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The black shape moved — the motion, despite the darkness and the passage of time, familiar enough to instantly uncloak him.
And if that had not been sufficient, the voice – dark wine, mulled with the traditional hot poker until it hissed – sent that well-remembered shiver down Harry’s spine.
“Mr. Potter. I am dumbfounded to perceive that for seven years we endeavoured to teach you prudence only to find you as vulnerable to surprise as the most defenceless of Muggles.”
Harry turned, smiled. “I knew it was you.” He got up as Snape glided out of the darkness in the corner of his office. “How are you, professor?”
Snape stopped, sneer only half on, and looked Harry down. Then up. Then down again. The sneer fell away.
“What?” Harry looked down at himself, plucking at his thin jumper. “Did I spill something on myself in Dumbledore’s office? He’s forever plying people with sweets and ...” He looked up to see a flicker of something like embarrassment cross the potions master’s face.
Snape shook his head. “Nothing.” He moved behind his desk and sat, motioning for Harry to do the same.
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