Thump.

“Why -”

Thump.

“Is it -”

Thump.

“Always -”

Thump.

“Me?”

The day's lessons were over and Harry Potter was sitting on his four poster bed in the boy's dormitory at Hogwarts, slowly banging the back of his head against the wall. His eyes were closed and his hands were clenched in the sheets as he tried to determine the answer to his question.

Why the hell was it always him?

He had detention. It was nothing new. This time he had it with Umbridge – again. Bang!

“Ow.”

That had hurt. He lifted his glasses from his bedside table and placed them gingerly on the edge of his nose. His schnoz was red with frost bite after being in the green houses that wintry afternoon for a double lesson of Herbology with nothing more than his robes to keep out the bitter cold along with half the class. It seemed his year were determined to practice their Rudolph impressions for the coming Christmas.

No one else was in the dormitory. They were all still in the Great Hall having dinner. Harry glanced at the clock. 7:23. He had detention at half-past. He heaved himself from his bed with a sigh. Better leave now, he thought, no good would come of tardiness. Taking out his frustration on his school bag, which he flung forcefully towards the door, he hunted for the shoes he had callously kicked off when he first came in.

Ah ha. One was underneath Neville's bed, among other assortments his fellow Gryffindor had misplaced. He'd remind himself to remind Neville of it later. Now to find the other one. That bloody thing – ugh, where is it...?

Of course, that's where it would be. Right next to the burning stove in the centre of the room. He quickly went to retrieve the old, well-worn trainer. It was smouldering slightly where it had been too close to the flames but was none the worse for wear. Thankfully. He didn't have another pair.

He quickly strode to the door and glanced back at the clock. 7:26. Oh no. He hefted his bag onto his shoulder and took to the stairs two at a time, nearly trampling Crookshanks in the process. Swinging the portrait hole open he barley acknowledged the Fat Lady's incessant protests and exclamations of “children these days!” before he was running down the moving staircase.

Other students barely noticed him as he flew past. It was a too common occurrence since Umbridge's employment to witness the blur of students running to their detentions lest the sickly sweet frog decided it deserved an extra hour of horror.

He reached the first floor in record time. Panting for breath, he came skidding to a halt outside the door to the classroom.

“I'm warning you -”

That was definitely Umbridge. She was like Jekyll and Hyde, Harry mused.

“Warning me?”

Snape!? Well, this was interesting. Harry rose a fist to knock on the polished wood of the door but hesitated.

“Yes, Snape. Consider this a very real threat,” her voice became dangerously low. It had lost all trace of the hideously sweet voice she used to address the students. “I'll have you sent to Azkaban in a heartbeat. Not one member of the Ministry will listen to claims of innocence. And certainly with Dumbledore as – mistaken as he has been lately -”

Snape murmured something incomprehensible, interrupting the woman's frivolous tirade. Harry couldn't understand what he said but he was willing to bet all of the gold in his Gringott's account that it was something in the Headmasters defence.

“Oh please,” said Umbridge exasperatedly. Harry had been right. Score one for the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Eavesdrop. “Get out of my sight, Snape.”

Oh, bloody hell. What was he going to do? Run? Too late. Harry stood frozen, fist still raised as Snape ripped open the door. The Potions Master hovered in the doorway for a moment, completely furious. Harry was eternally grateful he wasn't the focus of it.

“Potter!” Harry jumped. Okay, maybe he'd been mistaken. “What do you think you're doing?”

Snape was fuming. Harry took a quick step back away from his Professor.

“Just here for my detention,” he said cautiously, then added, “sir.”

What are you doing Potter? Harry asked himself incredulously. Do you have a death wish? Don't irritate an already irritated Snape.

The Potions Master looked ready to scream a lecture at Harry but Umbridge stepped in. Harry never thought he'd see the day when he was actually thankful for her interruption.

“Mr Potter. Nice of you to make an appearance,” she said sweetly. Harry shuddered. “You're late.”

Ladies and gentleman, Mr Hyde, Harry thought wryly.

“I wasn't!” He cried adamantly. “I was just -”

“Just nothing, Mr Potter. I won't tolerate it. In,” she commanded dangerously, a porky well-manicured finger sternly directing him through the door.

He thought it prudent to remain silent and allow Umbitch to carry on with her scolding, and so, trudged into the classroom without another word. He glanced towards Snape as he set his bag down and noticed that he was glaring. And for once, it wasn't directed towards Harry.

The Potions Master had locked eyes with Umbridge, the black depths radiating a dormant rage that lay just beneath the surface. It was rather terrifying. She cleared her throat, (“hem, hem,”) increasing Harry's desire to wrap his hands around the larynx that were apparently causing her such discomfort.

Snape actually twitched slightly at the sound. Apparently Harry wasn't the only one imagining a very gruesome means to an end. It was all he could do not to grin. In that moment what little respect he had for the Slytherin Head of House increased tenfold.

“What are you smirking at, Mr Potter?” Umbridge asked him snappily. Had he been smirking? He tried to relax his face.

“Nothing,” he said curtly. She leered at him before turning to the Snape again. Why he was still there Harry couldn't guess.

“There's still much to discuss,” said Snape quietly, attempting to keep the conversation private.

“No. You know what to do. There's nothing more to it,” she shot back. The Potions Master's expression darkened. She then turned to Harry. “Well, what are you waiting for? Start writing. The usual, Mr Potter.”

Snape glanced to Harry. The young wizard in question sighed resignedly, nodded and went to retrieve the parchment and quill, there was no ink.

“Lines, Professor?” Snape directed to Umbridge sceptically, who nodded quickly. She began ushering him out of the doorway. “It seems so little for such cheek.”

Thanks, Harry thought sarcastically.

“It works so much better than manual labour,” she informed him matter-of-factly.

Harry began writing I will not tell lies on the parchment. He couldn't stifle the gasp as the magical quill cut into the nearly healed skin on the back of his hand. Writing in his own blood, he looked towards the two Professors who were squaring off silently against one another. Snape stepped forward, back into the classroom but Umbridge stepped in front of him.

“A blood quill?” Snape asked indifferently, “surely the Ministry wouldn't allow such Dark magic to be used as a punishment.”

“What business is it of yours?” Umbridge asked tartly. The Potions Master drew himself up to his full height, glaring down his crooked nose at her.

“As a professor at this school I make it my business, Dolores,” said Snape in his most dangerous voice. “Tell me, what do you think the Headmaster will say when he hears that his students are being mercilessly tortured in your detentions?”

Umbridge sputtered for a moment. Harry watched curiously.

“I dare say, he won't be pleased,” Snape continued, “And the Ministry. What will they think? Mr Fudge may have to reconsider your position.”

The object of his taunting 'concern' was gaping at him, slightly grey in the fire lit classroom.

“Not to mention the hundreds of parents. The owls will start arriving as soon as news reaches them,” said Snape silkily, pressing his advantage.

“You can't -”

“I can,” the Potions Master said forcefully. “Potter.”

Harry looked away from the bloated toad.

“Follow me.”

What?

Harry didn't move. He was staring at Snape. What had he done now? It wasn't as though he'd done anything wrong. Was Snape going to give him a detention of his own?

“Potter, if you enjoy writing in your own blood, by all means,” said Snape scathingly, “play the Gryffindor. Complete your detention. Or you can get up and return to your dormitory.”

Harry stood and walked cautiously towards the two Professors. Was he joking? This is Snape after all. Umbridge grabbed his upper arm as he was skirting past her.

“He's not going anywhere. As High Inquisitor I demand that he stay here and receive his punishment,” screeched Umbridge angrily.

“I beg to differ, Dolores,” Snape walked closer to her, leaning forward to her eye level, their noses mere inches from touching. He all but whispered, “consider this a very real threat. I'll have you sent to Azkaban in a heartbeat. Not one member of the Ministry will listen to pleas of innocence.”

Her eyes widened and her bloated cheeks became a blotchy pink, resembling the hideous cardigan she was wearing. Snape smirked darkly. Harry couldn't help but feel marginally sorry for her. Actually, he felt sorry for himself. The Potions Master was in full Death Eater mode, and Harry didn't relish the thought of drawing his attention away from Umbridge when they left.

Her hand fell from Harry's slightly throbbing arm, forgotten. The fresh cut to his arm was dripping onto the floor, he needed to leave.

Snape straightened then. He strode out of the classroom, his voluminous black robes billowing behind him dramatically. It was all Harry could do not to role his eyes. Did he have to be so melodramatic?

Harry followed him down the corridor glumly, unsure of where exactly they were going. His first guess was to Professor Dumbledore's office but Snape completely ignored the stone gargoyle and continued towards the Entrance Hall.

The dungeons, thought Harry. Could this day get any worse?

They went through the frigid dungeon corridors, Harry trudging several paces behind Snape's quick strides. They reached Snape's office and Harry's spirits dwindled. Brilliant, he thought sarcastically.

The Potions Master wrenched open the door and gestured for Harry to enter. Snape reminded him too much of Umbridge in that moment for Harry's liking.

“Sit,” he commanded, and Harry obeyed instantly. The Head of Slytherin seemed beyond agitated. He sat still behind the desk as Snape rummaged through the different vials in the many cupboards in the small space. He pulled out a vile and handed it to Harry, who took it hesitantly. Snape then continued his search.

He placed a small tin on the desk and some bandages. Harry watched curiously.

“Drink,” said Snape, and at Harry's sceptical look said, “Blood-Replenishing Potion.”

“Oh.”

Harry drank the contents of the vial quickly. The taste was awful, much worse than usual.

“Your hand,” said Snape. Harry brought it forward, and lay it palm-down on the desk. Snape opened the small tin of healing salve that Harry recognised Madam Pomfrey used on occasion. He continued to massage the balm into the deep cut on Harry's hand. The young Gryffindor hissed at the pain but didn't pull away. He finally finished his administrations, wrapping the bandage tightly around the appendage.

“Not a word of this to anyone,” Snape said warningly. He stood and leant against his desk in front of Harry, arms crossed in front of his chest.

“But – she -” Harry began incredulously.

“Gryffindors,” sighed Snape. “Are you unfamiliar with the term 'discretion', Mr Potter?”

Harry chose not to answer.

“Now is not the time for heroics. She won't last the year,” he said smirking, “I guarantee it.”

I like this Snape, Harry thought, now that they had a common enemy to fight against, rather then one another.

“Leverage,” Harry muttered to himself.

“Exactly,” said Snape, his smirk widening. Harry nodded and got up to leave.

“Good night, Professor,” he said politely as he reached the door. There was no reply, but Harry could've sworn Snape had muttered 'yes' as he closed the door behind him.

*

The next morning Harry hurried down to have a late breakfast. He reached the Great Hall and spotted Hermione and Ron. Joining them, he glanced towards the teachers table where he noticed Umbridge was sitting as far away from Snape as was possible.

Harry's eyes travelled down the teacher's table and met the Potions Master's obsidian orbs. He nodded. He received a nearly imperceptible reply in return, before they both glanced towards Umbridge in unison. Her eyes were flicking between them accusingly. Harry grinned.

“What's so funny?” asked Ron curiously.

“Just thinking about frog catching.”

Ron stared at him as though he'd gone as barmy as the Headmaster.