had been odd from the moment Neville had said, "Could you come through and give me a hand, Harry? I've got a problem."

This last couple of days, although he'd virtually fully recovered his human identity, Snape hadn't seemed in a hurry to leave. He'd been patient and thoughtful, not agitated at all. It had surprised Harry. Neville, too, had been oddly relaxed considering he had Snape staying in his house. Harry had half-understood that, given Neville's fascination for all things Herbology-related. But still, the ex-plant was Snape, Neville's old boggart. It was as if Snape was a different person now, while still being Severus Snape. Harry couldn't make sense of it, however much he tried. He lay wakeful until finally he drifted off, with the same thoughts going round and round his head. His subconscious mind came to a decision quite easily, but it was just going to take his conscious mind a little longer to accept it.

Midway through the next morning, Harry realised Severus had gone out. He'd started going for solo walks, wandering the herb gardens which he had a genuine interest in. Whenever Harry found him Snape had an intense look on his face as he stared at the plants, but he'd lighten up when he saw Harry.

Harry headed out into the grounds of the Apothecary's Garden, looking for Severus. But the tall man wasn't in the usual herb-beds he frequented. He wasn't in the formal knot-garden or the main magical plant propagation centre. He wasn't in the tool sheds, by the fountain or beside the lake. Harry headed back to Gardenia Cottage, wondering how he could have missed Severus outside, he usually found him quickly enough. The ex-professor was a distinctive figure.

Glancing at the greenhouse where Snape had been captive in his plant form, Harry saw that distinctive figure pacing up and down the aisle. He hurried over to the greenhouse and opened the door.

Snape looked up. To Harry, Severus' expression when he saw him looked strangely wistful.

"Severus? Are you okay?" Harry wondered if Snape would object to him using his first name as he'd not been given permission. Yet increasingly he was finding he could not think of Severus as Snape. He felt they had become too close for that.

Snape did not mention the familiarity when he replied. "What? Of course I am, Potter. I just came to say… goodbye. I've become rather fond of this place, these plants." Severus looked around and extended a long, pale forefinger. With the utmost gentleness he stroked it along one of the All-Seeing-Eye Vine's leaves. The graceful plant fluttered its delicate eyelids in an obvious gesture of enjoyment. Severus chuckled.

Harry felt a lump in his throat at the gentleness of the man before him. 'Gentleness' and 'Snape' would never have been synonymous before, but 'gentleness' and 'Severus' were. Harry took a step towards him. "Severus, I've been thinking…"

Snape looked up from the vine, the quirk of a smile still on his lips. "You have?"

Harry grinned. "Don't say it like that. Just listen, eh?"

Severus inclined his head, his dark hair swinging at the movement. It was still greasy, probably always would be. Harry knew Severus washed it frequently, but that only seemed to stimulate his sebaceous glands to secrete more oil.

"I have an idea, please say you'll consider it. I think it would work out really well for all of us."

"All of us?"

"You, me and Neville. You see, we could have a potions business. Neville could grow the best ingredients, you could brew the potions and I… well, I suppose I could sell them. I might hate it sometimes, but I've got a name…"

"You certainly have, Mr Potter."

"Harry, please."

Severus inclined his head again. "Very well, Harry, I will consider it. It sounds… intriguing. I must confess I was in no hurry to return to teaching, but I do not have any other prospects of employment at the moment. You, however, had a course of training you were involved in, I believe."

Harry swallowed. "About that… it's not quite… what I thought it would be. I mean, it's okay, but I'm not sure I want to do it for the rest of my life. I'm not sure I want to do it all."

"And you would want to do this? To work with me as a partner?"

Harry stood quietly awhile, but Snape did not interrupt his musings further. When Harry looked up, his eyes held sincerity. "Yes, I would. I think it would work brilliantly with you and Neville. I know Nev's always wanted his own nursery. He could provide you with the best plants, even the rare ones."

"I have a great respect for Mr Longbottom's abilities with plants," Severus admitted. "My fellows in this greenhouse flourish under his care, as did I. If he can get a crabby old plant like me to grow, he can do anything."

Harry laughed — a joyous sound of relief. Severus was so different from the embittered schoolmaster, so different from the GL. And yet he was still Snape, in all three forms — the one before death, then during the limbo in GL-form and now the resurrected Severus.

"I have no doubts of my own abilities," Snape continued. "And equally I am convinced that with you fronting the enterprise it is almost guaranteed to be profitable. I see only one problem."

"Which is?"

"Money, Mr Potter. Setting up a business costs money. We would need premises, equipment — and for brewing a wide variety of potions I would need quite a range of equipment. And meanwhile, until sales got going we would need to live, and living also costs money."

Harry listened gravely, nodding agreement from time to time. When Severus finished he couldn't stay grave any longer. "Good job I've got some then, isn't it?" he smirked. "There's the Black legacy still untouched and quite a bit left from the Potter inheritance. We'll be all right, Severus."

The back door opened and Neville came in, heading for the sink to clean up his hands which were covered with something that looked like liquid toffee. Harry eyed it warily. Severus stood quietly, waiting.

"You two are quiet," Neville commented. "Haven't had a row, have you?"

"No, Mr Longbottom," Snape said. "Quite the opposite. We have come to an agreement. Now all we have to do is ask your opinion."

Neville turned to look at him as he dried his hands on the kitchen towel. "Hm. You aren't talking about setting up a potions business, by any chance?"

Harry and Severus looked at him, stunned.

Neville laughed. "I knew I should have gone into Trelawney's line of work instead," he chuckled. Finally, he gave in. "I was outside weeding the bog plants under the kitchen window. I overheard you."

"Oh, like Sam Gamgee," Harry said grinning.

Severus looked at him oddly. "I've no idea who that person might be, but I was going to say you had followed my example." His face twisted at the memory of overhearing one particular speech way back before these young men were born. That was a conversation that might have concerned either one of them, though it was Harry who ended up with no childhood because of it.

"I'll lend you the books so you can read about him," Harry said. "Even if you complain they're not about relevant subjects."

"Science fiction again?" Severus asked.

"Nope. Fantasy."

Severus' eyes widened at that, until Harry cottoned on to what he must be thinking. "Not that sort of fantasy, Severus. Honestly!"

Neville blushed, Severus chuckled and Harry rolled his eyes.

It was going to be an interesting partnership.

Severus Snape, of Snape, Potter & Longbottom, Purveyors of the Finest Potions and Herbs, sat at his elegant walnut desk. He almost smiled when he saw the pile of post with his name on was gratifyingly thin. Glancing over at Potter's desk he had trouble keeping a straight face. The young man's post pile tottered in the gentle breeze from the open window. Longbottom's was just as bad: testimonials, perhaps, or nice big orders for more of the first class plants Longbottom grew on their property.

The firm had to buy new premises last year as they just didn't have room to grow the sheer amount of plants Longbottom needed to fulfil Severus' and his customer's demands. Neville directed two assistants, closely supervised and trained to use his methods. The way the young man had blossomed since then was almost amazing — he was confident and stood tall and proud of his achievements, very different from the bumbling, forgetful, cowering boy Severus remembered from Hogwarts. In some ways the war had been the proverbial cloud with a silver lining.

Severus also employed two assistants to help him brew enough potions to meet demand. The firm exported potions to Europe and even as far as America, the quality of their products and fair pricing made them immensely popular. Severus hated firms who ripped off their customers, selling them average potions at inflated prices with similarly inflated claims. Severus Snape's potions spoke for themselves.

Of course the firm's success hadn't happened overnight. All three of them had worked hard in the beginning building up a customer base. They had little leisure time in those days, their time was spent working, occasionally eating and then falling into bed exhausted. Now, five years later, life was easier, and Severus' thoughts had time to turn to more pleasurable leisure activities.

Despite Severus' hard-earned post-war respectability, he was still in the same position as far as choosing a partner went. It all came down to trust. Severus genuinely trusted very few people, he was fortunate to have set up business with two men he did trust. When it came to romance, however, there was the added difficulty of trying to find someone who didn't just want him for his notoriety and the sense of danger of being with an ex-Death Eater, a man with the skull and snake on his arm. In this way he could sympathise with Potter, who had had some unfortunate publicity lately, his attempts at finding a partner being splashed all over the Daily Prophet when they didn't work out. Severus shuddered at the prospect of having that happen to him. No, he would not date anyone he couldn't trust completely. And that, of course, made his list of prospective partners a very short one.

Severus had known for some time what he would do. He'd spent some days thinking about it, assuring himself it was for rational reasons, not merely a reaction to the urgings of his libido. He found the young man incredibly attractive. Always had, if he was honest. Back before he'd 'died' it would have been impossible to consider a liaison. But Harry was grown up now, way beyond any accusations of cradle-snatching, Severus reminded himself. Yes, he was twenty years Severus' junior, but someone had to be the sensible, guiding partner, didn't they?

Severus sat up straighter and reached for a letter, looking occupied as Harry entered.

Harry's hair was its usual unruly mess and he was wearing his green S, P, & L polo shirt that he wore when he was in the shop. The embroidered logo was done in white on the dark material to make it stand out. There had been considerable talk about the choice of colours, but Severus had claimed green was not for Slytherin, but for the plants that were the staple ingredients in what they sold. And white, of course, wasn't silver, it just stood out clearly. Severus smirked at the memories.

"Morning, Severus," Harry said chirpily. "I see you've got your usual minimal post."

Severus looked up as if Harry had distracted him from serious work. "Nonsense, it is merely that my time is better spent brewing. You know some of the potions take many hours and require me to stay behind when you two leave, therefore it is sensible to delegate the orders and inventory to you and Longbottom."

Harry shook his head, grinning. "Yeah, I know. You're the master at finding good reasons." He proceeded to ignore Severus' harrumph and sat down at his desk.

Harry began opening letters, making piles according to whether they were orders, bills or other matters. Severus pretended to read his own post — in fact he was skimming it, but he had the side of his eye trained on Harry, waiting for a reaction.

Harry opened another letter, paused and gasped. Severus saw he was looking slack-jawed at the parchment he held in his hand.

Severus had sent Harry a formal letter declaring his intent to court him. As Harry was an adult in the wizarding world, his father was dead and he had no guardian, this was the only notice Severus had to send out. He'd penned the words carefully, taking his time to make his usual spidery scrawl more readable.

Dear Mr Potter

I have long admired you, both for your achievements and your personality. There is no one in the wizarding world or any other that I would rather spend my time with.

I would be honoured beyond measure if you would consider accepting my proposal contained herein.

I wish to begin a formal courtship, with a view to gaining your hand in a form of marriage known by the ceremonial name of 'Life Bonding'. Attached is a sample contract to show you just what that means, should you be unaware at this time.

Please take some time to consider this proposal. I will endeavour to be patient while I await your reply eagerly.

Your fervent admirer,
Severus Tobias Snape.

Harry looked across at Severus. "Er… Severus?"

Severus looked up from the letter he'd been pretending to be absorbed in reading. "Yes, Mr Potter?"

"Is this serious?"

Severus did not pretend not to know what Harry was referring to. "I believe I said so in the proposal."

"Um…yeah. It's just… what do I do now?"

Severus sighed. He'd told the idiot what to do in his penultimate sentence. "You do as the letter advises, you take your time to consider it."

"Right. Yeah." Harry looked down at the letter again. Severus noticed his hand was shaking a little. "But you see, I don't need to."

Severus' heart sank. The young man was going to reject him out of hand. He concentrated on keeping a straight face.

"You see," Harry continued, "I want you too. I mean I accept. Yeah. Because I mean, well, dammit…"

Severus sighed again. Really, clarity was not one of Potter's virtues. "Yes, I think I see what you mean. You are granting me permission to proceed?"

"Yeah, that. Um… do I need to write you a letter?"

"No. You've done it verbally, that will suffice. I will continue with the traditional approach then."

"Er, right. Thanks," Harry said. "What next?"

"Wait and see," Severus replied mysteriously.

Harry rolled his eyes and went back to his heap of correspondence, but only after pausing to fold Severus' letter of proposal carefully and tuck it into his breast pocket.

Two days later there was a little parcel on Harry's desk next to the usual pile of letters. Severus watched as the young man cast a detection charm on it, lifted it up, shook it, sniffed it and finally began to open it. He felt very satisfied that Harry maintained a level of awareness of danger. The world was not a nice place sometimes and you never knew when someone might strike.

Severus made a show of perusing the bill from his contact in Dresden. He had financed an expedition to seek out another example of the Giftiger Lautsprecher. He'd initially wanted it as a curiosity, but lately he wanted it to share with Harry, to become part of their home. It was while he'd been thinking about this very thing that Severus had realised the depth of his feelings towards Harry. He wasn't just looking for a night of passion — though Merlin knew he'd enjoy that if he got it — he was looking for a life partner. It was then he realised he'd be devastated if Potter turned him down. There was only Harry, no one else who fulfilled all of Severus' fantasies as partner, lover and friend.

Severus hoped that when the time came Harry would see the advantages of accepting his offer of bonding. There was the lack of fear of publicity, their common interests and aims, and finally Severus could only hope that Harry would appreciate the promise of a willing, active sexual partner. Severus knew what he looked like, knew he'd struggle to attract the handsome, famous Harry Potter. But he was pretty sure that Harry had learned by now that looks weren't everything.

Harry had prised open the little box by now. It had rattled as he moved it about and now he could see why. Inside was a tiny packet of seeds containing six shiny seeds shaped rather like teardrops… or possibly testicles? Harry smiled at the random thought.

There was a business card tucked in one side of the little box:

"I have vetted each and every one, Harry," Severus told Harry as he stared at the seeds in amazement. "They are just seeds. When the plants grow there will be no lurking wizards inside them, nor, perish the thought, witches. We will need to construct a soundproof greenhouse, however."

Harry looked up and smirked at his suitor. "You made sure there's no one inside them? What's the matter, Severus," he asked, "are you scared of competition?"

Severus smirked back. "Hardly, Potter. There could be no competition. I am unique."

Harry rolled his eyes and laughed. "That you are, Severus. You're certainly the only one for me." And with that Harry put the box of seeds back down on his desk, went over to Severus and proceeded to show the older man just how sincerely he meant it.

Chapter note:
"The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated," is, of course, the manifesto of the Snarry-a-thon… ripped off from Samuel Langhorne Clemens (Mark Twain).