Harry Potter squirmed a bit as he nibbled on a biscuit. It still seemed wrong to be here. Very, very wrong.  Forget the fact that he was sitting in Snape’s quarters. (Snape, for Merlin’s sake.) Forget the fact that the teacup in front of him wasn’t filled with a hideous potion but instead a rather nice Darjeeling. Forget the fact that the biscuits were his favorite shortbread. Things were still wrong on a mammoth scale, but Harry wasn’t quite sure what to do about it.

 

Granted, he was hardly an expert on normal, particularly when it came to family stuff. Sure, he had been loved by his parents – on that point, at least, everyone seemed to agree. But the Dursleys weren’t exactly role models of good parenting, and while the Weasleys had practically adopted him, somehow he couldn’t imagine that such a loud, active, and red-headed family was exactly average either. So he knew that he wasn’t really sure how normal families acted. Still, he’d oh-so-casually dropped a few questions among his classmates – at least those with reasonably normal home lives – and the answers he’d received had convinced him that this sort of thing was Wrong.

 

He understood the concept of getting into trouble. Unfortunately, he was quite skilled at it. Perhaps not quite to the level of the Weasley twins, but pretty good. He was unfortunately also good at the “getting caught” part. He’d rather improve on “getting away with it”, but that seemed to be more a Slytherin skill than a Gryffindor one.

 

He knew that after “getting into trouble” and “getting caught”, there was the “punishment” phase. He acknowledged that living for years with the Dursleys had confused him a bit as to the whole “appropriate punishment” thing, but he was slowly coming to accept that being locked in a cupboard, starved, punched, clouted about the head, or hit with a belt were not acceptable forms of discipline, no matter how they were explained or rationalized. He was actually rather proud of himself for coming to terms with the fact that his relatives were the freaks, not him.

 

If he had to be really, really honest, he could even admit (quietly) that Snape had helped him distinguish between what was “appropriate” and “inappropriate”, now that things between them had changed. It was still a bit hard for Harry to believe how much things between them had changed.

 

It had become patently clear that Harry’s return to the wizarding world had in essence painted a giant target on his forehead, and finally even the Hogwarts staff acknowledged that their “pretend he’s just another student” approach was as irrational as the Dursleys’ “pretend he’s just another Muggle”. Harry still didn’t understand why it had taken the adults so long to figure out what he and his friends had known since the first time his scar had flared in pain.

 

Snape had actually been the first to come around, though Harry wasn’t sure if that was because he was used to facing unpalatable facts or because his dislike of Harry made him indifferent to what the harsh reality of the threat would mean for Harry’s adolescence. For Snape it was only a matter of grudgingly accepting that Harry wasn’t, how had Snape once put it, “an arrogant spoiled brat with delusions of grandeur.” It was Dumbledore and McGonagall who had been incredibly reluctant to abandon their fantasy that Harry could have the same kind of idyllic schooldays that his parents had – while simultaneously preparing (in some mysterious and ill-defined fashion) to tackle the Dark Lord. Still, once they understood that he and Voldemort had some weird kind of psychic connection, even they had agreed that things would have to change.

 

Harry had been sitting by the fireplace in the Headmaster’s office when it was decided that Snape would be pulled from his spying duties to become Harry’s tutor in defense of the dark arts and occlumency. His own outraged yell of “SNAPE? Are you kidding me?” had been completely drowned out by Snape’s own bellows of fury.

 

Surprisingly, though, he hadn’t been objecting to the Headmaster’s proposal that he teach Harry – he was okay with that, and even now that thought made Harry smile a little inside. Rather he was furious at Dumbledore’s and McGonagall’s plan that he would just start the lessons with Harry without any other changes to their relationship. He had demanded guardianship of Harry, and McGonagall and Dumbledore had been as opposed to that idea as Harry had been. Then, that is. Now, Harry had rather gotten accustomed to the idea. And to the biscuits.

 

But when Snape had first demanded oversight of Harry’s entire life, Minerva had rushed to defend her student from what she perceived as Snape’s control freak nature. “Severus, we are all aware of how much you disapprove of Harry,” she had scolded, eyes snapping. “Why in Merlin’s name would you demand to have control over a boy whom you dislike and who – as you very well know – despises you?”

 

Harry had flinched at that. McGonagall was a lot braver than he was; he would never have blurted out his feelings like that, though she was exactly right about them. He’d expected Snape to send a glare his way, but Snape had just ignored him completely.

 

“Why? Because, Minerva, despite what you seem to think, I am not in the habit of raping little boys.” Snape’s cold pronouncement stopped the conversation in its tracks. He watched the others’ thunderstruck expressions for a moment with a rather self-satisfied smirk before adding, “Or big boys for that matter, Potter, in case you were wondering.”

 

Harry had gasped and squeaked and tried to turn invisible without his cloak. Dumbledore had finally found his voice. “Severus, I am certain that none of us would consider you in the habit of assaulting anyone in that manner, of any age or sex, but what does that have to do with teaching Harry?”

“Because, Headmaster, if occlumency is not taught by someone whom the student both likes and respects, the lessons become little more than a repeated brutal violation of their mind. In order to show Potter how to keep me out, I must first get in, and to do that, I would insist upon his cooperation. I will not be responsible for adding to his psychic traumas. Besides,” he added, “it would be nearly impossible to teach occlumency otherwise.”

 

“And how will giving you supervision of Harry lead to him viewing you with affection?” Minerva had sounded almost as bewildered as Dumbledore.

 

Harry had wanted to know that too. It hadn’t sounded very likely to him.

 

This time, Snape did turn to look at him. “Ignoring the fact that much of the tension between us comes from the heretofore necessary deception designed to enhance my reputation with the Dark Lord –“ Harry had blinked at that. Did that mean that Snape had only pretended to hate him? That he actually liked him? At least a little bit? “Part of the reason that Potter and I do not get along well is because he is undisciplined, reckless, and allowed to run wild. He has had no adults in his life – present company included – who have consistently and firmly set reasonable limits on his behavior. It is therefore hardly surprising that he feels he has impunity to engage in whatever hare-brained idea occurs to him and his little friends.” Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Snape’s voice wasn’t harsh, but rather (for Snape) surprisingly sympathetic. “What is more, he has also lacked an adult to whom he can turn with his problems, who will actually listen to his concerns and take them seriously.” Well, Harry had to admit Snape was right about that. McGonagall and Dumbledore tended to pooh-pooh any fears he took to them, and of course he had learned early on not to look to his aunt and uncle for any help. “I intend to provide Mr Potter with the support, limits, and consequences that any adolescent needs, because without that framework, any other lessons I teach him will be useless.”

 

Harry had remained unconvinced, but McGonagall and Dumbledore had caved in, and from that moment on, Snape had become Harry’s de facto guardian.

 

It hadn’t been all bad, though Harry had carefully not shared that aspect with his friends. As far as they were concerned, Snape was just giving Harry extra lessons so he could fight Voldemort. That was why Harry had to go to the dungeons pretty much every night. The first few weeks had been pretty rough, but after a while, Harry got rather used to the routine, and it was undeniably nice to have an adult all to himself to discuss his day. He hadn’t understood how useful it could be to talk about school stuff with someone who wasn’t another student and therefore wasn’t involved in the different cliques and crises. And he had to admit that Snape had definitely helped him with his schoolwork. Hermione was actually impressed, but no one – even her – had ever explained to him all the little tricks, like how to organize notes or read a chapter with an essay in mind.

 

Snape even unbent far enough to occasionally discuss other topics, like quidditch and current events. Harry hadn’t expected to be allowed to talk about anything but classes and potions, so it was a pleasant surprise to be able to bring up different subjects and hear an grown up’s take on them. He had never before had the chance to spend time just relaxing with adults. His relatives ignored him whenever possible and since coming to Hogwarts, all the adults Harry knew were either teaching him, trying to kill him, or trying to rescue him. Just spending time with Snape was, well, nice.

 

Of course, the whole “enforcing limits” side of it wasn’t much fun, and the first time Snape had done so, after catching Harry coming out of a very unauthorized visit to the Forbidden Forest, Harry had been convinced that this was the worst idea imaginable. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been walloped before, it was just that Uncle Vernon utilized the blitz approach of slappunchkickslappunchgetthebelt, and Snape’s cool and deliberate smacking had in some ways been harder to take. For one thing, Harry remained conscious the whole time.

 

With his uncle, he had been so busy fleeing or trying to protect his vital organs, he hadn’t really noticed what was happening to him. Uncle Vernon got tired quickly, too, so the whole thing tended to be a frantic blur of terror, followed by a rather lengthy period locked in his cupboard, identifying his injuries and trying to patch himself back together.

 

By contrast, Snape made sure Harry knew exactly what he was being punished for, and even interrogated him during the spanking on exactly that topic. Lying across his professor’s lap, waiting for the next swat to land, had a wonderful way of concentrating Harry’s attention on just how much his backside was stinging, so there was no ignoring the actual blows in the heat of the moment. Snape made sure Harry was completely focused on just what was happening, and why, every moment of the entire punishment.

 

It didn’t really make much sense. When Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia beat the hell out of him, Harry gritted his teeth and remained silent. But after just a few swats from Snape’s hand, he would start tearing up and whimpering like he was four years old. He hadn’t yelled the time that Dudley broke his arm, but tonight, when Snape had whacked him for broomstick surfing over the quidditch pitch, he had howled. Sure, it hurt – a lot more than he had expected, to be honest – but after the first spanking, he had been appalled to discover that Snape hadn’t left a mark on him. How was he supposed to explain to eagle-eyed Hermione why he had been bawling if he couldn’t display, at least to Ron, some welts and bruises that justified such an emotional outburst?

 

In the end, he had had to tell them that Snape was now allowed to physically discipline him. Hermione had been appalled – apparently (and predictably) her parents believed in “time outs, groundings, and talking things through”. Ron, to his friends’ surprise, was much more blasé about it. Once Harry had sworn that Snape wasn’t being unfair or abusive – and that was the part Ron had found hardest to believe – Ron had shrugged off the thought of Harry getting smacked. Harry had been surprised, and more than a little relieved, when Ron had admitted that his parents had been known to use the same approach as Snape.

 

“C’mon, Hermione. You’ve met my brothers; can you really imagine my folks wouldn’t have to use a wooden spoon occasionally?” Privately to Harry, he had confided that he thought it was a guy thing: “Us blokes would rather just get walloped and move on, right? It’s the girls who want to talk about who was right and who was wrong and how they feel and blah blah blah. Believe me, I’d rather just get a couple of whacks across the arse and get it over with.”

 

“Do you still get, um, whacked?” Harry had asked tentatively. He had rather assumed that spankings went out after the age of six, and it had been a blow to his pride when Snape had insisted otherwise.

 

“Well, not that often,” Ron said, then blushed. “But yeah, sometimes. You know, for the big stuff. I mean, it still hurts and all, and I still make a big fuss, because you know, you’re supposed to, right? But really, I think they just use it now when they’re trying to make a point. Like that I really screwed up or I’m not quite as grown up as I think I am.”

 

“So you yell and stuff?” Harry asked. This was another point on which he was more than a little anxious.

 

Ron had looked at him as if he were mad. “Well, sure. Snape doesn’t make you keep quiet or anything, does he?” At Harry’s head shake, he relaxed. “Good. I think only really twisted freaks refuse to let you yell.” Like the Dursleys, Harry thought. “But the way I figure, if they’re going to the trouble to hold you down and whale on you, then it’s only polite to let them know you notice.” He grinned at Harry. “Y’know, it’s kind of a game, really. They’re letting you know that you went too far, and you’re letting them know you admit it. I guess girls can come out and say that, but I’d rather just yell and complain and tell them they’re killing me when we both know that they’re not. It’s like if I pretend that the punishment is a lot worse than it is, then I’m saying that I accept what they’re doing, that they’re right to punish me, but I don’t actually have to say it. I mean, a guy’s got his pride, right?” Harry grinned. He followed Ron’s logic perfectly. “To be fair, though, when I’m getting whacked, it’s not like I think this stuff through. I just start howling like part of my brain really does think that I’ll never be able to sit again.” Ron abruptly colored, as if he had revealed more than he had intended. “If you ever tell anyone I still get smacked, let alone that I cry –“

 

Harry interrupted. “I do too, remember? That’s what started this whole conversation.”

 

Ron relaxed. “Oh, yeah. Right. Well, so anyway, I don’t know what Snape’s like, but my folks definitely expect us to yell. Plus, if you don’t, then they tend to hit harder to make sure they’re getting their point across.”

 

That conversation had made Harry feel better and like less of a wimp. Spankings just struck him as so… Muggle. Not that he really wanted Snape to start hexing or cursing him instead, and when he had protested that a spanking seemed too personal, Snape had pointed out that it was exactly that kind of close bond that they were trying to forge. Besides, he had said, as Harry improved at his DADA lessons, the two of them would be dueling, and Snape didn’t want there to be any confusion in Harry’s mind as to when he was being deservedly punished for misbehavior and when he was being attacked, whether for training purposes or in reality.

 

Harry had rolled his eyes, like only an idiot wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, but if truth were told, he really did prefer keeping the two separate. For one thing, Snape had said that by the time he had finished training Harry, it would be second nature for him to be on guard and always ready to rebuff an attack. That meant Snape couldn’t punish him without warning. No more surprise clouts when he wasn’t expecting it or sucker punches flying out of nowhere. Harry liked the idea that punishments were now formalized and only came after due warning and with his own cooperation (relatively speaking). That meant that Harry could, with a clear conscience, defend himself against everything else. For the first time, Harry began to feel safe.

 

The other thing, which Harry would never, ever admit, even under torture, was that when Snape first pulled him across his lap – and before the first smack hit – he felt a sense of release, like whatever he’d done wrong was about to be expunged. He’d never really had that sense of absolution before, but being swatted, as unpleasant as it was at the time, did give him an actual, physical way to atone for his misdeeds. Being lifted back up when the punishment was over, he felt he’d been forgiven and the matter was closed.

 

That was good. Unfamiliar but good. The actual stinging-throbbing, scorched butt, painful sitting side of it was a lot less pleasant. What was downright weird, though, was that after the walloping was over (and the hopping around and the crying and the sniffling and the rubbing and the hiccupping and the sulking), Snape always made him come into the parlor and perch on the overstuffed sofa and have tea and biscuits.

 

Harry sighed and took some more shortbread. This was just wrong. He was supposed to be limping back to his dorm, sullen and smarting and cursing Snape under his breath. Instead he was sitting, more or less comfortably on the soft cushions, sipping tea and nibbling biscuits and having an amazingly pleasant conversation with the greasy bat who had just walloped his behind. This was not how it was supposed to be.

 

“Why do we have tea and biscuits after you, erm, punish me?” Harry finally burst out.

 

Snape raised an eyebrow. “We always have tea and biscuits before you leave. It is calming and conducive to bonding.”

 

Harry frowned at the logical reply. “Well, yeah, but it’s one thing to have it after a lesson or a study session or something, but it’s just weird after a …” he trailed off awkwardly.

 

“Spanking?” Snape supplied, a faint sneer indicating his contempt for Harry’s embarrassment.

 

“Yeah,” Harry blushed. “Shouldn’t you just throw me out afterwards? Aren’t you sending mixed messages this way?” He was rather proud of that term. “Like on the one hand, you’re mad enough to smack me but on the other hand you’re being nice and stuff.”

 

Snape frowned into his teacup. “I am constantly amazed at how much damage those Muggles did to you.”

 

Harry’s jaw dropped. “The Dursleys? What do you mean?”

 

“Potter, it is immediately after you have been punished that you are most in need of reassurance and affection. If I didn’t permit you to have our usual tea and biscuits, that would be sending the wrong message: that I will only like you if you behave yourself. Children – including adolescents,” Snape amended, seeing Harry’s outraged expression, “are supposed to make mistakes. Though,” he added swiftly, “I consider trying to stand upright on a speeding broomstick thirty feet in the air a particularly egregious example of childish lapses in judgment.

 

“Regardless, you need to know that my – relationship – with you is not contingent upon your being perfect. You will in fact anger me on many occasions, but that will not alter my concern for you. By engaging you in pleasant conversation after your punishment, it allows us to move past the negativity and re-connect in a positive manner.”

 

“Did you read a lot of psychology and parenting books before agreeing to do this?” Harry asked suspiciously.

 

Snape smirked. “I imagine that after this, I’ll be able to write one. Perhaps several.”

 

Harry’s eyes widened. Was that a joke?

 

“And now,” the professor continued, “as I see you have finished the biscuits, it is time for you to return to your dormitory. Remember that you are grounded from flying for the next week, except for supervised classes or quidditch practice. Furthermore, if you engage in any unnecessary aerobatics during those activities, you will be grounded completely for another two weeks.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry grumpily agreed, getting to his feet. He winced at a twinge in his backside and shot a glare at Snape, using both hands to try to rub away the lingering sting. Snape watched with an amused gleam in his eye, but he didn’t actually smirk.

 

“Well, thanks for the tea,” Harry said uncomfortably. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

“Do not forget to bring your History of Magic essay. I want to review it before you hand it in.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “It’s not even due until next week. You’re turning me into Hermione!”

 

“I suspect you will need to make some revisions,” Snape replied calmly, “and there is nothing wrong with completing your work ahead of time. Indeed, it is a habit you should cultivate.”

 

“What for? So I can compete in the Biggest Prat Contest? Just because you probably had your assignments completed two seconds after they were assigned –“

 

“Because once we start working on more advanced DADA topics, you will have less study time available.”

 

Harry’s pique evaporated. “More advanced? Really?”

 

“Yes. You have been making reasonable progress, and I think you are ready to move on. But if your schoolwork starts to slip –“

 

“It won’t!” Harry promised, beaming. He really liked DADA, and Snape was a surprisingly good teacher. He had wholly abandoned the caustic, sarcastic attitude he used in Potions, and while his teaching style would never be warm, he was clear and precise. Harry was enjoying himself and steadily improving.

 

In a much happier mood, Harry left the dungeons and headed for the Gryffindor tower.  As usual, he slipped into a nearby lavatory to check the damage, and as usual, there wasn’t much to see. His bum still felt warm and uncomfortable, but other than a faint pink blush, there was no sign of his recent punishment. Harry knew from past experience that by morning, he’d be fine. It made a nice change from previous punishments he’d endured. Uncle Vernon’s belt, for one, had left him sore for days. Snape had made it clear that such punishments were abusive, but Harry still wasn’t sure how Snape was able to make his backside hurt so much during the spanking, yet not cause long-lasting damage. Harry was positive that when they landed, Snape’s slaps stung every bit as much as had the blows from Uncle Vernon’s belt, but the pain lasted only minutes, not days. Harry finally shrugged. Maybe it was magic.

 

He left the dungeons and obediently headed straight to the Gryffindor Tower. He wasn’t suicidal enough to defy Snape so soon after being punished by him, and besides, the professor was correct: the tea and biscuits were soothing. Harry was more than ready for bed.

 

Maybe that’s why he didn’t hear them until they were already upon him.

Harry was more than ready for bed. Maybe that’s why he didn’t hear them until they were already upon him.  

He first realized something was amiss when a hex hit him from behind and both legs froze. His forward momentum sent him plummeting forward, and he hit the ground hard. Before he could react, a robe was flung over his head from behind and his arms were firmly pinioned behind his back. Another pair of hands snatched away his wand, and someone else grabbed his ankles. It had been perfectly executed – in a matter of seconds, Harry had been blinded, muffled, disarmed, secured, and carried away. He yelled for help, but a hard punch to his stomach left him choking and gagging. He could feel himself being levitated swiftly through the halls, and he frantically wondered what was going to happen. Were these Death Eaters? How had they managed to get inside Hogwarts? Where were they taking him? To Voldemort? Why hadn’t they simply killed him outright?

 

He heard low whispers, but they were nothing more than brief commands. He couldn’t make out any voices or identities, beyond the fact that they were male, big, and there were three of them. He was carried up the stairs – where were they taking him? Surely they should have just gone out the main gates and past the wards, but it felt like they had gone up the main stairwell, to the second floor. The levitation spell was abruptly ended, and he hit the ground hard enough to knock the breath out of him. Hands snatched him up, raising him by his wrists and ankles.

 

He was swung abruptly back and forth, then thrown high into the air. Airborne, he fought to get free of the cloak that was still wound around his head and upper body, but before he could do so, he hit the ground. And bounced. And hit again. And again. And again.

 

He barely had time to realize they had thrown him down the stairs before his head cracked sickeningly against one of the marble steps. After that, he was only dimly aware of his long, agonizing sprawl down the tall staircase. There were various flashes of white hot agony and then a period of nothing. He was groggily coming to, when he felt the cloak roughly jerked from around him and realized he must be at the bottom of the stairs. He couldn’t move, even if he had wanted to. His glasses had smashed and he could barely make out some shoes in front of him. He didn’t dare breathe, let alone moan, lest his awakening be greeted by a kick in the face.

 

Through the roaring in his ears, he could make out snatches of conversation – though the frequent gaps in meaning suggested that he wasn’t nearly as conscious as he had first thought. “…still alive then? He really is tough to kill. Little cockroach.”

 

“…Malfoy… certain?”

 

Harry felt a rough hand roll him over to slip something into his pocket. The sudden movement was too much for him, and it was a few moments before he swam back to semi-consciousness. “—find it there. The fact we used his wand means that as soon as they get suspicious and check, they’ll be sure they found the culprit.”

 

“The little prat will never even know it was gone,” one voice chuckled. “First he’ll find out about it is when they’re expelling him.”

 

“But he’ll say he didn’t do it. You know he’s one of Snape’s little favorites, what if that greasy git manages to get him off or starts looking elsewhere?” another whined anxiously.

 

The first voice spoke up reassuringly. “At the first sign that they think it might not be Malfoy, we’ll just grab his wand and snap it. Then they won’t have anything to go on. Relax, even if that happens, we’ll still have the fun of having seen Precious Potter try to fly without a broom and Malfoy get his wand snapped. That’s his great-grandfather’s wand. If he loses it, even without being expelled, Lucius will beat the tar out of him.”

 

“It’s a shame Potter didn’t break his neck, but we can’t have everything,” said the second voice. “Maybe next time.”

 

“Come on, give him back his wand and let’s get out of here. You never know when one of the ghosts will wander by.”

 

Harry felt his wand jammed into his side and couldn’t stifle a whimper of pain. The closest form responded with a final punch, right over Harry’s kidney. While he was writhing in agony, he heard their feet running away and he began to sob.

 

Everything hurt. His head, his back, his arms, his legs. He could feel blood running down his face from his nose, and he couldn’t move two fingers on his left hand. It took twenty minutes for the pain to abate enough for him to roll over, and another ten before he could get to his feet.

 

His sobs had finally given way to shuddering breaths which he fought to control as they just made his back and ribs ache more. He took stock of his injuries. As best he could tell, nothing was broken, except maybe the fingers, and even they looked pretty straight. He was certain that his back and legs would be a mass of bruises and when his glasses had snapped into three pieces, they had left behind cuts on his face. Harry managed to repair his glasses with a shaky Reparo, and then used a minor healing spell on the cuts. He staggered to the nearest lavatory and, once he had washed away the blood, was satisfied. He looked like death, but he was upright and there were no visible injuries.

 

He hadn’t completely understood what his assailants were saying, but two things were clear: one, they hated him, and two, they hated Draco Malfoy. Harry had a great deal of sympathy for the latter view, he was not about to participate in a plot against anyone, even Draco. Besides, if getting Draco expelled was what those three wanted, then he would do everything in his power to prevent it. His attackers’ words made it clear that they planned for Malfoy to take the blame for this assault, and if Harry hadn’t happened to overhear the little he had, he probably would have accused Malfoy. He hadn’t known that anyone else hated him enough to do something like this.

 

He took a deep breath and winced as three ribs sharply protested the movement. It was okay. He had survived. That was the important thing. No one else knew about it. That was important too. If he kept his mouth shut, then no one would have reason to interrogate Draco or check his wand. That would make those three good and mad, Harry thought with a vindictive grimace. Sorry to upset your evil plans, you bastards.

 

He was relieved that his worst fears – being abducted by Death Eaters – had proven not to be the case, but now he was forced into the unpleasant realization that there were others who hated him enough to try to kill him. Do other 12 year olds have these problems? he asked his reflection. What did I ever do to these people?

 

He still had no idea who the three were, but as he lay on the floor and they’d moved about him, he’d caught glimpses of a Slytherin badge, a scarf in Ravenclaw colors, and there had been a serpent pin on the cloak that had been used to engulf him. That meant this wasn’t something he could tell Snape about.

 

Aside from the awkwardness of it – “Here’s my essay from Professor Binns, and by the way, two of your House tried to kill me the other night. Can you give them detention or something?” – Harry had plenty of experience watching Snape give his Slytherins a free pass on any and all mischief. Harry couldn’t count the number of times that Draco started something with him or Ron in Potions, only to have Snape dock Gryffindor’s points while Draco strolled away smirking.

 

Yes, Snape was being a bit nicer to him now, but Harry knew just how important House loyalty was to him, and he was under no illusions as to where Snape’s allegiances would lie in a dispute between himself and two of Snape’s little snakes. He was just the Boy Who Lived To Annoy Snape, nothing more than an onerous chore that the Headmaster had assigned him. Harry’s only value to Snape – or indeed almost anyone else – was his eventual role in the war with Voldemort. It was for that reason that Snape had agreed to work with him, and since Snape couldn’t train him until their relationship improved, he had set about doing that. Harry might not understand much about families, but he did understand the difference between people you choose to be around and people you have to be around. Snape cared about his Slytherins because he wanted to; he cared about Harry because he had to.

 

Harry understood that. He really did. And he guessed that, if the choice was between not having someone care about you at all and having someone care because they were told to do so, he’d rather have the caring, however forced it might be.  Look at the Dursleys. They couldn’t care for him under any circumstances. Compared to them, Snape was doing an incredible job of being nice to Harry. There were times when he could almost believe that Snape liked him a little. Of course, Harry knew better, but sometimes it was, well, comforting to pretend that he was down in the dungeons because Snape actually wanted him there, not just because they had to get along so Harry could learn what he needed to know to defeat the Dark Lord.

However, even in his wildest fantasies Harry knew that Snape would never side with a Gryffindor (let alone him) against a Slytherin (let alone two), so telling anyone about the attack would just drive a wedge between them, and that would make it harder for them to train and easier for Voldemort to win. So, Harry sighed, this was going to be another time when he just had to pretend everything was fine. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had plenty of practice back at the Dursleys, though even they had never done this much damage at once.

 

Harry grimaced at the mirror. Why did he allow himself to believe that things would change? They didn’t, not really. He was still getting hurt, still hiding his bruises, and every day it seemed like more people were out to get him. Yes, he had Ron and Hermione on his side, and they were brilliant, but the three of them were just kids, for Merlin’s sake! Where were the stupid adults who were supposed to take care of him? Oh right. They were all dead.

 

He was stuck with professors who were busy figuring how to use him to defeat an evil wizard so strong that he could torture Snape just for fun. And yet Dumbledore thought that Harry was going to be able to waltz up and kill him – after all, he’d nearly done it once already, right? The fact that Harry was a baby at the time, had no idea what happened, still bore an agonizing scar as a reminder, and had lost both parents in the process didn’t seem to worry the Headmaster in the slightest. And why should it? It wasn’t like he would be taking on Voldemort; that was Harry’s task.

 

Then there was McGonagall. To be fair, she acted concerned about Harry, but she had a lot on her plate, being the Deputy Head as well as the Gryffindor Head of House, and she seemed to think that all of her charges should be as organized and self-sufficient as she herself was. And who else was there? Hagrid? Flitwick? Sprout? Hooch? Nice people, but all busy with their own lives and responsibilities. The Weasleys? Like they didn’t have enough kids of their own to keep them occupied. No, Harry knew that he was on his own, and most times it didn’t really bother him. It did annoy him that the adults, while too occupied with their own lives to actually help him, were nevertheless quick to dismiss him as a child and impose limits, withhold information, and just generally drive him crazy. But he figured that just went along with being a kid. Maybe, if he were lucky, his battle with Voldemort wouldn’t happen until he’d had the chance to enjoy being an adult, at least for a little while.

 

Ron rolled over sleepily and wondered why Harry was up so early. He hadn’t come back to the room until really, really late last night. Ron and Hermione had tried to wait for him, but eventually even they had given up. Ron had managed to crack one eyelid and mumble something when Harry finally came in, but Harry had just mumbled in response and so Ron had quickly fallen back to sleep.

 

Poor Harry. It wasn’t bad enough that he had to spend practically every waking moment with the Black Bat of the Dungeons, but now Dumbledore had gone barking mad and decided that Snape should be allowed to wallop Harry. Making Harry scrub cauldrons and prepare disgusting potion ingredients apparently wasn’t enough for the greasy git. He wanted to be able to belt his most hated student as well. Ron rolled his eyes.

 

If he had been in Harry’s shoes, he was sure that his parents would have raised holy hell. His mum would have sent Snape a howler just for proposing that he should be allowed to swat students and his dad would have made sure that the Ministry looked into when exactly the Headmaster had gone barmy. But Harry didn’t have anyone to look out for him like that. Ron knew his parents were mad keen on Harry, but it wasn’t like they had any legal authority to speak up on his behalf. All they could do was to keep repeating their invitations to adopt Harry, despite Dumbledore’s persistent, polite refusals.

 

Ron still didn’t understand why Dumbledore insisted on sending Harry back to the Muggles who treated him so badly. Sure there were the blood wards, but The Burrow was warded too, and there Harry didn’t have to worry about his relatives locking him in the cupboard or playing Harry-hunting or starving him or… Ron sighed. He worried about Harry; he really did. There was no one to look out for him, and Harry was way too willing to just accept it and keep quiet when other people treated him badly.

 

Look how he had refused to tell anyone about the Dursleys until it was practically too late? And those visions of his? He had refused to talk about them at all, just apologized for screaming so loud he’d woken his roommates. He hadn’t wanted to tell anyone, worrying that he’d be laughed at or disbelieved or maybe just that no one would care. It had been Neville, incredibly enough, who had forced him to tell Professor McGonagall. Neville’s parents had been driven mad by the Dark Lord’s followers, and he wasn’t about to let anyone else be tortured in front of him.

 

At first it had seemed like telling the professors had been a good thing. Snape had agreed to tutor Harry, and he’d actually seemed to be getting a little nicer. Harry swore that he was treating him fine, though Ron found that hard to believe. Ron still worried a bit, but he’d been relieved when Harry had explained that most of the time, Snape didn’t do anything but scold him or give the usual detention punishments and even when he went really spare, he just smacked Harry on the bum a couple of times.

 

Ron had kept a close eye on his friend, knowing how much Harry hated to ask for help. He wasn’t sure if Harry hated feeling weak or if he felt that he actually deserved it when bad things happened to him, but either way, it meant that Harry was almost insanely reticent. It was even hard to get him to seek treatment for his quidditch injuries, though now that the rest of the team had figured it out, they always made sure someone took Harry to the infirmary. He had to admit, though, he hadn’t seen anything that worried him about Snape’s treatment of Harry. Yet.

 

He thought that Harry’s claim about the tea and shortbread were a little far-fetched, but Harry had sworn it was true. He’d also sworn that Snape only used the palm of his hand on him, never a belt or cane or even a hairbrush, and that he only whacked his backside, never his face or back or hands. Ron guessed that was okay. Even his own mum had been known to wave around a wooden spoon threateningly, though Ron had noticed that she was awfully careful not to actually connect with it. Well, except for the time that the twins smuggled one of Charlie’s baby dragons home and hid it under Percy’s bed…

 

Ron sat up and stretched. Everyone else was still fast asleep, but he decided he’d better check on Harry. After all, he had been pretty worried yesterday. Ron and Harry had been fooling around on the quidditch pitch, and admittedly Harry had been a little reckless in using his broom to demonstrate muggle surfing, but was it really necessary for Snape to materialize like that, yelling about brainless children and dragging Harry off by the scruff of the neck? He’d paused only long enough to assign Ron a two foot essay on injury prevention before disappearing into the dungeons with Harry in tow.

 

Ron ambled over to the showers, planning to ask what essay topic the greasy git had assigned Harry, when he caught sight of his friend. Harry was in the shower, his back to Ron as he leaned under the running water oblivious to everything but the comforting warmth. For a long moment, Ron could only gape in horror, but then Harry moved to turn off the water, and Ron ducked into the bedroom before Harry noticed him.

 

Ron reeled over to his bed and all but fell upon it. He was shaking and felt sick. Harry’s back was a mass of bruises. From the tops of his shoulders to halfway down his legs, Harry’s pale skin was mottled with angry scrapes and darkening bruises. Ron had noticed more bruises on Harry’s arms, too. What the hell had Snape done to him?

 

Neville started to stir, and that galvanized Ron into action. Whatever slim chance he had of getting Harry to talk to him vanished to nothing if the other boys were present. He threw on some clothes and darted out to await Harry in the common room. For once, he even beat Hermione down and he used the time to plan his strategy. He knew his temper often got the best of him, but as livid as he was with Snape, he also knew that if he started yelling, Harry would just shut down. Ron knew that, temper aside, he was good at chess, and he forced himself to think of this situation as he would a difficult chess problem. By the time Harry emerged into the common room fifteen minutes later, Ron was able to muster a convincingly casual greeting.

 

“Hey, mate – we missed you last night. Was Snape really mad about the flying thing?”

 

Harry rolled his eyes. “He went mental. It’s not like I even fell off or anything. What am I, two years old?”

 

Ron grinned back at his friend, but he noticed how slowly and carefully Harry was moving. There were no marks on his face – either Harry had used a healing spell or Snape had carefully avoided hitting him where it would show. Ron felt his temper rising and forced it down. “So, what did Snape do to you? Do you have to write an essay too?”

 

“No, but he took away my broomstick privileges for a week – except for class and practice – and said if I do anything even slightly dangerous during those, then I’ll lose it completely for another two weeks.” Harry shook his head. “I can’t believe him.”

 

“You got off really lightly, then,” Ron said, deliberately sounding annoyed. “I wasn’t even in the air, and I’ve got to write an essay.”

 

As he’d predicted, Harry looked guilty. “Well,” he admitted, glancing around to make sure no one else could hear, “I didn’t get off that easily. Snape – well, he whacked me.”

 

Ron forced himself not to react. “Was it bad?”

 

Harry shook his head, looking rueful. “No worse than before, really. It mostly stopped hurting even before I left his quarters. When he was swatting me, though, I was sure he was using a blowtorch!” he grinned, inviting Ron to share the joke.

 

“So just a few smacks on the bum, huh?” Ron pressed. “No real damage?”

 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Ron, you sound like ‘Mione. I told you, I’m fine. I don’t know how he manages to make it sting so much but for only a short time. I dunno, maybe he uses a charm or something. Is it the same when your folks whack you?”

 

Ron ignored the question and picked up his robe. Obviously Harry had been lying to him about Snape right from the start, and if he didn’t change the subject soon, Ron would lose his temper completely and call Harry on it, and that wouldn’t help anything. He paused – one more chance to see if Harry would admit something was up. “Hey, aren’t you going to be hot like that? Why don’t you go change into a short sleeved shirt? We’ve got time before breakfast.”

 

“Er, no – I’m fine,” Harry stammered. “I don’t want to bother. If I’m too hot I can just roll up my sleeves.”

 

“Okay.” Ron led the way to the Great Hall for breakfast while Harry started talking about the quidditch team, but he barely heard a word his friend had said. Harry had – as usual –lied through his teeth rather than admit he’d been hurt. Well, fine. If that’s how he wanted it to be, then Ron would just take matters into his own hands. Snape might have been able to frighten Harry into silence, but Ron wasn’t cowed by the greasy git. He would make sure that Snape learned how very dangerous it was to mess with the Boy Who Lived.

  

By the time breakfast was over, he had a plan worked out. He needed to do some research first though. He had toyed with the idea of asking Hermione, who would either know the answer right off or could find it in three seconds, but he knew that it would be safer if he were the only one involved. That way, if things went wrong – or even if they went the way he expected – Hermione would still be around to help Harry.

 

He glanced over to where his two best friends were eating breakfast, or rather where Harry was eating and Hermione was explaining the reading for this morning’s Transfigurations class. “Hey, guys,” he said, with an exaggerated groan, “I don’t feel that great. I think I’m going to go see Madame Pomfrey.”

They both stared at him. This sort of behavior was unprecedented. Ron? Willing to go to the infirmary? “Do you want us to come?” Hermione asked, worried. “Do you need help?”

 

“What is it?” Harry’s eyes were dark with concern, and Ron suppressed an exasperated sigh. If only Harry could muster some of that worry on his own behalf.

 

‘I’ll be fine,” he promised. “See you later.”

 

On his way out, he stopped by the staff table and explained where he was going to Professor McGonagall. Like his friends, she was surprised and concerned and immediately told him not to worry about class. Ron mused pleasantly that virtue was indeed rewarded. If he had ever before tried to skip class by feigning illness, getting away with this would never have been so easy.

 

He went up to see Madame Pomfrey, knowing he needed to establish an alibi. She too was alarmed at his presence, so at odds with his normal behavior. In fact, she was so convinced that only imminent death would lure him to the infirmary that she actually apologized when her diagnostic scans were negative. “Don’t worry, Mr Weasley,” she comforted. “The scans aren’t infallible. The good news is that they would have caught anything seriously amiss, so with luck this headache of yours will soon pass. Let me get you a pain relieving potion, and then you can lie down.”

 

“Please, Madame, can I go back to my dorm?” Ron asked plaintively. “It’s so much more comfortable, and I promise I’ll return if I feel worse.”

 

She frowned, but then nodded. “You showed good judgment in coming here when you felt ill, Mr Weasley, so I believe you can be trusted to come back if you need to.” Her compliment made him feel rather guilty, but he reminded himself that his actions were necessary.

 

Moments later, he was on his way back down the stairs, grimacing at the aftertaste of potion in his mouth. He didn’t go to his dorm but rather took advantage of the fact that everyone else was in classes to go to the library. Once there, he settled into the potions section and, to his surprise, was able to find what he needed relatively quickly.

 

It’s really not that hard to do research, he realized with a start. You just have to care about the answers. Hermione must have more curiosity than a dozen cats. Feeling that, for the first time, he had some insight into his best female friend’s mind, he went ahead with his plans.

 

Happily, because he had been excused from Transfigurations, it was easy to get to Potions early and be the first one in the classroom. It took less than a minute to do what he needed, and then he was back at his seat, waiting patiently for the others.

 

“Ron!” Hermione cried as she entered the classroom. “Are you feeling better? What did Madame Pomfrey say? Does she know you’re up?”

 

“Give him a chance, ‘Mione,” Harry chided. He too looked delighted to see Ron, but Ron could see how pinched and drawn his features were. Harry was obviously in a lot of pain and finding it hard to hide it. A wave of righteous anger surged over Ron and any doubts he might have harbored about his plan were swept away.

 

“I’m fine, guys, and yes, Hermione, Madame Pomfrey said I could come to class if I felt better.”

 

“What a shame,” Draco Malfoy sneered. “I thought we might have had yet another Weasley-free class.”

 

To his annoyance, the Golden Trio ignored his barb.

 

Harry shot a glare at Draco, but felt too awful to do anything else. Besides, he was still wondering who would want both him and Draco removed from Hogwarts. Hermione was busy setting out her parchment and quill, and Ron was oddly focused at the front of the room.

 

Harry stared at his friend quizzically. What was up with Ron today? He’d seemed distracted all morning. Not that it was a bad thing – Ron could be distressingly sharp eyed when it came to Harry’s physical condition, and unlike Hermione he was never distracted by classes. Maybe it had to do with the strange headache of his? Well, at least he seemed better now.

 

Snape swept into the room, slamming the classroom door behind him and making the students jump. “Eyes up, mouths shut, quills ready!” he commanded, sweeping to the front of the room and standing in front of his demonstration table. He glared at the class, daring anyone to so much as breathe. No one did.

 

“Today you will be making Far Seeing Potion, which enhances vision remarkably. It is particularly valuable when you wish to observe without being physically present,” Snape lectured.

 

“Guess we know why a former spy likes it,” Harry whispered to Ron, with a nudge. To his surprise, Ron didn’t respond. For once, he seemed completely focused on Snape.

 

Snape continued to lecture about the uses and ingredients of the potion as the class busily took notes. He was a little disconcerted by Weasley’s close attention. Usually the redhead was too busy daydreaming or exchanging insults with Malfoy to pay any mind to demonstrations. Was there something about this potion that was of particular interest to him?

 

If this were the twins, Snape would have felt much more concern, as their predilection for pranks as well as their talent for adapting potions to non-standard uses usually meant that an expression of interest on their part meant trouble on the horizon. But even Snape had to admit that the youngest Weasely brother had never seemed particularly interested in pranks and mischief, or at least no more than any other 12 year old. He shrugged, dismissing the issue. Who could hope – or want – to understand what went through children’s minds?

 

Ron’s attention focused sharply as Snape moved to add the next to last ingredient. “While you continue to stir counter-clockwise, you slowly drip in the pureed lizard tongue,” Snape explained, sternly eyeing the class to be sure they were writing it down. “Do not cease stirring until –“

 

“SIR!” It was that idiot Longbottom, standing up and making choking noises of distress.

 

“What is it, Longbottom?” Snape snapped, not stopping his stirring. What could be wrong? “Stop gobbling and speak!”

 

“Sir, your potion!” Now Granger was on her feet, eyes wide.

 

Snape looked down. To his astonishment, the potion, which should have been a lovely aquamarine at this stage, was an angry purple-black. As he looked, it began to boil and the cauldron twitched ominously. He opened his mouth to vanish the brew, but it was already too late. He heard the Weasley boy yell, “Protego!” just as the cauldron exploded.

 

The force of the blast threw Snape backwards to slam sickeningly against the wall. He slid bonelessly to the ground, unconscious. Ron’s shout had erected a shield across the front of the class, protecting the students from the force of the explosion as well as the unknown effects of the potion.

 

For a moment, all was deathly still. None of the students could believe their eyes. Had Snape actually messed up a potion? It was Neville who finally broke the stillness with a whimper, “Is he dead?”

 

That did it;. Screams, crying, and chaos ensued until Hermione shouted everyone down. “Neville, Blaise! Go to the Hospital and get Madame Pomfrey. Harry – fetch the Headmaster. Ron, Millie, go find the nearest teachers and bring them here. Draco, come help me with the professor.”

 

Her careful assignments of Slytherins with Gryffindors ensured that the tasks were carried out quickly. She hurried to the professor’s side, a suspicious Draco a step behind her. “What are you doing?” he demanded. The rest of his House stood on their desks to see what Granger and Malfoy were doing to their Head.

 

“I’m making sure he’s breathing,” she snapped. “Help me wipe some of this potion off him. I don’t know what it will do to him.”

 

Grudgingly, Draco acknowledged the sense of her words, and snatched some rags from the desktop.

 

“Here!” Nott warned, fetching them dragonhide gloves. “Don’t get it on yourselves either.”

 

“Typical Gryffindor, always rushing in to play the hero without any thought of their own safety,” Malfoy jeered, but it was a feeble attempt. He was too worried about his Head of House to waste much effort on insults. Besides, only Granger seemed to know what to do.

Neville and Blaise arrived with Pomfrey at the same instant Harry came back with Dumbledore. By then, Ron and Millie had fetched Professor Flitwick, so the earlier panic had been replaced by wide eyed whispers.

 

Dumbledore took control while Pomfrey and Flitwick levitated the still unconscious Snape off to the infirmary. After quizzing the confused students on what they had witnessed, he dismissed the class, pausing only to award each House 10 points for working together in a crisis and 20 points to Hermione for thinking clearly and getting help for Professor Snape. That led to an unusual détente between Slytherin and Gryffindor as the students left the dungeons.

 

The Slytherins headed to their Common Room to await news of the Head of House, but when the Gryffindors headed to their own tower, Ron called them back. “Hey, we’ve got some unexpected free time. Who’s up for flying?”

 

“Really, Ron!” Hermione scolded. “Isn’t that a bit heartless? Taking advantage of Professor Snape’s accident to go flying? Besides, I think we should use the time to study.”

 

Unsurprisingly, this was a minority view, and in no time, everyone was heading to the empty quidditch pitch. Ron had even managed to persuade Neville to come along. “You’ll never improve if you don’t practice, mate,” he coaxed. “And Harry and I will help, honest.”

 

Flattered by the attention, Neville quickly agreed, and soon practically everyone was on their brooms. Even Hermione came along, unwilling to be the odd man out. Harry, earthbound both by Snape’s punishment and his own injuries, used the former to hide the latter and devoted himself to coaching Neville.

 

Neville was indeed improving. This time, it took him nearly an hour before he fell off, and he was low enough so that the fall only knocked the wind out of him. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were instantly at his side.

 

“Damn!” Ron swore. “I’ll get Madame Pomfrey!”

 

“Actually, I think he’s okay,” Harry said, eyeing Neville carefully. The blonde boy couldn’t talk yet, but he managed to nod his head.

 

“Does it hurt anywhere?” Hermione asked worriedly, once again falling into first aid mode.

 

“It’s all my fault he got hurt,” Ron declared. “I’m not taking any chances. I’ll be back with Pomfrey!”

 

He took off for Hogwarts at a dead run. So far, everything was going exactly according to plan. He had known that as soon as you put Neville within ten paces of a broom, Madame Pomfrey’s services would eventually be required. He felt guilty at taking advantage of the boy’s good nature and using Neville’s clumsiness as a means of getting to the infirmary, but he firmly squashed such regrets. It wasn’t like Neville would ever know he had been used, and Ron had been able to help him with his flying.

 

He burst through the infirmary doors, flushed and panting from the long run up. “Madame! Neville – quidditch pitch – broomstick – fell!” he panted. His heaving chest and gasping explanation made things seem much worse than they were… just as he had planned.

 

“Oh, Merlin!” Poppy exclaimed. She snatched up her emergency kit and ran out, pausing only long enough to caution Ron to catch his breath before coming back.

 

That was just what he had planned. He glanced cautiously around the infirmary. The earlier excitement had obviously calmed down. The other teachers had long since left, and the only other person present was Professor Snape, lying quietly in a bed off to one side.

 

Once he was sure the two of them were alone, Ron took out his wand and concealed it behind him. “Professor?” he said softly, approaching the man’s bedside. “Are you awake?”

 

Snape growled deep in his throat. “Well, I am now, Weasley,” he snapped, opening his eyes and glaring at the boy. “Have you satisfied your curiosity enough to leave me al – ack!”

 

As soon as it was clear that Snape was awake and alert, Ron snapped his wand forward. “Petrificus totalis!” An instant later, and he had set up a silencing charm over their section of the infirmary so that even if someone arrived, seeking the medi-witch, they wouldn’t overhear what Ron was about to say.

 

Ron stepped forward, making sure his wand was clearly visible. Snape was, of course, paralyzed, but his eyes were alight with shock and fury. “Well, Professor,” Ron sneered, making the title an insult, “I’m sure you’re wondering what’s going on. Have you figured out how you managed to explode a cauldron? Everyone’s saying that even Neville hasn’t managed to make that big a mess yet.” Ron grinned at the chagrin and rage in the man’s eyes. “I bet it’ll be Hermione who figures out that there must have been some adder venom in the cauldron in order for it to blow up that violently.” Snape’s eyes clouded with confusion then calculation. Ron watched him working it out. “Yes, Professor, that would explain the events, wouldn’t it? Have you also figured out how the venom got there? No? Well, that would be me.” He snorted at Snape’s expression. “Okay, I know I’m not the best potions student, but really, it was easy to figure out how to sabotage your demonstration. I mean, all the textbooks describe what not to do and they give such graphic descriptions of how things can go wrong that it’s really pretty easy to make those things happen deliberately.

 

“All I had to do was to get to class a little early and coat your stirring rod with the venom. It was dry in less than a minute, and you didn’t notice a thing. Then it was just a question of time before the venom dissolved back into the solution as you stirred it, and … boom!” He smiled at Snape, but it wasn’t a very nice smile. “I bet your back must be hurting a lot. You really hit the wall hard. If it wasn’t stone, I bet you’d have gone straight through the wall into the next classroom.”

 

Snape’s mind was working furiously. Had someone possessed the boy? How could this dunderheaded Gryffindor have come up with such a positively Slytherin plan, let alone carried it out so flawlessly? An Imperious curse wouldn’t work for such a complex series of actions unless imposed by someone like Voldemort himself, but nothing – nothing – in the boy’s past had suggested that he would be able to do something like this, let alone want to do so. And now, why on earth was he here, gloating and explaining things like some ridiculous villain in a Muggle movie? A true Slytherin would never have disclosed his methods, and a true Gryffindor would never have embraced such a brilliantly sneaky plan in the first place.

 

It was true that Weasley had always made his dislike for Snape abundantly clear, but to be fair, most of his loathing stemmed from Snape’s treatment of Harry. Now that Snape was being kinder – well, less awful – to Harry, Ron’s sudden attack was all the more inexplicable.

 

“You just don’t get it, do you?” Ron said suddenly, eyeing the professor with utter disgust. He’d been watching the man think and had followed his thoughts with unexpected perception.  “You still don’t have any idea why. It was such a little thing to you, you can’t even be bothered to remember.”

 

Now Snape was really confused. What could possibly have set Weasley off? He obviously wasn’t talking about anything that happened in class today – by his own admission, Ron had set up the attack before class even began. But before that … He scrambled to think of the last time he’d seen Weasley.

 

Oh, yes – he had been with Potter at the quidditch pitch. But being assigned a two foot essay was hardly reason to attempt to murder your professor, and Snape hadn’t even browbeaten the boy, so Weasley could hardly be referring to some off-handed insult that had unintentionally cut too deep.

 

“I should have used more venom and made sure you were really hurt,” Ron hissed. Snape was startled at the growing hatred in his eyes. “You utter bastard, you don’t even care how much you hurt him. He’s just beneath your notice, isn’t he?”

 

What? Who? Who could Weasley be talking about? He’d said “him”, so it couldn’t be Granger – not that Snape (or any other professor) had ever had too negative an encounter with the Gryffindor know-it-all. Snape knew Potter was fine when he left last night, so whom did that leave? One of Weasley’s brothers? Longbottom?

 

“Well, Professor, it’s clear that you couldn’t care less how much you hurt Harry, and now that Dumbledore has lost his mind and said it’s okay for you to hit him, I guess you feel pretty safe using Harry as a punching bag. Is this all some elaborate way to get you back in with You-Know-Who? Is that why Dumbledore decided it was okay for you to beat up Harry? So that you can go back to being a spy? Or is this whole thing You-Know-Who’s idea and you’ve managed to fool Dumbledore? I knew someone like you would never really work for the Light!”

 

Ron visibly restrained himself. “But you know what? It doesn’t matter. I don’t care if you’re doing this for Dumbledore, or for You-Know-Who, or just because you’re a sick arsehole who likes to punch kids who can’t fight back. You know Harry won’t do anything to mess up his training – he knows that everyone’s depending on him to defeat You-Know-Who, and so he just keeps his mouth shut and takes it rather than risk not learning the one thing that would help him defeat the Dark. Well, I’ve got news for you. Dumbledore and the others may not care, but Harry’s got a lot of friends who do. And Potions is a very, very dangerous class. Isn’t that what you’re always telling us?

 

“So listen up, Professor. The next time you lay a finger on Harry, something else will blow up. And you won’t be so lucky the next time. Don’t you need both hands to be a Potions Master?” Snape was taken aback by the boy’s low, menacing hiss – it was an unconscious copy of his own, and he had to admit it was quite effective. Who would have thought the youngest Weasley boy had so much Slytherin in him?

 

“And don’t think that getting rid of me will stop it. I meant what I said, Harry has a lot of friends here, and they’re not just in Gryffindor. Kids in Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff – even a few of your snakes, believe it or not. So even if you have me expelled, you’ll never again be able to feel safe in your classroom or your dungeon.  No one knows I’m here, Professor, especially not Harry, but I promise you, before I leave school, I will make sure that everyone knows about you and how you treat Harry, and he will be protected from you. So the choice is yours, Professor. Is beating up Harry worth blowing up?” Ron got to his feet with one last threatening glare. “Right now this matter is between you and me, Professor. It’s up to you whether it stays that way.”

 

Ron headed to the door, but paused for one final shot, “You’re always telling us how dumb we are and how smart you are,” he said to Snape. “I bet you feel pretty stupid right now, though.” And with a smirk that would have been right at home on the Potion Master’s face, he exited, leaving Snape frozen on the bed.

 

Snape didn’t waste any energy fuming at the indignity of what had just happened. He knew that eventually the spell confining him would wear off or Poppy would come back and figure out something was amiss. He was too busy trying to decipher the Weasley boy’s words. The threat was clear – he would face more sabotage and more attacks if Potter came to any harm. He just couldn’t understand what had motivated such a threat.

 

Yes, he had dragged Potter away under the Weasley boy’s nose, and yes, he had punished him once he got him back to the dungeons, but to claim he had used him as a punching bag was absurd. He hadn’t even verbally slapped around the little brat – he had long since learned that Potter only became angry and defiant when he was belittled. By contrast, if the “more in sorrow than in anger” approach was used, he promptly dissolved into a repentant puddle of snot and tears.

 

Snape was Slytherin enough to use whatever worked best, and he had laid it on thick last night, pointing out that Harry was looked up to by the other children, that the first years might emulate his dangerous stunts, that putting himself in harm’s way was a slap in the face to the people who were working so hard to keep him safe, that he, Severus, was very disappointed in him, that it would have frightened Minerva and Hermione if they had seen him, that the Weasleys would have been devastated if Ron, trying to keep up with the better flyer, had mimicked Harry and hurt himself…

 

By the end of the lecture, Snape was feeling nauseous at all the sentimentality and Harry was dripping with tears and remorse. Administering a half-dozen brisk swats after that was practically overkill. He had been done it as much to safeguard his own reputation for severity as to drive the point home for Harry.

 

But “beat him up”? By no stretch of the imagination could anyone seriously consider that smacking a brutal punishment. Oh, Potter had yelped his way through it, but Snape had, over his years as a Death Eater, become quite the connoisseur of screams. He was well able to distinguish between screams of terror, pain, anguish, agony, and fear, and he knew perfectly well when a child was howling because he was being punished, as opposed to howling because of the punishment. In fact, Snape had been rather pleased by the boy’s loud yelps. Harry had had plenty of experience keeping silent in the face of truly vicious treatment from his disgusting relatives. The fact that he would carry on so was a sign that he was coming to terms with the fact that those Muggles were the aberrant freaks, not him, and that he had every right to complain when something unpleasant was done to him. He was allowed to express himself, to object to someone’s treatment of him, and to expect a certain amount of consideration.

 

Besides, the fact that the brat had demolished an entire plateful of shortbread barely five minutes after the spanking suggested that neither his backside nor his pride had been that seriously wounded.

While there had been plenty of tears and whimpers and yips, there was not a single sob. Snape had no intention of physically punishing Harry until he broke down. That was the last thing the boy needed. Limits, yes. Consequences, yes. But the infliction of pain until he completely lost his composure? Hardly. Besides, if Snape wasn’t able to reduce Potter to tears with a few reproving words, he was unfit to be the Head of Slytherin. It was hard to imagine a boy more starved for affection and eager to please than Potter, and while snide insults were counterproductive – he’d been too exposed to those by the Muggles – sorrowful reproaches worked like a charm. Why would Snape waste effort and hurt his own hand when there was no need?

 

Had Potter been upset last night? Definitely. Humiliated? Slightly. Repentant? Highly. Indignant? Mildly. Sore? Briefly. Resentful? No. On that, Snape would have taken his oath, yet what other excuse could there be for Weasley’s behavior? Potter, that thrice-damned little brat, must have decided to spin a fantastic tale for the benefit of his gullible little friends, painting Snape as the evil, hard-fisted tyrant and himself as the poor stalwart Gryffindor subjugated by the wicked Slytherin. Obviously, admitting that he had been reduced to tears by a stern scolding and a few sharp smacks on the bum was unacceptable to The Boy Who Lived. Like that idiot Lockhart, he had to embellish the truth and ensure that his reputation was untarnished by the actions of a snarky professor. It was much better to be the innocent victim of a vicious Death Eater’s brutal assault than a small boy with a stinging bottom who had whimpered through a richly deserved spanking.

 

Snape set the issue of Weasley’s attack to the side for the moment. It was Potter, that little wretch, whom he would deal with first. Snape took a deep breath, feeling Weasley’s spell begin to fade, and began plotting his revenge.

 

 

That evening, the summons to the Headmaster’s office really didn’t surprise Ron. He’d deliberately gone to his room alone, so that he wouldn’t be forced to undergo tedious questioning by his friends when the summons arrived. Both of them would have a stroke if they found out what he’d done: Harry would be furious that he had put himself at risk on Harry’s behalf. Hermione would be furious that he hadn’t asked her for help. And both would be hurt that he hadn’t confided in them. But that was exactly the point: Ron couldn’t involve them. The likelihood of being expelled was just too great.

 

He had more or less assumed that, after his confession, Snape would instantly demand his expulsion, but he had had no choice but to confess. Snape had to understand why the cauldron had exploded in order for the threat to be effective, and that meant Ron had to admit what he had done. There was little chance that the evil bat wouldn’t then use the confession to get Ron kicked out of school, though he would not necessarily share Ron’s motivation with the Headmaster.

 

Ron knew that his parents, once they heard the whole story, wouldn’t be that upset with him, but he was pretty sure that Dumbledore wouldn’t excuse his actions regardless of what Snape had done to Harry. After all, Dumbledore was the one who had sanctioned Snape’s treatment of Harry in the first place. And hadn’t Harry’s first Hogwarts letter been addressed to him in the cupboard under the stairs? Obviously the Headmaster and the other teachers knew about Harry’s mistreatment at the hands of the Dursleys, yet they did nothing. Why would they then do anything to protect him here at school?

 

Ron sighed. Better to keep it a matter among the students. If he was expelled tonight, he’d tell Hermione everything before he left – or in a worst case, he’d owl her afterwards. She could pick up where he left off, and Merlin only knew what inventive ways she would come up with to torment Snape. And even if she wasn’t willing to risk expulsion, she could enlist the other kids, like Seamus. Or he could just tell the twins – they’d take care of Snape, all right!

 

He walked slowly to Dumbledore’s office. No reason to rush. He looked around. Oh, he’d be back for his siblings’ graduations, but he was definitely going to miss the place. He realized that he would be the first Weasley in generations to complete his education elsewhere, and he had to swallow hard to force down the lump in his throat. It was for Harry, he reminded himself fiercely. To make him safe. Ron had so much compared to Harry – a family that loved him, friends both at Hogwarts and at home, no “KILL ME” scar on his forehead… Merlin knew Harry had a tough enough time of it, Ron was just glad there was something he’d been able to do to help his friend.

 

He knocked and entered, unsurprised to see Snape sitting back on Dumbledore’s couch, a sardonic gleam in his eye.

 

“Hello, Ron,” the Headmaster said kindly. “Sit down, my boy. Lemon drop?”

 

Ron shrugged and accepted. It would probably be the last one he ever got. Maybe he should keep it as a souvenir.

 

“Well, Severus, now that we are all assembled, perhaps we can begin?”

 

“Very well, Headmaster. I would like Potter to tell us –“

 

Ron’s head snapped around. Sure enough, there was Harry, sitting to one side and looking somewhat bewildered to be there. “Leave him out of this!” Ron leapt to his feet, furious. “I told you he had nothing to do with it!”

 

“Now, now –“ Dumbledore began and was completely ignored.

 

“Sit down, Weasley!” Snape snarled dangerously, though for once he didn’t try to get up and loom over the student. It was clear that he was far from fully healed from his earlier injuries. “We are not discussing your little indiscretion. Yet.”

 

Ron sputtered to a stop, his head swinging between Snape and Dumbledore in confusion. “What? Then why --?”

 

“Sit down and be quiet, before I decide to use your tongue in a potion,” Snape ordered coldly. “Potter!” Harry jumped in his seat, then – almost imperceptibly – winced. Ron saw it and got angrier at Snape for his brutality. Snape saw it and grew angrier at Harry for his manipulation. Dumbledore saw it and wondered what in Merlin’s name was going on.

 

“Potter,” Snape said, his voice angrier than Harry had heard it in a long time, “you are going to answer my questions and if you lie, I promise you, you will be a very sorry Potter.”

 

“You bastard!” Ron yelled. “Don’t you threaten him!”

 

Now Harry and Dumbledore were staring at Ron in utter shock, while Snape grinned humorlessly. “What did I tell you about your tongue, Mr Weasley? Sil—“

 

“Enough!” Dumbledore hastily intervened. He was pretty sure that Severus had merely been going to cast Silencio, but in the Potion Master’s present mood, Dumbledore wasn’t about to take any chances. “Ronald, you will sit down and remain silent. I am appalled at both your language and your disrespect.”

 

The Headmaster was then doubly shocked by the look of contempt Ron directed at him before sullenly throwing himself back into his chair. What had he done to deserve that?

 

Harry was as bewildered by all this as was the Headmaster. He’d been studying with Hermione, counting the minutes until he could escape to his bed without attracting undue attention, when a house elf had appeared and brought him directly to the Headmaster’s office. No explanation had been given for the summons, nor was one provided when he arrived. The Headmaster had merely smiled, offered him a ubiquitous lemon drop, and said that Professor Snape had something urgent to discuss. Harry had obediently turned to Snape and been badly shaken by the expression on the man’s face. Snape hadn’t looked this angry since Neville had melted three cauldrons in a single class, and Harry couldn’t even remember the last time Snape had directed such a glare at him. It threw him back to last year, when he had been certain that Snape loathed and despised him. “P-Professor?” he’d managed to gulp, but Snape had only waved him to a chair and snapped that they were still waiting for someone.

 

When Ron had arrived, Harry’s confusion only deepened. What could be wrong? He and Ron hadn’t done anything wrong since yesterday’s adventures with the brooms, and they’d already been punished for that. Even yesterday, Snape hadn’t seemed this angry about it, so why was he so incandescent with rage now?

 

“Potter, what did you tell Weasley about our encounter last night?”

 

Whatever Harry was expecting, this wasn’t it. He stared dumbly at Snape for a moment, then seeing the man get even angrier, he stuttered out a reply. “I – I just said that you’d been angry,” he offered lamely, trying to remember his exact words. Hadn’t he called Snape mental? But surely that wasn’t enough of an insult to warrant this level of fury.

 

“And?”

 

Harry felt the red creeping up his ears. “And that you had – erm – punished me.”

 

“And tell Mr Weasley: precisely how did I punish you?”

 

Harry suddenly found his thumb intensely interesting. Snape felt a savage rush of vindication. Here it came. The little liar having to confess his sins and eat his words. “You hit me.”

 

Snape’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Be specific, Potter. Very, very specific.”

 

Harry took a deep breath and forced the words out. “You spanked me. I told Ron that you spanked me.” At Snape’s growl, Harry reluctantly added, “With your hand. Over my trousers. Six swats.”

 

Snape glanced over at Ron triumphantly, but saw only a look of sadness and pity on the boy’s face as he watched his friend.

 

“Sir? Professor Snape, why – why are you asking me this?” Harry ventured.

 

“Because, Potter, it seems that someone,” Snape stressed sarcastically, “is convinced that I am unfit to be alone with you.”

 

Harry’s jaw dropped and he stared at the Headmaster. “What? But, sir, that’s not true!”

 

Dumbledore looked equally befuddled. “Well, that’s very nice to hear, Harry,” he began uncertainly.

 

Ron shot him a deadly glare. “I thought you were supposed to be such a great wizard,” he snarled, once again bringing the conversation to a screeching halt.

 

“Ron!” Harry gaped at him in horror. “What are you doing!”

 

“Harry, I can’t stand it anymore!” Ron yelled back at him. “You’ve got to tell him!” The famous Weasley temper had finally broken free. Harry’s habitual lies, Dumbledore’s all-too-willing acceptance of them, and Snape’s sneer of triumph had been too much. “Harry, tell him the truth!”

 

Harry stared at his friend in complete confusion. He knew Ron didn’t much care for Snape. Unlike Hermione, who could appreciate the man’s talent in the Potions lab, Ron just thought he was a greasy git with no redeeming features whatsoever. But he had never seemed to hate the man before. Now, though, from the way Ron was glaring at Snape, there was no doubt about it. Ron looked like he would be capable of casting an Unforgiveable at him.

 

“What’s wrong, Ron?” Harry tried to think of what Snape might have done to get Ron so angry. It couldn’t be the two foot essay, so what could have happened between the two of them?

 

“Harry, tell him! Just tell him!” Ron shouted in frustration. Misinterpreting Harry’s blank look, Ron groaned in dismay. “Please, Harry, just lift your shirt,” he begged. “Please!”

 

Ha! A way to prove just what a fraud Potter was. Snape leaned forward. “Yes, Potter,” he purred, “lift your shirt.” The expression of incredulous horror on Potter’s face signaled sweet victory. Obviously Potter had claimed Snape’s beating had left him black and blue, and Weasley, the moron, had believed him. Now Potter had realized that he was about to be revealed as the despicable little liar that he was.

 

Harry stared at Ron in utter dismay. How did he know? Harry had been so careful – He couldn’t show anyone, especially not Snape and Dumbledore. The Headmaster would demand details, which Harry couldn’t provide, not without fingering two members of Snape’s own house. If he did, the Potion Master would insist that he was lying and Dumbledore would get that patient look in his eye, and then Snape would start yelling about what a freak Harry was and how the entire house of Gryffindor wasn’t worth a single Slytherin, and it would just go downhill from there. Their fragile truce would be shattered beyond repair, Harry would never be able to learn occlumency or DADA, Voldemort would win, and the world would end – all because of Harry and his inability to keep quiet.

 

“Ron,” he whispered, clenching his fists so hard the knuckles shone white, “shut up!”

 

“Please, Harry!” Ron begged, feeling tears well up in his eyes. He knew how hard it was for Harry to admit when someone mistreated him. He knew it was unfair of him to have exposed his friend’s secret like this. But if only Harry would speak up for himself, Dumbledore might feel forced to do something, and then Ron’s sacrifice wouldn’t have been in vain. “Please, Harry. I saw, okay? You need to tell. You can’t let him treat you like that, mate. It’s just wrong.”

 

“You didn’t see anything, Ron,” Harry hissed. “Nothing!”

 

By now, Snape had begun to realize that there was something amiss. Weasley had claimed to have seen fictitious marks on Potter? Could the brat have placed a glamour on himself to support his claims? But why go to such lengths? Something wasn’t right. “Potter,” Snape ordered again, “lift your shirt.”

 

Harry jerked his head up, his eyes hunted. “No!”

 

“Potter!”

 

“Harry,” the Headmaster intervened gently, “it seems there is some question as to your well being. You know how much I care about you. I’m afraid I must ask you to do as Professor Snape and Mr Weasley request.”

 

He’d been an idiot. He should have just begged, borrowed, or stolen some healing potions from somewhere. Then no one would have been the wiser. But he’d been too concerned about getting caught – and now look at him. Caught in a much worse position!

 

Harry clenched his jaw mutinously. They were all determined that he would show them? Well, he was just as determined that he wouldn’t. He had to get out of here, get himself healed, then they wouldn’t be able to prove anything. “O – okay,” he pretended to fumble with his robe for a moment, then as the others relaxed at his seeming surrender, he bolted for the door.

 

With surprise on his side, he managed to make it across the threshold before his arm was snatched and he was painfully jerked to a halt. “NO! NO! NO!” he yelled, twisting and fighting for all he was worth. Admittedly it wasn’t much, given how bruised and sore he was, but apparently Snape wasn’t feeling much better either, because he let out an involuntary exclamation of pain as Harry’s gyrations jerked him off balance.

 

Snape tightened his grip on the little monster’s arm and dragged him back into Dumbledore’s office. When Potter had sprinted for freedom, Weasley and the Headmaster had been caught flat-footed. Snape, by virtue of having gotten to know the boy over the past few months, had been instantly suspicious when that look of stubborn defiance had been supplanted by meek submission. Sure enough, Potter had made a break for it, and Snape had been sufficiently slowed down by his own injuries that the boy had nearly gotten away.

 

Now Potter was screaming like a banshee and fighting as if Snape were Voldemort himself. His patience, never very abundant at the best of times, had been seriously eroded by his own pain and fatigue, and when Harry’s latest bid for freedom nearly jolted his arm from its socket, Snape lost his temper. “Stop it!” he snapped, bringing his other hand down hard across Harry’s backside.

 

He was completely unprepared for the cry of genuine pain the slap wrung out of Potter and for Weasley’s reaction to it.

 

“Don’t you hurt him again, you bastard!” Ron cried, leaping onto Snape’s back, punching him and yanking at his hair.

 

Snape barely bit back a cry of his own as Weasley’s not inconsiderable weight slammed against his own injuries, and it was all he could do to keep hold of Harry.

 

“ENOUGH!” The most powerful wizard in the room finally lost his last twinkle. A second later, invisible hands flung the three combatants into their respective chairs, hard enough to make them all yelp.

 

Harry struggled to get to the door again, but the next instant he realized a sticking hex was holding him down. Oh. Well, at least they wouldn’t be able to see his injuries this way.

 

“That is quite enough!” The Headmaster, for once, was furious. “Severus, what on earth are you thinking to brawl with students?” Snape gasped in outrage but catching the steely glint in Dumbledore’s eye, he decided discretion was the better part of valor and forbore argument. “Mr Weasley, your language and conduct have been atrocious since you first arrived. And now, attacking a professor?” Ron couldn’t help letting out a half-laugh, half-sob at that remark. Obviously, the greasy git hadn’t yet shared the whole story with the Headmaster. Snape smirked at him, while Dumbledore gave the boy an odd look but let it pass.  “Harry,” he said, moving over to the third seated figure. His voice was noticeably softer than it had been with the other two. “it is clear that something is very wrong. Won’t you please tell me what it is?”

 

Harry just closed his eyes, holding back the tears, and shook his head.

 

“Harry, please? I want to help you.”

 

Dumbledore sighed when another mute headshake was his only response. “Harry, I must insist. I am very worried about you. Now, I can have Madame Pomfrey come and do a diagnostic spell, or you can show us yourself, but I will have an answer.”

 

Two tears slipped out from under the boy’s lashes, but he refused to speak.

 

Snape was beginning to worry. Dumbledore’s approach should have worked. “Potter,” he spoke up, conscious of the Headmaster’s sharp gaze, “you must tell us what’s wrong.” He made his voice calm and neutral, belying the anxiety that he felt, not to mention the pain.

 

That got the boy to glance at him, and not in a particularly friendly way. “You don’t want me to tell,” he said flatly.

 

“Ha! I knew it!” Ron said, only to be glared into silence by everyone else in the room.

 

“Harry,” Snape used his first name deliberately, “why would you think that?”

 

“Just – just trust me, all right? I can’t tell.”

 

“Harry, are you protecting someone?” Dumbledore asked quietly.

 

Harry looked up at him in sudden hope. That was it! Surely Dumbledore wouldn’t ask him to put anyone else in jeopardy! “Yes. I can’t tell or someone innocent will get hurt.”

 

“Someone innocent has already gotten hurt, Potter,” Snape said, his teeth clenched. “It is obvious to everyone in this room that you have been injured, and the general consensus is that I am the person responsible.”

 

“What? But that’s not true!” Harry’s eyes flew open in shock and he stared at his professor in dismay. Ron’s stomach fluttered at the look of undeniable horror on Harry’s face. It couldn’t be…

 

Harry stared at Snape. “Someone said you had hurt me? But – but you didn’t!”

 

“I was seen dragging you off to the dungeons and by your own admission, I struck you,” Snape said, raising an eyebrow. “What do you expect the Headmaster to think?”

 

Harry stared at Dumbledore. “But it wasn’t him, sir! Honest!” He looked away for a moment, then back with a look of relief. “I just fell down the stairs.”

 

Snape rolled his eyes. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Potter. If you’re going to lie, at least try to make it believable.”

 

“I did fall!” Harry snapped. “It’s true!”

 

“Harry, if it were true, why didn’t you seek help immediately thereafter? Why all this silence? Who is it you’re protecting?” The Headmaster’s eyes were kind but implacable, and Harry looked away. “Harry, you must see that this cannot go on any longer. Professor Snape does not deserve to have yet more unjust suspicions leveled against him. Stand up, and show us what it is you are concealing.”

 

Harry’s shoulders slumped, but the Headmaster’s last argument was a telling one. He couldn’t be the cause of still more accusations against Snape, not after he’d treated him so well for the last several weeks. He rose painfully, barely noticing how effortlessly Dumbledore had canceled the hex, and took off his robes. He hesitated one last time, then turned his back on the others and slowly removed his shirt.

 

Snape’s jaw dropped when he saw the bruises on Harry’s back, and the icy lump in Ron’s belly grew. Surely no one, even Snape, could be that good an actor.

 

“Harry,” suddenly Dumbledore sounded much older, “I’m sorry to ask, but I need to see the rest of your body.”

 

Harry seemed to hunch in on himself, then he sighed and lowered his trousers, confirming that the dreadful marks covered him. Snape and Dumbledore went over and examined the small boy. A quick tug at the waistband of his underwear allowed them to glimpse the bruising over his backside, and Snape regretted the flare of temper that had led him to land a smack there.

 

Dumbledore didn’t even flick his wand, but an instant later, Harry’s trousers were back in place, and Snape turned him around. “Who did this to you?” he demanded, his voice tight.

Harry looked away. “I fell.”

 

Snape’s lips thinned. “Who pushed?”

 

Harry glanced back at him, then away. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

 

“Potter, you have been the victim of a vicious assault. Don’t tell me not to worry about it!” Snape snapped, tightening his grip on Harry’s shoulders. “Now who did this?”

 

“I don’t know,” Harry shrugged. He looked particularly defiant, which Snape now knew meant that he was acutely miserable.

 

“Do not make things any worse by lying,” Snape scolded him. “If this is the way you respond to concern and caring –“

 

Harry snorted and jerked away.

 

Now that was interesting. It had been a while since Harry had responded disbelievingly to a statement of Snape’s concern for him. What had made him revert to old behaviors, when he was convinced that Snape couldn’t care less about him? Snape eyed him calculatingly. “It’s not like it’s difficult to deduce, Potter. Who hates you enough to do such a thing?” He saw the boy’s shoulders flinch. “It would hardly be one of your fellow Gryffindors, and a Hufflepuff wouldn’t have the guts. You insisted that I wouldn’t want the truth known, so a Slytherin must be involved. So –“

 

“Draco!” Ron gasped. He hadn’t spoken for a while, too consumed with the realization that he had made a terrible, dreadful, unforgiveable, and irretrievable mistake. But now, as the conversation around him sank into his consciousness, he realized there could be only one person who fit the description.

 

“No!” Harry shouted.

Snape regarded him thoughtfully. “Is that why you didn’t want to tell me, Potter? Because Draco –“

 

“It wasn’t Draco!’ Harry yelled, tears starting to his eyes. His worst nightmare was coming true. It was all happening just like his attackers wanted, and now – thanks to him – they would never believe a word he said. He’d messed it all up, and now he wouldn’t even be able to save Draco. “That’s just what they want you to believe!”

 

“Who are ‘they’, Potter?” Snape demanded, and Harry groaned, realizing that this wasn’t going to get any better. He slumped down on the couch, his head in his hands.

 

“I can’t tell.”

 

“Did they threaten you?”

 

“Not me.”

 

“Who? Ron? Hermione?” Weasley looked shocked, then appalled.

 

Harry shook his head.

 

“Who then?”

 

Harry looked up at him, his face drawn with pain and despair. “Draco.”

 

Snape blinked. “They threatened Draco Malfoy? And you wouldn’t say anything in order to protect him?”

 

Harry held back a sob. “They set him up. Draco. They made it look like it must be him, and even if you think it isn’t and start looking then they’ll still be able to hurt him. And now you won’t believe me, and it’s all been for nothing.”

 

Snape seated himself next to the distraught boy and, much to his dismay, found himself gingerly placing an arm around his shoulders. “While I admit that your recent behavior has hardly enhanced your reputation for truthfulness, Mr Potter, there is a certain,” he sighed, “dunderheaded nobility to your actions that makes them difficult to doubt.”

 

To his surprise, this reassurance failed to lighten the boy’s mood. “It’s all ruined. Everything.”

 

“What is ruined, Potter?” Snape asked, his tone surprisingly gentle.

 

“Everything. You’re gonna hate me, the lessons will stop, and Voldemort will win.”

 

Snape and Dumbledore exchanged an amused look. “I wouldn’t concede defeat just yet, Mr Potter. Tell me why you think I will hate you.”

 

Harry shut his eyes. Here it came. He knew Snape didn’t really care about him. He knew it. But it was still going to hurt when he took his Slytherins’ side. Steeling himself against the insults which would soon start flying, he took a deep breath and forced himself to speak.

 

“There were three of them. The ones who attacked me. All boys. One was from Ravenclaw – I saw his scarf. The other two were from Slytherin, I don’t know any of their names.” Harry trailed off drearily. Here it came.

 

But all Snape said was, “And why did you say they set up Draco?”

 

Harry dug one hand into his pocket. “They put this button in my coat – I think it’s off something of Draco’s. It’s got his initials on it. And I heard them, after they threw me down the stairs. They thought I was still unconscious, but I heard them talking. They said that they’d used Draco’s wand to attack me, and that he didn’t know, but that everyone would think it was him since he hates me so much, and then when you checked his wand, you’d find proof. But that even if you believed Draco when he’d say it wasn’t him, they said that if you started investigating, they’d snap his wand so there’d be no evidence against anyone. They said that Draco’s father would… hurt him if he lost his wand, and that would be almost as good as seeing him expelled.”

 

“Harry,” the Headmaster asked quietly, “do you think that Draco was the real target of these boys? That they only attacked you to get to him?”

 

He shook his head. “I don’t think so. They wanted me dead. They called me a cockroach and said it was a shame I was so hard to kill.” To his surprise, he felt Snape’s hand return to his shoulder and squeeze. He looked over in amazement. Why wasn’t he denouncing Harry and protecting his snakes?

 

“Potter, did you honestly believe that I would consider House loyalty so sacrosanct that I would side with would-be assassins over you?”

 

“Yes,” Harry admitted in his confusion. “Did their going after Draco violate the House rules, so that makes it okay?”

 

Snape frowned at him. “It there were a single square inch of unbruised flesh on you, I would swat it, you foolish child. Such idiocy! You are prioritizing a mere threat against Draco over their very credible attempt to kill you?”

 

“But – but they’re Slytherins,” Harry protested. “I’m a Gryffindor. And I’m the Gryffindor that you hate the most. You don’t have to pretend to like me. I know you’re only working with me because of the war. You don’t want me to be killed before I kill Voldemort. It’s okay. I understand that. You don’t even have to punish the others, just please keep teaching me, okay? For the war.”

 

“Harry…” For once even Snape was speechless. Yes, he favored his House. Yes, he said mean things about Gryffindor. Yes, he had let his godson get away with a great deal when it had been important for his spying activities to remain on Lucius’ good side. But he was still appalled at the realization that Harry continued to view himself as nothing more than a tool to defeat Voldemort and was willing to let brutal attackers go free rather than risk losing the tenuous bond he had crafted with Snape.

 

Snape mourned Lily’s death every single day. What’s more, however much he may have detested James Potter during their schooldays, Snape had to admit the man had – finally – matured and had died a hero’s death. So how had Snape managed to convince their only child that he cared more for two anonymous thugs than for their precious child, the one they died to protect? How had he not shown Harry that he was so much more than a vessel of destiny? That he was a person in his own right, and one that Snape actually had rather come to like – not that he liked any students, of course, but some were… tolerable. Merlin knew he was not a demonstrative man, but surely even this child could see that he wasn’t simply following Dumbledore’s orders. Didn’t the shortbread mean anything to the brat?

 

Harry sat watching him beseechingly. Snape forever after maintained that Dumbledore had hexed him, as he would otherwise never have acted as he did, but the fact remains – and there are witnesses – that Severus Snape reached over and hugged Harry Potter.

 

And when the boy didn’t immediately die of shock, he hugged him again. And only then did he return to normal and say, in very dry tones, “Your lessons will continue, Mr Potter, as will your numerous detentions to address today’s deceitfulness, disobedience, and poor judgment.”

 

Harry’s eyes were wide with astonishment, and both Headmaster and professor held their breaths as Harry processed Snape’s words. Both wondered if he would merely focus on the threatened punishments and take them as further proof of the Potion Master’s disdain for him. But after an eternity, Harry’s mouth twitched upwards, and he asked, “Will there be biscuits?”

 

Dumbledore looked mystified, and Snape scowled. Trust the brat to blurt it out like that, right in front of the Headmaster. Did he have no discretion at all? Well, no actually. Yet one more thing he would obviously need to teach the boy. For now, however, he contented himself with a forbidding glare and a stern, “You already know my position on that, Mr Potter.”

Harry grinned, to the continuing confusion of Ron and Dumbledore, and eased his robe over his bare shoulders.

“Headmaster,” Snape said, spinning away from the cheeky brat before he swatted him or – worse – lost control of his own twitching lips. “I suggest we secure Mr Malfoy immediately. If Potter’s assailants have become alarmed by his apparent lack of injuries, they might decide to act against Malfoy pre-emptively.”

 

Dumbledore nodded gravely. Calling a house elf, he sent it to fetch Draco immediately. “Hopefully that summons will sound ominous enough to reassure Harry’s attackers,” he observed. “Tea, anyone?”

 

Whether or not it reassured the assailants, the command undoubtedly unsettled Draco. It was a decidedly apprehensive Slytherin who was escorted into the office a few minutes later. Seeing his Head of House glowering darkly, as well as two of his most heated schoolmates, did nothing to allay his fears. “Yes, Headmaster?” he asked, failing miserably in his attempt at a Malfoy smirk.

 

Unfortunately, Ron and Harry were unable to enjoy their nemesis’ discomfiture. Harry’s tussle with Snape had started his bruises throbbing anew, and Ron was still dazedly trying to come to terms with the enormity of his blunder.

 

Draco was even more unnerved when Snape swooped down upon him. “Give me your wand,” he demanded abruptly.

 

“What? Why?” Draco asked blankly. Then, at the expression on his professor’s face, he hastily handed over the wand. “What is it?” he asked again, but to his surprise and annoyance, everyone ignored him.

 

The two professors bent their attention to the wand. Abruptly Snape looked up, his gaze pinning Draco like a searchlight. “Mr Malfoy,” he purred, “can you explain to me why your wand was used to hex, levitate, and injure a fellow student?”

 

“What?!” Draco’s astonishment was enough to reassure both adults that Harry had been correct and Draco was not a willing participant to the attack. “But I didn’t. I mean, I may – “ he shot a nervous glare at Ron and Harry “ – have hexed someone once or twice, but it was in self-defense. And I haven’t levitated anyone at all. I don’t care what some Gryffindor says. It’s not true!” he spat, glaring at Harry.

 

“Your wand says otherwise,” Snape said impassively, holding it out so Draco could see what the spells had revealed. Draco looked and paled. He began shaking his head disbelievingly. “I didn’t. I swear…”

 

Snape loomed over him. “You’re asking me to believe you let someone else use your wand? Your great-grandfather’s wand? We both know what your father would do to you if he even thought you let a non-Malfoy touch it, let alone use it to do magic.”

 

“But – but – but –“ Draco looked frantic. “I didn’t, Uncle Sev. I didn’t let anyone else use it, but I didn’t do those spells either.”

 

“Can you explain this?” Snape was implacable, his features an expressionless mask.

 

Draco sagged. “No.”

 

“Fortunately for you,” Snape said, as unemotional as before, “Mr Potter can.”

 

Draco’s head jerked up. “What!”

 

“Yes, Mr Malfoy, your scholastic career, not to mention your skin, has been saved by Mr Potter. It is thanks to him that you and your wand are unharmed.”

 

“But how –“

 

“Mr Potter overheard a conspiracy that sought to blame you for a serious assault on him. Had he not happened to hear the plot and decide to share his knowledge, you would most likely have been expelled. What is more, even if you had avoided that fate, the conspirators had plans to snap your wand.” Draco paled still further. Harry began to worry that he was going to collapse where he stood. As much as he disliked Draco and had long wished Snape would harangue him the way he attacked Gryffindors, he was finding the reality too painful to enjoy. “And do you know why you now owe Mr Potter a significant debt, Mr Malfoy?” Snape asked, his voice dropping dangerously as he stooped until he was nose to nose with the trembling student.

“No, sir,” Draco managed – barely – to answer.

 

“Because you behaved like a brainless Hufflepuff and didn’t bother to safeguard your wand, you arrogant little fool!” Snape roared. Everyone in the room, even the Headmaster, jumped, and Draco flinched violently. “That a Slytherin should be so oblivious to a conspiracy against him, happening right under his very nose, is absolutely appalling,” Snape continued, shouting loud enough that Harry wanted to put his hands over his ears. “But I cannot believe that a member of my House, MY GODSON NO LESS, would be so stupid as to allow someone not only to steal his wand but also to put it back and not even NOTICE that it had been used! Have you lost your mind? Has consorting with Crabbe and Goyle reduced your intellectual level to theirs? Or is it your father’s Pureblood nonsense that has made you so dangerously overconfident?” Snape abruptly shot out a hand and grabbed his godson by the ear. Draco let out a pain-filled squeak but was too stunned by the revelations to protest further. “Do you have any idea what your father would do to you if he learned of this?”

 

Draco shuddered violently enough for even Ron to notice. “Please, Uncle Sev…” Draco whispered, his eyes wide and terrified. Harry was abruptly certain that Draco’s fear wasn’t due to the palpable fury of the man before him, but rather the mere thought of his father’s reaction.

 

Snape tightened his grip on Draco’s ear. “If you ever again demonstrate such stupidity, Draco, I will tell your father,” he promised sternly.

 

Harry let out his breath in a sigh of relief that mirrored Draco’s. That meant Snape wouldn’t tell Lucius about this incident. Harry had had enough beatings at the hands of the Dursleys not to want to see anyone else treated similarly. Not even Malfoy.

 

Snape pushed Draco towards the chair next to Harry, and the blond boy all but collapsed into it. Harry eyed him with poorly disguised concern, and for once Draco didn’t make any attempt to sneer or pick a fight. He merely rubbed his sore ear and watched Snape nervously.

 

“Headmaster, we must take steps to safeguard both boys,” Snape said coldly, turning away from the students.

Dumbledore’s eyes lingered on the shivering Slytherin boy a moment longer, then turned reproachfully to Snape. Draco was the man’s godson, as well as a member of his House, but still…

 

Snape glared back. Dumbeldore’s lemon drops and soft words were hardly effective on a Malfoy, and his treatment of the boy had been nothing compared to what Lucius would have done (would still do) if he learned of the boy’s idiocy. Draco had, at best, been careless with a family heirloom. At worst, he was beginning to believe Lucius’ Death Eater nonsense about the inherent supremacy of all Purebloods. Either way, Snape was most displeased with his godson, and the boy was lucky to escape with nothing more than a pinched ear and deflated ego.

 

“Perhaps Poppy can sequester them in the Infirmary for a few days,” Dumbledore suggested. “Harry won’t be ready for release much before that anyway, and Draco can keep him company.”

 

Harry looked appalled at the prospect, but it was unsurprisingly Draco who voiced the protest. “I don’t need to go to the Infirmary! I’m not hurt.”

 

Snape turned slowly and both boys shrank back involuntarily. “You are correct, Draco,” Snape agreed silkily. “But that is easily remedied. Come here.”

 

If Draco needed his backside, as well as his ego, to be bruised before he would modify his behavior, Snape was willing to oblige. It would still be nothing compared to what the boy had endured from Lucius Malfoy.

 

Draco tried to burrow deeper into the seat cushions. “No, please, I wasn’t arguing, Uncle Sev. I didn’t mean anything. I’ll go!”

 

With one last warning glance, Snape turned away, and again both boys sighed in relief.

 

“Merlin, Potter,” Draco whispered. “What is going on?”

 

“I’ll tell you later,” Harry whispered back. Friends of not, in a situation like this, their age formed a bond between them. Harry glanced over at Ron. What was his reaction to Malfoy’s discomfort? But Ron just stared at the floor, seemingly oblivious to everything around him.

 

“There cannot be that many people with a hatred for both Potter and Malfoy,” Snape pointed out to the Headmaster, ignoring the boys’ sotto voce conversation.

 

“Mmm,” Dumbledore agreed thoughtfully. “It shouldn’t be too hard to determine who the culprits are.”

 

“And I trust there will be no nonsense about their punishment, Headmaster?” Snape warned, his most forbidding glance firmly in place.

 

Dumbledore sighed. “I fear in such a case there is no place for leniency,” he said sadly, and Snape nodded in satisfaction.

 

“Perhaps you would be kind enough to escort the boys to Poppy and explain the situation, Headmaster? If I return to her domain, I suspect she’ll hex me to the bed.”

 

“I did tell you that sneaking out of there while she was attending to the boy in the Ravenclaw dormitory was a bad idea, Severus,” the Headmaster twinkled at him. “Come along, boys,” he said, shepherding them to their feet.

 

“Weasley, remain behind,” Snape ordered before the unusually quiet redhead could rise. At Dumbledore’s questioning look, Snape said blandly, “You don’t mind if I remain here for a few minutes, do you? I’m still a bit weak from my injuries.”

 

Dumbledore gave him a strange look. For Severus Snape to admit weakness was unusual. To do so in front of students was unthinkable. And why did the statement make the Weasley boy look stricken? Shouldn’t he be pleased by such an announcement from his hated professor?

 

“Of course, my boy. Take as long as you need. Can I get you anything?”

 

“Thank you, Headmaster. If I need anything, I’m certain Mr Weasley will be more than accommodating.” Again, Ron winced. Dumbledore knew something was going on, but he also knew Snape wouldn’t divulge anything until he was good and ready, so he subdued his curiosity and ushered the other boys out.

 

“S-sir?” Draco paused at the doorway, looking back at Snape. “May I have my wand back?”

 

The professor regarded him coolly for a moment, then: “No. Perhaps several days without it will teach you to take better care of it.”

 

For an instant it looked like Draco might be foolish enough to argue, and Harry gave him a quick poke in the side. Whether Draco realized it or not, Harry could see that Snape was near the end of his patience. Though he wasn’t fond of Draco, neither did Harry wish to see him thrashed – verbally or physically. Draco glanced back at him, caught the warning look, and for once listened. He subsided meekly, pausing only long enough to give Snape the “sad puppy dog” eyes that had proven so useful with his mother.

The dour man merely glared back, wholly unmoved, and Draco hurried after the Headmaster, uncomfortably aware that he now owed Harry another debt for his timely intervention.

 

 

The door closed behind the others, leaving Ron and Snape alone together. Ron swallowed convulsively, dreading the professor’s opening words, but Snape was unexpectedly silent. After what felt like an eternity, Ron couldn’t stand it anymore. He fearfully raised his eyes to Snape and to his terror, saw the Potion Master steadily regarding him.

 

He gulped and dropped his gaze. Another long silence ensued.

 

At last Ron knew he had to speak or he’d burst into tears. He also knew what he had to say, though his shame was so thick it nearly clogged his throat. He wished he could just disappear, sink through the floor, vanish forever. Of course, he just might now that Snape had him.

 

Still, regardless of whatever Snape would do to him – and he suspected that as chilling as his worst imagining were, the reality would be worse – he deserved it. And more. He had acted like a Dark Wizard or a Slytherin, harming an innocent. His family would be horrified when they found out.

 

Ron forced himself to take a deep breath. Given Snape’s previous comment about his tongue, coupled with the fact that he was not known to make empty threats, Ron needed to say something while he still could. “I – I’m s-sorry, Professor,” he stuttered, staring at the ground.

 

“Such a heartfelt, sincere apology,” Snape sneered.

 

Ron flinched. “It is. I mean, I am,” he protested, feeling his eyes fill with tears of shame. “I’m really, really sorry for what I did.”

 

“Which part?” Snape inquired coldly. “Plotting against me, branding me a sadistic child abuser, sabotaging my lab, injuring me, hexing me in the infirmary, threatening to blow off parts of my body, insulting me in front of the Headmaster, or physically attacking me a few minutes ago?”

 

Ron had started to cry by the time Snape got to his third offense. Somehow hearing them all enumerated with such clinical accuracy made it seem much worse, much more cold blooded. He wiped his face on his sleeve and struggled to speak. “Everything! All of that. All of it and more. I’m so, so sorry,” he managed to gasp between sobs.

 

Snape snorted. “You’re only sorry you were caught, Weasley. Don’t try to pretend otherwise.”

 

Ron shook his head so hard, tears flew across the room and landed on Snape. At least the professor hoped they were tears. The boy was a soggy mess. “No, sir. I’m truly sorry. I’ve never been so ashamed of myself in my life. I can’t believe what I did to you. It was just… horrible.” He began to sob again.

 

“Stop sniveling and mop yourself up!” Snape snapped. “You’re disgusting.”

 

“I know,” Ron wept, for once too miserable to take offense at the professor’s insults. “I know. I don’t deserve to be a Gryffindor.” As his own words sank in, he felt his heart break. All too soon, he would no longer be a Gryffindor. He sobbed harder.

 

“Weasley.” Snape’s cold voice cut through his budding hysteria. “If you are attempting to make yourself so distraught that I slap you, thus giving you evidence to prove me guilty of battering students, you will be disappointed. I have no intention of touching such a pathetic mess. What I will do, however, is to Summon a pail of ice water and douse you with it.”

The icy tones were nearly as effective as the water would have been. Ron managed to regain some semblance of self-control.

 

“Sorry,” he muttered, shamefaced and staring hard at his shoes. “I wasn’t trying to trap you or anything. I’m not that sneaky – or that smart.”

 

“Your past actions argue otherwise,” Snape retorted. Ron blinked in confusion. Had that almost been a compliment? No, surely not. “Or are you now willing to admit that you did not act alone?”

Ron’s eyes widened. “I did! I really did!”

 

Snape just sneered at him. “You expect me to believe that Granger wasn’t behind the adder venom?”

 

Ron’s blood ran cold. Oh no. He couldn’t get Hermione kicked out too. “Sir, please,’ he said frantically, “I swear she didn’t know anything. She still doesn’t.” At Snape’s expression of patent disbelief, Ron grew even more agitated. “Honest! I did it all myself. I faked a headache to get out of Transfigurations so I could go to the library and do the research myself. You can ask Madame Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall. I can even show you which book talked about the venom. Please, please, Professor, you’ve got to believe me! Use Veritaserum if you want.”

“I suppose it is unlikely Miss Granger would have supported such a scheme,” Snape finally allowed, and Ron collapsed back into his seat with relief.

 

That relief was short lived, though, once Ron realized that while he may have protected Hermione, his own neck was still forfeit. “What – what are you going to do to me?” he asked, sick with dread but already knowing what the answer had to be.

“What do you think?” Snape raised an eyebrow. “Surely even you, Mr Weasley, could deduce this.”

 

He’d known it would come, but it still hit with stunning force. Ron just barely managed to avoid bursting into tears again. The first Weasley in history to be expelled from Hogwarts. Guess he’d be famous after all.

 

“Yes, sir. I’ll go and pack my things.” He struggled to his feet and paused, looking straight at the professor for the first time. “I know I don’t deserve it, and you probably won’t believe that I mean it, but I really hope that someday you can accept my apology.”

 

Snape watched the boy trudge to the door, defeat in every line of his body. Oddly enough, Snape found himself believing the brat’s sincerity. How very Gryffindor of him to feel genuine remorse, not to mention shame at hatching so Slytherin a plot.

 

He frowned. Hogwarts needed another Weasley like Dumbledore needed a gift certificate to Honeydukes, but there was something oddly right about the Golden Trio. Snape might not be an expert in Arithmancy, but only a fool would ignore the powerful magic inherent in certain numbers. Add to that Ron’s obvious protective streak towards Harry, and Snape wasn’t sure that expelling the redhead was such a good idea.

 

Deeply satisfying, yes. Smart, probably not. If nothing else, it would upset Harry, and even if he didn’t blame Snape for the expulsion, it would hardly further advance their bonding. On the other hand, if Weasley – who had always objected to Harry spending time with Snape – were suddenly and permanently in his debt… Hmm. This had serious potential.

Snape’s Slytherin instincts were roused. Expulsion would achieve little in his best interest, but if Weasley dropped his opposition to Snape, then Harry’s status as his ward would cease to be a point of contention within the Trio. That would make Harry less reluctant to devote time to his studies with Snape and might well be worth the price of keeping Weasley around. Besides, this way he would have the fun of tormenting the redheaded idiot himself. Or perhaps he’d work on encouraging Weasley’s heretofore unsuspected Slytherin side. Not only would it perturb the elder Weasleys no end, but it might also be a potent weapon in the war. Harry’s idea of strategy was yelling while he leapt, but if a cunning strategist was hidden behind the insipid freckles of a Weasley… Well, Voldemort and the others would never suspect such a thing.

 

Snape sat up, decided. “Weasley!” His sharp command caught the boy at the door.

 

“Yes, sir?” he asked dully, clearly resigned to his fate.

 

“Sit down. I’m not through with you.”

 

The boy reclaimed his chair, uncertain.  “Are – are you going to hit me?”

 

“I thought we had already established that I do not strike children for my own pleasure, Mr Weasley.” Snape’s eyes glinted dangerously.

 

Ron flushed. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that I hurt you, so it only seems fair…”

 

“What a very archaic philosophy you hold, Mr Weasley. Are you proposing I throw you against the wall until you too lose consciousness?”

 

Ron was now crimson. “I – I just meant that you hit – I mean punish – Harry, and I deserve it a lot more.”

 

“Mr Weasley,” Snape said in tones of long-suffering boredom, “I have no desire to become the disciplinarian for the delinquents of Gryffindor House. My authority to spank Mr Potter derives in part from the fact that he has no one in a parental role to provide him with appropriate supervision and consequences. When last I checked, you were in possession of two parents, two adult brothers, and an enormous extended family, any of whom are more than capable of providing you with the punishment you so richly deserve.”

 

To his astonishment, Ron started to cry again.

 

“Weasely! Cease that caterwauling at once! If you are trying to convince me that you will be mistreated by your parents –“

 

Weasley actually blinked up at him, his tears interrupted by sheer astonishment. “Huh?”

“This infernal boo-hooing. Are you suggesting that you are in terror of the punishment your family will inflict upon you?”

 

“What? Oh, no. I mean, yes, they’re going to kill me, but no, they’re not going to kill me.”

 

“Eloquent as always, Weasley.”

 

“I just – I mean, it won’t be like Harry and the Durselys, but…” he started to sniffle again.

 

“Then why are you whimpering so pitifully?” Snape interrupted before the boy could descend into another maudlin display.

 

“It’s just… They’re going to be so disappointed in me.” Ron’s lip quivered. “When they find out what I did – all the terrible things – they won’t be able to look at me any more. No one’s ever done anything this awful, let alone get expelled.”

 

“The twins –“

 

Ron shook his head before Snape could say anything else. “No. I mean, sure they’re bloody nuisances and drive everyone barking mad, but they’re actually really careful not to hurt anyone with their pranks.” Snape considered, but found he had to concede Ron’s point. The twins’ victims were often humiliated, embarrassed, mortified, furious, and/or homicidal, but unlike the Marauders, they would never seek to seriously harm someone. As legendary as their pranks were, nothing came close to luring an unsuspecting student to an encounter with a werewolf. It pained Snape to admit anything to their credit, but the Weasley twins were nothing more than merry pranksters – the bane of their professors’ existence but not violent or dangerous.

Ron saw Snape’s expression and knew his point was made. “See? That’s why my folks are going to be so upset. What I did was Dark.”

 

Snape quirked an eyebrow. He really would need to work on Weasley or that marvelous Slytherin potential would be squashed beneath a mountain of Gryffindor guilt. “What will your parents do to you?” he asked, genuinely curious.

 

Ron slumped. “I don’t know. It’s hard to imagine anything bad enough. I mean, I’m sure I’ll get walloped and grounded and assigned a million extra chores. And my trip to visit Charlie and the dragons this summer is sure to be canceled. But I mean, they would do all that if I got in enough normal trouble. I don’t know what they’ll do to me for attacking a professor, blowing up a classroom, and getting expelled.” He swallowed hard. “Where do kids go if they’re thrown out of Hogwarts?”

 

“Most seek education on the Continent,” Snape answered, and saw Weasley’s face fall. Of course. The Weasleys could ill afford to pay international tuition costs and the boy’s academic performance hardly merited a scholarship. At the very least, their youngest son had just created a severe financial hardship for the entire family.

 

Ron dropped his head into his hands. “I can’t believe I’ve screwed up this bad.”

 

“Badly, Weasely, and in fact your plan had some elements that were quite inspired.”

 

Ron began to laugh, though it sounded more like sobs. “Great. Now I know my life is over. A Slytherin Death Eater just complimented me on my cunning. I should go and jump off the Astronomy Tower right now.”

 

“Kindly refrain from these tedious histrionics,” Snape commanded. “If you are so awash with angst at this age, Merlin help us all when you’re 16. Please do not imagine that no one in the history of the Wizarding World has ever made a mistake as egregious as your own.”

 

Ron snorted. “Oh, yeah?”

 

“Mr Weasley, I was only a few years older than you when I chose to take the Dark Mark. That is a tad more serious.”

 

“But you only hurt yourself when you did that. I hurt you.” Ron’s eyes began to fill again. “I’m no better than You-Know-Who.”

 

Snape rolled his eyes at Weasley’s exaggeration. “Nonsense. Come back after you’ve murdered a few dozen people, and we’ll revisit the issue.”

 

Ron stared at him, terrified. “Do you think I will?” he whispered.

 

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake.” Snape was highly tempted to slap the little idiot after all.

 

Ron moaned and drooped against the chair. “I don’t know what to do, Professor.”

 

“I suggest you fire call your parents and inform them of your activities,” Snape said coldly, indicating the nearby fireplace. He might as well get the boy’s parents involved in his punishment right from the start.

 

Ron gulped. “Don’t you think the Headmaster and Professor McGonagall should be here when I do?”

 

Snape nearly cursed. Of course. The little brat was right. It was all well and good for Snape to want to ship Weasley back to his parents for some well-earned discipline, but it would be wildly improper not to inform Dumbledore first, and he would of course bring in Weasley’s Head of House. That mean that the brat’s actions would have to come to light, and since Dumbledore would expel Harry’s attackers – Snape would see to that! – he could hardly do less to Snape’s.

 

Snape frowned horribly. It seemed that if he were truly committed to preventing Weasley’s expulsion, he would have to keep his actions a secret, and that mean he would have to deal with the little monster himself.

 

Ron quailed before Snape’s expression. Now what? He numbly wondered why Snape didn’t just let him go pack instead of quizzing him about his home life.

 

“Mr Weasley,” Snape said silkily, and Ron was suddenly afraid. “What would you do for me if I were to agree not to report you?”

 

For a moment, Ron was sure he’d misheard. Then he was abruptly elated, and then just as suddenly crashed down into blackest depression. There was no way Snape was serious. The greasy git was just toying with him. Give up the golden opportunity to expel a student, let alone a Gryffindor, let alone a Weasley? Never.

 

“Wh-why would you do that, sir?”

 

“Are you deaf, boy? Because you’d make it worth my while. So – what do you have to offer?”

 

Ron stared at him, his thoughts whirling. Snape was actually asking for a bribe? “I – I don’t have any money, sir,” he confessed.

 

“What a surprise. An impecunious Weasley,” Snape said sarcastically. “Astounding.”

 

“I – I have a broom. And a rat. And –“

 

“What will you offer me next, Weasley? Your underwear? As if I would covet your meager possessions.”

 

Ron scrunched up his face in thought. What did he have to offer an adult? A horrible idea struck him. Surely Snape didn’t mean… Appalled, he risked a glance at the professor.

 

Snape didn’t need to use his legilimency skills when the look on Ron’s face said it all. “If you so much as think of insulting me with a question about sexual favors, Weasley, I will fire call your parents right now then hurl you from the Astronomy Tower myself!”

 

“Yes, sir!” Ron gulped and cringed away. Well, that was a relief. But what then was Snape after? What could he possibly offer? His mind raced down unfamiliar pathways trying to find a bargaining chip. “I – I could…” he trailed off. Finally, “Wh- what do you want?”

 

Snape gave him an evil smile. “I can always use new Potion ingredients,” he said, and Ron involuntarily backed away. “Oh, calm down, Weasley. As if the Headmaster would permit me to harvest a student.”

 

Ron swallowed, relieved. “What if I could help you with your Potions?” he asked with sudden inspiration. “I mean, I – I could work for you. I could come and do anything you needed. Like permanent detention. Don’t you always have cauldrons to be scrubbed and ingredients to be prepared?”

 

“Hmmmm.” Snape pretended to think it over. Really, it had taken the idiot long enough. “I suppose it would be attractive to have a work boy around for all the disgusting tasks…” Then he frowned. “But you’d probably just pout and laze about. I need someone who would listen to my directions and be hard-working.”

 

“I’d pay attention! And I’d work really hard, too. I promise I wouldn’t complain or anything,” Ron swore vehemently.

 

“I don’t see how it would work,” Snape shook his head dismissively. “If I assign you this much detention, your Head of House will demand to know why.”

 

“You don’t have to assign it. I’ll just come every night! I promise. I’ll come until you tell me to stop. Or I graduate,” Ron added as an afterthought.

 

Snape had to fight down a smirk at that, but he managed to sneer instead. “Oh, so you expect me to believe that you’ll just show up for your punishment out of the goodness of your heart? Day after day after day? When there’s nothing to make you?”

 

“I would, I swear it. Please, give me the chance,” Ron begged. “Please!”

 

Snape sighed, the very picture of long-suffering. “Oh, all right.”

 

Ron found himself on the far side of the door to the Headmaster’s office, dazedly descending the staircase. He still wasn’t sure quite how it happened that he was still enrolled in Hogwarts.

 

Once it had become clear that he had made an enormous, gigantic, inexcusable mistake, he had been sure his life was over. Everyone knew that Snape held grudges like a goblin. Once he knew Ron had been responsible for the explosion in his class – not to mention all the threats, hexes, and insults the boy had hurled at him – there was no way he would rest until Ron was expelled in disgrace.

 

So what had just happened?

 

Ron couldn’t quite figure it out. He’d figured his parents and maybe even his Head of House would plead for mercy, and he’d been more than ready to grovel and abase himself as well. But he’d assumed that it would be Dumbledore at whom he should direct his begging, because it was absurd to hope that Snape would be moved to pity by beseeching pleas… Amused by them, yes. Affected, no.

 

But in the end, it had been Snape himself who had raised the possibility of salvation. Ron hadn’t even considered that as a remote chance. He wasn’t foolish enough to imagine that the possibility of a free helper could be all that appealing to the dour man. It wasn’t as if Ron could provide that much assistance. He was pants at potions, and they both knew it. So what could the man want? He hadn’t even bound the boy to him with a magical oath, though to be fair, Ron would probably have acquiesced to being his slave, if that’s what it took to remain at Hogwarts.

 

So what was in it for Snape? Did he plan to humiliate Ron at every opportunity? Well, he sort of did that anyway. Short of stripping him of his trousers in the middle of class, there wasn’t much else Snape could do to make him feel worse than he already did. And frankly, if Snape had demanded the right to administer a pants-down spanking during dinnertime in the Great Hall, Ron had a feeling his parents would likely have agreed, once they were apprised of his actions. Now, though, with no one else being the wiser about the explosion in Potions or the encounter in the Infirmary, Snape wouldn’t be able to be any worse to him than usual, at least in public. Dumbledore and McGonagall wouldn’t allow anything that they thought was excessively harsh treatment – even if Ron knew it was secretly deserved.

 

So why in Merlin’s name would Snape willingly forego the opportunity to increase his power over Ron? To rid himself of an annoying student? To humiliate the entire Weasley clan? Ron chewed his lip. There had to be a reason. It was the equivalent of being within a move of checkmate and then letting your opponent win. There was no way it was an accident. Snape’s words made it clear he knew he held all the cards, but he’d still offered Ron a way out. Why? Snape was way too canny to do anything without a reason.

 

Ron thought furiously. Why did Snape do anything? Well, because he wanted to. But he wouldn’t want to do anything nice for Ron. Quite the reverse. It was clear that he detested the boy. If it were Draco in this position, then sure, Snape would bend over backwards for the little ferret. But he liked Draco. Okay, so if he weren’t doing it to be nice, could he be doing it so that he could be very, very nasty? With a trapped and submissive victim?

 

Well, no. As easy as it was for Ron to imagine the dark bat gleefully wielding a whip in the dark recesses of his dungeons, he’d made it clear that he wasn’t keeping Ron around for a little torture session or two. First off, there was no way that the offended fury in Snape’s eyes when he’d figured out what Ron was thinking had been feigned. Nor had Ron missed the look of horror on Snape’s face when he saw Harry’s injuries. Surely if Snape liked to hurt people, he would have enjoyed seeing Harry like that. And besides, if Snape were really into torture, he’d have done a much better job of making Ron writhe in the Headmaster’s office. So that was out.

 

Snape also did what Dumbledore told him to do. But that didn’t fit this case either. It was clear from the Headmaster’s own words that he didn’t know about Ron’s actions, so he couldn’t have ordered Snape to overlook them. The same held true for McGonagall – not that Ron really thought she had the same authority over Snape that Dumbledore did, but even if she would try to intervene on Ron’s behalf, she couldn’t have done it in this case, since she too was ignorant of the events.

 

So why was he standing here trembling in a dim hallway, rather than packing his bags and waiting to see his parents’ devastated faces? What had made Snape relent? Why would he --?

 

Ron’s breath caught in his chest. Who else did Snape listen to? Ron could think of only one other… person… that Snape had ever willingly obeyed. What if his oath of allegiance to Voldemort wasn’t as dead as Dumbledore thought? What if he were still working for the Dark Lord? If that were the case, wouldn’t he be on the lookout for other potential Death Eaters? Wasn’t that why he was so tolerant of his Slytherins’ misbehavior? You only had to look at Malfoy to see a Junior Death Eater in training. What if Ron’s behavior had convinced Snape that he too had a Dark side? That with the proper coaching and encouragement, Ron could be brought to worship at Voldemort’s feet?

 

Ron thought he would sick up then and there. That was it. It was the only thing that made sense. Snape had protected him and kept him at Hogwarts, so that Ron could fulfill his destiny of becoming a follower of Voldemort. Who else among the students had ever attacked a professor? And an innocent one at that. Or mouthed off to Dumbledore himself? Even Malfoy hadn’t ever done anything that evil. No wonder Snape had such high hopes for him. He might even be grooming him to be Voldemort’s heir.

 

Somehow, Ron managed to stagger to his dormitory. He was Marked now, and unlike Harry whose place in the prophecies had been none of his own doing, Ron was tainted because of his own actions. He vaguely wondered if this was why Trelawny always sneered at him – had she Seen all this? Not even realizing that he had, for the first time in his life, accorded his Divinations professor respect for her alleged talent, Ron fell into bed. Despite the whirling thoughts that tumbled through his mind, the events of the day caught up with him, and he slept.

 

 

It took Dumbledore and Snape three days to track down Harry’s attackers. They turned out to belong to Death Eater Pureblood families (explaining their antipathy towards Harry) who had run afoul of Lucius Malfoy’s ruthless drive for power (hence their targeting Draco). The boys were summarily expelled – to Snape’s satisfaction and Dumbledore’s sorrow – and Snape subsequently held a spine-chilling all-House meeting where he made it clear that he expected his students to make their own choices in life, rather than blindly following their parents’ views (he looked hard at Draco at this point). Further, he absolutely would not tolerate external rivalries invading the House of Slytherin. By the time Snape had finished, most of the first years and some of the upper years were sniveling in terror, and his students felt the two expelled boys had been lucky to have escaped his wrath. Compared to what Snape promised to do to any other students who embarrassed the House, let alone attacked a fellow Snake, the two had received a very merciful punishment indeed.

 

Once the three boys left Hogwarts, accompanied by their irate parents, Harry and Draco’s protective custody in the Infirmary had finally ended. Though both loudly proclaimed delight at the end of their enforced companionship, they had in fact maintained a reasonably cordial relationship during their time together. “Friendship” might be too strong a term, but with no one else to talk to, both found loneliness even less attractive than interaction with each other. Of course, they didn’t advertise the fact to anyone else, though Snape, Pomfrey, Dumbledore, and McGonagall, the only other people they saw for the three days, noted the new détente with varying levels of amusement and satisfaction.

 

Draco was collected by Snape in time for their all-House meeting, while McGonagall came for Harry. No sooner had they entered the Gryffindor Tower than Hermione hurtled into him, giving him a fierce hug that left him breathless. “Are you okay? I was so worried!”

 

“I’m fine, ‘Mione. Honest. Even Madame Pomfrey says so.”

 

“Good.” She promptly socked him in the arm, eliciting a yelp. “Don’t you ever keep a secret like that again, Harry Potter!”

 

“Really, Miss Granger,” Professor McGonagall said reprovingly. “If you re-injure Mr Potter, Madame Pomfrey will be very cross with you.” Hermione colored while Harry grinned, but the two reversed their roles when McGonagall continued, “However, I for one am sympathetic to your feelings. Mr Potter,” she bent to look directly into his eyes, “in future, when you have a problem, please do not shut me out. I was a friend to both your parents, I am your Head of House, and I care about you. Please remember that. You are not alone.”

 

Harry felt his eyes fill with tears and he had to look away from the elderly witch’s steady gaze before he disgraced himself by bawling like a toddler. He could feel Hermione slipping her hand into his, and he squeezed hard. “Thank you, P’fessor,” he mumbled around the sudden lump in his throat.

 

She straightened and patted him briskly on the shoulder. “You’re welcome, Harry. Please remember what I said. Next time, I may – like Miss Granger – be unable to restrain myself,” She gave him a surprisingly impish grin and left them.

 

“Did Professor McGonagall just make a joke?” Hermione asked incredulously.

 

“No, I think she just threatened to swat me.” Harry sighed, but he couldn’t really muster much of a feeling of indignation. He still was pleasantly surprised by people caring about him, worrying about him, and getting cross with him for not letting them help. After a decade with the Dursleys, having to rely only on himself, it was a delicious but novel sensation to have people on his side and eager to take care of him… even if they did have a tendency to demonstrate their regard by smacking him.

 

Suddenly Harry realized what was missing. “’Mione, where’s Ron?”

 

She frowned worriedly. “Oh, Harry. I’m glad you’re back. He’s been acting so oddly. Ever since he got that headache, he just hasn’t been himself. He was gone for a while the same night you went to the Infirmary, and he’s just been so quiet ever since. He doesn’t argue with me when I say we need to study, and he’s not even eating much!”

 

Harry’s eyes widened. This was indeed serious!  Promising Hermione that he’d try to learn what was bothering their friend, Harry went up to his dorm room. Sure enough, Ron was there, lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling.

As soon as Harry entered, Ron swung himself into a sitting position, and a genuine smile spread across his face when he saw who it was. “Harry! It’s good to see you, mate! How are you feeling?’

 

“I’m fine,” Harry answered, dropping beside him on the bed. “Madame Pomfrey would have released me before this, but she was waiting for the Headmaster to get rid of those three. See?” He twisted around and yanked up his shirt, revealing unblemished skin.

 

Ron looked happy, but it was only a faint shadow of his usual smile. “Great. And you survived having Malfoy as a roommate?”

 

“Well, after surviving you, I can live with anyone!” Harry joked, then ducked Ron’s half-hearted swipe. “Nah, seriously, it wasn’t that bad. I was glad Snape hadn’t given him back his wand, but he was actually pretty decent. I mean, Snape practically made him believe he owed me a Life Debt; I guess he figured he couldn’t be too snotty. He was still an arrogant arse, but nowhere near as bad as he’s been. He’s actually a good chess player so we mostly played that and talked Quidditch and stuff.”

 

“Well, he didn’t have his wand or his goons and he knew Snape was already mad at him, so he’d better mind his manners.” Ron nodded.

 

“Hey, speaking of Snape, are you okay? I mean, last time I saw you, you had smarted off to the Headmaster and you had actually punched Snape. What did he do to you? I couldn’t believe Dumbledore just left you there with him like that. I figured he would chop you up for Potions, but then no one would tell me what had happened, and I didn’t want to push too hard in front of Draco.”

 

Ron looked away. “Yeah, it’s okay. He wasn’t happy, but he didn’t go mental or anything. I wasn’t expelled.”

 

“Well, yeah, obviously. He didn’t give you three years of detention with Filch or anything?”

 

“Nah.”

 

Harry frowned, but Ron’s body language made it clear he didn’t want to discuss the matter. “Hermione says you haven’t been acting normally for the last few days. Anything wrong?”

 

“Just missing you, I guess,” Ron said, making a kissy-face expression.

 

Harry retaliated with a pillow, and the topic was dropped in the ensuing fight, just as Ron had intended.

 

Hermione was – as usual – right. Ron just wasn’t his normal self. He was much too quiet for one thing, and he was actually paying attention to his studies, as if he had suddenly realized what he was there for. Hermione was torn between delight at Ron’s new industry and concern over its unknown cause. Harry was willing to go along with the extra study time, since Snape was continuing to encourage him to spend more time on his classes and less on his corridor-wandering. Now that – thanks to Snape’s tutoring – the material made more sense to him and his grades were improving, Harry found that Hermione wasn’t as strange as he had once thought. It was actually kind of fun to know the answers, and Harry liked trying to stump Snape and the other professors by asking questions about things that weren’t covered in the textbooks. It was nice that Ron was, for once, not complaining about Snape turning Harry into another Hermione or moaning about how much time Harry was spending in the dungeons.

 

Of course, that didn’t mean that Harry had completely turned over a new leaf. As far as DADA was concerned, Harry would rather drink one of Neville’s potions than spend any time on that idiot Lockhart’s assignments. Particularly now that he was studying the topic with Snape, he saw no reason to waste his time on homework or even in attending class, though in retrospect, that was an unwise move.

 

Harry had just let himself into Snape’s quarters for their nightly study session, having finally completed the last of the flobberworm-dicing detentions Snape had assigned for his keeping silent about the attack. Even though Harry knew he was technically being punished, he actually hadn’t minded the detentions very much. While the flobberworms were undeniably disgusting, Snape had made a point of being in the dungeon classroom while Harry was working on them and had spent the time talking to him about potion ingredients. It made preparing the ingredients a lot more interesting, especially when he was able to divert Snape into telling horrifying cautionary tales of Potion Masters who had gotten careless once too often or describing the history of various illicit potions that were most decidedly not in the syllabus. With the exception of the night when Harry had gotten so caught up in the stories that he had completely forgotten to keep grinding the cockroach legs into powder – and earned himself a stinging swat as a reminder, which caused him to pout, which promptly earned another swat – the so-called punishment nights were actually quite fun.

 

Still, he was looking forward to a night that was completely punishment-free. Snape tended to be more formal during detentions, and his threshold for awarding more detention, docking points, or even administering whacks, was a lot lower. Harry wasn’t truly frightened of the man any longer, but he didn’t believe in tempting fate either.

 

So when his cheerful “H’lo, P’fessor!” was met with a growl, he was more than a little taken aback.

 

“What?” he asked blankly, dropping his schoolbag on the desk and looking over to where Snape was glowering in his chair. “I finished all the detentions. Why are you glaring at me like that?”

 

“Because I just received a note from Professor Lockhart expressing his concern over my ward’s continuing convalescence and hoping that you will soon be well enough to rejoin his class.” Harry gulped. “Since you have been out of the Infirmary for a week, I find his concern touching but misplaced. Am I to assume that you have been skipping classes?”

 

“Only his,” Harry mumbled, staring at the floor. He winced as Snape slapped his hand down on the desktop.

 

“Only his? As if that is an excuse?” Snape loomed over the boy who peered up at him nervously through his fringe. “The one class in which I have not felt it necessary to supervise you appears to be the one class that you feel free to ignore. How coincidental!” Harry squirmed at the sarcastic tone. “Are you an infant, not to be trusted to take any responsibility for your own life, Potter? Was it too much to expect that you would not require me to oversee every single aspect of your scholastic career?”

 

Snape’s fingers caught Harry under the chin and tilted the boy’s face up to meet his angry gaze. “I am very disappointed in you, Mr Potter. This lack of responsibility is puerile and self-defeating.”

 

“But there’s no point in going,” Harry argued, blinking back tears. It had been a while since Snape had had reason to scold him like this, and he’d forgotten how awful it made him feel. Besides, Snape was wrong – it wasn’t as if Lockhart taught anything worthwhile. Harry was better off spending the class time doing other work, like preparing for his DADA lessons with Snape. “He can’t teach me anything.”

 

The words echoed in Snape’s mind like the cocky pronouncements of another Potter, and Snape’s temper flared. He had long ago realized that Harry was much more like his mother in personality, and that had helped him ignore the fact that the boy resembled a miniature clone of his father, but hearing Harry spout the same kind of arrogant claim that he had heard a thousand times from James – not to mention his sidekick Black – unleashed his wrath.

 

He seized the boy by the ear, ignoring his gasp of pain, and dragged him over to the desk. “Congratulations, Mr Potter, you have just earned yourself a spanking, not to mention 200 lines of ‘I am not as smart as I think I am.’” Ignoring Harry’s protests, he pushed the brat into the chair and accio’d quill and parchment. “You can begin work on the lines while I review your DADA notes and homework. You’d better hope that your work puts me in a better mood, or you won’t be able to sit in class tomorrow, which you will be attending, if I have to walk you there myself.”

 

Harry’s blood chilled at the thought of Snape marching him from class to class by the ear, while Draco and the rest of the school watched and snickered. “You wouldn’t!” he gasped, but he knew Snape wouldn’t make idle threats.

 

“Your notes and homework?” Snape demanded, pushing the bookbag over. Harry flushed as he dug out his notebook. Snape was going to have a stroke – maybe he’d be able to flee while the Potion Master was foaming at the mouth?

 

Sure enough, it took Snape all of ten seconds to flip through Harry’s notebook and realize it contained nothing but doodles and highly uncomplimentary comments about the DADA professor. “So you and Mr Weasley do nothing in class but write notes to each other insulting your teacher?” Snape asked, his voice menacingly quiet. Harry nodded, quailing in his seat. He wouldn’t have been all that surprised if Snape had pinched his ear again, but the professor merely held out his hand. “Your homework.”

 

Harry lifted one shoulder while staring fixedly at the desktop. “What is that supposed to mean, Mr Potter?”

 

“D’n’t do’t.” Harry’s reply was almost inaudible, and he curled his fingers around the chair seat in a feeble effort to avoid being dragged up and turned over Snape’s knee.

 

“You didn’t do it?” Snape repeated incredulously. “Any of it?” Harry shook his head. “ALL YEAR LONG?”

 

“Year’s not over yet,” Harry pointed out, then ducked as Snape aimed a clout at the back of his head. Oh yeah, Snape was furious. He only cuffed Harry or snatched him by the ear when he was truly irate, and while there was no real force behind the blows – unlike his spankings – the mere fact that he did so was a clear indication that he was incandescent with rage.

 

“I’m sorry!” Harry cried, flinching back in his chair.

 

Snape visibly reined in his temper. After taking and releasing a long breath, he seated himself opposite Harry and said, calmly enough, “We will set the lines aside for now. You will use the parchment in front of you to do your overdue DADA homework. Once that has been done, you –“

 

“No.”

 

Snape stared at the brat. Was he channeling James tonight, or had he just been blind to the boy’s arrogant streak? “Excuse me?”

 

Harry swallowed hard. “I won’t do the homework. I’d rather write lines.”

 

“I wasn’t aware I was offering you a choice, Mr Potter,” Snape said, his voice brittle with fury. “And you most assuredly will do the homework. The only question is whether you do it with or without a sore backside. But I promise you, before you leave these quarters, the work will have been done.”

 

“I won’t.” Harry refused to meet his professor’s eye. He was frightened half to death, but he would rather face Snape’s wrath than give Lockhart the satisfaction of having gotten The Boy Who Lived to answer those ridiculous questions.

 

“Repeat that.”

 

Harry gulped, but he wasn’t about to back down. “I won’t do that stupid DADA homework, and you can’t make me.” Okay, that wasn’t exactly repeating himself, but it got his point across.

 

A little too well, it seemed. The next thing he knew, he had been jerked out of his chair and across Snape’s knee. Three hard swats fell in rapid succession, wringing yelps of pain out of him.

 

“That was for your attitude, Mr Potter,” Snape said coldly. “You will adjust it immediately, or I will adjust it for you. I have no intention of putting up with your arrogant determination of which classes or professors are worthy of your time and attention,” he sneered. “You are a foolish, ill-mannered, and untutored child who should be grateful that your professors are willing to expend their time and effort to teach dunderheaded ingrates like yourself.” He smacked Harry again, hard, and the combined sting of slap and words made the tears spring to Harry’s eyes.

 

“I’m not ungrateful or arrogant!” Harry protested, his voice rough with unshed tears. “You can’t stand Lockhart eith- ow!”

 

“That is Professor Lockhart to you,” Snape snarled, bringing his hand down hard on the sensitive undercurve of Harry’s bottom. He paused then smacked him again, in just the same spot, and Harry writhed under the stern blows. “And my relationship with – or opinion of – a colleague has no bearing on the fact that you will treat all your professors with respect!” Two more smacks to the tender area accompanied the last words, and Harry yelled and squirmed.

 

He lay over Snape’s knee, panting. He hadn’t been walloped this hard in a while, and Snape showed no sign of stopping. Harry gulped – this might well be his first spanking whose effects didn’t fade within the hour. For some reason, Snape wasn’t his usual cool, deliberate self. He was obviously furious with Harry, and somehow Harry doubted that the usual ritual of tea and biscuits would be forthcoming after this punishment.

 

Then Snape surprised him again, yanking him upright to stand alongside the professor’s chair. Harry’s hands flew to cup his flaming backside, and he prayed there would be no more swats to come.

 

“All right, Potter. You still have a spanking coming to you for not doing your work and skipping class.” The professor ignored Harry’s exclamation of dismay. “It’s your decision as to whether you want yet another one for continuing to defy me. You will be sitting at that desk for the next several hours doing your DADA homework, the only choice you have is how painful your backside will be while you do it.”

 

Harry fought back his tears. He wouldn’t cry in front of the greasy git. He wouldn’t. Snape was being totally unfair. He had already walloped him once and promised another one before Harry left, now he was threatening him with a third smacking? And what business of his was it anyway? If Harry didn’t want to do his work, then that was Harry’s decision. Snape had nothing to do with it. It was just like him to stick his big nose into things that didn’t concern him. He didn’t even care that Lockhart was a git – and pretending he wasn’t just showed what a giant hypocrite the man was. It wasn’t as if Snape would even sit near the man at the staff table, yet he had walloped Harry just because he had forgotten to use his title? That was just mean. Snape could whack him until his arse fell off, Harry wasn’t going to do it. He just wasn’t.

 

Snape watched the emotions flit across Harry’s face and the boy’s jaw set in a mutinous line. He frowned, recognizing that they were about to get into a contest of wills, where he tried to compel obedience with harder and harder whacks under which Harry’s brittle trust in him would shatter. Much of Snape’s ire had been relieved by administering what he admitted were exceptionally sound swats to the boy’s bottom, and he knew Harry was feeling their sting. But along with the pain in his backside, it was clear from Harry’s expression that his heart was hurting too. He was feeling betrayed and angry, not repentant and sorry. This would hardly promote their relationship.

 

Snape felt irritation with himself. He was a Slytherin, for Merlin’s sake! Since when did he have to rely on brute force to intimidate a child or compel compliance? Besides, thanks to those appalling relatives, Harry had a high pain tolerance. Snape had no intention of leaving both of them with bruises. Better to distract the boy than to continue down this unprofitable path.

 

“Potter, why on earth are you trying to sabotage yourself in the one class in which you are certain to excel? Even if you were not receiving extra tutelage with me, you have a natural talent for DADA. Why are you making life harder for yourself?” Silence. Snape rolled his eyes. Now Harry was sulking and giving him the silent treatment. “Not doing your assignments is inexcusable. Surely you could have done this homework in your sleep.”

 

Harry glared at the floor. His bottom really hurt and the last thing he wanted to do was to talk to the ugly bat who had smacked him. And for what? He hadn’t done anything to deserve those whacks, especially not ones that were so hard. He was just being honest and telling Snape the truth. It wasn’t even like he had meant to insult Lockhart, but Snape had still walloped him for it. Well, fine. If he was going to be that way, then Harry might as well keep his mouth shut, since anything he said was going to get him hit.

 

“Potter.” Silence. “Potter, answer me.”

 

“Why?” Harry burst out angrily. “You’re just going to hit me anyway.”

 

“Potter –“ Well, actually, he was. Snape had to acknowledge Harry’s point. It had been foolish of him to remind the boy of the still-remaining punishment. It meant he had lost leverage over the brat. He took a deep breath. “Harry.” As usual, the use of his first name brought the boy’s eyes up, though the expression in them remained hurt and angry. “I am trying to understand your viewpoint. Why would you deliberately seek to fail a class in which you are talented?”

 

Harry felt a little twinge of pleasure at the compliment, but he was still too upset to be completely mollified. “Why do you care about my viewpoint now?” he muttered. “You already made up your mind that I’m rotten and arrogant and just like my father.”

 

Snape winced internally. The boy’s flashes of insight never failed to surprise him. He should have known that Harry would pick up on the fact that Snape had reacted not so much to Harry’s words, but to the echo of James that Snape had seen in them. He would not have reacted so violently to any other student saying the same thing – it was his own memory of the elder Potter than had caused his reaction, not Harry’s behavior.

 

Not that Harry’s behavior didn’t deserve chastisement, but, Snape had to admit, it hadn’t merited the degree of punishment he’d administered. “I admit that your statement reminded me of your father,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “and that made me respond more… forcefully… than I should. That is not to excuse your behavior,” he added quickly, “but you are correct that I should have let you explain yourself first. I apologize.”

 

Emerald eyes, wide with surprise, flew to meet his. Snape forced himself to meet the gaze steadily, revealing the apology that he sincerely felt. He raised an eyebrow questioningly. Would the boy accept?

 

His Slytherin instincts were still good. Harry’s shoulders relaxed and a corner of his mouth twitched upwards. “Okay,” he allowed.

 

Wow. An apology. From a professor. And not just any professor, but Snape. Ron would never believe this. Maybe Snape wasn’t such a bastard after all. And it wasn’t like Harry had tried to explain himself either. He’d been pretty stubborn himself, all “NO” and “I WON’T”. Maybe it wasn’t such a surprise that Snape had thought he was being arrogant. And since Harry knew that Snape detested his father and thought he was a bigheaded git, he really should have been careful not to do anything that would make Snape think he was the same way. He was sort of responsible for getting Snape that mad that quickly. And he could have stopped it. If he had told Snape that he was being unfair or punishing his father not him, or even just said that Snape was scaring him, he was quite sure the professor would have stopped dead. Oh, he might have carried out the punishment eventually, but he had made such a point about the fact that “appropriate punishments” do not involve terror-inducing assaults that a request to stop would probably have worked.

 

But instead, Harry had just gotten angrier and sulkier, and the more Snape yelled and hit, the more righteously indignant Harry had felt. He sighed. Maybe he was every bit as immature as Snape claimed. He certainly hadn’t done much to try to explain himself and avoid the big fight, and while Snape was the adult, it was, after all, Harry’s backside. You’d think he would have been smart enough to try to protect his own skin, even – or perhaps especially – if it meant having to act like an adult.

 

“As you know, I have a temper,” Snape said after a minute. “I hope that my hasty actions will not damage our relationship.” He had once made a similar statement to Lily after losing his temper with her, and she had laughed and said that if he could do no better than so stilted an apology, then she had better stick around just to interpret for him with the other students. He hoped her son would react in a similar fashion.

 

Wow! A second apology. From Snape. He must really be feeling guilty. And that meant he must really like Harry. Right? After all, he had just said that he didn’t want to damage their relationship. That meant it was important to him. Right?

 

Snape relaxed as Harry beamed at him. It was a little unnerving how quickly the boy forgave. Especially to someone like Snape who never forgot a grudge, Harry’s ability to absolve others was nothing short of miraculous. Snape still harbored a grievance against Minerva McGonagall for scolding him during his third year when it had been the idiotic Ravenclaw seated next to him who had been talking in class, not him. It was hard for him to fathom how Harry could pardon harsh words and a harsher spanking even while his bottom still burned from the punishment.

 

“I’ve got a temper, too, Professor,” Harry offered eagerly. “I’m sorry for getting mad and not even trying to explain.”

 

“Now that we have both apologized, perhaps you would explain why you have not seen fit to attend DADA classes or do your assignments?” Snape waited, eyebrow raised.

 

“Well,” Harry bit his lower lip, thinking of the best way to put it, “since I’m studying DADA with you, and you teach it a lot better than Professor Lockhart does,” Harry made sure to use the idiot’s title, and Snape’s lips twitched both at Harry’s caution and the unconscious compliment, “it just seemed like it made more sense to spend the class preparing for our lessons.”

 

“That is not acceptable, Mr Potter,” Snape said sternly. “You must attend your classes. I am glad that you find our time together helpful, but this material is supplementary to your course syllabus. You will miss out on certain topics if you do not attend.” For a moment he thought Harry was going to argue, but in the end the boy just shrugged in acceptance. Snape realized it was as much of a capitulation as he was going to get and decided not to push the matter any further.

 

“And your homework?” Harry’s head shot up, his eyes once again guarded, and Snape continued quickly. “I am not going to debate the matter with you, Mr Potter. But before we become enmeshed in argument about doing the homework, why don’t you tell me why you are so adamant in your refusal to complete the work your professor assigns? I am well aware you know the material.”

 

Harry snorted. “Even you couldn’t answer these questions.”

 

Snape felt his temper rise again. So the little wretch thought he knew more than both Lockhart and him? Maybe he hadn’t overreacted after all. But the boy was still talking.

 

“The questions have nothing to do with DADA. They’re just stupid. I’m not going to waste my time looking up answers I don’t know, and neither would you.”

 

Snape rubbed his jawline. Perhaps this was the way to take the boy down a notch. “Potter, I have a proposal for you. If I can answer your homework, then you will admit that there is DADA material that you don’t yet know and you will do all of your homework, past, present, and future, and you will attend all classes from here on out. And you will publicly apologize to your professor for your attitude.” That last should teach Harry the folly of youthful arrogance.

 

But oddly enough, those emerald eyes were gleaming with anticipation, not concern. Oh, yes, this boy needed taking down.

 

“Okay, Professor, but if you can’t answer the questions without looking up the answers, then I don’t have to do the homework or apologize to that g- Professor Lockhart, and I don’t get smacked again or have to do lines.”

 

Snape inclined his head in agreement. He wasn’t planning on giving the boy anything more than a token spanking anyway, not after such a hard punishment earlier. Even a few light slaps would be painful on the boy’s smarting and tender skin, but Snape wouldn’t go back on his word. Still, if by some weird fluke there was a question or two he couldn’t answer, perhaps he would agree to waive Potter’s remaining punishments in return for his promise to attend classes and do his homework. That would enable the boy to save face while still ensuring he would meet his obligations.

 

Harry grinned. He was looking forward to this. He handed Snape the course syllabus. “Here, Professor. I don’t care which assignment you do. You can choose.”

 

Snape’s eyebrows rose. Quite the cocky lad, wasn’t he? Well, he was about to learn why it was foolish to give away any advantage, no matter how slight. Perhaps he would give the brat a few real swats after all, just to ensure that any latent James-like tendencies were curbed.

 

Snape flipped through the syllabus and found the first homework assignment. He read it and his jaw dropped. Ignoring the snickers he heard from the boy, he quickly flipped on to the next assignment. And the next. And the next. “POTTER!” he shouted, furious. “Stop this nonsense and give me the real assignments!”

 

Harry crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged. “Those are the real assignments. If you don’t believe me, ask Ron. Or Hermione. Or anyone. Ask Lockhart – I mean, Professor Lockhart – if you want.”

 

“Don’t be stupid, Potter,” Snape spat out the words. “This isn’t a homework assignment! What color are Gilderoy Lockhart’s eyes? What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s favorite drink? Write a three foot essay describing why Gilderoy Lockhart is the most fascinating wizard of our time.  What is this – this drivel?”

 

“That’s the homework you walloped me for not doing,” Harry said politely, but there was immense satisfaction in his tone.

 

“No, I punished you for your attitude,” Snape corrected automatically, still flipping through the syllabus in an increasingly hopeless effort to find something remotely related to DADA.

 

“Which you thought was arrogant because I refused to do that homework,” Harry pointed out.

Snape barely heard him; he was too busy skimming the lesson content. Nothing on spells, dueling, hexes, Dark Arts. Everything on Gilderoy Lockhart, from his shoe size to his mother’s hometown.

 

“What happens in his classes?” Snape demanded, turning back to Harry.

 

“He tells big fat lies about how brilliant he is and how he dueled and defeated all these powerful Dark wizards, and he reads from his press clippings and his autobiographies. And he has us answer his fan mail.” Harry grimaced at the volume of Snape’s outraged “WHAT?!?”

 

“He does,” Harry protested. “He makes us do it in his detentions too, that’s why I stopped going.” Oops. He hadn’t exactly meant to admit that to Snape. He figured Lockhart hadn’t reported him for skiving off because he didn’t want to get on the bad side of The Boy Who Lived, and here he goes and blurts it out to Snape!

 

Snape shot him a glare, but it was clear he was too distracted to give Harry the scolding he deserved.

 

“Has class been like this the whole year?”

 

“So far,” Harry agreed. This was actually kind of fun. It wasn’t often he saw Snape so furious at someone else.

 

“Right,” Snape snapped the syllabus down on the table. Only his white knuckled grasp of the document revealed his emotions. “You are not to waste your time on this nonsense. I will speak with the Headmaster and ensure that that idi- Professor Lockhart will immediately adopt a more orthodox syllabus. I will also ensure that another faculty member, perhaps myself, attends his classes –“

 

Harry choked. No! Not that! “Please, Professor! You can’t. I promise, I’ll go to class. You don’t have to sit in it and guard me!”

 

Snape snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous, you foolish child. It’s not you I’ll be watching, it’s that moron Lockhart. I have no intention of him wasting the time of every student in the school on this narcissistic claptrap.” He paused, looking sternly at Harry. “Why on earth did you not tell me about this earlier?”

 

Harry’s eyes widened. Was Snape seriously about to blame him for this? “What? What do you mean? What should I have said? He’s an awful teacher?  Binns is an awful teacher too, but no one does anything about him. Why would I think to say anything about Lo- Professor Lockhart? And besides, why is it my fault? Why didn’t one of your Slytherins complain to you?”

 

“You are my ward – there is a much closer bond between us than between myself and the students in my House,” Snape said impatiently, completely unaware of the shattering impact those few words just had on Harry. “I expect you to tell me everything that impacts on your life – both academic and personal – and particularly if it has the potential to affect your ability to defeat the Dark Lord. Did it not occur to you that having a completely useless DADA teacher and thus losing a year of study would negatively impact your preparations?

 

“I cannot imagine what the Headmaster was thinking to hire that egomaniac! He might as well hire a vampire or werewolf. We are preparing for war, and he is hiring pretty boy nitwits to teach our children the most important lessons of their lives…” Snape ranted on, but Harry was completely oblivious. He was floating on a happy pink cloud, wrapped in bliss. His bum had stopped hurting, his eventual confrontation with Voldemort didn’t matter. Snape had said that he, Harry, mattered more to him than his little snakes. And everyone knew how much Snape cared about the students in his House. If Snape had climbed onto the staff table in the middle of dinner in the Great Hall and publicly announced his devotion to Harry, it couldn’t have been a more definite pronouncement, and the fact that he had clearly not even thought twice about making it made it even more special. Harry felt like his whole body was filled with a warm light. He hadn’t felt this safe and cared for since his parents died.

 

“Potter!” A sharp shake to his shoulder brought him back to earth. “Are you done with your daydreaming, you silly child?” Snape’s snarky tones rang in his ears. “Just because you are excused from DADA homework for the moment doesn’t mean you have no work to do. What about that Transfiguration essay? I expect to see at least another six inches before you leave here this evening, and since Dobby will be bringing the tea and biscuits in another hour, I suggest you stop staring off into space and get busy.”

 

Harry grinned. Yep, this was his Snape all right.

 

He moved to his bookbag and pulled out his desk chair, only to halt when Snape cleared his throat. The professor looked a bit awkward as he waved his wand and accio’d several large pillows to the hearth in front of the fireplace. “You may find it easier to concentrate lying in front of the fire, rather than sitting at the desk,” he offered uncomfortably. Harry looked at him in delight. Sitting down in that hard chair would have been acutely painful – the sting in his backside had lessened, but it still throbbed, and it would be infinitely more comfortable to lie on his stomach in front of the fire.

 

“Thanks!” he said, recognizing the offer as the further apology that it was. “And thanks for doing something about Lockhart – I mean, Prof-“

 

“It’s all right, Harry. You can just call him by his surname,” Snape said, then smirked at Harry’s look of astonishment. “I have had to modify my position on the respect due to all professors.”

 

Harry lay face-down on the cushions and got out his Transfigurations essay. Snape eyed him for a moment, then reached a decision. “Here.”

 

Harry looked at the vial Snape was holding out. “What is it?”

 

“A standard healing potion – as you should be able to recognize by now,” Snape said pointedly. Harry sighed resignedly at the rebuke, but nodded obediently. “If you are still uncomfortable from earlier by the time you are getting ready for bed, take it. It was not my intention to cause you lasting discomfort, and I would be… distressed… if you remained so.”

 

Harry looked from him to the potion and back again. “Then shouldn’t I just take it now?” he asked mischievously. “Wouldn’t want to cause you any worry.”

 

Scowling, Snape reached down and smacked his upturned backside, careful to land the light slap in a previously untouched area. “Mind your cheek, Mr Potter, particularly when you are in such a vulnerable position.”

 

“Ouch,” Harry complained, but he had to duck his head to hide the grin on his face. “Can I at least have extra shortbread tonight?”

 

“If you make acceptable progress on your essay, that might be arranged,” Snape agreed carelessly, seating himself at the desk and pulling over a stack of homework to be graded.

 

Harry settled down to his work with a little noise of contentment, and Snape hid a smile of his own. Lily would be pleased.

 

The panicked knocking on the door to his private quarters woke Snape. A quick glance confirmed what his grogginess had already told him: it was barely 2 am. Alert for trouble, he opened the door with his wand drawn and a curse on his lips. Not that he expected an assassin to knock, but he had survived too many traps not to be cautious.

 

When he recognized the two of them standing there, he was sorely tempted to let fly with the curse. “Mr Potter, why are you out after curfew, pounding on my door?”

 

The brat had the temerity to shove past him, his eyes wide and frightened. “Nightmare,” he gasped, his arm slung around Weasley’s shoulders.

 

Snape’s irritation vanished. “Was it a vision?” he asked quickly, hurrying to help the boy to the couch.

 

“Not me,” Harry said, surprised. “Ron.”

 

Snape jerked to a halt. “Weasley had a nightmare?”

 

“Yeah,” Harry confirmed, busy settling his friend on Snape’s couch and tucking him in with the afghan he plucked from Snape’s stunned grasp. “It was really bad. He was screaming about Vold- erm, You Know Who. And he –“

 

“Potter!” Snape snapped, glaring at the two. He noted absently that Weasely did look awful, pale and shivering with his hair matted down with sweat. “Why in Merlin’s name did you drag me out of bed?”

“He needs Dreamless Sleep,” Harry answered, surprised.

 

Snape gritted his teeth. “Last time I checked, Madame Pomfrey also had a supply of potions, and she is the normal person to assist a student in difficulty. Particularly in the middle of the night!”

 

Ron was shivering despite the blanket around his shoulders. “No. No Infirmary,” he said between chattering teeth.

 

“See?” Harry turned back to his friend.

 

“Mr Potter.” Snape snatched him by the shoulder and spun him back around. Harry’s eyes widened as for the first time he registered Snape’s disapproval. “Your delivery of Mr Weasley is both unwelcome and inappropriate. Professor McGonagall is the adult responsible for the welfare of your House, and –“

 

“She doesn’t have her own stock of potions,” Harry interrupted, a scowl of his own developing. “So she’d just send him to Madame Pomfrey, where he doesn’t want to go!”

 

“Then he must not be in that much distress!” Snape realized his mistake as he saw Harry’s eyes flash with anger. Never, he groaned to himself, arouse a Gryffindor’s protective streak. Especially at two in the morning.

 

“Oh yes he is!” Harry snapped back. “You didn’t hear him screaming and crying. He dreamt he had turned into Voldemort.”

 

Snape’s gaze flashed to Weasley, who looked both guilty and mortified.

 

“Ron said he wouldn’t go to the Infirmary or to Professor McGonagall but he let me bring him here.” Again Snape saw that flash of guilt cross Weasley’s face, and he understood what was tormenting the redhead.

 

Bloody oversensitive imbecilic guilt-ridden Gryffindors, Snape cursed to himself. Weasley was obviously torturing himself over what he had done to Snape. In the absence of a punishment imposed upon him, he’d developed his own chastisement from within his own mind.

 

Snape rolled his eyes in exasperation. He had hoped to make the brat sweat, letting his dread of Snape’s eventual retribution drive him mad, but instead his oversized conscience (not to mention his tendency for exaggeration) had decided that he must be as bad as the Dark Lord himself and was administering the worst torment it could.

 

This didn’t suit Snape at all. He wanted Weasley frightened of him, not of some nonsensical nightmare. “Weasley, you really are an idiot,” Snape snarled. The boy ducked his head and looked even more wretched, but Harry – predictably – flared.

 

“Don’t call him names! It’s not his fault he had a nightmare!”

 

“Oh, no?” Snape raised an eyebrow inquiringly at Weasley, but the boy avoided his eyes. So he hadn’t told Harry anything, then…

 

“No!” the boy in question shouted. Now in a complete temper, Harry stepped in front of Ron, forcing Snape to speak to him. “You’re nothing but hypocrites,” he yelled. “You and Dumbledore and McGonagall – you all say you care and that you want us to come to you with problems, but when we do, you won’t help! Well, fine. Just forget it. I bet Hermione can make the bloody potion just as good as you!” He spun to help Ron up, and Snape grabbed him by the back of his collar.

 

Frog-marching the furious boy out of the room, Snape spoke over his shoulder. “Sit on your hands, Weasley, and if you move so much as an inch while we’re gone, you won’t be able to sit again until Christmas!”

 

Not even bothering to make sure he was obeyed, Snape continued out of the room, dragging Harry into the hall and closing the door behind them. “Mr Potter, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t punish you for your blatant disrespect and discourteous attitude,” he said sternly, striving for calm.

 

“My discourteous attitude?” Harry retorted angrily. “You’ve been nothing but discourteous since we arrived.”

 

“If you turn up on someone’s doorstep at two in the morning, do not expect them to be particularly hospitable.”

 

“You make it sound like we came by for tea. It was an emergency! I needed help and so I came. I see now what a big mistake I made. Sorry to have troubled you, Professor!” he sneered with elaborate, sarcastic courtesy. “I should have known better.”

 

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed coffee. Loath though he was to admit it, Harry had a point.

 

All of his efforts to develop an improved relationship with the boy had in fact paid off. Harry had turned to him for help in a time of crisis. That was a good thing – though at 2 am he felt he could be excused for not being overjoyed at this sign of progress.

Seeing the lines of fatigue etched on Snape’s face had dampened Harry’s ire a bit. “I didn’t think you’d mind so much,” he huffed, defensive. “You take care of me when I have a nightmare.”

 

Snape struggled for patience. “There is a difference,” he said evenly. “Your nightmares may be visions from the Dark Lord. It is important to seek my help with them. Furthermore, I am acting as your guardian, so it is appropriate for you to come to me with –“

 

“And I am. So why are you being such a git?” The instant the word slipped out, Harry regretted it. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he blurted, backing up a step.

 

Snape’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and Harry could see the struggle in them – to swat or not to swat? When the professor let out a long, slow breath, Harry sagged in relief.

 

“I really am sorry,” he repeated, less frantically but with patent sincerity. “I shouldn’t have said that. I was just really angry.”

 

Snape inclined his head in acknowledgement of the apology. The boy was making progress - that had been quite well put. “We are both tired and tempers are short,” he agreed, as close as he would come to an apology of his own. “But while I am very pleased both by your asking for help and by your trusting me to assist you, I must still point out that there is a sizable difference between my helping you and helping another  Gryffindor.”

 

“But it’s not just another Gryffindor,” Harry protested, though he felt a warm rush of pleasure at Snape’s praise. “It’s Ron.”

 

“Mr Potter, there are several reasons I should not help Mr Weasley,” Snape said in tones of finality.

 

“And several reasons why you should,” Harry shot back, undaunted.

 

“Such as?” Snape asked dubiously,

 

“If I tell you, will you help him?” Harry bargained.

 

“If you can come up with a valid reason – as defined by me – then yes,” Snape smirked, confident in Harry’s inability to build a logical argument but pleased enough to encourage such Slytherin cunning.

 

Harry smirked right back. “First, he’s my best friend.  That means his problems are my problems, and you already said you’d help me with my problems.”

 

Snape pressed his lips together. That was almost reasonable. Perhaps he had underestimated Potter. He was Lily’s son, after all. “No, Mr Potter. By that logic, I should assist you with every minor detail of your life, including unpalatable seat assignments and minor squabbles with your classmates.”

 

Harry was unfazed by the argument’s rejection. “Okay, then you should do it because the Weasleys have practically adopted me – unofficially, I mean, though they’ve told the Headmaster that they want to for real.” Snape nodded cautiously. He knew the Weasley clan kept pestering Dumbledore. As if they didn’t have a large enough brood already! “So that makes Ron sort of my brother. And you’re kind of my guardian now, right? So that makes you Ron’s guardian too, sort of. Like you’re related to me and he’s related to me, so you’re related to each other!” Harry looked at him triumphantly.

 

Snape fought down queasiness. It was much too early even to contemplate being related to Weasleys. “Absolutely not.”

 

Potter scowled, but then determinedly returned to the attack. “Okay,” his voice held nothing but resolve. “Then you should help him because it’s good for the war.”

 

Snape snorted in disbelief, but Harry pressed on. “I know I’ve got to fight You Know Who, but Ron and Hermione are going to fight too.” He paused, giving Snape a guilty look. “I don’t want them to, and I told them that, but Hermione says she and her parents are already in danger since her folks are Muggles. And Ron’s family fought against Him in the first war, so He already thinks they’re blood traitors. Plus everyone already knows they’re my best friends so they’ll be in danger no matter what, and they say they’d rather fight than hide.” For all his words, his tone was uncertain, and Harry looked at Snape as if asking for his opinion. Snape nodded. Whatever his personal opinion of the know-it-all and the moron, he did agree with their decision. Having seen all too closely what Death Eaters could do, Snape was convinced that it was better for people to be as prepared as possible to fight them. If nothing else, it might make their deaths quicker and less agonizing.

 

“Okay.” Harry seemed slightly heartened by Snape’s agreement (or at least lack of argument). “So that means we’re all going to be fighting You Know Who, and the less we trust each other, the easier it will be for Voldie.” Snape looked at him sharply. Voldie? Harry grinned briefly. “You know Ron doesn’t, erm, trust you very much. If you help him now, though, he’ll get to know you and trust you like I do – “ Snape was jolted by the casualness with which Harry made such a statement. Did the boy not realize what he had just said? Perhaps it was the early hour; he wasn’t thinking clearly. Oblivious to his professor’s shock, Harry continued blithely, “ - so  it’ll be easier for him to work with you and the rest of us against You Know Who.”

 

Blast. Against all expectations, the brat had come up with a reasonable argument. Snape scowled. He was going to have to commend Harry’s logic and actually help Weasley. Could this night get any worse? “Very well.” He managed not to let his teeth grinding become audible. “I will assist Mr Weasley.”

 

To Snape’s astonishment, Harry threw his arms around his waist. “I knew you would!”

 

Snape snorted, but he patted the boy on the back before stepping away from the embrace. Better to get away before the brat realized what he had done. Obviously the hour must be making the boy act in this uninhibited fashion. A Potter would never voluntarily touch a Snape; the boy’s father would be spinning in his grave. “Yes, well, I’m not sure you should have been quite that confident.”

 

Harry grinned, giddy with both relief and fatigue. “Oh, I had two other arguments that would definitely have worked. I’m just glad I didn’t have to use them.”

 

Curious, Snape paused en route to his Potions storeroom. “Oh? Why is that?”

 

“ ’Cause you’d have helped, but you’d’ve been mad,” Harry replied candidly.

 

“Enunciate properly, Mr Potter. Even at this hour there is no excuse to speak in such a sloppy fashion,” Snape reproved automatically, but his curiosity was piqued. “Why would I have been angry?”

 

Harry paused, a glint of mischief in his eye. “If I tell you, you have to promise not to whack me.”

 

“Why would I ‘whack’ you?” Snape’s suspicious instincts were now quivering.

 

“Well, I figured if you were completely unreasonable and nothing else worked, I’d just have to offer you a quidquo.”

 

Snape frowned, thinking. Then: “You mean a quid pro quo?”

 

Harry nodded. “I thought that might work, you being a Slytherin and all.”

 

“And what were you planning to do for me in exchange for my assisting Mr Weasley?”

 

“It’s more what I was offering not to do,” Harry admitted, smirking.

 

“Explain,” Snape ordered silkily, closing the distance between them.

 

Harry, busy fighting off an attack of the giggles, didn’t notice. “Well, I figured that I’d explain that if you wouldn’t help, then I’d tell everyone something you wouldn’t like them to know.”

 

Snape’s jaw tightened. The possibilities were nearly endless. The Potter brat knew a great deal of sensitive information about his connections to the Dark Lord. Add to that the unprecedented amount of time he had spent in Snape’s company, including his private quarters, and who knew what he might have stumbled across? “Such as?” He wasn’t certain if he was pleased by such extortionist tactics or appalled by them. Did Minerva realize what her little lions were capable of? Or were fears of Voldemort’s return causing students to behave uncharacteristically? Were some of his Slytherins running around, engaging in foolish heroics?

 

“Such as that you hugged me,” Harry announced gleefully. “And if they didn’t believe me, I would tell them that they could ask the Headmaster. And then, once they got over the shock of that, I was going to tell them that your middle name was Buttercup.”

 

“WHAT?” Snape bellowed, clutching at the wall. “My middle name is Tobias!”

 

Harry shrugged. “Yeah, but once I got them to believe me, I figured I might as well make it good. Oh, and I was going to tell them that you keep a bunny here in your quarters as your familiar and you call him Mr Snuggles.” He started to laugh at Snape’s horrified countenance. “And – and that when you were a kid you slept with a p-plushie unicorn named Rainbow. And that – ouch!”

 

Snape, seeing the imminent destruction of his carefully constructed persona, had reacted predictably. Snatching Harry by the collar, he tucked him under one arm and brought the other hand down smartly onto the seat of Harry’s dressing gown.

 

“Ow! You promised!” Harry protested, but his indignant tone was hampered by the fact that he couldn’t wholly suppress his snickers.

 

“I did not promise,” Snape pointed out between clenched teeth. “And you were quite right to assume I would not take kindly to blackmail.”

 

“Oh, come on. Ouch! It’s a perfect Slytherin plan,” Harry argued, squirming. “You should – ow! – be awarding me points for initiative. Ouch! Not so hard! It’s not like I actually did it!”

 

At that, Snape righted Harry and turned his fiercest glare on the boy. “If you ever even contemplate spreading such arrant nonsense –“

 

Harry grinned impertinently at him. His face was flushed and his hair even more tousled than usual, but the swats had obviously done little to squelch his cheeky attitude. Snape glowered. Clearly he should have applied more force to the swats, but who would have expected the boy to have become so impervious to his threatening manner? “I bet I could convince at least half your first years. Want to wager?”

 

Snape reached for his collar again, and Harry skipped backwards, holding up his hands in surrender. He didn’t lose his smirk, though. “Okay, okay. Don’t be so crabby.”

 

“Crabby!” Snape’s eyebrows nearly reached his hairline. This insolence was going to stop at once. “If you don’t want a real punishment, Mr Potter, you will begin to show me the proper respect right now.” There was not the slightest hint of humor in his tone or expression, and Harry’s smile slowly faded.

 

Snape watched, hiding his surprise, as Harry’s impish expression was replaced by first uncertainty, then dismay, and finally guilt. “I’m sorry.” At last Harry spoke, staring at the ground. All animation had left him. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. You’ve been really brilliant, you know. I wasn’t trying to make you angry. I thought you’d – y’know – find it funny.” His hands crept around to his backside and started to rub gingerly.

 

Snape looked down on the bent head and slumped shoulders and sighed silently. Merlin, but the boy was fragile. His own irritation had been assuaged, partly when it became clear that the boy hadn’t truly intended any disrespect, and partly when he realized that he hadn’t lost his touch in intimidating the brat. He just needed to use different methods than he had originally. “Your efforts to enlist my sympathy are futile, Mr Potter. You allowed too much time to lapse before indicating distress,” he commented sternly, but his tone was significantly less harsh than a few moments before.

 

Harry glanced up, confused. “Sympathy?”

 

Snape tugged Harry’s hand around from where it was soothing away the sting of the swats. “If you wish me to feel remorse for my brutal assault upon your posterior, it would behoove you not to snigger while I am administering the blows.”

 

Harry stared at him. Was Snape actually making a joke? He had sounded so furious – as if he really believed Harry would have said all that stuff about him – that Harry’s bum had started to smart. Harry had been laughing so much when the swats first fell, he hadn’t really paid much attention to them, but when the happy bubble in his chest had been burst by Snape’s betrayed expression, he had felt their effect in a weird sort of delayed reaction. Now, watching Snape carefully, he thought it looked as though he was no longer angry. More… tired.

 

“I wouldn’t have really done it, you know. I was just kidding,” he said quietly, peering up through his fringe at the tall man.

 

“I do know that, Harry,” Snape admitted, deliberately using the boy’s first name and seeing his lips curve in an answering smile. “But for a moment, I wasn’t so sure.”

 

“What? How could you think I’d do something like that!” Harry yelped, insulted.

 

Snape quirked an eyebrow at him. “As you pointed out, it was a very Slytherin plan. Do you really imagine that a Slytherin wouldn’t be serious in making such an offer?”

 

Harry’s eyes widened as he thought about it. “You mean Draco would have gone through with it?”

 

“No; Mr Malfoy has too keen a sense of self-preservation to consider such a plan, let alone share it with me, even in jest,” Snape replied with a pointed look. “That was not a particularly intelligent move.”

 

Harry looked penitent for about three seconds, then the memory of Snape’s expression leapt to mind and he started to snicker again.

 

“Potter –“ Snape began warningly, only to be interrupted.

“M-Mr Snuggles,” Harry choked, trying to hold in his laughter.

 

“Potter, you have exactly ten seconds to get yourself under control, or you will not be able to sit in class tomorrow!”

 

“Yes, Professor… Buttercup!” Harry ducked away from Snape’s grab at his ear and managed to control himself. “Okay, sorry. That was the last one, I promise.”

 

Snape rolled his eyes but was too tired to go into full-out ogre mode. “Potter, it is two in the morning. I suggest we get the potion you came for and go to our respective beds.”

 

Reminded of his friend, waiting in Snape’s sitting room, Harry sobered quickly. “Right. Poor Ron.”

 

As he selected a Dreamless Sleep potion from his shelf, Snape glanced down at the boy beside him. “What was the other one?”

 

“What other one?” Harry asked distractedly, peering at all the weirdly glowing potion vials.

 

“You said you had two back-up plans that you could have used. The blackmail attempt was one. What was the other?”

 

Harry looked extremely uncomfortable. “Nothing.”

 

“Potter, do not insult my intelligence by lying to me.”

 

“Okay, okay,” the boy squirmed, whining, “I won’t lie about it, but I don’t want to tell you either.”

 

“Is it that likely to earn you another spanking?” Snape asked drily.

 

Harry shook his head, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Snape’s curiosity began to itch, and he recognized that if he didn’t find out what Potter’s plan had been, he’d be up all night speculating about it.

 

“If I promise not to ‘whack’ you, will you tell me?” Another head shake.

 

“What if I promise not to get angry?” Head shake.

 

“Come now, boy! It can hardly be that Slytherin a plan!”

 

“ ‘S not Slytherin.” He could barely hear Harry’s words, they were so soft and directed towards the boy’s feet. “ ‘S H’f’l’p’f.”

 

Snape struggled to make sense of the mumble. “It was a Hufflepuff plan?” he echoed in astonishment. “How so?” he demanded. Coming to a complete stop, he caught the boy by the elbow, forcing him to do likewise.

 

Harry was scarlet and wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Potter, tell me.” Nothing. “Harry?”

 

The boy broke, as Snape knew he would. “I – I figured if nothing else worked, I’d just ask you to do it. For me.” The last two words were all but inaudible, and Snape recognized what an effort it had been, regardless of the hour, for the boy to say them.

 

Snape’s own color flared. This was tantamount to a declaration of - well – something, and Snape wasn’t sure how he felt about it, nor even how he wanted to feel about it.

 

“I see…”

 

Harry felt like a total prat. He had just gone ahead and blurted out his feelings like a needy toddler! Could he get any more pathetic? And now Snape would sneer and demand to know why he thought that a plea of “Do it for me!” from a Potter would ever make Snape do anything but the opposite of the requested action.  Bad enough that he had been distracted enough before to actually grab the man in a hug. He was still surprised that Snape hadn’t pushed him away, or even clouted him like Uncle Vernon would have.

 

What had he been thinking? He knew Snape loathed that sort of thing. Okay, he’d realized that day in the Headmaster’s office that Snape didn’t actually hate him anymore, that maybe, thanks to his mum, Snape actually felt even a little sorry for him. But for Harry to blurt his feelings out like that, as if it were something Snape wanted to hear… No, he had been stupid, stupid, stupid. It’s not as if Snape wanted to like him, but between his mum and the prophecy and Harry’s role in the war, he had gotten used to him and didn’t actively despise him – which was great. But to make it sound like he thought Snape was all soppy about him, or like he expected Snape to act like a doting relative and indulge him in any stupid request like the Dursleys did for Dudley – well, Merlin only knew how much damage Harry had just done to their relationship.

 

Oh no – he was clearing his throat. Here it came. This was going to be awful.

 

“Well, Potter, I suppose that would have worked,” Snape finally allowed quietly, then swept on down the hall and into the sitting room, leaving a gobsmacked Harry staring after him.

 

Ron paused outside Snape’s quarters, fighting down an almost-overwhelming need to sick up. The other night, after returning with the Dreamless Sleep potion and finding Ron frozen in place, Snape had informed Ron that his detention would start the following evening at seven.

Ron knew perfectly well what he was referring to, but of course Harry hadn’t and he had assumed that Snape was punishing Ron for his nightmare and disturbing Snape’s rest. There had been quite a lot of shouting between the two of them before Ron had finally burst out with, “Shut it, Harry! This is for when I punched him in Dumbeldore’s office, all right? He – he put it off for a while because he and the Headmaster were too busy figuring out who was after you for him to supervise detentions.”

Both stared at him as if he had sprouted two heads, then Harry had blushed and started to apologize to Snape. Snape brushed aside the apology and rather cuttingly asked if they were done invading his quarters and shrieking at him, and they had quickly found themselves trudging through dark halls back to the Gryffindor Tower.

 

Happily Harry didn’t wonder why the punishment had been so delayed. He was too busy worrying if he had hurt Snape’s feelings. “Are you mental?” Ron had finally asked. “This is Snape. What feelings?”

“Hey!” Harry flared back. “He just gave you Dreamless Sleep. Don’t act like he’s the enemy.”

“He is. He’s a professor and a snarky one at that,” Ron snapped back, though it was more an automatic response than anything else. In truth, Ron had been amazed at how lenient Snape had been with them. Not only had he tolerated their intrusion and given them the requested potion, but he hadn’t taken Harry’s head off when he yelled at Snape. Several times.

Ron had been worried at first when Snape had dragged Harry out of the room, and he had thought he’d overheard the sound of whacks being applied to someone’s bum a few minutes later, but when Harry had returned with Snape, he showed no signs of tears, mortification, or discomfort. Plus he’d promptly gotten into another argument with the man. Hardly the action of someone who’d just been spanked for insolence.

Obviously Harry was having a mellowing influence on the man, though Ron doubted that the fact that Harry could now get away with stuff meant that Snape would extend that largesse to anyone else. After all, the man had been playing favorites with his Slytherins and Malfoy for years. No reason to assume that just because he had adopted a new pet he would be any less snarky to those he didn’t care about.

Still, Ron was glad Harry seemed to have someone looking out for him. His Muggle relatives were worse than nothing, and while Dumbledore and McGonagall were obviously fond of him, they hadn’t been really useful at helping him. After all, the dotty old Headmaster had actually stuck Harry with the Dursleys and left him there all those years. At least Snape had promptly removed him from them and was – Ron had to admit – helping Harry in a lot of ways, from his lessons to his overall attitude. Harry was a lot less quiet and wary than he had been… as his shouting at Snape demonstrated. Ron’s mum would be pleased. She always worried that Harry was too nervous and high strung. She’d be relieved to see that he was a lot more relaxed these days and he even seemed less worried about having to fight You Know Who. Obviously having a plan and being trained by Snape was a lot better than just relying on some weird, unprecedented magic that no one understood.

But while Ron was happy for Harry and his relationship with Snape, he was still panicked by the thought of what the greasy git was about to do to him. Yes, he deserved it. Yes, he was willing to undergo practically any torture or humiliation to avoid expulsion, but why, oh why, did it have to be the most evil teacher in the school who was about to lay into him? If he had to go after a member of the staff, why couldn’t it have been a gentle Hufflepuff like Professor Sprout, or even little Professor Flitwick who might be a dueling champion but was still easily sidetracked by intelligent questions and possessed a sense of humor that made him surprisingly lenient towards pranksters. Even McGonagall, whose sternness was legendary, might have taken a little pity on him as a member of her House, and Trelawny or Lockhart would have been unable to think of anything worse than killing him by boredom as they droned on and on at him.

But no, it was Snape. Good one, Ron, he told himself bitterly, you had to go after the one known Death Eater on the entire faculty. This git engaged in real, live torture and from all accounts he still misses it. No amateur fumblings for you – Snape is going to know exactly how to make you howl.

His stomach gave another lurch and Ron realized two things. One, if he kept thinking about this, he really was going to be sick right there in the hall, and two, if he didn’t enter the room right now, he’d be late. Terror at the thought of the second drove all worries of the first out of his mind and he hurriedly banged on the door for entrance.

It was flung open a moment later, and Snape loomed before him.

“S- sir,” Ron began haltingly, only to be snatched by the shoulder and dragged into the room.

“Don’t dawdle, Weasley,” Snape rebuked coldly. “It would hardly be easy to explain what you are doing outside my private quarters.”

“Yes, sir,” he gulped.  “I- I’m here to start my punishment.”

“Well, obviously,” Snape sneered. “Very well. I assume you are wondering why I had you come to my quarters and not the classroom?”

Ron figured it would be safest to nod, though he had actually assumed that the silencing spells were better here, and Snape would be starting off the punishment with something particularly nasty.

“While I am not unmindful that our agreement was for you to serve as a general factotum, assisting me with preparation of potion ingredients and other unpleasant chores,” Snape began, looking a little uncomfortable, “it has occurred to me that our somewhat unusual agreement has had the effect of removing you from the normal disciplinary actions of your family.” Ron struggled to understand what the man was saying. Why couldn’t he just use normal English words? “As you had indicated to me that your parents were likely to combine corporal punishment –“ Ron understood that “- with restrictions and extra chores, it appears fitting that I take similar action.” Ron gulped – he’d been right. Snape was going to beat the hell out of him. “Obviously your work for me will provide the restriction from pleasant activities and the imposition of unwelcome tasks, but despite our previous conversation about my disinclination to become Gryffindor’s disciplinarian, your own behavior has made it clear that some sort of physical punishment would not come amiss.” At Ron’s bewildered look, Snape rolled his eyes and amplified. “Your conscience is tormenting you through your dreams. A sound spanking will ensure that your subconscious recognizes that you are being properly punished for your actions and additional lashings of morbid guilt are unneeded.”

Oh. Well, Snape was right that he couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d done and how it proved that he would grow up to be a Death Eater himself. Ron just doubted that a simple walloping would change his conviction that he was destined for the Dark… and he had his doubts that what Snape was planning to do was merely a “sound spanking”. He rather assumed several rounds of being hexed and cursed and beaten would be involved. After all, considering Snape’s knowledge of – and experience with – the Dark Arts, why wouldn’t he use them on Ron? Especially if he were trying to recruit him for Voldemort, the more Dark spells he used on him, the better, right? Wasn’t it true that the Cruciatus didn’t leave any visible marks?

“Very well then.” Snape led Ron over to an armless chair and seated himself, positioning Ron at his side. The redhead blinked. Could Snape be serious? Was he really only planning to wallop him?

Before he could voice any of his questions, he’d been tugged across Snape’s lap and lifted into place. His backside was perfectly positioned for Snape’s hand, and he grabbed the chair legs to anchor himself and avoid reaching back to protect his rear. He assumed Snape would hex his arms off if he tried. Snape lifted his robe out of the way, but to Ron’s surprise, that was the extent of the disrobing.

“You know why you are receiving this spanking, Mr Weasley?”

“Yes, sir,” Ron managed to croak through his dry as dust throat. Here it came…

Snape paused, recalling Weasley’s nightmare. “Let me be very clear, Mr Weasley,” he said, tapping Ron’s seat for emphasis. “You are being punished for sabotaging a demonstration, deliberately causing an explosion, hexing me, and using atrocious language in front of the Headmaster.”

Ron winced. It sounded so awful, laid out like that, and his bum was already tingling in anticipation. Why didn’t Snape just get it over with?

“You are not, however, being punished for your plan itself, for trying to protect Harry, for developing and implementing a cunning plan, for thinking creatively and subtly, or for jumping to an inaccurate but logical conclusion. Do you understand?”

Astonished, Ron peered over his shoulder at Snape. “You’re not mad about the plan? But I stole the venom out of your storeroom and I blew up your cauldron, and I made everyone think you did it, and I punched you, and –“

“Mr Weasley,” Snape interrupted, and Ron could almost swear there was amusement in his tone, “are you trying to make your punishment worse?”

“N-no, but I don’t understand why you’re not just as upset about these other things,” Ron replied, too confused to be anything but honest.

“Mr Weasley,” Snape sighed in exasperation. “I am not the ogre you believe. I do not blame you for trying your best to help your friend.”

“But I acted like a Slytherin!”

“Yes.”

Ron nearly reared up at the calm syllable. “And I’m a Gryffindor!”

“Yes.”

Ron huffed. “I should have known you wouldn’t understand. I bet you wouldn’t be happy if Draco started acting like us, but you probably think it’s good if we all start acting like the Dark Lord. OUCH!” Surprised at both the delivery of a hard smack to his bum and the amount of sting the single slap had delivered, Ron craned his neck around and winced anew at the scowl on Snape’s face.

“I wasn’t being rude,” he explained hastily. “Or at least I didn’t mean to be. It’s just that Gryffindors have different standards than Slytherins.” He saw Snape’s hand come up for another whack and he flinched, but the dour man changed his mind and lowered his hand for a mere attention-focusing tap. It landed right where the previous swat had, though, and imparted enough force to the tender spot to make Ron grimace. The imminent spanking would not be pleasant. But Snape was speaking…

“That bloody Hat,” he muttered, as much to himself as to Ron, “has much to answer for.”

“Sir?” Ron asked blankly.

“Mr Weasley, contrary to what you may think, there are absolutes of Right and Wrong, and they do not vary from House to House. It is true that different Houses tend to have different approaches to problems and emphasize different aspects of a personality, but I assure you the Slytherin approach of subtlety is no more inherently evil than the Gryffindor approach of direct action. It is not the method nor the weapon that is good or bad, but the ends to which they are put. Did not your own actions make this point to you?”

Ron frowned, thinking, as Snape continued his lecture.

“If I had been guilty of the crimes you suspected me, your actions would have been both justified and likely effective. The plan itself was not evil, it was clever. You must learn –“ an emphatic tap to be sure the boy was listening “- to utilize all aspects of your personality, not merely those you consider appropriately Gryffindor-ish. I promise you that the Dark Lord’s behavior is less a reflection upon the House of Slytherin than on his own mental health. Or have you forgotten that Gryffindor has villains of its own?”

Ron squirmed. This was a most uncomfortable conversation, and not just because it was taking place while he was lying, bottom upturned, over his least favorite professor’s lap. The points Snape was making sounded awfully reasonable, but they couldn’t possibly be correct. Each of the Houses equally valuable? No inherent evil in Slytherin? His coming up with a plan worthy of Voldemort didn’t mean that he was doomed to become a Death Eater? “In Gryffindor we don’t idolize bad guys the way Slytherins do,” he protested.

“Mr Weasley, we are in the midst of a war, and people are choosing sides. The Dark Lord would certainly prefer to be thought of as the reincarnation of a powerful and respected wizard from antiquity rather than the unstable half-blooded orphan that he is. Accordingly, he does his best to ally himself with this House. In this, he is aided by the influence of several powerful Dark families with ties to this House. But there are those in this House who oppose You Know Who as strongly as any one alive.”

Ron blushed. He knew enough to be aware that Snape’s activities had put in him more danger from Voldemort than anyone else, even Harry, and he was Slytherin to the core. Could it be true that thinking like a Slytherin was not necessarily evil?

“Fanatics of any stripe are dangerous,” Snape said gravely. “It is true that Slytherins often act out of ambition and a desire for power, while Gryffindors are more self-sacrificing, but just as many atrocities have been committed for ‘the greater good’ as for personal gain. And to the victims, the end results are the same.”

“What do you mean?”

“Does it matter if your home is burned, your family killed, and you enslaved because someone wants you as free labor or because they think that doing so is the only way to bring you to eternal salvation? Does you think it hurts more if you are being tortured to satisfy someone’s dark desires than in an effort to save your soul?” Snape paused, letting Ron think over his words. “Muggle and Wizarding history is full of examples of people so convinced that they were doing the right thing that they committed unspeakable atrocities. The question of whether the ends justify the means is just as valid for your House as for mine, even if Gryffindors tend to convince themselves that it’s fine to sacrifice the needs of the few for the good of the many, whilst Slytherins are less self-deluding and tend to concern themselves with the needs of the few or the one.”

“But what’s wrong with sacrificing the needs of the few for the good of the many?” Ron argued. “Wouldn’t the few want to be sacrificed under those circumstances?”

”And if they don’t volunteer, will you coerce them?” Snape asked. “Considering your regard for Mr Potter, I’m surprised that you are so willing to treat people as pawns. Does this mean you are willing to see him sacrificed for the sake of the war?” Ron stared at him in horror. “If I were to tell you that my previous treatment of Mr Potter was intended to toughen him up so that he was hard and unfeeling and able to face the Dark Lord, would you then welcome my actions? If the Headmaster insisted that he stay with his abusive relatives so that he remains convinced of his own worthlessness and that much more willing to sacrifice himself for others, would you consider the torments of his childhood to be justified?”

Ron paled. “Is that why –“

“Potter is not going back to those Muggles,” Snape said quickly. “But do you understand the seduction of power? It is not only Slytherins who respond to its allure.”

Ron chewed his lower lip. Maybe he wasn’t doomed to grow up to be a follower of Voldemort. Or was Snape just saying all this to trick him? Wasn’t that what a Slytherin would do?

“The Houses were never intended to encourage students to develop uni-dimensional characters. If you ignore or suppress various talents you will become nothing more than a caricature. It is the integration of the different aspects of your character, and all of your different traits, that will enable you to be successful in your studies, your life, and your fight against the Dark Lord.”

Ron snorted. “I dunno that anything can help with my studies,” he commented, expecting wholehearted agreement from his perennially displeased Potions professor.

“Your scholastic mediocrity derives – despite Ms Granger’s best efforts – from a willful disregard of good study habits. As your recent actions demonstrate, when properly motivated, you can exceed even the impressive academic exploits of your siblings.”

Now Ron knew he was hallucinating. No way had Snape just complimented him and his whole family while he lay across Snape’s knee, awaiting his punishment for attacking the man.

Something of his disbelief must have communicated itself to Snape, for the professor said, in long suffering tones, “Weasley, did it not occur to you that Gringott’s hires only the best? Or that your brother Charlie is one of a very small number of people who can work with dragons without being consumed or incinerated? And while Percy is an annoying prig, it is his impressive memory that allows him to memorize the rule book and his wit that permits him to anticipate and detect violations. Lastly, although I am extremely reluctant to compliment the twins, given their appalling tendency to foment chaos wherever they go, they would not be half so annoying if they were less brilliant at devising pranks or adapting potions to entirely inappropriate uses. Yet none of them have your skill with strategy nor the courage you have displayed in safeguarding your friends, regardless of the personal cost.”

Ron gulped. “But – but I still screwed up. I still blew up your lab.”

“Ah yes. And that is why you are being punished.” And with that, Snape began.

 

Ron was never afterwards sure how long it lasted. His brain swore it was over in less than a minute, but his bum was convinced it had been hours.

He knew by the fourth swat that he was in for it. By then, the sting of the swats had rapidly built to a fiery blaze, and he was yelping and squirming with every whack. By the tenth, he was bawling, though it was as much from relief that he was finally getting the worst of his punishment over with as from the inferno painfully raging in his bum.

Several swats later, Snape turned his attention to the sensitive lower half of Ron’s backside, and the volume of the boy’s howls reached an all-time high. As much as the rest of his bum hurt, the surgically precise placement of these swats – and their resultant sting and burn – made Ron seriously wonder if Snape weren’t using some highly targeted version of the Cruciatus.

He surrendered to the awful burning-stinging-throbbing-smoldering agony that had supplanted his previously unappreciated backside and lay limply across Snape’s lap, blubbering. There was a pause, then one last almighty whack across his arse, and the barrage of swats finally ended.

Ron lay there and wept. He was too drained even to feel further relief. He was confused in mind and spirit, aching in body, and he felt extremely young and foolish. Most of all, though, he couldn’t bring himself to face Snape.

“All right, Mr Weasley. You may rise.” Snape made to assist the boy, but found himself having to lift Weasley bodily from his lap, as the redhead was still crying too hard to obey.

Once upright, Weasley kept his head down, sobbing, even as his hands flew to clutch at his bum. Snape knew the boy’s bottom would surely feel as if it were ablaze just now, but Snape was still surprised at the force of the child’s emotions. Surely this wasn’t all due to his admittedly thorough spanking? After all, Weasley had had his share of Quidditch injuries, and as much as his backside might sting, it was just his bum. Nothing was broken, no permanent harm had been done. So why all these tears?

Snape sighed. More snot on his robes. As if the potion stains weren’t disgusting enough. He accio’d a handkerchief before Weasley used his sleeve – or worse – and then touched anything else in Snape’s quarters. “Here.” He nudged Weasley, holding out the cloth.

Weasley gave him a sidelong, mortified glance and hesitantly released one aching buttock to take the hankie. It was clear the boy was deeply humiliated and equally clear that he was still completely incapable of composing himself.

Snape sighed again. He’d intended to spank the boy soundly enough to assuage the Gryffindor’s guilt, thereby preventing additional nightmares from interfering with his sleep, but he’d had no desire to reduce the brat to the sodden mess now flinching before him. If nothing else, it made it impossible to dismiss him back to his dorm. Anyone would take one look at the boy’s blotchy, tearstained face and demand a full explanation – the very thing Snape wanted to avoid.

Much as Snape longed to throw the little monster out and enjoy the rest of his evening in blessed solitude, obviously that wasn’t going to happen. This was all Harry bloody Potter’s fault. Why did Snape ever agree to handle this himself? Well, at least he didn’t need to have the brat in the middle of the room, sniffling in that nauseating fashion despite the handkerchief clutched in his fist.

“Very well, Mr Weasley, go stand in the corner,” he pointed.

Breath hitching as he fought to bring his sobs under control, Ron couldn’t believe how much his arse stung. Bloody hell! Harry was right – Snape must use magic to make it hurt this much. Not that Ron didn’t deserve it, mind you, but he just hadn’t expected a simple smacking would make him break down and bawl like a baby, especially in front of Snape. He could only imagine how much the greasy git would enjoy telling all the Slytherins about it. Malfoy would be even more unbearable, and – oh, Merlin! – Potions class was going to be a living hell. He could just imagine the comments Snape would make to entertain the rest of the students.

To his horror, the thought made him blubber even more. He felt like a complete prat, but somehow he couldn’t muster his usual rage and hatred for Snape, even knowing that he’d probably delight in sharing Ron’s humiliation with the widest possible audience. He just felt ashamed and childish and very, very sore.

If he were completely honest, he had to admit that as much as his bum hurt – and this had unquestionably been the worst walloping of his life - it wasn’t just his scorched butt that was making him snivel like this. It was knowing what he’d done to earn the smacking. He had out-Snaped Snape; he’d attacked and come close to killing an innocent, and yet when he was standing there, entirely at Snape’s mercy, the greasy git hadn’t turned around and exacted bloody revenge. Ron had more than half expected Snape to use an old fashioned school cane or his belt or some other fearsome implement on him. After all, no one knew about this, it wasn’t an official school punishment; there were no rules holding Snape back. He could have done anything he wanted, knowing Ron couldn’t complain or argue.

Yet he hadn’t even taken a hairbrush to Ron. He’d just used his hand, and he hadn’t even made Ron drop his trousers. Ron had assumed that he’d at least do that, for the mortification factor if nothing else. But Snape hadn’t. Oh, he hadn’t been lenient, but he hadn’t been cruel either. He’d issued orders crisply, delivered an unexpectedly insightful lecture that had really made Ron think, then got right down to it and hit harder than Ron had believed humanly possible. But when all was said and done, it was just a sound spanking, administered over his clothes with the flat of Snape’s very, very hard hand. No slapping his face or knocking him down or even leaving lasting welts on his arse.

This was Wrong. Ron had spent the last year convinced that Snape was the Evil Slytherin while Ron and his friends were the heroic Gryffindors. Yet he was the one who’d launched an unprovoked sneak attack while Snape, when he finally had the freedom to be as mean and nasty as he wanted, hadn’t. Even Ron had to admit, he’d been… fair. He hadn’t sneered or insulted or threatened. He’d given Ron the longest, hardest, and most painful spanking of his life, but that was what he’d both expected and deserved. Though in truth, while it had hurt more than he had imagined, it wasn’t nearly as painful in other ways. His arse felt like he’d sat – repeatedly – on a hornets’ nest, but he hadn’t been mocked or belittled or terrorized. He felt punished, but not abused.

How could it be that Snape was behaving honorably- more honorably than Ron?

Ron hiccupped and tried once again to suppress his tears. If only his backside would stop throbbing so much and his brain would stop whirling with all those impossible questions, then he’d be able to stop this bloody bawling. How was he ever going to sneak back to the dorm like this? And sure enough, at this further proof of his own uselessness, the tears flooded out anew.

“Very well, Mr Weasley, go stand in the corner.” The quiet command accomplished what all of Ron’s efforts could not. Sheer shock halted his crying.

“Wh – what?” He stared at the Potion Master. “I’m twelve!”

Snape merely gazed back at him, unblinking.

“I’m twelve,” Ron repeated, genuinely trying to explain, not argue. “I’m too old to put in the corner.”

“Then I assume you wish to simply leave?” Snape inquired, raising one eyebrow.

“Well… yeah,” Ron admitted. He’d assumed that Snape would beat the hell out of him, then chuck him out to crawl, limp, or stagger back to Gryffindor Tower, where he would nurse his wounds and sulk.

“My, my Mr Weasley. You do have it in for me,” Snape commented mildly.

Ron grimaced as his hands tentatively tried to rub away some of the itchy sting from his bum. “What do you mean? Sir?” he added hastily.

“If I dismiss you in your current state, Weasley, it would be obvious to everyone from Hagrid to Professor Flitwick that you just received a thorough spanking at my hands. I would then find myself facing the enraged complaints and threats of your siblings, your friends, and your Head of House in short order, closely followed by the Headmaster and your parents, all out for my blood. Is it your intention to have me dismissed in disgrace?”

Ron’s jaw dropped. “No! I didn’t think –‘

“After all,” Snape continued, ignoring him, “wasn’t it your desire to keep the matter quiet and handle it ourselves? As I recall, I didn’t want to assume the responsibility for disciplining you for your actions. It was only at your request that I agreed to do so. I would have thought you’d be more circumspect about these events.” Snape paused, watching the expressions flutter across the boy’s face. That was the problem with Gryffindors: no subtlety. But he imagined that Weasley did have the talent for stealth. It was just woefully underdeveloped.

When he saw the brat had worked out the logic in his argument, he continued, “Or was it your intention to lure me into agreeing to settle the matter between ourselves, only to display your injuries at the first opportunity, assuming that in the resultant inquiry, any allegations I made against you would be dismissed as a pathetic attempt to excuse my own actions?”

“N- no, sir. I just…” Ron trailed off. Snape was right. If he went back looking like this, still sniffling and leaking occasional tears, too sore to walk properly let alone sit, everyone would instantly know he’d been swatted – and hard. Percy and the twins and even Ginny would demand to know by whom, not to mention why. And of course Harry and Hermione and the rest of his classmates wouldn’t be far behind them. If Snape hadn’t been thinking, Ron would have gotten them both thrown out of Hogwarts. “I’m sorry,” he said, hanging his head.

“You must remember to contemplate the consequences of your actions, Mr Weasley. You obviously know how to do it, you are just slothful about taking the time to do so. You will not always have Ms Granger around to do it for you.” Snape paused, seeing the boy’s color rise. At least he wasn’t dissolving into a snot puddle again. “As it should now be obvious to you that you will not be leaving here for some time, the question of your activities during this period arises. You may either seat yourself at the desk and begin writing lines or stand in the corner and contemplate your actions and punishment.”

Ron glanced at the hard wooden chair and swallowed hard. The thought of sitting on his smarting butt was nearly enough to bring back the sobs. Suddenly standing in the corner didn’t seem like such a bad idea. “I’ll take the corner, sir,” he mumbled, hanging his head.

 

Snape nodded, watching the boy limp over to the indicated position. He was still sniffling and wiping away the occasional tear, but at least he was no longer hysterical. Snape watched for a moment as Ron massaged his sore butt with a gentle hand, then turned his attention to a stack of essays.

“Weasley!” he called out several minutes later, not bothering to look up from his work. “Do not use your sleeve as a handkerchief. You have a perfectly serviceable one in your hand.”

“It’s all soggy, sir,” Ron said, embarrassed that Snape had caught him.

With an exasperated sigh, Snape banished the used cloth to the hamper and accio’d a fresh one into the boy’s hand.

“Thank you, sir,” Ron said meekly.

It took a total of three handkerchiefs before the tears and other body fluids were finally done for the night. Snape wondered if Ron were normally so weepy after a punishment – he would have expected a Weasley to recover more quickly; surely in a brood that size there was little time for coddling and he couldn’t imagine the twins being particularly sensitive to a younger brother’s tears. Still, he had given the boy a lot to think over, and it was obvious that the brat was well aware of the serious nature of his actions. Perhaps it was just as well that he was taking the whole thing hard. Besides, some of it might be simple relief. Given Snape’s reputation, the boy had probably been terrified of his upcoming punishment. Snape permitted himself a small smile; it was always so easy to torture the younger students. And of course, even after their worst fears had failed to materialize, they tended to exaggerate the severity of the punishment so as to impress the other little monsters. All told, it was a highly efficient method of keeping the students scared witless of him.

Snape kept the boy in the corner for ten minutes even after the mopping and blowing had finally ended. At last, he called him over.

“Yes, sir?” Ron was moving stiffly, and it was clear that every step hurt.

“I have decided that you will spend half your time assisting me with potion ingredients and cleaning the lab.” Ron nodded obediently. “The other half of the time, you will spend thinking about your actions and the philosophy which led to them.”

Ron frowned in confusion. “You mean standing in the corner some more?”

“No, I mean writing essays.” Snape smirked at the anguished look that came over Weasley’s face. Obviously the boy would infinitely prefer scrubbing cauldrons to more scholastic endeavors. “For your first one – no less than three feet – you will describe several examples from both Muggle and Wizarding history of the value of strategic thinking.” Ron’s brow wrinkled. That almost sounded interesting. “I have some books here that you may consult, though you may not remove them from my quarters. You can also use your History of Magic text and any books you may find in the library.”

“You want me to talk about battles and Goblin wars?”

“Those are some examples, but not the only ones,” Snape replied. “I expect you to do your research and come up with the examples you find most informative.”

Ugh. Research. On the other hand, this was sounding like a chess problem. He’d never had a research paper on an interesting topic before. “Sir,” he blurted out, “thank you.” At Snape’s stunned expression, he added, “You’ve been really nice.”

“Mr Weasley, if you consider my actions towards you this evening ‘nice’, I find myself acutely concerned about child rearing practices at the Burrow,” Snape drawled, hiding the shock he felt at the boy’s words.

Ron blushed. “I just meant that, well, you weren’t nearly as awful as I thought you’d be.” Hm. That hadn’t come out sounding the way he meant it. And from Snape’s expression, he wasn’t taking it as a compliment. “Um, I mean –“

Snape, amazingly, took pity on him. “I believe I understand, Mr Weasley. I take it that you are relieved that I ‘killed you, but I didn’t really kill you’.”

Hearing his own words quoted back to him brought a genuine, albeit brief, smile to Ron’s face. Snape did get it. “Yeah. I mean, yes, sir. That’s what I meant. Just… well, thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Now get to work.” Realizing that Weasley hadn’t brought any of his books with him, Snape summoned a house elf and instructed her to bring Ron’s schoolbag down to the dungeons.

“Sir?” Ron had started to look over the books Snape had gathered from his personal library, and one had immediately caught his eye. “What does it mean, ‘The Art of War’? How can war be an art?”

The resulting discussion took several minutes, and Snape was surprised to realize that the house elf had not yet returned. He cleared his throat to call another, but there was a soft knock at his door and then a tousled dark head tentatively appeared and emerald eyes quickly fastened on where the two were standing by the desk. “Um, hi.”

Snape turned a fearsome expression of disapproval on Harry, who quailed before it. “A house elf said Ron needed his stuff, so I thought I’d bring them myself,” he offered timidly, holding the satchel in front of him like an offering.

“Thank you,” Snape said coldly. “Now leave.” It was already pointless. By then Harry had spotted his friend’s flushed features and reddened eyes and his eyes widened in shock. Ron blushed violently and looked away as he saw from Harry’s face that he had instantly deduced what had happened.

Eyes flashing, Harry turned to Snape and opened his mouth, but Snape took him by the collar and dragged him out of the room before he could speak. “Come with me, Mr Potter,” he ordered brusquely.

Ron stared after them. Loud voices broke out, only to be cut off as Snape obviously cast a silencing charm. He fidgeted uneasily, certain that Harry was demanding to know exactly why and how Snape had come to wallop him. He wondered what Snape was telling him. It wasn’t so much that he minded Harry knowing, but when he didn’t even know how he felt, it wasn’t going to be easy to explain things to the others.

A few moments later, the door opened, and a much chastened Harry emerged, following by a poker-faced Snape. Ron sneaked a quick look, but Harry didn’t seem to be limping. Maybe he’d just been roughed up verbally?

Harry headed to the door, but stopped for one last appeal. “I really should stay so you can check my work,” he whined.

“I told you we would not be meeting tonight,” Snape said firmly. “I will review your assignments tomorrow at our regular time.”

“But I have a Charms essay due tomorrow and it’ll be too late for you to see it.”

Snape frowned. “Why is this the first I am hearing about this essay?” he asked forbiddingly.

“Professor Flitwick only assigned it two days ago,” Harry defended himself. “Ask Ron.”

Ron nodded hastily, even before Snape could speak. “So this is really your only chance to check it over.”

Snape huffed in irritation. “Fine. Let me have it.”

“Erm,” Harry fiddled with his book bag. “I haven’t exactly finished it.” At Snape’s growl, he looked up quickly. “But if you let me stay, then I could finish it and you could look it over and then if it needs revising I could do it tomorrow morning before Charms.”

“This is not a study date,” Snape snapped. “Weasley is being punished. The two of you chattering away is hardly conducive to either of you completing your assigned work.”

“We won’t chatter,” Harry assured him. He must have heard something in Snape’s tone that eluded Ron, because he quickly moved back into the room, heading over to his friend. Ron looked nervously at the professor, but although his eyes were narrowed in annoyance, he merely growled to himself and reseated himself at his own desk.

Ron took a step towards the chair and winced as his backside protested. Harry’s quick glance showed he had noticed, but happily he didn’t say anything to Ron. Instead, he called over to Snape, “Sir? Can we study in front of the fire?”

“No. Sit at the desk.” Snape didn’t even look up.

Harry stuck his lower lip out. “Please?”

“No.”

“It’ll be easier for us to concentrate on our work, you know,” Harry’s tone was innocent but there was an undercurrent of meaning that finally brought Snape’s head up.

“The first time I catch you whispering or passing notes,” he began threateningly.

“You won’t!” Harry exclaimed happily. He grabbed Ron’s satchel back and led the way over to the area before the large fireplace. Ron, after an uncertain look at Snape, who nodded permission, took the books from the desk and followed him.

Several large, overstuffed pillows flew in from another room, and Harry wasted no time in building a little nest for himself. Ron followed suit, creating a sort of pallet on which he then lay, stomach down. Even in that position, his backside still stung and burned, but this was a lot better than sitting on it would have been.

About an hour and a half later, during which the only sounds were the rustling of parchment, the scratching of quills, and the crackle of the fire, Harry glanced over at Snape. “Oh, by the way, Ron likes peanut butter biscuits.”

Ron’s head snapped up at this apparent non sequitar, but Snape appeared to understand, and he crooked a finger at Harry. The boy trotted over to him and a low, hissed conversation took place. Ron couldn’t quite make out any words, though he wasn’t sure if that was because Snape cast a muffling charm or if they were just keeping their voices down, but at the end of it, Snape was glowering and Harry trotted back with a triumphant smirk and winked at Ron. Ron shrugged and returned to his book. If Snape wanted him to know what was going on, he’d tell him.

Some time later, Snape’s stern voice interrupted the boys’ work. “Finish up. It’s nearly curfew time.”

Harry obediently began to put his things together – he had already begun revising his Charms essay under Snape’s supervision – but Ron was too engrossed in his book to notice. “Give us a pass,” he ordered absently. “I want to finish this chapter.”

The dead silence that followed his words finally penetrated, and he looked up curiously. It was only when he caught the frozen expression on Harry’s face that he realized what he had done. Giving commands to Snape? Ignoring his instructions? Was he suicidal? His backside throbbed in time with his suddenly racing heartbeat, and he gulped, wondering if he was about to get another walloping for impudence. “Sir, I’m sorry,” he gabbled, too scared to look at the man. “I didn’t mean to be cheeky. I wasn’t –“

“Well, well,” Snape drawled. “I never thought I would live to see the day when you were using your brain for anything other than memorizing useless Quidditch statistics. I suppose such unaccustomed activity should be rewarded. You may finish the chapter.”

Ron stared at Snape in amazement, barely noticing that Harry was similarly astonished. “Th-thank you, sir.” He managed to get the words out, then apparently driven by some previously undetected streak of madness, he couldn’t help adding: “But Charlie says Quidditch stats are dead helpful in pub quizzes.”

“Ah yes, and what higher aspiration could a Weasley have than to excel at a pub quiz night,” Snape sneered. “I stand corrected, Mr Weasley.”

Ron grinned. Yeah, it was snarky and mean, but he remembered Snape’s earlier words about his family. He obviously thought they were intelligent and accomplished, despite his insults. That put his words in the category of teasing, as far as Ron was concerned, and as the twins’ younger brother, he had plenty of experience with that. “Yes, sir,” he acknowledged, then, lest the greasy git change his mind, he dove back into Sun Tzu.

At the end of the chapter, he was tempted to keep reading in the hopes that Snape might not notice, but he figured he had pushed his luck enough for one night, and he closed the book, carefully marking the page where he had stopped. “This Sun Tzu was one clever wizard,” he said enthusiastically, noticing that Snape and Harry were already seated on the couch at the other end of the room. He got to his feet, only wincing a bit, and hurried over to join them. He hesitated, then gingerly lowered himself onto the sofa. To his relief, the cushions were remarkably soft, and his bum only protested a little. “Why don’t we learn more about him in History of Magic and less about the stupid goblins?”

“Perhaps because he was a Muggle,” Snape informed him coolly.

“What? Really? But he’s dead clever!” Ron exclaimed.

“Some Muggles are smart, Ron,” Harry said reprovingly. “Just like some wizards are dumb.”

“Yeah, like Crabbe and Goyle,” Ron agreed, then realized too late that he was insulting members of Snape’s House. “Um, I mean…”

Happily, the pop of an appearing house elf distracted the professor, and Ron was surprised to find a plate of freshly baked peanut butter biscuits deposited in front of him, along with a cup of tea. Harry grinned at his expression and wiggled a piece of shortbread at him. Snape rolled his eyes and ignored both of them.

As they walked back up to the dorms, a pass from Snape safely clutched in their hands, Ron waited for the inevitable question. Finally, he could stand it no longer. “Aren’t you going to ask me why Snape whacked me?”

“Nope.” Harry shook his head.

“Or how come he’s allowed to?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Ron asked, bewildered.

“ ‘Cause I asked Snape about it when I first got down there.”

“Oh.” Ron felt oddly betrayed. “So what did he say?”

“He said that he was surprised to learn that I didn’t think that punishments should be kept confidential, but now that he knew better, he was sure that Malfoy would enjoy hearing all about my last spanking,” Harry mumbled, blushing furiously. Ron’s jaw dropped. “He was pretty mad.”

“But – but – it’s different with you and me,” Ron finally managed to say. “I mean, we’re best mates, and he knows that.”

“Yeah, I told him that too, and he said that if we were such best mates, why wasn’t I doing you the courtesy of allowing you some privacy? He said that I got angry when they were pushing me to reveal my secrets, and that I should be ashamed of myself for not respecting other people’s.” He looked over at Ron. “I hadn’t thought of it like that. I’m really sorry.”

Ron just mumbled and shrugged. He wasn’t really upset with Harry. If their positions had been reversed, he would have probably done the same thing.

“Then he said that he wasn’t about to try to figure out who was friends with who at any given time – though he said it a lot fancier and nastier – and so he just didn’t talk about anyone’s punishment with anyone else. Then he said that he didn’t let anyone in his House do it either. Punishments were no one’s business but his and the student’s, and he had the perfect cure for someone who was nosy about them – he made sure that they knew what it felt like to be publicly punished and have everyone talk about it. He said that if I asked you about your punishment, he’d find out, and he’d wallop me right in front of our whole Potions class.”

Ron’s eyes bugged out. “He did?!”

Harry nodded grimly. “And believe me, he meant it. So no, I’m not going to ask you a thing. If you want to tell me or Hermione or anyone, that’s your choice, but as far as I’m concerned, I didn’t see anything.”

Ron felt his shoulders straighten as if a burden had been lifted off them. If Snape said that to Harry, then surely he wasn’t planning to broadcast Ron’s wailing all over the school. Maybe it would just be between the two of them. He grinned to himself. He might still be walking slowly and painfully, but knowing that Malfoy wouldn’t be waiting in the morning to torment him had just lightened his mood considerably.

“Still sore?” Harry asked sympathetically, seeing how slowly and carefully Ron was moving. “Not that I’m asking how you got that way!” he added quickly.

Ron smiled ruefully and rubbed his still-smarting rear. “Yeah, you could say that. ‘S a little better than it was though. And you’re right; I swear he uses magic.”

“You’ll probably feel okay by morning. I always do.” Seeing Ron’s doubtful expression, Harry offered, “Well, even if it’s not gone, it’ll be better.”

“Yeah, I guess… Y’know, he could’ve been a lot worse to me,” Ron blurted out. “He’s not that bad, really.”

Harry grinned. “Yeah, and the biscuits are brilliant.”

Ron was still a little tender the next day, but not enough for anyone else to notice. Even Snape, who studied him closely in Potions, could only detect a slight hesitation before he sat down and greater than usual amounts of fidgeting in his chair. Other than that, though, the boy behaved like his usual self – well, except for the shy smile with which he greeted the professor. He was able to attend quidditch practice with Harry, and if he groaned and limped at the end of the hour, it was no more than the other exhausted team members were doing. “Is Ickle Ronniekins tired?” Fred and George asked, coming up behind the boys.

“Yeah,” Harry responded for him. “He hasn’t been feeling that great.”

“Awwww, poor widdle man,” they teased him, but for all their annoying mockery, Fred hoisted him up in the air and deposited him on George’s back for a piggy back ride to the dorms. Ron protested, but in truth it felt a lot better on his bum than walking. He suspected that by the next day, his backside would be completely healed, but just then, at the end of a long day and not quite 24 hours out from the worst spanking of his life, he didn’t really mind his big brothers babying him, even if they were awfully irritating with it.

He and Harry returned to Snape’s quarters later in the evening, and he was directed to the sink in the laboratory for cauldron scrubbing that night. For the better part of a fortnight, things continued in much the same way, though Ron noticed that his chore nights were getting rather less frequent than his study nights. Instead of alternating one with the other, it was soon two or even three study nights for every evening he spent squishing bubotubers, depending upon the assignments and how his essay was progressing. And there were several nights when Snape sent word that Ron was excused, giving himself time alone with Harry, and even a few when both boys were told to stay away, as Snape was otherwise occupied for the evening. Still, Ron caught himself beginning to look forward to the hours in Snape’s quarters, reading about military strategy and ethics while Harry practiced DADA and occlumency. The only problem was one that, in retrospect, both boys should have foreseen.

“It’s not fair!” Hermione yelled at them, her face flushed and her eyes suspiciously shiny.

“What?” Ron flinched back. He knew the signs of a female in meltdown mode, and he edged towards the exit from the Common Room.

“What’s the matter, ‘Mione?” Harry asked, concerned. They had been studying Charms, and suddenly Hermione had started to shout. What had he said wrong? He’d only mentioned a new charm that Snape had promised to show him if he did well on Flitwick’s next exam.

“It’s not fair! You’re always rewarded when you get into trouble!” she said, her voice cracking. “I behave and study and keep you out of mischief, and you’re the ones that get the special privileges!”

“Like what?” Ron demanded incredulously.

“Like getting to study with Professor Snape! Like getting to use his own private, personal library! Like getting to be taught all kinds of things that aren’t in our books!”

“It’s not a reward,” Ron argued. “I have to spend a lot of time mincing seaslugs and all sorts of disgusting things.”

“I’d be happy to do that if I could use his library!” Hermione snapped back. “You don’t even appreciate what you’re getting!”

“Girls are mental,” Ron rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe you actually want to spend time in the dungeons, getting insulted and scrubbing cauldrons and –“

“Oh, shut it, Ronald Weasley!” Hermione snarled, sounding amazingly like Snape. “I’ve heard all about the study time and the biscuits and the interesting discussions. So don’t you try to tell me it’s just awful down there. It’s not fair. I mean, I understand why Harry has to get the extra time and attention, and I didn’t really mind when it was just him, but now it’s the both of you, and you’re getting all this great stuff and – and – I’m just left out of all of it!” Her voice broke and a tear spilled down her cheek. She buried her face in her hands.

Ron looked horrified and ready to bolt, while Harry frantically tried to think of something to say.

“Um, um, why don’t you come with us tonight?” he finally gulped.

Ron stared at him in disbelief, while Hermione lifted her face and gaped at him. “Do you really mean it?”

“Sure,” Harry said stoutly, wondering what on earth Snape’s reaction would be. He’d more or less accepted Ron’s presence, but that had come about more or less by accident and because of the detentions. If he thought Harry was getting in the habit of inviting the whole of Gryffindor Tower to his private quarters… Still, Hermione did have a point, and it would be really awful of Harry not to at least try to include her.

So that night, the three nervously made their way down to the dungeons. Hermione stayed behind Ron while Harry apprehensively knocked and entered. “Um, Professor,” he gulped, approaching the desk where the man was grading papers, “is it okay that I, um, invited Hermione along tonight?”

He was prepared for yells of outrage, complaints about “arrogant brats who invade my privacy”, and even a quick swat or two for his presumption. He wasn’t prepared for a quirked eyebrow and a calm, “I wondered how long it would take before you thought to include her.”

“What? I mean – huh? That is, well, she actually was the one who…”

Snape rolled his eyes. “You mean you made her ask you? It didn’t occur to you to invite her along? Didn’t you think she would enjoy it?” Now that he put it like that, Harry did feel badly about not realizing how Hermione must have felt. “Or did you want to exclude her?” Harry squirmed. No wonder Hermione had gotten so upset. What a rotten friend he had been.

“No, I did want her along. I just didn’t think…” Harry trailed off dismally as Snape scowled at him. The professor hated it when he used that excuse. Not that it was untrue, it just irked Snape no end when he didn’t stop and consider things.

“One hundred lines of ‘I will think about my actions and not cause others pain with my thoughtlessness.’” Snape snapped.

“Yes, sir,” Harry sighed resignedly. “Does that mean Hermione can stay?”

“Yes,” Snape gestured to where Harry’s friends hovered nervously at the threshold, and they tentatively entered his quarters. “Welcome, Miss Granger.”

“Thank you, Professor,” she said politely. “Your quarters are very nice. I like the green and black color scheme.”

Ron and Harry exchanged looks of bewilderment. They had never even noticed the color scheme, let alone complimented the Potion Master on it.

“I can see that you will add a much needed level of civility to the gathering,” Snape replied. “Not that that is saying very much.

“Very well, here are the rules. Mr Potter, you are still to attend extra lessons with me at least five nights a week. You may invite Mr Weasely and/or Ms Granger along on no more than three of those nights. Mr Weasley, I may also summon you to work in the laboratory. Those nights are considered detentions and will be treated as such.”

“That means no biscuits,” Harry whispered to Ron.

“Indeed,” Snape agreed. “However, on nights when you are working on the essays that I have assigned you, you are welcome to join the rest of us.”

Ron grinned in relief. Since he was really here for punishment, unlike Harry and Hermione, he had wondered if Snape was going to treat him differently than the other two. It was reassuring to hear that they would all be treated the same here in the quarters. He understood that it was different on the nights that he had to work with disgusting things out in the Potions lab. Frankly, he didn’t really have much appetite for tea and biscuits after slicing and deboning and pulping and filleting and skinning potion ingredients. He’d be just as glad to be dismissed and head straight to a hot shower.

“The rules for you, Ms Granger, are that no books from my personal library are to leave these quarters. You may look at the bookshelves but do not touch any of the books. If there is one you would like to see, you will ask my permission and if granted, I will retrieve the book for you. I do not answer homework questions, but if you need help, I will provide references wherein you may find the answers. I will, upon request, review your essays and Mr Weasley’s. I review all of Mr Potter’s essays despite his requests to the contrary.” Snape permitted himself a brief smile, while behind his back, Harry made a face. “I saw that, Mr Potter. Be careful or I will hex your face to stay that way. To continue, Ms Granger, you will conduct yourself with decorum at all times, and you will under no circumstance, expect our time here to alter my treatment of you elsewhere. If your behavior fails to meet my expectations, you will – at the least – be told to leave, and your return will not be easily accomplished. I do not, however, restrict myself from levying additional penalties against you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir!” Hermione said quickly.

“Very well,” Snape relaxed with a look of resignation. “What is your favorite type of biscuit?”

When all was said and done, Ron ended up owing Harry a Galleon. The redhead had bet it would take Hermione at least a month before she could convince Snape to let her borrow a book from his personal library, but Harry – well aware of the high priority Snape placed on research – was confident that Hermione would win him over well before that.

In actuality, it took her seventeen days.

“Thank you so much, Professor! I promise I’ll bring it back next week,” Hermione promised, hugging Snape’s personal copy of Transfiguration Do’s and Don’ts to her chest.

“If you do not, Miss Granger, you should seriously consider transferring to a different school. I am told Australia is lovely this time of year,” Snape said without a hint of humor.

She swallowed. “Yes, sir. I understand.”

As the three Gryffindors made their way back to their Tower, Ron remonstrated with Hermione. “Why did you want to take his book with you? Aren’t there enough in the library for you?”

Hermione regarded the book gloatingly. “This one has the professor’s own notes in it! And it’s a better edition than the one in the library, too.”

Harry and Ron looked at each other, then at her. “You’re going to forget to eat again, aren’t you?” Harry sighed.

“Oh, stop that,” Hermione snapped, but her tone was undeniably distracted. She had already opened the book and was flipping through its pages. The boys exchanged a glance and, each taking an elbow, safely steered their oblivious friend through the corridors.

Three days later, it was a very different Hermione whom they encountered in the Gryffindor Common Room. Ginny had alerted her brother that something was very wrong: Hermione had been up half the night ransacking the girls’ dormitory. Harry and Ron found Hermione frantically searching the Common Room, pulling cushions off chairs, pushing couches aside, and even peering under the rugs.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked anxiously.

“You lost it, didn’t you?” Ron instantly thought of the worst possible thing that could befall Hermione. “Snape’s book. It’s missing, right?”

She nodded tearfully. “I don’t understand it! I know I had it with me yesterday, because I used it to check my work after Transfigurations. I know I had to take it out of my bag in Potions to get my notes out, but I can’t remember when I saw it after that. I’ve checked everywhere, and I can’t find it!”

The boys immediately began helping her search, but even with their help, the book remained stubbornly missing. Finally, Hermione sent the boys down to breakfast and dragged herself along to Professor McGonagall’s office. Maybe the witch would know what to do.

“Yes, Miss Granger?” Minerva was alarmed at Hermione’s woebegone face. “What’s wrong?” A chill ran up her spine, as it always did when one of the Golden Trio presented themselves at her door.

“Oh, Professor, I have a terrible problem,” Hermione all but wailed. “I borrowed a book and now I’ve lost it, and I don’t know what to do!”

McGonagall let her breath out in a relieved sigh. Was that all?  She schooled her features into a stern frown. “I’m surprised at you, Miss Granger. I would have expected that you, of all people, would look after someone else’s property, especially a book!” But at Hermione’s quivering lip, she relented, realizing the girl really did feel terrible. “There, there,” she said briskly, patting her on the shoulder as she led her over to a chair. “You’re not the first student to lose a book, and I’m sure you won’t be the last. Madame Pince will –“

Hermione shook her head miserably. “It wasn’t a library book, Professor. It was a personal copy.”

“Oh, dear. Well, I’m sure you’ve looked very thoroughly so there’s no point in my trying to think of places you haven’t searched. Have you tried to retrace your steps?”

Hermione nodded.

“To no avail?”

Another nod.

“Well then, we must assume it is unlikely to turn up. It’s not as if it walked away on its own.” Minerva gave Hermione a sharp look. “It didn’t, did it?”

“No, Professor. It wasn’t one of those books,” Hermione agreed.

“Then I suggest that you owl Flourish and Botts and see if they have a replacement copy in stock. Perhaps that will –“ But the child was shaking her head again.

“It had notes written in it, Professor. Comments and things like that. A new copy won’t have any of that. All that hard work and knowledge is gone. I feel just terrible!” Hermione stifled a sob.

McGonagall managed not to smile. Juvenile jottings in the margins were usually more a source of amusement than assistance in later years, but of course they never appeared that way to the children who scrawled down what they thought were profound observations. She wondered just which student had managed to instill such a sense of awe in Hermione. One of the Ravenclaw upper years, perhaps? “Perhaps you might then provide the book’s owner with not only a replacement for the missing text, but a gift certificate for a second book of their choosing? You’re only in your second year, Miss Granger; I’m sure the missing notes couldn’t have been too extensive.”

Hermione stared at her. “It isn’t another student’s, Professor. The missing book belongs to Professor Snape.”

Minerva sank into a chair. “You lost one of Severus’ books? Great Merlin’s argyle socks!”

Hermione’s eyes filled with tears at McGonagall’s agitation. “What can I do to make it right, Professor?”

Her Head of House thought frantically. Snape was fanatically possessive about his things; for him to loan something was unusual. To entrust a precious, annotated book to a student was unprecedented. And now Hermione had lost the tome? McGonagall suspected that Snape’s response would be extremely unpleasant. “Oh, my dear,” she said, putting her arm around Hermione’s shoulders. “Oh, my poor child.”

McGonagall’s sympathy was decidedly unnerving. “Please, Professor, what should I do?” Hermione gulped.

Minerva took a deep breath and tried to be optimistic. Severus was an adult, after all. He would understand that these things happen. Surely he wouldn’t strangle one of the best students Hogwarts had seen in a decade over a simple missing book. “I think you should go ahead and contact Flourish and Botts. I understand that you will not be able to reconstruct Professor Snape’s notes, but you must make what reparations you can.” Hermione nodded obediently. “And of course, you must tell him what has happened. I will accompany you, if you would like.” And prevent the infuriated man from turning one of her brightest lions into a pile of potion ingredients.

Hermione’s heart sank. “But I have a few more days before he’s expecting me to return it, Professor. Can’t I wait until then? I might have the new book then and I could give it to him while I apologize…”

McGonagall forced herself to frown. “I expected you to have both more sense and more courage, Miss Granger,” she tsk’d. “Professor Snape has a right to know his book has been misplaced. He may have some suggestions as to where to look for it. Besides, you certainly don’t want him to learn of your carelessness from anyone but yourself, do you? What if someone finds it and returns it to him?”

Hermione slumped. “Yes, Professor,” she said sadly. She knew McGonagall was right, but Merlin, she did not want to have to face Snape.

“Would you like me to come with you?” McGonagall offered again.

“No, thank you, Professor,” Hermione replied, after a moment’s thought. “I – I was supposed to go to his quarters tonight anyway with Harry and Ron. I’ll tell him then.”

“Very well. Contact me if there are any… problems.”

“Yes, Professor. Thank you.”

When Hermione finally caught up with Harry and Ron, she told them what McGonagall had suggested. “… so I went ahead and sent an owl to my parents, asking them for enough money to buy Professor Snape the new books. I’m sure they’ll say yes, so I also owled Flourish and Botts and asked them to put a copy aside.” She sighed unhappily. “Not that I think it will make any difference to Professor Snape. He’s going to be furious.”

Harry chewed his lower lip anxiously. He hated the thought of one of his friends getting into trouble, but he was sure that Hermione’s apprehension was justified. “I just don’t see how the book vanished. It doesn’t make sense that it was in your bag and then gone. You’re the one who’s always so careful about your stuff.”

“Wait a second,” Ron said, “wasn’t Malfoy sitting near you in Potions yesterday? He seemed awfully pleased about something when we were all leaving class yesterday. What if that little ferret took it?”

“When? And why?”

“Maybe when we were all going up to the front to turn in our potions? And as for why, who knows why that git does anything? Just to get you in trouble probably.”

“I don’t know,” Harry said doubtfully. “I mean, yes, Malfoy’s an evil arse, but to steal something like that?”

“I think you should talk to him before you tell Snape. If he has it, maybe you can get him to give it back. If he doesn’t, well, it won’t hurt anything because you’re going to tell Snape anyway, so it’s not like Malfoy can go running to him and get you in trouble.”

Hermione considered Ron’s words. “I can’t believe even Malfoy would be low enough to take a book out of my bag, but I guess it’s worth a try.”

“You want us to help you talk to him?” Harry offered.

“No – with you two along, he’ll insist on having Crabbe and Goyle with him and then he’ll never admit anything and you’ll just start fighting,” Hermione said primly.

“Ha!” Ron scoffed. “Like you’ve never hit Malfoy!”

“Yeah,” Harry grinned. “He’s more likely to keep his goons around him when you’re there!”

Hermione glared at both of them and would have argued further, but just at that moment she caught sight of Malfoy leaving the Great Hall. “Stay here!” she ordered her friends, hurrying after the blond Slytherin.

Meanwhile, Snape noted Hermione’s abrupt departure and left the staff table in pursuit. Earlier that morning, a house elf had popped into his quarters and returned his copy of Transfiguration Do’s and Don’ts, explaining that it had been discarded in the trash. He was eager to interrogate Miss Granger as to how a book in her care should have been so shamefully mishandled.

“Malfoy!” Hermione called, catching up to the boys as they headed back to the dungeons.

Surprised, Draco and his friends turned around. “Well, well, if it isn’t Potter’s pet mudblood,” Draco sneered.

“I need to talk to you, Malfoy,” she retorted, reddening but holding her ground – and her temper.

“Like I care what you need,” he sniffed and turned to go.

“Talk to me now or to Professor Snape later,” Hermione said coldly.

He spun back. “What are you talking about?” She folded her arms implacably, and he glanced at the two boys who flanked him. “Get lost,” he ordered.

When the two hulks hesitated, he shoved them. “I said go!”

Aggrieved, they lumbered off. “Don’t come crying to us when she punches you in the nose again,” Goyle threw over his shoulder.

Draco tugged her into a shadowy corridor. “What’s so important, Granger?” he demanded.

Hermione forced her voice to remain calm and even. “I’m missing a book, Draco. I had it in our last Potions class, and I’m wondering if you might have… found it.” She knew that accusing the boy of stealing the book would just result in an immediate denial and hoped that approaching it this way might yield better results.

Draco raised his eyebrows. “A book?” he echoed innocently. In that moment, Hermione knew full well he had taken it. “Good heavens, Granger. I can’t imagine you losing a book.”

“Draco, it’s really important. I need that book back. Please, if you have it, give it back to me,” Hermione pleaded desperately.

“Are you accusing me of stealing, mudblood?” Draco’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment he actually felt insulted. Just because he had stolen the book didn’t mean he’d let some stupid Gryffindor blame him when it was obvious she had no proof.

“Draco, please. It’s not my book. I had just borrowed it.”

He shrugged and turned away, unwilling to admit she was beginning to make him feel guilty. “Not my problem, Granger.”

“Please, Draco!” Hermione caught his arm. “It belongs to Professor Snape! If you have it, you’ve got to give it back.”

Draco swung back, his eyes wide. “Snape let you take one of his books out of his quarters?” he gasped. “He doesn’t let anyone do that except –“ he bit back his words, but his anger soared. He was the only one his godfather trusted with his precious books! How could Snape let a Muggleborn, and a Gryffindor at that, borrow from his library? Any compunction Draco might have felt at Hermione’s anxiety vanished in a surge of jealousy.

To make matters worse, Snape knew perfectly well that Lucius was anything but satisfied with the fact that Hermione routinely outscored Draco. Over summer break, Lucius had threatened to punish Draco severely if the boy didn’t get better grades than Hermione, and yet now even his own godfather was helping her outshine him.

Transfigurations was the one class in which Draco and Hermione were neck and neck. The notion that Hermione might be able to better her performance through the use of a supplementary text was what had prompted Draco to lift the book in the first place. He had managed to convince himself that her use of the text was tantamount to cheating, so his actions were wholly justified. Now, knowing that the book came from his godfather made him even more determined to see her fail. He had no doubt but that Snape would be furious with the girl for losing his book, and that would mean once again, no one but Draco would be allowed to use his library. What’s more, Draco knew his godfather nursed grudges, and this could mean that Granger’s Potions grade would suffer. Maybe he could manage to beat her in two classes – that would certainly please his father and might be enough to avoid the promised punishment with Lucius’ cane.

Hermione hoped that Draco’s expression of shock meant that he had finally realized the seriousness of what he had done. She pressed her suit. “Please help me. If you have any idea where the book is, I’d be very grateful.”

“How grateful?” Draco asked, an idea forming.

Hermione sighed. “What do you want?”

The Slytherin looked crafty. “You must want the book back really badly.”

She nodded grimly. “You know I do. What will it take?”

“I’m not saying I know anything, mind you, but maybe if I didn’t have to study so hard in order to get the top marks, I might be able to look around and find your book for you.”

It took a moment, and then Hermione looked utterly shocked. “You want me to do badly on a test? Deliberately?”

“It’s not like you have anything else I’d want, mudblood,” Draco snarled. Stupid girl! It’s not like she understood anything. She certainly didn’t get thrashed if she wasn’t head of the class. Oh no, her Muggle parents probably just gave her extra pudding and a trip to the bookstore. It’s not as if they understood anything about the Wizarding world in the first place. She didn’t know what it was like to have had generations of pureblood expectations weighting down your shoulders since the day you were born. She didn’t know how followers of Lord Voldemort punished failure. She didn’t have a father who was fanatical on the topic of pureblood superiority and expected his son to embody that supremacy in everything he did – or else. By Lucius’ standards, Draco had the bloodlines to succeed in all his endeavors. It necessarily followed, then, that if he wasn’t the best, it was because he wasn’t trying. And laziness was something that Lucius firmly believed could be beaten out of a boy.

No, Granger didn’t have a clue. She was just skipping merrily through life, thinking that having Snape shout at her was the end of the world. The professor couldn’t even touch her – she was a Gryffindor and completely outside his authority, so what was she worried about?

Hermione’s lips tightened. “All right. We have a test today in Potions. I’ll be sure to answer one of the essay questions wrong. That should mean you’ll get the best score. Now give me the book.”

“Not so fast,” Draco countered. “You said you really wanted the book back. You think throwing a single test is enough?”

“Malfoy, I am not going to destroy my entire scholastic career over this!”

“Throw the Potions test today and tomorrow’s Transfiguration practical, and then I’ll give you the book.”

“No,” Hermione countered, her face tight with anger. “I’m not about to ruin my average and then have you refuse to give me the book. Hand it over first.”

“Right,” Draco sneered. “Because once you have the book back, you’ll still be so motivated to honor our bargain.”

“All right. I’ll throw the Potions test today, then you give me the book, then I’ll make sure you get a higher grade in Transfigurations tomorrow.”

Draco considered. He had handed the book off to Goyle immediately after Potions with orders to get rid of it. He hadn’t wanted to risk being caught with the evidence in case Granger or someone else had seen him pinch it. As far as he knew, Gregory had long since disposed of the book, presumably by feeding it to the Squid or some other, equally permanent, method. However, even if he couldn’t return the book to Granger, by then she still would have done poorly on the Potions test, and Snape would hardly be in the mood to let her retake the exam, even if she poured out the whole story.

Even if he couldn’t string her along long enough to mess up deliberately in Transfigurations, she’d probably be so furious with him for tricking her, and for herself for lowering her Potions grade for nothing, that she’d still have problems on tomorrow’s practical exam. Transfigurations were fiddly things at the best of times, and trying them when upset was a great way to get all sorts of unexpected results. Draco grinned to himself. Yes, he thought it was very likely that he’d end up at the top of the class in both Potions and Transfigurations after all.

“So is this how purebloods convince others of their superiority?” Hermione asked contemptuously. “By cheating? Will it really make you feel smart, Draco, knowing that the only reason you’re getting the top marks is because I deliberately answered incorrectly?”

“You don’t know anything about how I feel!” Draco spat back, stung. How dare she look at him like that, as if it was all about his ego. Sure, if he were only interested in the prestige that went along with having the highest grades, then it might make him squirm to know that he cheated his way to the top. But since he was doing this in order to save himself from a merciless caning, he wasn’t so interested in the little niceties. He’d do whatever it took to avoid being beaten bloody, thank you very much, and if the little mudblood thought the less of him for it, he’d somehow manage to live with himself.

Hermione threw up her hands in disgust. “You’re pathetic, Malfoy.”

“Just remember the deal, Granger. Be sure to miss a couple of questions.”

She just shook her head and walked away, leaving Draco free to rejoin Crabbe and Goyle in the dungeons.

##

Snape followed Granger as she headed towards the dungeons. He was about to overtake her when he heard her call to his godson. Curious, he faded into the shadows in order to eavesdrop. Once a spy, always a spy.

What could the two of them have to discuss? While there had been odder pairings in the history of Hogwarts, Granger and Malfoy certainly weren’t a couple that anyone had predicted. Nor had they shown any signs of mutual attraction while in his quarters.

He listened in on the conversation, only planning to stay hidden long enough to satisfy his curiosity. After that, he would loom out of the darkness and chastise them for engaging in the activity for which most students lurked in the shadows. But to Snape’s surprise, the two weren’t sneaking off for some illicit snogging. He listened with growing outrage as the plot unfolded. So Granger had been careless enough to leave his book out for Draco to pilfer? And, even worse, the boy was now blackmailing her to improve his grades? And, worst of all, Granger was agreeing to cheat – under Snape’s very nose?

It took all of Snape’s control not to swoop down on the two conspirators right then and there. Connive to destroy his grading system, would they? This called for a very special response. After the two children had parted ways, Snape stalked to his office, plotting his own course of action.

Hermione sighed as she finished her test. She had deliberately omitted key concepts on two of the questions and misspelled the names of ingredients in two more. Surely that was enough to let that horrible ferret earn the highest mark. She still couldn’t believe that he had insisted that she do poorly on a test, but in retrospect she supposed that it made as much sense as anything else. As he had said, what else could she offer? It’s not like he needed tutoring, or money, and he wouldn’t be seen dead in her company, so…And she needed the book back. She couldn’t bear to see Snape’s expression if she had to confess that she had lost it. He had trusted her, and she had failed him. She should never have taken the book to class with her. She might just as easily have spilled something on it or damaged it some other way, though she still thought that Malfoy’s snatching it out of her bag was hard to blame on her.

She knew Harry and Ron didn’t understand. They thought she was more worried about what Snape would do to her for losing the book. While she wasn’t looking forward to her punishment – and McGonagall’s reaction had deeply unsettled her – she wasn’t nearly as worried as the boys thought she should be. She honestly didn’t believe he would whack her, despite what he did to Harry. Harry had a special relationship with Snape, but she knew her parents would never consent to his smacking her. And as scary as the professor was, she just couldn’t imagine him losing control of himself to the point where he would belt her without permission.

In truth, she’d rather he would just haul off and wallop her. No matter how bad it was – and from Harry’s descriptions, she had a pretty good idea of how awful a spanking from Snape could be – she’d rather avoid sitting down for a week than lose her access to his wonderful library, not to mention the surprisingly cozy ambience that had developed among the four of them.

Snape remained formal and acerbic, but while he might make scathing remarks about their logic or intellect, he only did so when the comments were deserved. He wasn’t condescending or patronizing, nor did he fob them off with lemon drops and evasive answers. If he wouldn’t discuss a topic, he simply said so, and that was that. He acted… not like they were adults exactly, but definitely not as if they were little children either. He assumed they had brains and treated them accordingly – though he could be downright cutting if he thought they weren’t using those wits appropriately.

Hermione knew that being excluded from this intellectual salon would hurt much worse than any physical punishment could. Which was why she was about to hand in the worst test paper of her life.

She pulled herself together and turned in the parchment. Snape didn’t so much as glance at her as she dropped it on top of the pile on his desk.

When the last student had finished, Snape ordered them to get out their cauldrons and brew a sample of Headache Reliever, commenting that he would likely need to exhaust his own supply while grading their papers. Draco caught Hermione’s eye, and she nodded at him, then colored angrily at his gloating smile. Git!

Draco fought down a feeling of guilt. What was wrong with him? So the mudblood would lose a few points. What difference would it really make to her? Besides, why should a Malfoy care what happened to one of the lesser species?

As the class period drew to a close, Snape finished marking the test papers. Having already dispatched Neville to Madame Pomfrey for a nasty cut on his thumb, caused by picking up dragonscales without protective gloves, he was able to skip over the lowest grade in the class. He called the other students up to his desk, one at a time, to return each one’s corrected paper along with a caustic comment. “Crabbe, your paper is proof that idiocy is limitless… Thomas, should you ever expect to pass this course, you might consider studying – or prayer… Nott, your work is not quite as bad as your usual standard… Weasley, the next time you confuse salamander eyes with toad eyes, I will have you taste test each one to teach you the difference… Potter, if you spent half the time you waste studying quidditch plays on your Potions homework, you might be a passable brewer…” Then he was at the last two names: “Malfoy and Granger, come here.”

Harry and Ron smiled at Hermione. Once again, she was at the top of the class! But her returning smile was awfully weak.

She stopped in front of Snape’s desk, shoulder to shoulder with Malfoy. Snape looked at them both. “I have here your papers. You two were the least idiotic of the students and received the top two grades.” Draco and Hermione exchanged a sidelong glance of mutual antipathy. “However,” Snape went on silkily, “I am not recording either of them.” And with that, he tore their tests in two.

The class gasped in shock, and Hermione and Draco’s jaws dropped. “What! You can’t do –“ Draco started to yell, but the look on his godfather’s face stopped him cold.

“I will not tolerate cheating in my class. The rest of you are dismissed. You two, remain behind.”

Harry and Ron lingered, frantic with worry for Hermione. Goyle and Crabbe also hung back, less out of concern for Draco than because without his guidance, they were unsure what class they had next.

Snape sent all of them fleeing with a few well-chosen words, then turned his attention to the two students still standing before his desk. “Well?” he demanded icily.

“I didn’t cheat!” Draco exclaimed hotly.

“How can you say that, Professor?” Hermione demanded. “You know I know the material! Go ahead and ask me a question.”

“Yeah!” Draco agreed. “Or if you think we’ve got notes hidden somewhere, have us change seats.”

“I did not suggest that you cheated to increase your grade, Miss Granger, but deliberately doing less than your best is nevertheless cheating,” Snape said sternly.

Hermione gulped. How had he known? Under his cold, glittering gaze, she felt her courage dwindle. “I – I –“ she stammered, trying to think of something to say. Where was her alleged intelligence now? She was stuttering like an idiot. But then, she heard McGonagall’s voice in her head, that cool chastisement about lacking courage and sense, and she knew what she had to do. There was no point in accusing Draco – Snape would never believe her over him, and she had no doubt but that the Slytherin would disavow any involvement in the scheme – but she needed to confess. She would make Snape even angrier, but that was better than waiting and having to infuriate him all over again later. “I’m sorry, Professor, but I lost your book. I – I was just distracted, I guess.” Without looking, she could tell that Draco was dumbfounded by her failure to implicate him, but she didn’t want to give Snape any additional excuse to deduct points from her. Everyone knew that accusing a Slytherin of anything without indisputable proof of their guilt was completely counter-productive.

Snape reached behind his desk. “I believe you are referring to this book?”

Hermione nearly swooned in relief. “You found it!” A huge smile spread across her face, then a thought visibly struck her and she spun on Draco. “You mean you didn’t have it?” she demanded. “You were going to let me go ahead and ruin my grades for nothing?” she screeched.

Draco saw the look in her eye and ducked, but he was unable to avoid the punch entirely.

“Miss Granger!” Snape yanked her back as she moved to pursue Draco around the professor’s desk.

She halted, realizing that socking Snape’s godson in front of him was foolish in the extreme, but too furious to care very much. “That sneaky ferret! That bas-“

The silencing spell hit her before she could finish the word, and then Snape was leaning over, nose to nose, glaring directly into her eyes. She gulped, her rage abruptly draining away. “One more syllable, Miss Granger, and it would have been a mouth soaping spell, not a silencing spell. Do we understand each other?”

She nodded jerkily, her anger replaced by apprehension.

“Sit down.”

With the girl taken care of for the moment, Snape turned his attention to Draco. His godson was nursing his jaw and pouting. “She hit me! The mu- Granger hit me! You saw her!”

Snape assessed the injury with cool, careful fingers. It would leave a mark, but there was no serious damage. “Can you move your jaw?” Draco tried and nodded. “Can you speak?”

“Yes.” Draco threw a nasty glare to where Hermione sat, mute.

“Then perhaps you can explain why a house elf found this book tossed aside in the boys’ lavatory off the Slytherin Common Room?”

Draco froze. That idiot Goyle! He should have known better than to leave it with that poor excuse for a primate. “Uh…”

“Were you unaware the book belonged to me?”

Draco fidgeted uneasily. He was all too aware that Snape might be unable to swat Granger, but no such restrictions applied to his person. He also knew that however angry his godfather might be now, being lied to would make him absolutely livid and virtually guarantee Draco a walloping. Snape obviously knew a lot already; better to confess all and hope for leniency than try to brazen it out and be caught in a lie.

“I didn’t know it was your book when I took it, but later Granger told me it was yours,” he admitted. He could see the Gryffindor’s look of shock at his swift confession, but he knew from painful experience that underestimating his godfather was a bad idea.

“And you took it in the first place because…?”

Draco colored and tried not to look at Hermione. The last thing he wanted to do was admit this in front of someone else, let alone Hermione Granger the insufferable know-it-all, perfect student, pride of Gryffindor, but he couldn’t bear to have his godfather think he was just being a prat. Or worse, that he had planned to blackmail Granger all along. “I thought it was unfair that she was using the book to do better than me in Transfigurations,” he admitted, almost inaudibly.

Snape’s fingers caught him beneath his chin and lifted. Black eyes met gray, and Draco swallowed hard. “Father has been very unhappy with my grades. I didn’t want Granger to get an edge in class. That was all I wanted at first, so I just took the book. But then when she came and asked for the book back, I figured I might as well go ahead and make sure I did better than her.”

“Even though you had gotten rid of the book?”

He shrugged dejectedly. “She didn’t know that. I figured I could screw up her grade in your class at least before she found out I didn’t have it. I thought she might be so angry, she’d mess up in Transfigurations as well.”

“So the two of you colluded. Miss Granger was to deliberately underperform, and you were, in consequence, to enjoy an undeservedly high mark.” Both students squirmed. When you put it like that, it really did sound unfair.

“Sit,” he pushed Draco into the chair next to Hermione. “Are you in control of yourself?” he asked Hermione sternly, and at her nod of acquiescence, cancelled the silencing spell.

Snape seated himself at his desk and regarded the two over his steepled fingers. They glanced at each other then quickly looked away. Soon both found it safest to stare fixedly at the floor. After what seemed an eternity, Snape spoke. “Very well. You will be punished for your attempts to cheat in my class and Professor McGonagall’s.”

“Sir, will – will you be telling Professor McGonagall about this?” Granger asked hesitantly.

“Yes.” At his blunt reply, she flinched and returned her gaze to her shoes.

“First, you will both sit my re-test on Saturday morning. You can expect it to be harder in content and for me to grade it more harshly.” They winced, but nodded. “I will suggest to Professor McGonagall that you spend Sunday afternoon cleaning her classroom as a way of making amends for even considering engaging in such duplicitous behavior in her class.”

“Yes, sir,” both mumbled unhappily.

“Now, since you both appear to take for granted your position as leaders of the class, you will spend the next two weeks tutoring the less fortunate. I think Vincent Crabbe should provide an acceptable challenge.”

To his surprise, Hermione looked up at that. “But, Professor, Neville has the worst grades in your class. If we’re to tutor anyone, it should be him.”

“What’s the matter, Granger? Don’t want to associate with a Slytherin?” Draco taunted.

“Fair’s fair, Malfoy,” she snapped back. “If we’re supposed to help someone, we should help the person who’s worst off.”

“I suspect Mr Longbottom is beyond mortal aid, Miss Granger,” Snape said drily. “I would not have you expend your efforts futilely.”

“At least Neville gets top grades in Herbology,” Hermione’s eyes flashed. “What does Crabbe excel at?”

“Your point being?”

“Neville is smarter than Vincent. Why assume the smarter of the two is ‘beyond mortal aid’?”

Snape reluctantly admitted to himself that the know-it-all had a point. And besides, punishment was supposed to be painful. “Very well, you will tutor both Mr Longbottom and Mr Crabbe.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hermione said primly, shooting a triumphant look at Draco.

Draco rolled his eyes. Like it mattered? They could tutor those two until they were blue in the face and it wouldn’t make a difference. Crabbe was a moron and Longbottom was a quivering mess. Snape was dreaming if he thought they could produce a miracle.

“You will, of course, tutor Mr Crabbe, Miss Granger,” Snape continued, ignoring Hermione’s gasp of dismay. “And Mr Malfoy will be responsible for Mr Longbottom.” Draco groaned.

“But sir,” Hermione protested, “shouldn’t we each work with the student that we have the better rapport with? Crabbe will listen to Malfoy much more than he’ll listen to me, and Neville –“

“Miss Granger, this is a punishment. I am not having you sit around and chat with your fellow Gryffindor about how much he hates potions. The assignments stand. Any more arguments out of you and you will write 200 lines of ‘I will accept my punishments with good grace.’” He paused challengingly, but Hermione bit her lip and kept silent. Draco smothered a grin.

“Of course, I expect your tutoring to work an improvement on both students,” Snape went on. He was pleased to note Draco frowning. “If they don’t improve by the next exam, it will be your backsides that will pay the penalty.”

Both students’ eyes widened fearfully.

“…Metaphorically speaking.”

Relief was obvious on two faces.

“…For Miss Granger.”

Snape fought to control his twitching lips. This was great fun. It was like flipping a switch: dismay, relief, dismay… Now Draco looked dejected, Hermione apprehensive.

“For you, Miss Granger, your continued access to my library is at stake.”

Draco was startled by Hermione’s moan of horror. “Oh, please, Professor. Can’t you swat me too?” she begged, as Draco stared at her with utter incredulity.

“It would hardly be an effective punishment if you were permitted to choose it, Miss Granger,” Snape replied austerely, ruthlessly suppressing his hysterics at Draco’s expression. “And what did I say about no arguments?”

She paled and ducked her head. “Sorry, sir.”

“So, to be clear: you will have Saturday detention with me for your retest. Sunday detention with Professor McGonagall cleaning her classroom. Then two weeks of tutoring sessions with Messrs Crabbe and Longbottom. Failure to document an improvement in their performance will lead to a spanking for Mr Malfoy and banishment from my library for Miss Granger. Oh – and one more thing.” Both students looked up, dazed. “For you to avoid punishment, both students must improve.”

Hermione started to speak, then clapped a hand to her mouth. Draco had no such compunctions. “You mean if I manage to pull off a miracle and improve Longbottom’s grades, but Granger can’t do the same with Crabbe and she loses her library privileges, I still get hit?” he demanded incredulously.

“Precisely. And if Miss Granger succeeds with Mr Crabbe but you fail with Mr Longbottom, then not only will you be punished, but Miss Granger will as well,” Snape agreed.

“That’s not fair!” Draco yelled. Hermione was still managing to keep quiet, but it was clear that for once she heartily agreed with Draco.

“Life is not fair,” Snape said calmly. “You got into trouble together; you will need to get out of it together. It would behoove you to set aside your animosity and strive towards a common goal, or you will find yourselves even more acutely miserable.”

From the look on their faces, they obviously considered that outcome inevitable.

“Dismissed. Miss Granger, you may deliver your 200 lines to me on Saturday.”

Hermione flinched. She had hoped he hadn’t considered her earlier pleading an “argument”, but obviously Snape wasn’t in the mood to show any mercy. She muttered, “Yes, Professor.”

“And Mr Malfoy, on the same day I will expect you to turn in 200 lines of ‘Stealing from others is both disgraceful and despicable’.”

Draco threw him a smoldering glare, but nodded his reluctant acquiescence.

As the two hurried from the classroom, Snape stroked his chin pensively. This was either going to turn out brilliantly or be a complete disaster, and at the moment, he couldn’t tell which it would be. 

“I hope you’re happy,” Draco spat at Hermione as they left the dungeons.

“Me?” she demanded furiously. “You’re the one who started all this by taking my book!”

“No, you started it by trying to cheat with that extra book.”

“That wasn’t cheating! And if you wanted to see the book, why didn’t you just ask me? It’s not like I could have said no – the book belongs to your godfather!”

“How was I supposed to know that?” Draco shot back.

“You could have asked!”

“Right – like that was going to happen. Stupid mudblood.”

“Arrogant arse!”

“Cow!”

“Snake!”

“Lion!”

“Wait. That’s not an insult,” Hermione argued.

“Yes, it is!”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Well, neither is ‘snake’.”

“Look, this is stupid,” she said in exasperation. “Professor Snape’s right. We’d better work together or you’re going to get smacked and I’m going to get thrown out of his library.”

“Oh, boo hoo, Granger. You’ll just have to make do with all the zillions of other books around here.”

“What are you complaining about? So your backside is sore for – what? A day? Snape’s library will be off limits to me for a lot longer than that!”

“Oh, yeah, that’s easy for you to say. I bet you haven’t been so much as tapped on the bum in your whole life, Granger. Try living my life for a while and see how you like it.”

Something Draco had said to Snape occurred to Granger. “Wait – you said your father punishes you if you’re not top of the class. You don’t mean he hits you for that, do you?”

Draco turned a fiery red. “Shut it, Granger. It’s none of your business.”

“But that’s awful, Draco!” Hermione couldn’t help it. She felt sympathy for the Slytherin. No wonder he had wanted her to throw the test.

“I don’t need a mudblood’s pity!” Draco snarled.

“It’s not pity, stupid,” she snapped back. “But why didn’t you say something?”

“Oh, right, because then you’d let me beat you on all the tests, huh? All because you’re such a kind hearted mudblood?”

She frowned. “No – especially not after what Professor Snape just said. But there’s got to be a way around it. And don’t call me ‘mudblood’.”

Despite himself, Draco felt a prickling of gratitude. After everything he’d done, Granger was still willing to help him?

“There’s nothing you can do, mud- Granger. Stop being stupid.”

“Look, we’re the two smartest people in our grade, if not the whole school. Are you telling me we can’t think of something?” Hermione raised an eyebrow challengingly, and despite his best efforts, Draco felt a smile curling his lips.

“Like what?” He couldn’t stop himself asking the question.

“Well, what if there were some prize? Like for scholastic excellence? Would that make your father happy?”

“Sure. And if I didn’t win it, it would make him very unhappy.  Are you trying to get me killed?” he demanded.

“I bet if we asked Professor Snape, he’d suggest it to the Headmaster,” Hermione mused. “We’ll just have to craft it so that you’re sure to get it. I know – if it includes sports performance as well as academic standing, you’d win. You play Quidditch, and I don’t.”

Draco stopped and stared at her. “Are you serious, mu- Granger? You’d really help me win an award?”

“Look, Malfoy, I’m not going to be able to enjoy beating your performance in all our classes if every time I get a higher score than you, I have to worry about something awful happening to you. And I don’t like people being treated badly.”

“So what do you want in return?” he asked suspiciously.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Noth-“ Then a thought struck her and she visibly changed her mind. “Hmmm. Draco, how do you feel about the emancipation of house elves?”

When Snape informed Crabbe and Longbottom to present themselves at his classroom that evening, both boys were startled. Not only because Snape hadn’t used the word “detention”, but because it was after a class that had been entirely lecture. Neville hadn’t had a chance to melt anything, and Crabbe hadn’t had a chance to, well, he never did much of anything anyway. Still, they knew better than to argue, so they duly turned up as ordered and were surprised to find a grim faced Malfoy and determinedly cheerful Granger waiting for them, along with Professor Snape.

“You will spend the next two weeks being tutored,” Snape told them, “in the hopes that Miss Granger or Mr Malfoy may have more luck than I in instilling knowledge between your ears. I am certain you will do your best,” he added, though his tone made it clear he didn’t expect that their best was any good.

The two boys exchanged a mutual look of confusion but then they agreeably headed towards their respective Housemates.

“No, no,” Snape’s mocking voice caught them midway. “Mr Crabbe is to work with Miss Granger. Mr Longbottom with Mr Malfoy.”

“I don’t want to work with a mudblood!” Crabbe protested before Longbottom could express his own dissatisfaction with the scheme.

“Are you defying me?” Snape swept down on Crabbe like an avenging force.

The burly boy cowered back and tried to hide behind Neville. It was rather like watching a large bear try to hide behind a plump pony. “No! No!” he yelped, surrendering instantly.

“And do you have any objections?” Snape purred at Longbottom.

“N-n-n-“ Neville stuttered, shaking his head.

“Excellent.” Snape straightened up and calmly flicked his robes into place. “Then you may begin.”

Crabbe scuttled over to Granger and did his best to keep her between himself and Snape. Hermione sighed and took the large figure by the hand, tugging him over to a desk at the far side of the room. Vincent was still so rattled from Snape’s fury that he didn’t even pull away from her “defiling” touch. “Now, Vince,” she said kindly, when both were seated. “What seems to be your trouble in Potions?”

He regarded her blankly. “Huh?”

Hermione’s smile grew more forced. “What are you having problems with? What confuses you?”

Crabbe shrugged. “Dunno. Everything, mostly.”

“Well, let’s try this a different way. What do you like about Potions?”

Silence.

“What parts do you understand?”

Silence.

Hermione fought the urge to pound her head on the desktop. “Can you tell me one of the ingredients in a basic healing potion?”

“Uh, that flower?”

“Which flower?”

“You know, that one that gets put in everything.”

“Forget me not?”

“Yeah!”

“No, Vince. That’s more for memory potions, not healing potions.”

“Oh.”

“How about explaining the difference between brewing a potion and an infusion?”

“Ummmm…”

“Okay. Vince, do you have your Potion notes with you? Any old essays or tests I could see?”

The mammoth Slytherin obediently bent to his bag. Vince was obviously accustomed to following orders.

Hermione glanced over the work he displayed. As best she could tell, Snape was giving Crabbe credit because he spelled his name correctly. Most of the time. “Vince, tell me one thing about Potions. Anything. Anything at all.”

He frowned, his brow creasing with the effort of unaccustomed thought. “They stink.”

“Good!” Hermione practically jumped on the desk and cheered. “That’s right! Very good!”

Excited by this unusual success, Crabbe was inspired to greatness. “And they taste bad.”

“Wonderful! That’s very very good, Vincent!” Hermione scrambled in her bag. “Here, that deserves a chocolate frog.”

Vince brightened. Food? He was getting food for a right answer?

“Vincent, why do you think potions taste bad?” Hermione asked, craftily leaving the box of chocolate frogs in plain sight.

Crabbe stared at the box and thought hard. “Ummm, because they don’t have sugar and stuff in them?”

“Good…” Hermione said encouragingly. “Instead, potions contain…?”

“Um, squished up frogs and bits of dead things and stuff like that?”

“Right. And that’s why…?”

“That’s why… they taste bad?” Vince asked, the ideas finally coming together with an almost audible click.

“Yes!” Hermione gave him another frog.

“Wow! That makes sense!” Vince said happily. “So, like, why do we put all that yukky stuff in them?”

“Because the yukky stuff each has special magical properties. When you put them together in different, special ways, you can make potions that do what you want.” Hermione thought back to their very first Potions class and Snape’s eloquent introduction to the mysteries of his field. Obviously it was a bit too eloquent for some students. “What are some of the potions that you’ve used?”

“Uh, healing potions, bruise salve, pepper up potion…” Vince started to reel off several more.

“Great!” Hermione saw Vincent’s eyes go to the chocolate frogs, but she firmly kept her hand on the box. She was going to need to owl Honeydukes later. “Let’s pick one and talk about the yukky stuff that makes it do what you need.”

By the time Snape dismissed them for the evening, Hermione was out of frogs, but Vincent was able to name and describe the basic properties of three ingredients in pepper up potion. The Slytherin left happily, while Hermione dragged herself out the door. She paused only long enough to look daggers at Snape and say, “I begin to understand why you dislike teaching.”

Snape smirked back at her. “It’s supposed to be a punishment, Miss Granger. I am delighted to see it’s working.”

The next night, re-supplied with chocolate frogs, Hermione sailed back into battle. She had expected Crabbe to forget everything from the night before and was astounded to find he could recite everything back to her, letter perfect. “But Vincent, that’s amazing!” she exclaimed, handing him a chocolate frog in a daze. “How did you remember all that?”

Crabbe looked embarrassed. “I’ve got a funny memory. I can remember stuff like lists and things.”

“Really? That’s wonderful.”

He shrugged, sheepish. “Doesn’t really help with anything. In all our classes, you need to think. I don’t do that so well,” he said without a trace of irony.

Hermione frowned. “What’s your favorite class?”

Vince looked even more embarrassed. “History of Magic,” he all but whispered.

“WHAT?” Hermione was staggered. Someone actually liked that class?

“Yeah, I mean, it’s boring the way old Binns just drones on and on, but all those dates and the cool Goblin wars and all the killing and stuff – that’s fun. My dad tells me lots of stories about the old wars and what the different pureblood families did to the Muggles and goblins and – oh. Sorry.”

Hermione waved it off. “I know you weren’t trying to be rude, Vincent. It’s okay. But you mean, you actually like all the dates and things?”

“Yeah, I mean, I can remember that stuff really well. You don’t have to think in History.” And to prove his point, Vince started reeling off dates and battles.

Hermione was forced to get out her textbook in order to check him, and to her amazement, he was entirely accurate. “But, Vincent, this is wonderful news! Don’t you see how you can use this in your other classes?”

He just looked at her in bewilderment. Once again the concepts were neatly lined up, but the connections weren’t being made.

“Listen,” she began…

The next morning in Potions class, Snape ordered all books closed. “All right, let’s see which of you little dunderheads actually did the assigned reading and which of you will be writing an extra essay tonight.” Muted groans echoed around the room. “Who can tell me the fourteen ingredients in a Far Seeing potion?”

“Specked newt’s eyes, frog toes, water, violet stamens, honey, bismuth, mandrake root, octopus eyeballs, hawk’s feather, cat whisker, snake skin, bubotuber paste, mint leaves, and marjoram!”

Snape scowled. “There is no shouting in my class, Mr… CRABBE?” He – and the rest of the class – stared incredulously at the student who was beaming proudly.

“That’s the order you add them in, too,” the boy added helpfully.  

“Yes, yes, it is,” Snape admitted, stunned. “What about Blood Replenisher?”

Crabbe again recited the ingredient list without so much as a pause for breath. The class, Slytherins and Gryyfindors alike, gaped at him. “That’s… very good, Mr Crabbe, not to mention completely unexpected. Ten points to Slytherin.” Crabbe glowed, and Snape quirked an eyebrow to where Hermione sat, smiling smugly.

“…Of course, he doesn’t have a clue about why you use those ingredients or what to do if you need to substitute something, but it’s still a big improvement,” Hermione explained to Snape after class.

“One might almost say miraculous,” Snape agreed drily. “I’m… impressed, Miss Granger.” Her resulting smile was almost as wide as Crabbe’s. “Of course, you still have several days of tutoring left.”

“Oh, yes sir. I need to show him how to do the same thing with his other lessons as we’ve done with the Potions material. That’s all right, isn’t it? We don’t have to only study Potions, do we?”

“No. I am appreciative of the assistance you are showing a member of my House, Miss Granger. You definitely are exceeding the onus placed upon you by the detention,” he admitted.

“Well, I didn’t expect to enjoy it, especially after that first night, but it is exciting to watch Vince start to do well. For him, I mean. And it felt good to see his face after he got those answers right today.” She smiled up at him. “I’m sorry I was rude that first night. It’s actually a pretty brilliant detention. I’m having fun.”

“Be sure not to tell anyone,” he said crossly. “Now run along.” As she left the dungeons, he said quietly, “And twenty points to Gryffindor for having wrought a miracle.” 

Unfortunately, Malfoy and Longbottom were not having a similar level of success. Malfoy’s teaching style was heavily influenced by Snape, and having yet another Slytherin shout insults at him was – oddly enough – not helping Neville.

“You really are hopeless, Lardbottom!” Malfoy howled in frustration after one spectacularly failed attempt to brew a simple three-ingredient potion. “This is the kind of stuff they have eight year olds doing in Junior Baby Potion classes! Are you sure you’re not a squib in disguise?”

“Shut up, Malfoy!” Neville was scarlet with frustration and humiliation. “It’s not like I’m trying to fail, you know!”

“Maybe if you tried to fail, you’d succeed! Merlin knows trying to succeed isn’t getting you anywhere.”

“I’m doing the best I can,” Neville protested, feeling the familiar prickle of tears at the back of his eyes. “It’s not easy for me, okay?”

“I just want you to know, “ Malfoy leaned close and hissed at him, “that when you blow the next test and I get whacked for your idiocy, I am going to have Crabbe and Goyle ambush you and beat you bloody.”

Neville promptly dropped the container of stinkbug juice, and the ensuing noxious cloud forced the evacuation of the classroom and the adjournment of the evening’s lesson.

By the next morning, tempers were still running high. Malfoy and Longbottom exchanged glares through History of Magic and into Herbology. When Professor Sprout praised Neville for his excellent potting technique, Malfoy stage whispered to Goyle, “It’s no surprise he gets along with plants, he has the same brain capacity as one!”

That did it. Yes, Neville was relatively timid. Yes, he was petrified of Snape. Yes, Draco scared him. But Draco, for all his sneers and threats, was just another student, and while Neville might not be able to do anything about Snape’s constant abuse, he had reached the limits of what he would take from Draco. So he deliberately turned around and threw his tray of seedlings at Draco.

That in and of itself might not have been a particularly nasty move, but the seedlings were firecracker plants and the rough handling promptly made them detonate. Malfoy yelped and dove for cover as a half dozen explosions occurred around his ears.

Some minutes later, Sprout had restored calm to the classroom and was applying salve to the small burns spotting Malfoy’s head and hands. “Oh dear, Mr Malfoy,” she said apologetically. “It looks as if some of your hair has been, er, singed.”

“What?” screeched Draco. Not his hair! He brought a hand up and was appalled to find that a sizable chunk had been burnt away. The frizzled remains felt like straw beneath his fingers. “I’ll kill him! This is all that idiot’s fault! You saw what he did! You’d better be giving him detention until he’s forty!”

Professor Sprout’s gentle gaze grew steely. “Yes, I did see what he did. And I heard what you said to provoke him. You’ll both be here after class for detention.”

“That’s not fair,” whined Draco. “I’m the injured party in this! And besides, we already have detention with Professor Snape.”

“So Mr Longbottom explained to me. That is why you will serve your detention with me before dinner and with Professor Snape after dinner.”

Draco whinged and complained, but Professor Sprout remained firm. She finally threatened to contact his Head of House if he continued to refuse the detention, and Draco backed down. Snape might agree with Draco that having been practically set on fire was enough of a punishment, but he might just as easily support his fellow professor.

And so, after class was over, Longbottom and Malfoy remained behind, along with what appeared nearly endless rows of Samurai Roses, all of which needed pruning. The only problem was that the Samurai Roses didn’t want to be pruned, and they were wickedly good at defending themselves with their thorns, some of which were nearly as long as a finger.

Professor Sprout headed off to a project that required her attention in the other greenhouse, but not until she had threatened them with death, dismemberment, and detention (not necessarily in that order) if they got up to more mischief. Both boys nodded and got to work.

Draco found it not only slow going, but acutely painful. No matter how he tried to sneak up on the plants, they always saw him coming, and they were lightning quick with their sword-like thorns. He tried parrying them with the pruning shears, but they had earned their name – samurai – and he was no match for them. Within half an hour, he was weeping from both pain and frustration. He knew that when he returned to his dormitory with his hands cut to ribbons, he would be mocked and derided. Sprout – and Hufflepuffs in general – were not held in high regard, and the notion that the Prince of Slytherin would be vanquished by a bunch of flowers would make him the butt of jokes for several weeks.

One of the flowers neatly impaled his thumb on its thorn, and he couldn’t suppress a cry of pain. Neville looked over from where he was significantly farther down his row. “What’s the matter, Malfoy?”

“Shut up, Lardbottom,” Draco said savagely, dashing the tears from his cheeks. That was all he needed, Neville’s taunting as well. He struck out at the rose in front of him and cried out again as it blocked his attempt and opened a long slash along the back of his hand. He threw the pruning shears down and burst into tears of pain and rage.

“Merlin, Malfoy, what have you done to yourself?” Neville asked, coming up behind him. “Your hands are shredded.”

“Yeah, I know. Real funny, isn’t it? Ha, ha,” Draco snapped, forcing back his sobs and pulling himself together through a sheer act of will. “You’ll be able to have a real howl about it back in the Gryffindor Common Room tonight, right, Lardbottom?”

“Stop calling me that, Malfoy,” Neville ordered sharply.

Startled, Draco looked at him. Somehow, here in the greenhouses, Neville seemed different. More confident and more… adult, somehow. “Here,” Neville said, reaching under the work table and pulling out his bookbag. He grabbed one of Draco’s hands.

“What are you doing?” Draco demanded, snatching back his hand. “I’m not holding hands with you!”

“Fine, bleed all you want,” Neville shrugged. “Or, if you want, I can put this healing cream on.” He held up a pot that Malfoy instantly recognized. “I always bring some with me just in case.”

Draco sniffled then tried to hide it with a disdainful sniff. “I’m sure you need it all the time. A clod like you working with all these dangerous plants?”

“Actually, I haven’t needed it at all this term,” Neville said evenly, then grinned suddenly. “Yet.” He opened the jar. “So do you want some or not?”

Draco fought with himself. Accept help from Lardbottom? But as much as it would sting his pride to do so, refusing would hurt worse. His hands were sheer agony. “Not much point,” he muttered, looking down the long row of plants he had yet to touch. “I’ll just get sliced up all over again.”

Neville recaptured one of his hands and started smearing it with salve. “Not necessarily. Let’s see what your technique is like. It’s really not that hard.”

Draco snorted. “Oh yeah? A lot you know!”

Neville looked at him calmly. “I’ve done twice as many as you, and I haven’t gotten a single scratch. So, yeah, I do know a lot. More than you, anyway.”

Draco wanted to sneer at the notion of a Longbottom knowing more than a Malfoy about anything, but the salve felt so good that he couldn’t bring himself to say anything snotty. The pain was nearly gone from one hand, and he nearly whimpered in relief as Neville reached for the other.

“Okay,” Neville ordered, once Draco’s hands were fully healed. “Show me what you’ve been doing.”

Draco bridled, but then grudgingly obeyed. He picked up his shears and started warily towards the next rose.

“Wait!” Neville called. “That’s your first mistake. You need to approach it like this – didn’t you do the reading?” Neville took his own pruning shears and approached the rose. He bowed, and the rose bowed back. The instant the rose bent over, Neville nimbly leapt forward and with an adroitness Draco never would have suspected, he pinched it just behind the flower. The entire plant promptly went limp, and he quickly snipped off its extra branches. Then he let go, sprang back, and the rose immediately revived.

Draco stared at him. Somehow those fingers which always seemed so fat and clumsy in Potions and on broomsticks were deft and sure here in the greenhouse. “That was amazing,” Draco gulped, in spite of himself.

Neville smiled, just for a moment, then the usual caution settled back in his expression. “You give it a try.”

It was hard for a Malfoy to bow, especially to a stupid flower, for Merlin’s sake! But Draco managed, and the rose bowed back. It took him a few tries before he was able to do it quickly enough to avoid the thorns, but soon he was zipping along the line of roses. He wasn’t as graceful at it as Neville, but he was good enough to avoid being hurt.

“Hey, Neville,” he called, curious, “if you’ve got the dexterity to get the drop on these roses, why are you so clumsy in potions? If you’re not hacking apart the ingredients, you’re dropping them all over or jostling the cauldron. That’s why your stuff always blows up or melts or something.”

Neville shrugged. “Snape rattles me. I know he’s your Head of House and godfather and all, but he’s really scary.”

“Compared to what?” Draco scoffed. “All he can do is insult you, and he insults everyone. What’s so bad about that?”

Neville looked down at the rose he was working on. “I don’t like it when he says I’m useless,” he whispered, almost too low for Draco to hear. “Because he’s right.”

Draco looked up in surprise. “Why do you say that?” It was true that not too long ago, he’d have agreed with Longbottom, but having watched the other boy’s skill with plants, he didn’t understand why Neville was so convinced of his own ineptitude.

Neville looked away. “You know about my folks, right? I mean, with your father being a Death Eater – or ex-Death Eater, I guess.”

Draco colored at the reference to Lucius, but it was clear Neville hadn’t meant anything rude by it. “Yeah. So? They were tortured by Death Eaters and went insane, right?”

“Yeah,” Neville said. “But I was there when it happened.”

Draco swallowed. He knew Neville would only have been a baby at the time, but still, being there, hearing his parents screaming from the Cruciatus… That was just sick.

Merlin, he did not want to join Voldemort, no matter what his father said or did.

“Yeah. I don’t really remember, but you know…” Neville took a deep breath. “I didn’t do anything. To help them, I mean.”

Draco stared at him. “Longbottom, you were like, what, 14 months old? What the hell could you have done?”

“Harry defeated Voldemort at that age,” Neville said quietly, continuing to prune the roses. “I couldn’t even get help for my parents. It’s not like they went insane quickly, you know. It took hours and hours.”

Draco felt nauseous. This was what his father wanted for him? Suddenly he realized how much courage it must take the other boy just to get up in the morning. “Really, Longbottom, that’s not true. About Potter, I mean. He didn’t defeat the Dark Lord.”

Neville frowned at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I mean, yes, the Dark Lord tried to kill him and the spell backfired or something, but everything I’ve heard always said that it wasn’t really Potter, but something his mum did, or maybe both his parents together. You know, to protect him. Like, it wasn’t anything that he did on his own, but something that they did to him, or maybe for him. So maybe the fact that you survived too was because of something your folks did for you. Did you ever think of that? Maybe it wasn’t that you should have done something to save them, but that they were doing something to save you that whole time. That’s why you’re still here. ‘Cause they cared about you as much as Potter’s parents cared about him.”

Neville was staring at him. “You really think so?” he said, the words breathed out between stiff lips.

Draco shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. Why was he being nice to Lardbottom? “I don’t know. But it makes sense to me. I mean, why should only Potter’s parents be able to protect their kid?” he asked, the usual venom in his voice as he mentioned the Dolt Who Lived.

Neville suddenly ducked his head, and Draco realized, mortified, that the other boy was crying. If Sprout comes in here now, I’m dead. She’ll want to know if I made him cry, and I’ll have to say yes, and she’ll report me to Snape and… Oh, Merlin, why did I ever say that?

Draco waited in an agony of embarrassment and anxiety for the other boy to get control of himself. Twelve year old boys are not particularly comfortable with strong emotions, and Draco was perhaps less sympathetic than most, but even he realized that anything he said at that moment would only make things worse. There was nothing to do but wait.

After what seemed an eternity but was probably only a few minutes, Neville dragged a sleeve across his face and looked up at Draco. “Thanks. I hadn’t ever thought of it like that. I owe you one, Malfoy.”

Draco squirmed. “Yeah, okay,” he muttered. “Whatever.”

Neville managed a watery grin. “Now I really need to improve in Potions. I’ll actually feel bad now if you end up getting walloped because of me.”

Draco glared at him suspiciously. “Have you been deliberately holding back just so I would get in trouble?”

“No! I mean, I know that if I don’t improve, Hermione gets in trouble too, and even if I wanted to see you whacked, I wouldn’t do that to her. But I guess I just never really thought that you would be able to help me improve my grades, no matter how hard I tried, and until now I wasn’t really all that upset at the thought of you getting hit.”

“Great,” Draco said sourly. “If you had been messing up on purpose, we might have had a chance. But no, we’re still dead.”

Neville looked apologetic. “I’m really sorry.”

Draco thought hard. “Tell me what you have to do to pot a Veritas orchid,” he said slowly, an idea striking him.

“Oka-ay,” Neville obviously didn’t understand the request but he was willing to play along. “First you have to prepare the potting soil. There are eighteen ingredients that make up the seven layers, and it takes about three weeks to prepare them all. You have to be sure that you do it between the winter solstice and –“

“Stop!” Draco commanded. “If you can remember all that, and do it, then what is your problem with Potions? I mean, this herbology shite takes forever. It can take you three years to figure out if you potted a centenary plant properly – at least a potion either works or blows up pretty quickly by comparison.”

“I don’t know,” Neville defended himself. “I don’t understand how potions work. I mean, with plants, it’s all pretty simple. They’re living things. You need to give them what they need to grow and thrive. Yeah, okay, some are more complicated than others, but most of them just want the same thing. But potions are all different and the ingredients are disgusting – all those awful animal parts? Yuk!”

“What if – what if you thought about a potion like a plant? I mean, you need to feed plants, right? You have to mix up different plant foods for roses than for kauri trees, don’t you?”

“Yeah…?”

“So how do you decide what goes in each type of plant food?”

Neville grinned. “That’s easy. You just look at the plant that’s going to eat it, and you figure out what it needs to grow properly.”

“Okay, so try this. Instead of thinking of a potion as a recipe you’re brewing or something you have to make, think of it as an effect you want to create. Like when you make plant food, you say you think about what you want it to do for the plant, right?” Neville nodded. “Okay, so when it’s time to make a nutrient potion – “ Draco named one of the simplest potions “- think about what you want the potion to do.”

“You mean, like replace the body’s own fuel stores?”

“Exactly!” Draco was beginning to get excited. “So what do you need to put in it to get that effect?”

Neville was thinking hard. “Well, you’d need something to take the place of the protein and other food groups – is that what the powdered dragon’s liver does? Because it’s so high in magical content?”

“Yes!” Draco pumped his fist in victory. “You’ve got it! Keep going!”

Neville managed – with only minor prompting – to get through the rationale for the rest of the nutrient potion’s ingredients as well as to puzzle out why they needed to be added in their appropriate order and manner. By the end, he was dancing around the greenhouse, yelling, “It makes sense! It finally makes sense!”

Throwing his dignity to the winds, Draco linked arms with him in a mad sort of jig. “Hooray! I’m saved! No swats!”

A noise at the entrance to the greenhouse caused the boys to jerk to a halt. Sprout and Snape stood there, mouths upon. “I – I heard the yelling and thought you were killing each other, so I called Professor Snape,” Sprout stammered. “Is – is everything all right?”

Draco straightened haughtily. “Of course it is,” he said coldly. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “You were dancing with Mr Longbottom, Mr Malfoy. Have you been hit with an Imperius? Do you need to see Madame Pomfrey?”

“Please, Professor,” Neville said in tones almost as glacial as Draco’s. “Although you may find such comments amusing, I doubt the rest of us do.”

Draco smothered his snort of laughter, while Snape’s other eyebrow joined its mate at the man’s hairline. Longbottom had just delivered a put-down? To him? “Perhaps you have forgotten you have detention with me after dinner, Mr Longbottom,” he replied with silky menace.

To his astonishment, Neville actually grinned. “I know. I’m looking forward to it. I think we’ll brew a nutrient potion tonight. That sound good to you, Draco?”

“Yeah, okay, Neville.” Draco couldn’t resist. He knew it would make his godfather nearly swallow his tongue. “Professor Sprout, may we please be excused to go to dinner?”

The Hufflepuff nodded jerkily.

“Thank you, Professor,” Neville said politely. “I’ll be happy to come by this weekend and help finish the pruning if you need me.”

Snape and Sprout watched the two boys walk over to the Great Hall, chatting companionably. “Severus…” Sprout began tentatively. “I suppose it’s not really any of my business, but is your godson behaving like his normal self?”

Snape paused. He trusted the Herbology professor as much as he trusted anyone – which admittedly wasn’t very much – but he wasn’t about to reveal his plans for Draco to anyone. He forced the immense satisfaction that he felt out of his tone and answered in his usual ill-tempered drawl. “No, Pomona. Not in the least. Obviously exposure to Longbottom has softened his brain.” 

As he’d expected, the Hufflepuff took exception to his remark. “Well, it certainly has softened something about him, and you know what? I like it!” With that angry snap, she whirled and marched away, leaving Snape free to murmur softly, “So do I.”

Harry rubbed his backside as he left Snape’s quarters. He had told his Quidditch teammates that stealing the Gryffindor banner from the Great Hall and affixing it to the spire of the Astronomy Tower was a foolish way to celebrate their team’s win over Ravenclaw, but they had persuaded him that even if the faculty suspected the team’s involvement, they’d never be able to prove it. And of course, Harry was not only one of the best fliers on the team, but also the smallest, so he had the best chance of remaining undetected while securing the banner in place.

It had been a tricky bit of flying. The winds had been quite strong the previous night, and Harry had had to stand up on his hovering broomstick in order to tie the banner in place. He’d nearly lost his balance on two heart-stopping occasions, but in the end, he’d managed it, and the entire school had been suitably impressed. With the exception of one decidedly unamused Potions Master.

Most of the students and faculty automatically assumed it had been the Weasley twins who had achieved the feat, but both boys had been serving a detention with Snape when the prank was committed so he knew better. The professor was well aware of Harry’s prowess on the broomstick, and it hadn’t taken him long to discover the truth. One stern question, and Harry spilled his guts.

It was all well and good for the other students to say that none of the teachers could prove who was responsible; it was another thing to lie to Snape’s face – and Harry wasn’t stupid enough to do that. As it was, he’d gotten a lengthy lecture on personal safety, had his broomstick privileges revoked again, and was told that if he couldn’t distinguish between harmless pranks and ridiculous grandstanding that could get him killed, Snape would pull him off the Quidditch team entirely. In retrospect, Harry was pretty sure Snape hadn’t really intended to make good on his threat, but in the heat of the moment, he’d lost his temper and told Snape to keep his big nose out of his, Harry’s, affairs. And that was why he was presently nursing a sore rear, waiting for the last of the sting to subside.

Considering how rude he had been – the nose comment had merely marked the start of hostilities – Snape had actually been pretty lenient. He seemed to understand that Harry still wasn’t accustomed to having an adult looking out for him, and that while he really, really liked having someone care about him, there were times when the unfamiliar restrictions chafed.

The chafing never lasted long, though – not when life at the Dursleys was still so fresh in Harry’s mind. Memories of horrid names hurled at him, casual backhanded blows, being starved and ignored… Yes, it didn’t take long for Harry to remember what it was like back when no one cared about things like whether he fell off his broomstick; the Dursleys would only have noticed, let alone minded, if he had gotten blood on their nice house. After all, they had had him working at plenty of things that were dangerous – from cooking when he could barely see over the stove to using hedge trimmers that could have taken off his fingers.

He still wasn’t accustomed to people getting upset with him when he endangered himself, especially if he had gotten away without injury. So when Snape scolded him and said that the very act of risking himself was unacceptable, it was hard for him to understand why the professor was making such a big deal of it. It was only after his temper got him in trouble that he realized it was because Snape was concerned about him. That adults were supposed to get upset when their kids did something that could have ended badly. That if they didn’t get upset, it was because they couldn’t care less.

That’s when the remorse started, and the worry that maybe Snape wouldn’t like him any more. After all, Harry had just insulted him – to his face – and why should the Potions Master be bothered with such a rude and ungrateful ward? Maybe he would go to Dumbledore and insist that Harry’s care be transferred to someone else. Maybe he would return him to the Dursleys. Maybe…

Even before the first slap ignited his backside, Harry was halfway to tears. Several smacks later, the glow in his behind was still miles behind the ache in his heart, but Snape was getting worried. It was one thing to swat a boy who yelped and complained, but tonight Harry had moved from defiant to anguished in mere moments. What was going on inside the brat’s head?

He pulled the boy upright and frowned at him, trying to decide what to say. Before he could speak, Harry did. “ ‘M sorry,” he hiccupped. “Please don’t.”

“Don’t what? Spank you some more? When have I ever punished you twice for the same thing?” Snape demanded, offended.

Harry shook his head, still too distraught to speak clearly. “N-no. You c’n keep whacking me, but please don’t send me back to’m.”

“Send you back to who? …The Dursleys?” Snape asked incredulously. At Harry’s tearful nod, he huffed in exasperation. “What on earth put such a ridiculous notion in your head, you idiotic child?”

“I w’s rude,’ Harry muttered, hanging his head. “I said you had a big nose and that –“

“Yes, thank you, Mr Potter. I quite recall the insults from our first go-around. But why would that automatically suggest to you that I would return you to those disgusting Muggles?”

Harry wiped his nose on his sleeve, oblivious to Snape’s appalled expression. A handkerchief was pushed into his hand a moment later. “No reason you have to keep me,” he pointed out dispiritedly. “If I’m bad enough, you c’n always tell the Headmaster to give me back.”

Snape scowled. Those Muggles… Maybe it wouldn’t be such a terrible thing to drop some Death Eaters an anonymous note with their address. “Sit down, Harry.”

Still sniffling – but this time making use of his handkerchief – the boy obeyed. “My assuming responsibility for you was not something I did lightly, Harry,” he said firmly, deliberately using the brat’s first name. “If I had any intention of relinquishing your care because of some misbehavior on your part, I would simply not have accepted the role in the first place.”

“So why did you?” Harry asked. This was the question that had plagued him for these past several months. What on earth had caused the snarky, misanthropic Potions Master to assume the role of his guardian? He had been awful to Harry all through his first year, and in all fairness, he wasn’t exactly nice to any of the other students either, Draco Malfoy excepted. What – other than a direct order from Dumbledore – would have induced him to accept such a burdensome role? Even when Harry wasn’t being insulting, he still took a lot of Snape’s time. The man taught him good study habits, reviewed his homework, supervised his extra lessons, advised him on proper behavior (and the Dursleys’ lack thereof), mentored him, engaged him in grown-up conversations, and even endured visits from not only Harry but also his friends. And, of course, took the time to punish him when he did something stupid.

But even Snape’s punishments took time and effort on the part of the professor. Uncle Vernon just grabbed him, slapped him around, and stuffed him back in the cupboard, usually managing to squeeze the entire thing in while the telly was on a commercial break. By contrast, Snape first interrogated him about his behavior, then lectured him on its folly, quizzed Harry to be sure he understood why he was being punished, assigned or administered the discipline, then took the time to reassure Harry afterwards and join him for tea and biscuits.

Everything about caring for Harry had to be an annoying, time consuming burden for Snape. So why did he do it? Harry bit his lip anxiously, desperate to know but terrified of the answer.

Snape scowled. He had known that Harry would eventually ask this question, but he still hadn’t decided how he wanted to answer it. In truth, he was surprised at how long it had taken the boy to voice the question. He’d expected Potter to demand explanations right up front. The boy’s unquestioning acceptance of the situation had been concerning.

“It is …complicated,” he finally replied. At the disappointment in Harry’s eyes, he defended himself. “I am not trying to deflect the question, but the answer is complex. There are many reasons why I agreed to be your guardian, and I suspect that you will not be able to appreciate all of them for some years – perhaps not until you have children of your own. What I will tell you now is that even before you arrived at Hogwarts, I was prepared to care for you. Had I known the treatment you were receiving at the hands of those Muggles, I would have interceded well before now, but I was always assured that you were fine.” He held up a finger when Harry would have spoken. “No, Mr Potter. I am answering your question. Do not interrupt. Besides, you should be able to figure out who told me so. Your brain is adequate for that purpose at least.

“Now. As I was saying, one of the reasons I was willing to accept this role is because – “ Snape took a deep breath “ – your mother and I were close friends for much of our childhoods.” Harry nearly fell off his seat. “As a result, it is natural that I am concerned for your welfare.”

Harry’s eyes were huge. “So you mean it’s because of my mum?” Snape nodded. “Then she’s still helping take care of me?”

When Snape nodded again, Harry’s tears overflowed, and once again, Snape’s robe became wet with tears and – other fluids. The Potion Master rolled his eyes. First there was snot on the lower part of his robes from when the brat was being walloped. Now there was snot on the front of his robes from the brat’s weeping for his dead mother. And all this splooge now coated what had until moments ago been his favorite robe, one of the very few miraculously free of repulsive potion stains. Lily, he thought, you owe me a new set of robes. At least.

Realizing that Harry was overwhelmed both by his own misbehavior and by the revelation that his mother continued to protect him, Snape did the only thing he could think of that might calm the boy before curfew (and salvage his own robe). He Summoned a house elf.

Sure enough, once the plate of shortbread was placed on a nearby table, its aroma had amazing restorative properties on the child. Harry mopped, snuffled, honked, and blew. Snape recoiled from the proffered handkerchief and banished the offending item directly to the laundry hamper. “Are you sufficiently recovered for tea and biscuits?” he asked, eyeing the boy narrowly and trying to estimate his residual snot factor.

Harry nodded. He was still a bit worried that Snape would hold his rudeness against him. Merlin knew that if he’d ever mouthed off like that to Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia, he would have gotten a lot more than a few measly swats on the butt. More like a kaleidoscope of welts and bruises, not to mention at least a week on crusts and water. They would never have forgiven such a show of temper.

But, over the tea and biscuits, when Harry had (again) apologized, Snape reassured him that such outbursts were normal teenaged behavior. “…Just as my response was normal parental behavior,” he informed Harry, eyeing him over the lip of his teacup. “This is a time in your life where you will naturally resist authority, and we shall doubtless clash over numerous issues when you feel you are mature enough to make your own decisions and I disagree. However, if you wish to further your argument, you would do well to state your case in a calm and logical manner, rather than resort to insults and name calling. That is unlikely to result in an outcome you desire, as you just discovered.”

“No kidding,” Harry muttered, squirming as he recalled how he had bawled during the spanking. However, he couldn’t help but be delighted by Snape’s words. “Parental behavior”? Did that mean that Snape was starting to feel like a parent? That he was starting to think of Harry as a… son?

Snape eyed the boy doubtfully. Why on earth should his scolding cause the brat to smile like that?

“Now that we have addressed the issue of your intemperate outburst as well as your foolish and dangerous prank, is there anything else we need to talk about? Your upcoming Potions class, for example?”

“Nope,” Harry’s quick reply sprayed biscuit crumbs over the couch, and he hastily chewed and swallowed. “Sorry,” he said, catching Snape’s long-suffering expression. “I’ve done all the reading and the recommended supplemental material and I asked Hermione to quiz me on it.”

“Very well,” replied Snape. “Remember our arrangement: if you do a satisfactory job, then we can switch one of our study sessions from Potions to an extra DADA lesson.”

“I know!” Harry said eagerly, now fully reassured that Snape wasn’t still mad at him. “I really want to get to the point where you can show me how to duel.” He shot a sly look at his professor. “If we don’t get to start soon, I may have to ambush Malfoy in the corridor to get some practical experience.”

Snape narrowed his eyes. “I think you know exactly what kind of experience you’d get should you implement that strategy, Mr Potter.”

Harry laughed aloud. Snape was so easy to tease, once you got to know him. “I can guess. I’m just kidding, all right?”

“Your Gryffindorish teasing is both impudent and imprudent when directed at a Slytherin,” Snape warned sternly, but Harry just grinned and took another shortbread.

Yeah, Harry mused as he turned towards Gryffindor Tower, Snape wasn’t all that bad… other than that hard hand, of course.

Unbeknownst to Harry, a pair of silver gray eyes followed his departure from the dungeons, noting with particular interest his occasional grimace and his habit of rubbing his bum every few steps.

While Snape’s expanded relationship with the boy was well known to the faculty, most students assumed Harry’s frequent visits to the dungeons were detention-related. Harry’s close friends knew better, of course, but Dumbledore felt that the fewer who knew the details of Harry’s relationship with Snape, the better for both of them. For that reason, Draco Malfoy was particularly intrigued by his observations. He had known that his godfather had been spending a lot of time with that dunce Potter, but he’d assumed that the Idiot Who Lived was having to take Remedial Potions or something along those lines. After all, considering how hard he and the other Slytherins worked to sabotage the Gryffindor cauldrons – particularly the one belonging to the Golden Git – it was hardly surprising that he would need extra detention time to reach basic levels of competency.

But to see with his own eyes incontrovertible evidence that Snape had finally given Prince Potter the hiding that prat deserved was like getting an early Christmas present. Draco didn’t know how his godfather had managed it – the Head of Slytherin walloping the most famous (and most spoiled) Gryffindor? – but it was hard to imagine any other explanation that would lead to Potter’s limping away in that particularly distinctive fashion. Draco grinned in anticipation; Potions class tomorrow was going to be the best one ever.

Harry was, for once, looking forward to Potions. He knew he was prepared to brew the Pain Relieving Potion, and he was equally certain that, for once, Snape wasn’t going to pull anything like a surprise quiz or switch assignments on them at the last minute. He was pretty sure that the professor was as eager to spend more time on DADA as Harry was, and now that Harry’s study skills had improved, there was no reason they had to linger on Potions material that Harry could just as easily do during free periods, particularly with Hermione as a study partner.

He hurried to his seat and took out his books, anxious to get started. To his surprise, Draco Malfoy dropped his things on a nearby table. Most of the students had arrived, though Snape had yet to make his usual dramatic appearance.

“So, Potter – did you sleep okay last night?” Draco asked, innocently enough.

Harry frowned, trying to figure out what Draco was getting at. He hadn’t been having any nightmares or weird dreams recently, so what was the blond talking about? “Yeah,” he answered warily. “Why?”

“Oh, just figured that you might have had trouble getting used to sleeping… on your stomach.”

Harry felt his heart lurch. Draco couldn’t possibly be hinting at what Snape had done to him last night. How could Draco know anything about it? Surely he must be talking about something else…

“I don’t know what you mean,” he blustered, noticing with dismay that they were beginning to attract attention.

“Oh, I think you do,” Draco purred, delighted with Harry’s reaction. “Will you be able to sit through class today?”

“Shut it, Malfoy,” Harry snarled through gritted teeth. He clenched his fists, helplessly wondering what the Slytherin would say next.

Ron and Hermione were hurrying over, noticing the tense exchange, and that was bringing Goyle and Crabbe from the other side of the room. The other students had dropped any pretense of preparing for class and were watching the confrontation, wide eyed.

“Temper, temper, Potter,” Draco chided, relishing Harry’s anguished expression. “Is that what got you into trouble? Is that why you got your –“

“Eyes up, mouths shut!” Snape swooped in from the back of the room, and the class instantly abandoned the altercation between Draco and Harry. Intriguing it might be, but with Snape in the room, no one was stupid enough to focus on anything but him.

Once Snape had finished his lecture and instructed them to get on with their brewing, however, the students began to dart covert glances to where Harry and Draco were working. Would the two of them start up again where they had left off?

For his part, Harry gritted his teeth and did his best to focus on the task at hand, blotting Malfoy out of his mind. Whatever Malfoy might know – or guess – he needed to concentrate on the potion. He really, really wanted that extra DADA lesson, but he also wanted to show Snape that he was in fact decent at Potions. It was a field that Snape loved, and Harry thought it would be nice if he could get to like it too. Sort of something they could have in common, like a real father and son might… not that he would ever say something that sappy to Snape.

Malfoy waited, choosing his moment carefully. He waited until the moment when Potter had just put in the comfrey leaves and had to stir the mixture exactly forty-six times. Just when he was at number twenty-three, Malfoy sidled over and whispered, “Do you always howl like that when you’re getting your arse whacked, Potter? I thought at first a banshee was loose in the castle.”

Harry started so violently that his stirrer went flying, and all hope of turning in an acceptable potion went out the window. Harry clenched his fists so tightly he could feel the nails cutting into his palms. “Shut up, Malfoy.” He would not let the slimy little snake provoke him, not here in the middle of Snape’s class.

Draco smirked at him triumphantly and deliberately raised his voice. “You’re awfully sensitive today, Potter. Or is it just part of you that’s sore?”

Ron started towards Draco, ready to enter the battle on Harry’s behalf, but Harry pulled him back. Doing anything would just make it worse and lose Gryffindor more points. Besides, he had been whacked – Draco’s announcing it to the class would be unbelievably embarrassing, but it wasn’t an actual lie. Harry couldn’t very well defend himself against the truth.

“I might be sore, Malfoy,” Harry said in a low voice, “but at least I’m not low enough to share your embarrassing moments with the class.”

For an instant, Draco hesitated, remembering some of the confidences the two boys had shared during their involuntary confinement in the Infirmary a few weeks back. But the opportunity to humiliate Potter was too good to pass up. And hadn’t Potter just said he wouldn’t share Draco’s secrets? Stupid Gryffindork – he deserved what he got. If he wasn’t smart enough to negotiate a truce using Draco’s own confidences against him, then that was hardly Draco’s fault.

“So, Vince,” Draco said loudly, ostensibly speaking to Crabbe on the far side of the room, but never taking his eyes off of Harry’s rigid features, “guess what I saw last night? Harry Potter, limping back to his dorm after a sound –“

“Mr Malfoy.” Snape’s voice sliced through the growing whispers like a razor. The room went absolutely still. Snape never used that tone against a Slytherin in public. The Slytherins in the class were shocked witless, knowing what that tone usually heralded when used back in their tower. The Gryffindors were similarly stunned at hearing the professor speak so harshly to one of his own, and Draco Malfoy at that!

Draco turned white. He abruptly realized he had made an enormous miscalculation, and he turned to face his godfather, terrified of what he might see. His worst fears were confirmed as he saw the professor lifting his desk chair out from behind the table and setting it in front of the class.

“Mr Malfoy. Come here.”

The Slytherins looked like wax statues, all with jaws hanging open in shock. The Gryffindors looked blankly from them to the professor and over to Draco. Obviously something was going on, but they couldn’t figure out what it was.

Draco swallowed hard, trying not to sick up on the spot. His Housemates were staring at him, wide eyed. They knew what was about to happen, while the idiot Gryffindors were blinking in bovine confusion. “P-p-please, sir,” Draco stuttered, all trace of arrogance gone. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Come here.”

Harry and Ron exchanged bewildered glances. What the bloody hell was up with Malfoy?

“No, please, Uncle Sev. I was only kidding. It was just a joke. Please!”

Snape’s implacable expression didn’t change, but he did glance over at Harry. Draco caught the motion of his eyes and turned desperately to Harry. “Please, Potter, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just joking. I swear. I’m really sorry. Please, Potter, please!”

Harry stared at the Slytherin. Draco was practically in tears and he sounded completely panicked. The other Slytherin students were gawping at him and Snape as if they had both grown an extra head, and they were staring at Harry as well. Harry looked at Ron and Hermione, but both just shrugged helplessly. Whatever was making Draco beg was as mysterious to them as it was to Harry.

“Mr Potter?” Snape’s voice held a question in it. Harry glanced over at him, and the professor quirked an eyebrow but didn’t say anything more. Harry thought he could detect a tinge of appeal in the professor’s countenance, and he got the distinct impression that every Slytherin in the room was holding their breath.

“Please…” It was barely audible, but Harry heard it. At his side, Draco bit his lip and squeezed his hands together hard in an effort to hold onto the shreds of his composure.

Harry might not like Draco much at all. He might despise the Slytherin for his taunting, sneering, arrogant ways. He might be ready to hex him into next week for his willingness to share the details of Harry’s punishment with the entire student body. But for all that, he couldn’t refuse the boy’s desperate pleas.

“Um, okay…” he said, looking at Snape. “It’s, erm, all right.”

Snape didn’t say anything but Harry thought he caught a glint of approval – and maybe gratitude? – in his eye as he turned away. He returned his chair to its proper position and then spun back to the class. “What are you all standing around for? Get to work!”

The students ducked back to their cauldrons, terrified to catch the professor’s attention. Draco all but collapsed at his place, while Harry was torn between frustration at his ruined potion and bewilderment at what had just happened. In the end, he Vanished the useless potion from his cauldron and started over. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t have enough time to finish it, but he would at least make the effort.

Sure enough, he was only halfway through his second attempt when Snape called time. “Nothing to turn in, Mr Potter? Remain behind.”

Harry flinched. Snape’s tone hadn’t been as scathing as it had been during first year, but it wasn’t exactly gentle either. He waited unhappily at his place as everyone else trooped out. He noticed that Snape had intercepted Draco at the door and had a quiet conversation with the boy, at the end of which Draco appeared miserable but not panicked. Snape dismissed the Slytherin and, in the now empty classroom, turned to Harry.

“I’m sorry!” Harry blurted out before the professor could begin his rebuke. “I tried, I really did. It just – I needed more time,” he finished helplessly. Even with today’s weirdness with Draco, Harry knew better than to try to blame his lack of a finished Potion on the Slytherin. He’d learned last year that complaining about Slytherin sabotage resulted in the loss of Gryffindor points, and he wasn’t about to go down that path again. Snape would be angry enough that despite his extensive preparation, Harry had still been unable to complete a simple brewing. He hung his head and waited for the inevitable scornful comments. So much for his plans to impress Snape.

“Harry.” The sound of his first name brought his head up with a snap. Snape never used his first name when he was angry. “I’m not upset with you. I’m proud of you.”

Harry’s eyes widened. Who was this and what had they done with Snape? He tried to recall ways that you could spot the use of Polyjuice Potion.

Snape’s lips twitched. The boy’s emotions were always writ large upon his face. “Calm down, you foolish child. I’m trying to reassure you. You’re not in trouble for being unable to complete your assignment.”

“I’m not?” Harry echoed in amazement. “Why not?”

“Because I’m well aware that it was Draco’s interference that ruined your first batch.”

Harry started to ask why that would suddenly be an acceptable excuse but decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“But the reason I’m proud of you –“ Harry’s gaze snapped back to his “ – is because you controlled your temper. You didn’t let Draco’s teasing provoke you.”

A warm, happy sensation started deep in Harry’s chest and spread outward until his fingers and toes were tingling with it. “It was really hard,” he admitted.

“I’m sure it was. But you did it. And you allowed me to deal with it. I’m proud of you for doing that as well.”

Harry squirmed in an agony of delight and embarrassment. He wasn’t used to praise, especially not from Snape. Oh, the Potion Master did note when Harry’s work was better than usual, but his comments tended to be more acerbic than effusive: “This latest effort is quite reasonable, Potter. Why can’t you achieve this standard in all your work?” or “I’m pleased to see that your atrocious spelling is finally beginning to improve.” Bald statements like “I’m proud of you” were quite unprecedented – although to be fair, Harry controlling his temper in the face of Draco’s provocation was unprecedented as well.

“Um, erm, uh.” He stuttered incoherently for a moment, then his floundering brain finally remembered the question he’d been wanting to ask. “What did you do? Why did Draco fall apart like that?”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Do you not remember what I told you when you interrogated me about Mr Weasley’s experiences at my hand a few weeks ago? I do not permit students to speculate or taunt each other about punishments.”

Harry’s mouth formed an “O” of surprise. Now that Snape reminded him, he did recall their conversation. Ron had done something – Harry still wasn’t sure what – and Snape had smacked him for it, in what should have been a stunning violation of school rules. Oddly enough though, Ron hadn’t uttered a single syllable of complaint, and when Harry had demanded to know why, Snape had shut down his interrogation in short order. Harry remembered that Snape had threatened to wallop him in front of the entire Potions class if he badgered Ron to answer his questions, and the threat had been more than enough to make Harry steer clear of the topic entirely.

“You mean, you were going to whack Draco? In front of everybody? Just because he had started to tell them that I had gotten whacked?”

“Yes.”

Wow. Harry’s happy, warm feeling intensified. Snape had been willing to punish Draco, his godson, his favorite student in the whole school, just because he had done something to Harry. Any lingering concerns that Snape might not like him began to fade – this went beyond simple fairness or the execution of an unwelcome duty. Snape was actually taking care of him.

“But though I was fully prepared to punish Draco publicly, I appreciate that your intervention on his behalf meant that I did not have to do so. I imagine that the message was clear enough, without my having to go to that extreme.”

“What message?” Harry asked blankly.

Snape looked at him in surprise. “That you are under my protection. That you are to be treated as a member of my House. That anyone who attacks you will be punished as if they have attacked a fellow Slytherin.” Harry’s eyes had grown to the size of dinner plates. “Malfoy would never have teased Zabini or Nott like that; he should have known better than to go after you. The mere fact that I would discipline you in that fashion should have told him that you are to be considered part of our community.”

“The Sorting Hat would be pleased,” Harry mumbled, dazed. “It wanted me in Slytherin in the first place.”

Snape’s eyebrows rose. “Indeed. How very… unexpected.”

“Uh, what happens next?”

Snape was eyeing him strangely, but after a moment, he seemed to come back to the present and answered the question. “You will return to the lab at seven tonight – “ Harry’s face fell. After all that, he was still getting a detention? “–  to attempt your potion again. If you can do it properly, I will accept it, both for today’s assignment and for our agreement.” Harry perked up. No mention of the term “detention” and the opportunity to try the potion again. That was more than he’d expected. “If I am not here when you arrive, you may nevertheless begin. I will be – dealing with – another student in my quarters.”

“Draco?” Harry guessed shrewdly. Apparently Snape wasn’t letting his godson get away scot-free this time. He might have escaped catching it in public, but it sounded like he would still have to face Snape’s displeasure.

“Are you inquiring about another student’s punishment?” Snape asked silkily.

“No, sir!” Harry answered hastily.

“Then run along. You are already late for your next class.”

“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!” Harry called over his shoulder as he grabbed his bookbag and ran out.

Snape looked after him. Dumbledore would not be pleased by Snape’s public acknowledgement of Harry, but really, what else could he have done? How was he supposed to repair the damage that those Muggles had done to the boy’s sense of self-worth if he couldn’t extend his protection over him?

Whatever the Headmaster’s reasons were for keeping Snape’s role as Harry’s guardian a secret, they were no longer relevant. Maybe he had still nurtured hopes that Snape could resume his role as spy when and if the Dark Lord returned. If that were so, it was all the more important that he had foiled that plan. Voldemort was many things: evil, insane, sadistic, psychotic, cunning… but he wasn’t stupid. He had raised paranoia to new levels, and if Dumbledore thought that Snape could get away with taking care of Potter on the one hand while maintaining a fictional loyalty to the Dark Lord on the other, those lemon drops had bypassed his teeth and were rotting his brain. There were too many children of Death Eaters at Hogwarts for his relationship with Harry to remain secret indefinitely, and the unfair treatment of Harry that the role would demand would impair the boy’s recovery from the Dursleys’ treatment, let alone his continuing maturation and growth.

Besides, now that he had acknowledged the boy, it meant that the Boy Who Lived had ties to the House of Slytherin as well as Gryffindor. No longer could his House be identified solely by its affiliation with Voldemort nor could Gryffindor claim Harry belonged exclusively to it. That might make it easier for some of his little snakes to avoid recruitment by the Dark Lord, as well as teaching Harry – and Ron – to embrace the more Slytherin side of his nature.

Yes, Snape concluded with satisfaction, this would work out very well indeed.

After Draco’s teasing of Harry in Potions class led to Snape’s open acknowledgement of his connection to The Boy Who Lived, Snape noticed that his godson had become withdrawn. Draco had been somewhat subdued ever since the attempt, earlier in the year, to blame him for a brutal assault on Potter. While Snape doubted that his godson had been particularly worried by the attack on Harry, Draco had been undeniably unsettled by the fact that fellow Slytherins had not only schemed to get him expelled but had also used his own wand, without his knowledge, in their plot to implicate him. He had been understandably leery of his own Housemates ever since, and he had stuck unusually close to his godfather. But as the time that Harry spent with Snape increased, and his two best friends began visiting Snape’s quarters as well, Draco became more remote.

Snape had expected a certain amount of resentment after he punished Draco for tormenting Harry. Although he had done it in the privacy of his quarters, rather than in the middle of class as he had previously threatened, he knew Draco would still sulk. The boy was a master at the art of sulking and tended to do so whenever his will was thwarted or he was rebuked, deservedly or not. In addition, Snape knew that Draco despised pain in any form, and he had never responded well to it, even if it was nothing more than a simple smack on the rear. Snape had long ago pointed this out to Lucius in the hopes that it would change the way he handled Draco, but Lucius had simply quoted one of the Dark Lord’s more incoherent statements about pain being the “purifier of purebloods’ strength”, and that was that. Any further remonstrance only made Lucius escalate his brutality in order to “beat the cowardice out of the boy”. In vain did Snape protest that Draco was no coward – he simply didn’t respond well to physical forms of discipline. It was much more effective to appeal to his vanity, his pride, or his intellect. Lucius, needless to say, felt no need to appeal to anything; he simply ordered, and Draco would obey or else.

Snape sighed. At least Potter took his swats philosophically – so long as he agreed that they were deserved – and even the Weasley boy had accepted his punishment from Snape with astonishingly good grace. Typical Gryffindors: they admited their errors, accepted the assigned penalty, and then moved on. Draco, by contrast, stewed over a punishment long after it was over… or useful to do so.

For that reason, Snape avoided using corporal punishment with Draco whenever possible, even if it gave the appearance of favoritism. Merlin knew that Lucius’ treatment of Draco was brutal, and Snape was desperate to give his godson an adult whom he could trust not to abuse him or beat him bloody, regardless of his behavior. Unfortunately, though, there were occasions when he was forced to spank the boy – either to enforce a previously stated consequence or because simple fairness demanded it. This last time, he had put his entire House on notice as to what they could expect if they violated his rule about teasing, and when Draco did so in a spectacularly public fashion, it was all he could do to avoid delivering the promised punishment in the same public forum.

Even in the privacy of Snape’s quarters, Draco had been anything but resigned to his fate. He had howled and argued and insisted that it was unfair, even as Snape gritted his teeth and administered the well-deserved swats. It was a very minor punishment compared to what Lucius routinely did to the boy, but to Draco it was still the deliberate infliction of pain by an adult who claimed to care for him. Snape couldn’t help but worry. He wanted so much to help Draco avoid joining the Dark Lord, but he wasn’t sure he would be able to overcome Lucius’ influence, nor reverse the arrogant attitude that Lucius had instilled in his son about how Malfoys were superior to everyone and as such, exempt from the normal rules of society.

Despite the fact that he’d expected Draco to withdraw from him after the punishment, as he had on previous occasions, Snape was still taken aback by how thoroughly Draco was now giving him the cold shoulder. He refused to make eye contact, volunteer answers in class, or seek him out for private conversations. Finally, after two full weeks of this behavior, Snape decided that something had to be done, lest his godson drift away completely.

He was on the lookout for some means by which to reengage the boy, when Draco himself provided the opening. Hagrid caught Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle attempting to “liberate” several baby Grindylows. Hagrid promptly deposited the culprits with Snape who, by subtly interrogating Crabbe and Goyle (“WHAT WERE YOU DUNDERHEADS DOING?”), quickly got the whole story. The boys were planning to introduce the creatures into Moaning Myrtle’s toilets in the hopes of colonizing Hogwarts’ entire plumbing system. The idea was, of course, Draco’s, and Snape quickly dispatched the two lumpish henchmen to a week’s detention with Filch. He kept Draco behind, sitting in a chair before Snape’s desk and staring at his tightly clasped hands.

“Would you care to explain your little escapade?” Snape asked icily.

“I thought it would be amusing,” Draco drawled, in perfect imitation of his father’s haughty tones.

“Indeed? I suspect you will not find the consequences of your actions particularly funny,” Snape fought to keep his voice level despite his anger at the boy’s attitude.

Draco squeezed his hands even tighter, fighting to prevent the terror he felt from seeping into his voice. The Grindylows had seemed like a good idea at the time – who could have expected Hagrid to be so vigilant? – and since Snape didn’t seem to care about him any more, then why should Draco hold himself back?

Lucius had never bothered to hide his contempt for Dumbledore and the rest of the school’s faculty – Snape excepted, of course, until he betrayed the Dark Lord by joining the “We Love Harry Potter” brigade. As a result, Draco knew his father wouldn’t be angered by any pranks he pulled at the school; far from it, he’d probably enjoy a good laugh at the thought of his son putting one over on the staff. In the past, Draco’s regard for his godfather, and his desire to please the man, had put a damper on his mischief-making tendencies, but now all restrictions were lifted. If Snape didn’t care about him anymore, then Draco had better start ingratiating himself with his father. At least that had been the idea, and it had seemed reasonable enough back in the Slytherin Tower.

However, sitting across from a coldly furious Potions Master, Draco was forced to reevaluate his plan. Even if Snape was now too busy coddling Potter to care about him personally, the man was still Head of Slytherin and loathed any behavior that embarrassed the House. Draco began to regret his decision to out-prank the Weasley twins. There must be other ways to impress his father, as well as to show Snape how little he cared about the man’s defection.

First, though, he had to deal with the fall-out of his current plan. He forced his spine to stiffen and did his best to emulate his father’s sneer. “Another smacking, I assume, followed by the week’s detention with Filch?” Draco hoped that his robes would hide his shaking knees when he got up.

“No, Draco. As you were the ringleader of tonight’s excitement, you will receive a more severe punishment. Your confederates’ emphasis on brawn over brain makes them ideally suited to labor under Mr Filch’s tender mercies. I have other plans for you.”

Draco made himself shrug carelessly. “Fine.”

Snape’s eyes flashed. “For the next two weeks, Mr Malfoy, you will present yourself every evening at my quarters. First you will work on a four foot essay on the proper care and feeding of Grindylows. Once you have completed that, you will turn your attention to a four foot essay on the Hogwarts plumbing system.”

“What?” Draco yelped, genuinely outraged. “You expect a Malfoy to write four feet on the toilets in this wreck?”

“Why, now that you mention it, that does seem wrong,” Snape said silkily. “Let’s make it six feet.”

“You can’t –“ Draco’s face was flushed with humiliation and fury. He knew perfectly well that on most, if not all of those nights, Potter and his idiot friends would be lounging around Snape’s quarters. Was that why Snape was making him come? To provide them with comic relief? If his traitorous godfather thought that he would sit there laboring away at such a ridiculous assignment while Perfect Potter and his friends sniggered and mocked him…

Snape’s patience was at an end. His affection for Draco might be limitless, but his tolerance for childish tantrums was not. “Mr Malfoy, you will do exactly what I say without your usual petulant display of temper, or I will not only give you the spanking you so richly deserve, but I will also notify your father of your hooligan-like behavior.”

Draco’s heart skipped a beat, and the complaints died on his lips. His father? Snape would actually contact his father? Snape had never before threatened him with Lucius. Quite the contrary, he’d always shielded Draco from his father’s wrath.

Draco fought back tears and fiercely reminded himself that he couldn’t care less. So what if this was another indication that Snape couldn’t be bothered with Draco any more? It wasn’t like it mattered to him. So what if Snape had found a new boy to take care of – The Moron Who Was Too Stupid To Die – and Draco was yesterday’s news? He didn’t like Snape anyway. Who needed some big nosed, greasy haired godfather to look out for him?

Snape was just a disloyal traitor. First he had betrayed the Dark Lord and now he’d betrayed Draco. So at least he was in good company, right? His father would certainly think so, and Draco had better start thinking like his father. It wasn’t like he had any other choices now.

Draco forced himself to admire his erstwhile godfather’s strategy. Turncoat though he was, Snape was still a Slytherin to the core, and he’d phrased his threat in the most effective way. He knew – as did Draco – that Lucius wouldn’t care if his son singlehandedly destroyed the castle’s infrastructure, starting with the toilets and ending with Dumbledore’s private quarters, but if his son and heir was reported to have behaved in a way that was ill-befitting a pureblood? He’d yank Draco back to Malfoy Manor for a weekend of “discipline” that would leave him raw and twitching for weeks afterwards.

All the fight went out of Draco. “Fine,” he mumbled, dropping his gaze back to his hands and slumping in the chair.

Snape eyed his godson in concern. This abrupt surrender was most unlike him. What was going on in the boy’s head? He knew all too well that Draco’s arrogant attitude concealed an enormous amount of insecurity, hardly a surprise given his father’s impossibly high standards, rigid code of eugenics, and brutal disciplinary methods. And Narcissa was no help. With a sister like Bellatrix, it was perhaps understandable why Narcissa had early on retreated into her own dream world. Nowadays, she only emerged long enough to play the devoted wife or mother during unavoidable public appearances. It wasn’t that she didn’t care for her son, but she had learned long ago that it wasn’t worth fighting with Lucius, and she had accordingly left Draco’s upbringing entirely to him.

Snape wondered if he had been wrong to threaten the boy with his father. But Draco had been so persistently defiant in the face of all other overtures, threats, and punishments that Snape had felt justified in using Lucius as a way to focus the boy’s attention and compel his obedience. Without such a threat, he had been more than half convinced that Draco would simply refuse to attend the detention. That would then escalate the matter and Snape would either find himself in another situation where he had to wallop the boy – thus making a bad situation even worse – or involve the Headmaster, which would inescapably involve Draco’s parents and thus bring about exactly what Snape had just threatened. He sighed. He needed to get Draco in amongst the Gryffindors, and if it took threats to make it happen, then that’s what he would use.

The next night, Draco duly presented himself at his godfather’s, supercilious sneer firmly in place. He’d arrived a little early, hoping to settle himself in place before the Gryffindorks arrived, but they were already there. From the looks of things, Snape had warned them ahead of time, as there were no shocked looks or loud complaints. Potter, after a glance at Snape, muttered a neutral “Malfoy” as a greeting, while The Weasel simply glared at him. The mudblood followed her usual suck-up approach and offered him a polite, “Hi, Draco.” He didn’t bother to look at her.

“So?” he drawled, using as contemptuous a tone as he thought he could get away with. “Now what?”

“Be seated, and get to work,” Snape replied evenly, pointing to a place at the table.

“You expect me to sit next to her?” Draco figured if he were as offensive as possible, his godfather might give up, or at least permit him to serve his detention alone, in the Potions classroom.

Potter and Weasley instantly bristled, but Granger – astonishingly – laughed. “Draco, you are so predictable. Why did I know you were going to say that?”

“Because you’re an insufferable know-it-all?” he snarled back, furious that she hadn’t burst into tears.

“I suppose,” she retorted with a maddening smirk. “That must also be why I keep getting better grades than you.”

Now the other two boys were laughing with her, at him, and Draco saw red. “A lot of good those grades will do you and your family when the Dark Lord returns and extermin—“

He didn’t even have to finish the sentence before all three Gryffindors were on their feet, shouting, but Draco’s gratification was short lived. A hard hand clamped onto his shoulder and all but threw him into the chair. He stifled a yelp as his backside crashed down on the hard wooden seat, and then his godfather was there, leaning over and looking him straight in the eye. “You’ve just earned an extra week of detention, Mr Malfoy, and you will spend tonight copying lines. Do you wish to say anything else before you get started?”

Draco glared back, but he didn’t quite have the nerve to try anything else. “No,” he muttered sulkily. Snape narrowed his eyes, and he grudgingly added, “Sir.”

A parchment appeared in front of him. The sentence, “I will keep a civil tongue in my head at all times, as befits a gentleman,” ran along the top of the page, and Draco glowered. At least the Gryffindors were being relatively quiet. The Weasel was still breathing hard and looking like he’d be happy to strangle Draco, but Potter and the mudblood had returned to their schoolwork.

An hour later, Draco’s hand was sore and he was seriously regretting his outburst. It hadn’t achieved any of his aims, and he would much rather be writing about Grindylows than recopying that stupid sentence another hundred times.

He risked a glance up and was relieved to see that his godfather was over at his own desk, reviewing Potter’s Herbology homework with him. From the amount of arguing, it was clear that the work wasn’t up to Snape’s standards. Draco snorted in derision. What did he expect from that spoiled idiot?

“Hey, Hermione,” Ron whispered. “Hand me that book. No, the green one – by that Masheevelly guy.”

“It’s ‘Machiavelli’, moron,” Draco snapped.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Ron snapped back. “I don’t need your help.”

“On the contrary, Weasley,” Draco sneered, “you need all the help you can get. You and your pack of penniless blood traitors.”

“So we’re blood traitors because we don’t kowtow to a crazy dead guy? How exactly do you figure that makes you a better pureblood?” Ron demanded.

Draco blinked. A coherent reply? Since when did Weasley respond to baiting comments about his family with anything other than a mindless outburst of violence? That famous Weasley temper was supposed to have short circuited all his logic several seconds ago.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” he blustered, well aware that his rejoinder was pathetic. Unfortunately, since he secretly agreed with Weasley that Voldemort was a crazy dead guy, it was hard to argue the point.

“I’m surprised that you know who Machiavelli is, Draco,” the mudblood put in unexpectedly. “I didn’t think you’d be familiar with Muggle authors.”

He turned to glare at her. Why wasn’t she still smarting from his insults? How dare she recover so quickly and actually try to engage him in conversation. “No one was talking to you, Granger,” he attacked.

“Well, I’m talking to you,” she replied. “What other Muggles have you read?”

“None of your business.”

“Bet your father would be interested to learn about your reading habits,” Weasley commented quietly, and Draco felt himself pale.

He wouldn’t, he told himself quickly, but he knew it wasn’t as far fetched as it might appear. Weasley’s father worked in the Ministry. Lucius often went to the Ministry, thanks to his extensive involvement in multiple projects. If Weasley asked his father to say something… “What do you want?” he hissed, practically spitting out the words.

The mudblood looked bewildered, but Weasley smirked, as if a plan of his had just worked out. “I’m sure you can guess.” At Draco’s angry, frustrated expression, Weasley rolled his eyes impatiently. “We’re stuck with you for the next two – no, three – weeks, Malfoy. I want you to be polite during that time. No sneers, no insults, and no use of the term ‘mudblood’. Think you can do that, or should I owl my father?”

“No!” Draco couldn’t prevent the exclamation. If Lucius found out… Draco broke out in a cold sweat. “All right,” he muttered. “Fine.”

Weasley grinned in triumph and Draco felt nauseous. He’d just been bested by a Weasley! He’d never live that down if anyone in his House found out.

“So, Draco,” the mudblood was amazingly persistent. “Who else have you read?”

Draco glanced over at Weasley, and the boy raised his eyebrows inquisitively. “Be polite, Malfoy. Answer Hermione’s question.”

Draco fumed impotently, but in the end he replied between clenched teeth, “Machiavelli and Benjamin Franklin. Sun Tzu. Churchill. Dickens. Tolkein. Payne. Homer. Shakespeare. Swift. Twain.”

“Have you read any Jane Austen? I love her!” Hermione said.

“I’m not a girl, Granger,” Draco snapped. “No, I haven’t read her stuff.”

“What did you think of Sun Tzu?” Weasley demanded. “Don’t you think he might have been a wizard?”

“Ron!” Hermione sounded exasperated. “We’ve been over this a hundred times. He was not a wizard. Professor Snape said so!”

“He lived more than 2000 years ago, Hermione. Don’t you think the records might have gotten lost?”

“Honestly, Ron! You’re like a dog with a bone. Give it up!” Hermione looked over at Draco. “What do you think? I suppose you agree with Ron that anyone with half a brain must have Wizard blood?”

Draco was torn. He didn’t want to agree with either one of them, but neither did he want to look ignorant and not weigh in with his opinion. He hesitated a moment, trying to decide which path would be the least aggravating.

“I bet you didn’t even read it!” Ron challenged. “You just said you did to look smart.”

“Some of us let our grades demonstrate that,” Draco shot back. “And the mud – I mean, Granger’s right. There’s absolutely no evidence that Sun Tzu was a Wizard. Some people don’t even think he was a real historical figure.”

“Oh yeah? Then who wrote the book?” Ron demanded hotly.

Hermione and Draco both tried to answer him, and the debate was on.

Snape and Harry, distracted from their own argument by the loud voices from the table, looked up and were surprised to find the other three in a vigorous but surprisingly civil discussion. Snape in particular was amazed to hear his godson defending a point Granger had just made, while Weasley somehow managed to hold his own against the two of them. Harry tugged on his sleeve. “Did you hex Draco?” he whispered anxiously. “’Cause I don’t think that’s a good idea. I mean, he won’t like it when he wakes up and realizes how you made him act.”

Snape’s lips twitched. “I assure you, Mr Potter, I did not hex him. Though I agree that this transformation appears magical.”

Of course, nothing is ever that simple, and before the end of the night, Draco had managed to outrage all three Gryffindors by claiming that Godric Gryffindor was nowhere near as powerful a wizard as Salazar Slytherin. Although the other students were somewhat reticent in their arguments, not wishing to offend Snape, they still made it clear that they considered Draco’s words a declaration of war. Snape barely managed to avoid open hostilities by a timely delivery of tea and biscuits.

As the students made their way back to their respective dorms, Snape called his godson back. “I see you made surprisingly little progress on your lines this evening,” he observed, holding out the parchment.

Draco eyed him warily. How much trouble was he in? “I was distracted by Weasley and the mudbl – I mean, Granger,” he protested. “It was your idea for me to come here in the first place. It isn’t my fault that they bothered me.”

“I see. Well, as your subsequent behavior embodied the spirit of the lines, I will excuse you this time,” Snape told him. “If you believe you can continue to conduct yourself appropriately, you may begin the Grindylow essay tomorrow night.”

Draco looked at his godfather in surprise. He had expected Snape to order him to write lines during his free period tomorrow to make up for his dismal showing tonight. Instead he was being let off entirely? That was unexpected. “I – all right.” He fidgeted under Snape’s scrutiny. What did the man want from him?

“Sit down,” Snape said abruptly, apparently coming to a decision. Draco reluctantly complied. What now? “I wish to talk to you about your use of the term ‘mudblood’.” Draco tensed. He knew his godfather didn’t like the word, but his father beat him bloody if he forgot and used a more polite phrase. Besides, he no longer had to care what Snape liked or disliked.

“I do not want to hear that term again in my chambers,” Snape instructed sternly.

Draco shrugged. “Fine.” He didn’t mention that Weasley’s blackmail had already forced him to abandon its use.

“It is foolish to alienate people in a haphazard manner. You should choose your words so as to keep as many options available to yourself as possible. By using terms such as mudblood, you give away a great deal about yourself while learning nothing about your audience,” Snape lectured.

“I already said I wouldn’t,” Draco argued, doing his best to sound bored. “Can I go?”

“Yes,” Snape replied, with a barely audible sigh. Draco gave him an odd look as he rose. The man had almost sounded… hurt. Unwillingly, he lingered at the doorway.

“I don’t think it’s fair that you make me come here and do my punishment essay in front of those Gryffindors,” he burst out, surprising himself.

Snape raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think they’re not here for punishment as well?”

Draco snorted. “Like you’d ever punish Perfect Potter and his pets.”

“Just what is that supposed to mean, young man?” Snape demanded.

Angry with himself for revealing more than he had intended, Draco shrugged and turned to go, but Snape caught him by the back of the robes and dragged him back. “No, you will answer my question, Mr Malfoy. And not with a sullen jerk of your shoulders, either.”

“Fine!” Draco exploded. “It means that you’re pathetic! You’re so busy kissing up to Potter and Dumbledore and the mudblood and all of them, you don’t care what happens to the rest of us! You’re a dirty rotten traitor! I hope the Dark Lord crucio’s you to death when He comes back! I hate you! I don’t care that you left me! I don’t care that you like Potter now instead of me! I hate you! I hope you die! I –“ Draco saw Snape’s hand fly up, and he yelped and cowered back.

To his astonishment, instead of cracking sharply across his face, the hand caught him by the back of the neck, pulling him against his godfather’s chest as Snape’s other hand came around his shoulders.

“Ssh. It’s all right,” Snape soothed, holding his godson tight.

Draco found himself crying great heaving sobs against Snape’s chest. His hands came up and grabbed onto his godfather as if he was a lifeline in a churning sea. “I hate you, I hate you,” he wept. “You left me.”

“Oh, Draco,” Snape sighed. “I would never leave you. Never.” As he held the weeping child, he mentally groaned. More snot. Merlin, he hated teaching. If there was one thing children had an abundance of, it was disgusting body fluids.

“You did,” Draco protested tearfully. “You like Potter now.”

“Draco, I can like both of you. And whatever my relationship with Potter, you will always be my godson. I’ve known you all your life. We will always have a different relationship than Potter and I have. I have seen you grow from babyhood. I don’t have those kinds of memories of Potter. Haven’t I always been there for you?” Snape couldn’t quite believe that he was having this conversation. Was his godson twelve or two? But there was no denying his outburst nor the insecurities and fears it had revealed.

“You hit me,” Draco accused. “You picked Potter over me.”

“You broke one of my most important rules,” Snape replied patiently. “You know perfectly well you are not to tease other students about my punishments.”

“But it was just Potter!” Draco wailed. “I thought you hated him!”

Snape abruptly held his godson out at arm’s length. “Is that why you teased him? Because you thought I would like it? That I would want you to?”

Draco nodded, tears streaming down his face. “And you hit me,” he sobbed. “I did it to please you, and you hit me.”

Snape sighed, pulling the boy back into a hug. Poor Draco, yet another casualty of Dumbledore’s damned “no one must know” policy. “All right, Draco, all right,” he soothed. “I understand now. I understand.”

“It wasn’t fair,” Draco whined. “You changed the rules.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Snape admitted. “And I’m sorry.”

Draco’s sobs stopped abruptly. “What?” Shocked, he craned his neck back to see his godfather’s face.

“I’m sorry,” Snape repeated, amused to see that an apology worked as well with Draco as with Harry. “You’re right. I should have explained to you that things have changed between Potter and myself. I should have made you aware of things.”

Draco sniffled, contemplating his words. “Was it a secret?” he finally hiccupped. “You know, because of the Dark Lord?”

“Yes.”

“Did you not tell me because of my father?”

“In part,” Snape allowed. “The less you know, the safer you will be. If Lucius thinks you are withholding information from him, he will undoubtedly try Legilimency. I would spare you that if I could.” There was no reason to tell the boy that he still worried that Draco would join Lucius among the ranks of Death Eaters. If only he could make the boy could see the Dark Lord and his philosophy for what they truly were, and not simply accept Lucius’ slanted, distorted view.

“Then you’re not going to –“

“Abandon you? Certainly not.”

“Oh.” Draco dug out his handkerchief. Snape noted proudly that his godson not only had one, but it was freshly laundered, unlike those idiot Gryffindors who always had to use one of his.

“You’re not going to tell anyone about this, right?” Draco demanded nervously, wiping his eyes.

“It depends,” Snape replied, ever the Slytherin. “Is this nonsensical misbehavior going to stop?”

Draco nodded, looking as sheepish as a Malfoy could. “Yes, sir.”

“Then we will keep tonight’s events between ourselves.”

“Uncle Sev,” Draco asked hopefully, “does this mean that I’m excused from the rest of my detentions?”

“Mr Malfoy, do you seriously expect an answer to that question?”

“But, Uncle Sevvvv,” Draco whined, turning his best “sad puppy dog eyes” onto his godfather, “don’t you think I’ve been punished enough?”

Snape raised one eyebrow. “I think you have me confused with a house elf if you imagine that such tactics will work on me. It is getting late. You can either return to your dormitory now and I will see you again tomorrow evening as scheduled, or you can continue your ill-advised attempts to wheedle your way out of a well-earned punishment, and you will likely end up with more detention or a sore backside or both. Which will it be?”

Draco abandoned his efforts with a grumpy mutter that Snape, in the interests of furthering their nascent truce, pretended not to hear. “All right, fine,” Draco groused as he made his way to the door, “but I’d better not have to share any more of Weasley’s biscuits. I want my own plate from now on,” he instructed, regaining his usual hauteur.

“I know, I know,” Snape sighed. “Oatmeal raisin. I’ll tell the elves.”

Draco’s punishment time of three weeks went by very quickly. Much to everyone’s astonishment, within the first week and a half, reasonably cordial relations were established. While they didn’t extend to a general thaw beyond the confines of Snape’s quarters, Snape was pleased to see that, at least during these evening sessions, all four children interacted quite well. He unbent enough to allow Weasley and Malfoy to spend time playing Wizard Chess after they had put in some work on their respective essays, but he was more than a little stunned the first time he found Granger and Malfoy studying together for an exam.

Even after his detention was over, Draco still took to dropping by his godfather’s quarters every so often when the Gryffindors were there. Not every night, but frequently enough that Snape knew that he was managing to loosen Lucius’ stranglehold on the boy. What he hadn’t counted on, however, was a problem that any parent of siblings could have predicted.

The Golden Trio and their Slytherin companion were working on their respective homework while Snape was busy correcting sixth year essays. He was paying no attention to the students’ prattle, and so missed the comment that unintentionally set off the subsequent hostilities. While describing the answer to a particularly complex question on their Charms assignment, Harry said, “Yeah, when Professor Snape and I were working on my extra DADA lessons, he said that the Extendo Sanguinis charm can be a lifesaver.”

A sharp feeling of jealousy washed over Draco at this reminder that Harry got extra tutelage from Snape, and he deliberately snickered.

Harry frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Your Latin pronunciation is appalling, you dunce,” Draco sneered. “It’s no wonder Uncle Sev keeps you at arms’ length. He’s probably terrified that someone might think he’s responsible for your incompetence.”

Hermione and Ron looked up from their own work, sensing a fight in the making.

“What do you mean, he keeps me at arms’ length?” Harry demanded. He was pretty sure that whatever Draco meant, it wasn’t a compliment.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Oh, you’re pathetic, Potter. Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that most wards don’t call their guardians by a title? I guess Uncle Sev – “ he stressed the familiar form of address with a gloating pleasure “ – doesn’t feel all that close to you.”

Now it was Harry who felt the jolt of jealousy. How come that prat Draco got to call Snape “Sev” when it was Harry who was his ward? Wards were even closer than godsons, weren’t they? “Maybe not,” he spat back, “but at least I don’t have to get into trouble before he notices me. He likes spending time with me. He just watches you because he has to.”

“Take that back, Potter!” Draco was on his feet, trembling with rage.

“Make me!”

Now both boys were standing up, wands at the ready. “Expelliaramus!” Hermione yelled, startling both and instantly capturing Snape’s attention.

“What in Merlin’s name is going on over here?” he demanded, hurrying over. “Can’t you spend one evening together without a battle erupting?”

“Uncle Sev,” Draco cut in smarmily, “it’s all Potter’s fault. He’s the one – “

Draco’s use of Snape’s first name and his own surname wasn’t wasted on Harry. “He drew his wand first!” he accused. “Punish him!”

“You sneaky tell-tale!” Draco snarled.

“Coward!”

“Twit!”

“Enough!” Snape snarled. “Both of you. Into the classroom. Right now. Noses in separate corners.”

Both boys turned to expostulate with him, but one look convinced them it was safer to remove themselves. They hurried from the room, still muttering dark threats at each other.

“Five points to Gryffindor for disarming them, Miss Granger,” Snape said, exhaling slowly. “Now. What was that about?”

“I don’t know, Professor. It just seemed to flare up out of nowhere. One minute they were talking about charms and lessons, and the next – boom!”

Snape turned a cold eye upon the Weasley whelp. He was chuckling softly to himself as he gathered his books in preparation for his departure. “And what about this strikes you as amusing, Mr Weasley?” Snape asked, his voice dangerously quiet.

“I’m sorry, Professor,” Ron grinned, “but I honestly never thought I’d see the day when two Hogwarts students fought over you. My brothers would never believe this.”

Snape’s jaw dropped. “What?”

Hermione was staring at Ron, equally astonished. “What do you mean, Ron?”

“It’s obvious. Harry and Draco are jealous of each other. They’re fighting over you.”

“Are you certain?” Snape couldn’t believe he was actually turning to a student, let alone a Weasley, for advice, but the boy seemed convinced and Snape certainly had no other explanation for the sudden conflict.

“Sure,” Ron said breezily. “Ginny and the twins and I do the same thing when Charlie comes home for a visit. We fight like mad over him – we each want him to spend time with us. We used to do the same thing over my mum and dad, and it was even worse when we were younger. Draco’s an only child, right? And so is Harry for all intents and purposes. So neither has any experience sharing a parent.”

Snape looked green. “I am not a parent!”

“Close enough,” Ron shrugged.

Hermione nodded. “It’s true, Professor. Ron and I have noticed how much happier Harry has been since he started spending time with you. And he’s always talking about you and what you say and what you think. It’s as if you’re his dad.”

“And I’ve heard Draco doing the same thing,” Ron added. “Used to be, the only thing that came out of his mouth was ‘my father this’ and ‘my father that’, but now he’s started quoting you instead of his git of a father.” At Snape’s automatic glare, he colored. “Sorry.”

Snape frowned. What in Merlin’s name was he supposed to do about this? “How do your parents handle this?” he asked them, his voice uncharacteristically plaintive.

Hermione looked apologetic. “I’m in the same situation as Draco, Professor. I’m an only child, so I’ve never had to learn to share my folks.”

“I never really thought about it,” Ron said slowly. “I guess they just remind us that we have to take turns and stuff. And if we get really annoying, then they send us to our rooms, so we don’t get any time with them. After that happens enough, you learn to share.”

The professor suppressed a sigh. Here was more childish angst that he had to deal with because the parties who should have were idiots or bastards or both. Marvelous. “Thank you,” he said formally. “I’m sorry that your time here was cut short.”

“That’s all right, Professor. We don’t just come for the biscuits, you know,” Hermione replied politely. Ron looked as if he weren’t in complete agreement with the latter statement but was too polite to say so. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

The two Gryffindors headed back to their tower, while Snape went to confront the two miscreants.

Both were fidgeting in opposite corners of the classroom, obviously highly indignant at being treated in such a childish way. “Come here,” he ordered. He was still trying to decide how he would handle the situation. He doubted sweet reason would work on either, and he could hardly swat one and not the other. Then it occurred to him that the two boys had created a reasonably good relationship when they were stuck in the Infirmary together. What had prompted their camaraderie then? Ah yes, a mutual enemy. Hmmm. That might work.

He waited until both boys had sulkily seated themselves on adjacent stools facing him. Now they were studiously ignoring each other and him. He slammed a hand down on his desk, and both boys jumped and shied away, eyes wide with alarm. “Just what did you think you were doing?” he demanded furiously. “Brawling in my quarters?”

“I was just defending myself!” Harry protested. “You said I could do that!”

“Liar!” Draco snapped. “You were the one who tried to –“

“I did not! It was you –“

“Silence!” Once again his voice rang off the walls and both boys cowered back in their seats. “This is beyond outrageous,” Snape said, dropping his voice to a deadly whisper and noticing with satisfaction that both boys had paled. “It appears you find incurring my displeasure insufficient to overcome the enjoyment of arguing with each other.” Both boys looked like they wanted to dispute his words, but for once they were too scared to do so. “I will be happy to demonstrate the folly of that line of thinking if necessary.” The two fidgeted nervously on their chairs.

“No, sir,” Harry practically whispered.

“No, Uncle Sev,” Draco agreed.

Mistake. As soon as his hated adversary used the familiar term – and knowing Draco, he probably did it deliberately – Harry’s temper reignited. “Shut up!” he yelled at Draco, then turning to Snape demanded, “Why can he call you ‘Uncle Sev’, but I have to call you ‘Professor Snape’?”

Draco smirked and replied before Snape could. “Because he’s only taking care of you because Dumbledork ordered him to.”

Snape started to scold Draco for his discourtesy towards the Headmaster, but before he could even speak, Harry’s eyes had filled with fury, and the bottles on the nearby shelves started to rattle. Snape’s eyes darted to them as he recognized the prelude to a disastrous outburst of accidental magic. If those bottles exploded, the three of them could be seriously injured, by the ingredients themselves if not the flying glass. He needed to do something immediately.

“GET UP.” He didn’t give them time to obey. He snatched them by the scruff of their necks and jerked until both were dancing on their tiptoes, trying not to strangle, then thrust them away from him to regain their footing. Once again, their mutual antipathy had vanished in the face of his rage, and the potion bottles were silent and still. Snape accio’d their wands, then quite deliberately transfigured a quill into a long pointer. Draco got it first and went ashen.

“Bend over the desk.” Now Potter was looking at him with utter horror as well. “Now.”

Both boys stumbled over to his desk but hesitated. “Bend over.” 

Petrified, cringing at the thought of what was about to happen, they obeyed. They were huddling against each other now, shoulder to shoulder – no longer adversaries but abrupt allies against the brutal adult. “P-please don ‘t…” Snape wasn’t even sure from which boy the whimper had come.

“It appears my methods have been too gentle for you,” he told them coldly, tapping each backside with the stick as if checking his aim. “You both come from households where severe forms of discipline are used. Obviously you ignore anything else.”

Harry was shaking his head frantically, tears flying. Draco’s head was down on the desk but he was whispering “No, no.”

“Yes, yes,” Snape mimicked back. Merlin, he could be a right bastard! “I tried different approaches, but did you listen? No. Did you obey? No.”

“We’re sorry,” one said softly, voice thick with tears.

“We didn’t mean it,” said the other, equally tearful.

Snape hid a smile. He returned the stick to its original form. “Turn around,” he ordered, his voice still like ice.

Not sure whether they had earned a reprieve or merely a stay of execution, the boys hesitantly turned to face him. “I do not intend to repeat myself, so you will listen.” Both boys nodded so hard he feared for their necks. “If I ever have to go to this extreme again in order to gain your attention, I will not be happy. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir!” they spoke as one.

“I will not have my quarters treated like some disreputable tavern and disgraced with brawls.”

“Yes, sir!”

“You will not do me the inexpressible disrespect of assuming that I am the Headmaster’s lapdog,” he snarled, genuinely furious at last. The boys exchanged a confused glance. “Do you really think I can be ordered to accept someone into my home, my life, my family?” he demanded angrily. Draco looked as if someone had just slapped him. Harry, by contrast, wore an expression more akin to Christmas morning. “I adopted Harry as my ward because I wanted to, Draco, and my reasons are none of your business.  But know this: I am not a puppet – of either the Dark or the Light. I choose my path. I choose my actions. And if you ever again presume otherwise, Draco, you will regret it!” His godson gulped and nodded. It was obvious he had never thought of it in those terms. 

“And as for you,” he turned on Harry. The boy lost his grin and hunched closer to Draco. “Draco is my godson. You will respect that. He was here first and while that does not give him primacy, it does mean that he too is a part of my life. If you do not honor that, you will be punished.” Harry nodded hastily.

“I will not say this again: if either of you attempt to make me choose between you, you will not enjoy the result. I will not be manipulated. If I can withstand the machinations of the Dark Lord and Albus Dumbledore, I highly doubt that I will be bested by two underage brats.” They winced. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I assume that both of you wish to continue your relationship with me?” He paused, raising an eyebrow. This time the boys didn’t bother to look at each other. Both instantly nodded. Snape kept his expression stern and remote, hiding the warm glow in his chest. “Then this nonsense will stop. At once. You are squabbling like a pair of dogs over a rubber bone. I am not a rubber bone!” he shouted at them, leaning forward until he was practically nose to nose with them. The boys flinched back, but they were already pressed back against the desk and it prevented their further retreat.

“I will not be made a mockery of,” Snape continued, rising to his not inconsiderable height and glaring down his nose at the cringing children. He wondered if the two realized they were actually clutching hands. “Draco!” The blond twitched as if he had received an electric shock. “You are well acquainted with Wizard society. How do you think it makes me look for my ward and godson to be at daggers drawn? Always engaging in petty disputes and public brawls?”

Draco swallowed hard. “It – it makes you look w-weak, Unc- Professor,” he admitted unhappily.

“Do you think I appreciate being made to look weak?” Snape thundered.

“No, sir!” they squeaked.

“Harry – you know my reputation among the other Houses. How do the other students regard my inability to control the actions of my own godson and ward? What do they think of the fact that the two of you are constantly misbehaving and getting into trouble for fighting with each other and calling each other rude names?”

Harry stared at the ground. “They think it’s funny,” he mumbled.

“And does that make you feel good?” Snape purred. “To know that you’re eroding the respect of the entire student body for me? That you’re making me look foolish and weak and pathetic?”

Both boys were pale and trembling. They had never contemplated their actions in this light, and remorse was now joining the terror that they felt.

“But obviously, you would want to punish me in this way, to make me the butt of student jokes, to disgrace me in Wizarding society. After all, haven’t I treated the both of you badly? Haven’t I scolded you and beaten you? Haven’t I cursed you and hurt you?” Now both boys had tears of shame running down their cheeks. “Of course you should try to get your revenge on me,” Snape purred. “I have obviously been the cruelest person in your lives. I deserve punishment for the ways I’ve tortured you.”

As he’d expected, Harry broke first. Sobbing, the boy hurled himself at Snape and caught him about the waist. “ ‘M sorry! I’m sorry! You’ve been great! I’m sorry!” he wept.

Draco, competitive as ever, even when wholly distraught, was mere seconds behind Potter. Realizing that Snape hadn’t batted Harry to one side, as Lucius would have done in similar circumstances, he too flung himself at his godfather and grabbed his waist in a death grip. “I’m sorry too! Please don’t be mad!”

Snape didn’t respond. He merely stood there, cold and remote.

“We’re sorry,” the blond boy whimpered. “You’ve been the only one who really cares. Please don’t stop.”

Harry nodded, burying his head in Snape’s robes. “It’s true. My relatives are awful and Malfoy’s father is just as bad. We need you. Don’t send us away.”

Snape sighed happily. Merlin, he was good. Slytherin cunning always won out. He let his hands drop to the boys’ shoulders and he gave them a reassuring squeeze. But only for a moment.

Then he gently disengaged them and, seating himself on a nearby chair, he pulled them over to stand before him. “I’m not through with you yet,” he said, but his voice was significantly less harsh than it had been.

They hiccupped and sniffled, but watched him obediently. He accio’d handkerchiefs for each and waited patiently while they mopped themselves up. He tried hard not to think about the state of his robe.

Snape caught each of them under the chin and looked at each in turn. “I care about you both,” he said quietly. “I will never send you away. I will never abandon you. I will never beat you like your relatives. But I will guide you. I will teach you. I will punish you when you deserve it. And you will obey me. You will treat me and each other with respect. There are too many forces out there who wish to harm us – individually and collectively. We cannot have this nonsensical fighting amongst ourselves. You will have to learn to share me. I suspect it will not be easy, and there will be hurt feelings – and possibly sore bottoms – before you learn the best way forward. But you will both need to make the commitment to try. Will you do that?”

He locked eyes with each boy in turn, and first Harry and then Draco nodded solemnly. He shrank from what he had to do next, but he knew it was important. Bracing himself mentally, he dropped his hold on their chins and held his arms out. Instantly, he was knocked back by the impact of two young bodies against his own.

This time, he didn’t end the embrace quickly, but at long last he pressed his lips against the top of each head – one messy and the other neatly coiffed – and cleared his throat.

“Now,” he announced in stern tones. “As for your disgraceful behavior today.” The boys exchanged a worried look.

“We’re really sorry!” Harry said quickly. “We’ll never do it again.”

“Never,” Draco agreed. “And we’re very very remorseful!”

“Yeah!” Harry echoed.

Snape blinked. It was like listening to the Weasley twins. “Be that as it may, you will still be punished.”

“Aww,” Harry’s shoulders drooped.

“Aww,” Draco groaned.

“I will expect you here next Saturday, cleaning and inventorying my stockroom.”

“But Uncle Sev!” Draco gasped, eyes wide. “There’s a Quidditch match next Saturday!”

“And you have detention,” Snape replied calmly. “If the two of you can bring yourselves to work together, the work should take you until lunchtime, leaving you plenty of time to attend the match. On the other hand, if you try to work independently, let alone squabble and argue, you will likely be here until curfew. It is your choice.”

He watched as the boys exchanged a long look, then Harry offered cautiously, “It’s not that big a deal, Draco. I’ve cleaned lots of things. I bet we’ll get it done even before lunch.”

Draco bit back the snide comment he was going to make about Harry’s suitability as a house elf. “Okay, well, maybe you could – y’know – sort of figure out what we need to do and then we’ll do it.” It was as close as he could come to acknowledging that he’d let Potter be in charge.

“And –“ Snape began ominously. Both boys tensed. Harry couldn’t stop himself from looking around for the stick. Draco caught the movement and quickly said, “That was a really good bluff before, Uncle Sev. I thought for sure you were going to thrash us.”

Snape was pleased by Draco’s oblique move to reassure Harry. “Now that you know I will never punish you in such a fashion, it has lost its efficacy, but yes, it did work well this time, didn’t it?”

Harry relaxed visibly. “Guess you’ll have to come up with something else next time,” he said cheekily.

Snape lifted an eyebrow. “I’m sure I will.”

“Not that there’ll be a next time,” Draco said swiftly, elbowing Harry.

“Ow! No, of course not,” the Gryffindor hastily concurred.

“Before I was so rudely interrupted,” Snape said forbiddingly, “I was about to point out we are not done yet.”

Harry gulped. What now? He wouldn’t be surprised if Snape decided to smack them both, but he had really hoped they might get off with only the detention.

Draco forced himself not to tremble. Uncle Sev had already said he’d never whip him the way Lucius did, so what did he have to fear, really? He just wished the bats fluttering around his stomach would settle down.

Snape regarded the two boys with an amused gleam in his eye. They really were awfully young and gullible. He might enjoy this whole mentoring thing after all. “Our tea and biscuits await.”

“Excuse me, Professor.”

Minerva McGonagall looked up in surprise from where she had been perusing the library shelves. “Yes, Miss Lovegood?” she asked.

“May I speak with you for a moment?” the normally dreamy girl was, for once, reasonably focused. She was even sufficiently aware of her surroundings to dart a nervous glance over her shoulder for Madame Pince.

McGonagall flicked her wand. “We are now surrounded by a silencing spell, Miss Lovegood. No one can hear us, including the librarian. How can I help you?” She assumed it was a question about Transfigurations.

“I was just wondering if there were a reason for Ginny’s behavior,” Luna replied.

McGonagall blinked. “Her behavior?”

“Yes. You see, I know that Gryffindors are often involved in all sorts of heroic activities, and I wondered if that was why Ginny was acting so oddly. As part of an adventure, I mean. I thought if she were, then it might be rude of me to ask her about it. Especially if it were supposed to be a secret adventure,” Luna explained, her rather off-center mind once again making itself felt. “But of course, she’s only a first year, and so I thought that even Gryffindors were probably not allowed to have secret adventures in their first year, at least not without permission, so I thought I would ask you.”

Minerva tried hard not to blink again. It would not do for a Head of House and Deputy Headmistress to react like a befuddled Hufflepuff. “Do I understand that you believe Miss Weasley to be acting in an unusual fashion?”

“Why, yes, Professor. I thought I had explained that. She’s behaving very oddly, it seems to me.”

Biting back the obvious retort, McGonagall asked, “What exactly has she been doing?”

“Well, she’s become very unhappy and withdrawn, and she writes in a diary all the time, and she has taken to lurking in lavatories. So far, it’s only the girls’ toilets, but I was worried that the adventure might take her into the boys’, and that could be troublesome.”

“Yes,” the professor managed to reply. “Yes, I would agree.” She cleared her throat. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Miss Lovegood. I will look into it.”

Luna smiled and drifted away. “Thank you, Professor. I just wanted to be sure Ginny doesn’t get hurt on her adventure. Adventures can become tragedies so quickly, can’t they?”

McGonagall wasted no time in returning to her office and calling Professor Snape. “Severus,” she asked, as soon as the dark man had emerged from the fireplace, “has Harry or one of the other children said anything about Ginny Weasley acting strangely?”

“More strangely than a normal Weasley?” Snape asked drily. At his friend’s glare, he relented. “No. Why?”

“Miss Lovegood just came and told me that she has noticed Ginny’s behavior has changed since the start of the school year. I was wondering if she had confided to Miss Granger or her brother.”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Miss Lovegood noticed odd behavior? And the rest of you didn’t?”

“Well, I suppose it could just be normal homesickness in a first year,” Minerva said doubtfully.

“I imagine even Miss Lovegood would not make a mistake like that,” Snape commented. “Have you noticed any changes in the Weasley girl’s scholastic performance?”

“She does seem more distracted,” McGonagall admitted, “but she hasn’t received any detentions or warnings. She doesn’t have the normal Weasley exuberance, but I assumed that, as a girl, she might be different in personality.”

Snape frowned. “I haven’t heard her brother ever mention such a thing, though he doesn’t speak of his sister all that much.”

“I’ll call her in and talk to her,” McGonagall decided. “But do keep an eye on her in class and let me know if the other children say anything.”

Snape nodded. “Of course.”

Unfortunately, McGonagall’s conversation with Ginny was fruitless. The girl insisted everything was fine, and short of accusing her of hiding in lavatories, there was nothing her Head of House could say to dispute her statement. McGonagall decided merely to alert the other professors and maintain a watchful silence for the moment.

##

Silence was one thing Harry was finding in short supply. At first, he assumed the whispery voice was a joke from one of the boys in his dorm or possibly Draco, trying to move from pureblood-related insults to more schoolboyish pranks. But after several confrontations when it became clear that his friends knew nothing – or were better actors than anyone had guessed, Harry began to get worried.

The only good news was that his scar didn’t throb when he heard the voice, so he guessed it probably wasn’t Voldemort. Of course, the more he learned about the Wizarding World, the more evil, twisted, Dark, and dangerous creatures he learned about, so being able to cross Voldemort off the list didn’t make Harry feel all that much better. The fact that the voice always seemed to be going on about blood and killing didn’t reassure him either. He kept remembering some of the Muggle horror movies he had seen – or rather that Dudley, delighted at how much they scared him, had made him watch. He remembered a few, especially one that featured the word “REDRUM”, and he began to worry that the voice might actually be coming from inside his own head. After all, no one else seemed to hear it, so what else could it be? If the voice wasn’t Voldemort’s, and the absence of pain in the scar seemed to indicate that, then the only one left in his head was Harry himself. Was he going insane?

Muggle TV always showed crazy people muttering to themselves and shouting at people who weren’t really there. Maybe this is how they started? The few books he was able to find in the library – since he wasn’t about to ask Hermione for help! – seemed to agree that hearing voices was a sign of madness. They also talked about how severe emotional shocks and abusive backgrounds and chronic exposure to stress and violence could cause people to have mental breakdowns. Harry got more worried.

As much as he hated to admit it, Snape had convinced him that the Dursleys’ treatment of him was pretty abusive, and since he’d left them for Hogwarts and Wizarding society, he’d pretty much been under nothing but stress, between having to live up to the title of The Boy Who Lived and knowing that Voldemort and his Death Eaters wanted him dead. And of course, the whole business with the Philosopher’s Stone last year had been a pretty big emotional shock. Harry still got queasy when he thought about how Voldemort had looked, peering out of the back of Quirrell’s skull, and the smell of the man disintegrating from Harry’s touch. So, it seemed he had lots of reasons to go insane. Was this voice the first indication?

Harry wished he knew what to do. He didn’t want to tell Ron and Hermione – crazy people didn’t have friends; he knew that from the telly. Well, except for other crazy people who shouted at nothing and lived with them on the streets or in the loony bin. And friends were too new a concept for Harry to be willing to risk the two best friends he had. There was always Madame Pomfrey, but she’d probably ship him off straight to St Mungo’s. Professor McGonagall was nice, but Harry was sure she’d just bring in Pomfrey, and Dumbledore was too much of a risk. Harry liked the Headmaster, but he hadn’t forgotten he was the one who had left him with the Dursleys all those years and couldn’t even be bothered to check on him. If he learned Harry was crazy, he’d probably send him back there or to some horrible mental institution that made the Dursleys’ home look like Paradise.

What about Snape? Harry chewed his lip anxiously. He trusted Snape more than pretty much any other grown up – as much as Ron and Hermione in fact, and maybe a little more, since he had an adult’s knowledge and experience to back up his advice. But Harry was only just learning what it was like to have an adult care about him, and he was terrified of disappointing Snape or having Snape disengage from him when he realized Harry was a loony.

In the end, the answer came from a most surprising place. “Whatcha reading that for, Harry?” the soft, almost tentative voice behind him startled Harry from where he’d been searching among the library stacks.

He spun around, concealing the book under his robe. “Neville! What are you doing sneaking up behind me?” he demanded, embarrassment making him irritable.

Neville looked startled. “Sorry, Harry. I was just wondering why you were looking at that book.”

Harry shrugged, trying to be nonchalant. “Just trying to figure out how crazy old Voldemort is,” he said, shoving “A Catalogue of Mental Diseases” back on the shelf.

“Oh,” Neville looked pensive. “I dunno if I think he’s crazy or just evil.”

“Can’t he be both?” Harry asked, a bit flippantly.

Neville glared at him, something so unusual that Harry blinked in astonishment. “There’s nothing funny about being crazy, Harry!”

“I didn’t mean to make you mad, Neville,” Harry apologized, too taken aback by his friend’s sudden fury to do anything else.

“Yeah, well, it’s just…” Neville’s anger dissipated as quickly as it had flared. He took a deep breath. “My parents are at St Mungo’s Mental Ward. They were tortured by Death Eaters until they both went mad.” Harry’s eyes were wide with horror. “Not many of the other kids here know, but I guess outside Hogwarts, well, it was a big deal when it happened. Not as big a deal as your parents’ dying and all, but… Anyway, I guess I just think of crazy as something you can’t help, and evil as something that you choose. But I didn’t mean to snap at you, Harry. I’m sorry.”

“No, Neville. I’m sorry. I – I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to say anything that would, um, you know, make you feel bad or insult your parents or anything,” Harry stammered.

Neville gave him a quick smile and hurried off before Madame Pince could yell at them for talking in the library.

That night, Harry was so distracted over his homework that Snape finally gave up in disgust. “What is it?” he demanded, annoyed. “Your mind has been elsewhere this entire night!”

“How do you know someone is crazy?” Harry blurted out.

Snape’s eyebrows rose. “I beg your pardon?”

“Neville told me about his parents. You know what happened to them, right?” Snape nodded slowly. “Well, he said that Death Eaters tortured them until they went mad. But how do you know they’re mad? I mean, what if they’re just, I dunno, hurt or scared or something?”

Snape thought quickly. Sometimes Harry had too much compassion than was good for him. He could imagine the boy lying awake nights worrying that Frank and Alice Longbottom were locked away in some horrible mental ward, crying out for help and being mistaken for insane. He understood why Harry, with his weird link to Voldemort, might well worry about errors being made in the diagnosis of mental diseases. What if someone had decided that Harry’s tales of visions from the Dark Lord or blinding headaches whenever Quirrell was around were nothing but the ramblings of an unbalanced mind? No wonder Harry was anxious.

“Unfortunately, there is no doubt as to the Longbottoms’ condition,” he said gently but firmly. “From what I understand, they are in a state of catatonia, which means they do not respond to anything in this world, not even their son. I am sure you understand how sensitive this topic is for Neville and will not do anything to cause him pain or embarrassment?” He waited until Harry had nodded, a flash of indignation in his eyes, before continuing. Not that he hadn’t expected Harry to be properly sympathetic, but he couldn’t take a chance on something as important as this. The Longbottom boy had enough stress as it was. “Other mental conditions are equally plain to diagnose. When someone is truly mentally ill, they will hear voices or see things or display behaviors or thoughts that are clearly not based in reality.”

“For a long time, I thought that if you believed in magic, you were crazy. The Muggle world still thinks so,” Harry said quietly.

Snape frowned. “True, but now you know better. And if a Muggle claims to be doing magic, it can be proven true or false. If true, they’re not a Muggle. If false, then they are not thinking clearly and need assistance.”

Harry swallowed. “What kind of assistance do crazy people get at St Mungo’s?”

The boy had clearly inherited Lily’s mile-wide compassionate streak. “The Longbottoms are well looked after,” he stated firmly. “They are well fed and kept clean and safe. No one harms them, Harry.”

“So they’re like… locked up? For their own safety?”

“Exactly,” Snape reassured him.

“So… someone – some Wizard – who heard voices or saw things or whatever, he’d get locked up too?”

Snape nodded. “And kept safe.”

Harry forced a smile. No, he definitely would not be telling an adult about the voice anytime soon. He didn’t want to be locked up and kept safe. He’d had enough of that at the Dursleys, when Dumbledore apparently decided that being locked in a cupboard and slapped around by Muggles was safe.

From now on, Harry wasn’t going to rely on anyone else’s definition of safe. The Headmaster might think that the mere existence of blood wards guaranteed safety, and maybe to him they had worked – Harry was still alive, after all – but Harry had higher standards than that. He’d just have to hide his craziness from everyone, but really, would that be so hard? After all, he had hidden his magic in the Muggle world for most of his life. Maybe it was even a good thing for him to be crazy. Surely anyone who was told at the age of 11 that he was the target of a Dark Lord who’d already survived death once, needed to be a little crazy just to get through the day. And if Harry was supposed to play a role in defeating Voldemort the second time around, well, again a little craziness might help.

Keeping quiet was a good plan, but Harry had reckoned without his friends’ powers of observation. The third time the voice startled him in class, making him drop his quill and then remain jumpy for the rest of the lesson, Ron and Hermione had had enough. That evening, they dragged Harry into an unused classroom and confronted him.

“What’s up, mate?” Ron asked, folding his arms across his chest and eyeing Harry sternly.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Harry mumbled, having a hard time meeting their eyes.

“We know something’s going on, Harry,” Hermione chimed in. “You keep acting like you’re being attacked or surprised. You’re not grabbing your scar, but it comes on suddenly, like when you would get the pains last year. Tell us what’s wrong.”

“It’s nothing.” He shook his head and tried to leave, but they stopped him.

“Oh, no,” Ron said with surprising determination. “Not this time, Harry. This time you’re going to tell us exactly what’s going on and not make us try to figure it out on our own.”

Harry looked at him in surprise. In the past, Hermione had been the pushy one, and Ron had been much more willing to let Harry get away with his secrets. Obviously that had changed.

“Please, Harry, don’t you trust us? We just want to help,” Hermione pleaded.

Harry felt ashamed of himself. He wasn’t being fair. Didn’t they have the right to decide if they wanted to be friends with a crazy person? What if he went nuts and started attacking people? He might actually hurt them! “I – I didn’t want to tell you,” he started, shamefaced, “because I don’t want you to stop being my friends.”

Ron snorted. “Like that’s gonna happen. Mate, are you touched in the head, or what?”

Harry looked at him. “Yeah. I am.”

There was a moment of silence as the other two stared at him. Then: “WHAT?”

Harry sighed. “I’m crazy. I’m hearing things that aren’t there. I don’t want to be sent to St Mungo’s so I wasn’t going to tell anyone.”

Hermione frowned. “Harry, what on earth makes you think you’re crazy? How do you know the things aren’t there? Maybe it’s You Know Who.”

“My scar doesn’t hurt, ‘Mione. I think anything associated with Voldemort makes my scar hurt – it’s the link between us, see? And when I hear the voice, the scar doesn’t even tingle.”

“What’s the voice like, Harry? I mean, is it telling you to do stuff?” Ron asked, a bit nervously.

“You mean like ‘Smother Ron in his sleep’?” Harry asked sarcastically. “No. And before you ask, Hermione, it’s not giving me homework answers either.”

Ron grinned. “No tips on tomorrow’s Quidditch matches?”

“Or hints about possible surprise quizzes?” Hermione got into the spirit of things too.

Harry had to grin. “Nope, nor suggestions on how to avoid Filch or how to prank Draco and get away with it.”

“What a useless voice, then,” Ron shrugged, eyes teasing. “I can see why you’d want to ignore it. What’s the point of having it sound off and distract you if it’s not going to tell you anything useful?”

Harry laughed for what felt like the first time in months. He was so lucky to have friends like these!

“Seriously, though, Harry,” Hermione could only be silly for brief periods, “what does the voice say?”

Harry lost his grin. “Mostly stuff about blood and bones and killing and stuff like that.”

His friends looked worried. “I dunno, mate. That sure sounds like You Know Who.”

“Can you recognize the voice, Harry?” Hermione asked. “Maybe you’re hearing someone else’s thoughts?”

“Can Wizards do that?” Harry asked, surprised. Both turned to Ron.

He looked taken aback. “Well, I’ve never heard of it, but I guess maybe. Why? Does it sound like someone you know?”

Harry screwed up his face in an effort to remember. “I don’t think so. The voice is kinda whispery and harsh. It doesn’t really sound human.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked. “Can you imitate it?”

Harry concentrated, closing his eyes. “Blood… I want blood. Kill! Kill now!” he repeated. He opened his eyes and saw the other two staring at him. “What?”

“Harry, what was that?” Ron found his voice first.

“What? Did you recognize it?”

“Harry, that wasn’t even English,” Hermione told him.

“But it sounded like English,” he said, puzzled. “Didn’t I just speak English?”

Ron shook his head. “No. It was all hisses and slithery noises. It gave me the creeps.”

“I don’t get it. I don’t know anything but English,” Harry protested. “Not even French!”

“It didn’t sound like any language I’ve ever heard,” Hermione said. “Not like Chinese or Japanese even.”

“But –“ Harry stopped suddenly, an idea striking him. “Come on!” He led the way, hurrying out onto the school grounds and going right to the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

“Harry, what are we doing here?” Hermione asked, eyeing the forest nervously.

“Yeah, mate, didn’t Snape already wallop you once this year for going in there?” Ron asked pointedly. “Are you looking for a repeat performance?”

“We’re not going into the forest, guys,” Harry promised. “Hang on a second.” He started wandering around the edge of the woods, looking at the ground. Ron and Hermione exchanged baffled looks.

After several minutes, Harry exclaimed in delight and reached down to the ground. He lifted something, spent a moment muttering to it or himself, then rejoined his friends. “Listen – does this sound like what I said before?” And turning to the small snake looped round his wrist, he said, “Thank you for offering to help me.”

“My pleasure, little speaker. I did not realize there was one of you in the pile of stone. Have you lived here long?” “Not too long. I go to school here. We call the pile of stone Hogwarts.” 

“What an odd name! You two-feet are strange creatures. But you must beware, little speaker. The Creature under the stones has Awakened. It has no fondness for your kind.”

“Harry! That’s it!” Hermione’s shriek distracted Harry from the snake’s final words, and it scared the snake too. With a hiss, it slithered from Harry’s arm and disappeared into the underbrush. “That’s exactly like what you sounded like before! And you know we can’t hear the snake talking back to you – it is, right? We just hear a little hiss or two from it. Maybe that’s why no one but you is hearing this voice.”

Harry looked past Hermione’s excited expression to Ron’s pale face. “What is it?”

Ron gulped. “You- you’re a Parselmouth?”

“A what?” Both Harry and Hermione gazed at him blankly.

“You can speak to serpents?”

Harry shrugged. “Yeah. It just sounds like English to me. Why? Can’t everyone?”

“I can’t,” Hermione volunteered.

Ron shook his head. “You two don’t get it. Being able to speak Parseltongue is really, really rare.”

“See, Harry?” Hermione offered. “That’s why you’re the only one hearing the voice. It’s not that you’re crazy. It’s just that maybe there’s no one else at Hogwarts who speaks Parseltongue and so no one else is hearing the snake.”

“No!” Ron exclaimed, frustrated at their continued calmness. “You still don’t get it! I mean it’s really rare. I know there’s no one else at Hogwarts who’s a Parselmouth. I don’t even think there’s anyone else living who is.”

Harry shrugged. “Okay, so it makes me a little weird. I guess I’m used to that.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “No, it’s more than that. Look, Salazar Slytherin was a Parselmouth. So was – is – whatever – You Know Who. A lot of people figure it’s a Dark Wizard thing.”

Hermione leapt to Harry’s defense. “Well, that’s just stupid! And wrong – Harry’s proof of that! Why would it be evil to speak to snakes? They’re valuable members of the environment, you know!”

“Hermione, don’t get all eco-warrior on us, okay? I’m just telling you that Harry’s being a Parselmouth is going to make a lot of people uncomfortable,” Ron argued.

“Including you?” Harry asked quietly.

Ron flushed. “No. I was just – y’know – surprised, is all. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with it. Hey, maybe it’s a good thing. I mean, at least there’s one power that You Know Who has that you have too.”

Harry cheered up a little at that thought. “Yeah. That’s true.”

“Exactly,” Hermione agreed, giving Ron an approving smile. “Just think: if You Know Who tells a snake to bite you, you can tell it to bite him! Won’t he be surprised then?”

Harry and Ron laughed. “That would be great. Maybe we can find a snake to sneak into his bed and chomp on him while he sleeps. That would be easy and quick!” Ron offered.

“Well, before we sic a snake onto You Know Who, we still have to figure out what’s making Harry’s voice. If you’re hearing it in Parseltongue, Harry, is it a snake you’re hearing?”

Harry frowned. “I can’t really explain it, but it doesn’t sound like a snake. I mean, the voice in my head doesn’t sound like the snake I was just talking to. And usually, I can only talk to or hear a snake that’s in front of me, like when I talk to you guys. There’s nothing around when I hear the other voice.”

“What we need to do is some research,” Hermione announced happily, ignoring the boys’ groans. “Maybe there’s some other creature, related to snakes, that Harry might be hearing.”

“If there is, then I know who to ask!” Ron said, grinning.

“Hagrid?” Harry suggested.

“No offense, Harry, I think Hagrid’s great an’ all, but I don’t know that after last year, I’d really want to trust him with a secret. No, I was thinking of Charlie. I mean, yeah, he studies dragons now, but he knows all about magical creatures. We can owl him and I bet he’d have some suggestions.”

“Ron, that’s brilliant!” Hermione said in surprise.

“Anything that gets me out of having to do the research,” he grinned back.

“Okay, Ron will owl Charlie – just pretend it’s a question for a homework assignment, all right? And while we’re waiting for his reply, we can see what we can find in the library. We can start with the Magical Creatures textbooks, and work our way into more esoteric texts. Maybe a biography of Salazar Slytherin might help,” Hermione mused, planning busily. The two boys sighed in resignation and followed her back to the castle.

 

##

Although their research kept them busy, the Trio still spent regular evenings with Professor Snape. On one such night, Hermione arrived a little earlier than the boys.

“Miss Granger,” Snape greeted her austerely, eyebrows raised. Usually the students arrived together, unless it was one of his nights with only Harry.

“Excuse me, Professor, but I was wondering if I might bring someone else down tonight. Professor McGonagall asked me to help Ginny Weasley with her Transfigurations homework – she’s having a few problems – but I didn’t want to miss our time here either.” She bit her lip nervously. Professor Snape wasn’t exactly fond of the Weasleys en masse, but he seemed to tolerate Ron well enough these days… She crossed her fingers behind her back for luck and watched Snape hopefully.

Snape thought for a moment. He detected Minerva’s fine hand in this. Knowing that this was one of Granger’s usual visiting nights, she had nevertheless asked her to help the Weasley girl. That probably meant she wanted Severus to take a look at her too. “Very well, Miss Granger. I trust you will inform Miss Weasley of proper decorum in my chambers? I will hold you responsible for her behavior.”

“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!” Hermione scurried away, presumably to return with yet another redhead.

“Hey, Uncle Sev, where are the Gryffindorks?” Draco said, sauntering into his godfather’s quarters a few minutes later.

Snape frowned at him. “Good evening to you too, Draco. I’m fine, thank you. And yourself?”

Draco squirmed. Lucius would have had him bent over the couch and howling in a heartbeat for such atrocious manners, but he’d worried that the others were already there and didn’t want to sound like a pureblood prat in front of them. “Sorry, Uncle Severus. Good evening. I’m fine, thank you for asking.”

“I expect the others shortly, Draco. Sit down and make yourself comfortable.”

Draco let out his breath in a sigh of relief. His godfather wasn’t that annoyed. “What are you working on?” he asked quizzically, wandering over to the desk.

“Fifth year essays. I will soon need to fetch some Headache Relieving potions.”

“Dunderheads?” Draco asked with a knowing grin.

“Indeed. By the way, before the others arrive, I should tell you that I spoke with the Headmaster, and he approved the idea for a Hogwarts prize for scholastic and athletic excellence. It will be awarded to one student in each year at the annual prizegiving ceremony.”

Draco let out a yelp of delight and hugged his godfather. It had worked! Surely his winning that prize would make up for Granger beating him in test scores.

Snape gave him a brief squeeze. “You will still have to earn it,” he reminded him sternly. “That means both keeping up your grades and showing good sportsmanship on the Quidditch pitch.”

Draco wrinkled his nose. “Oh, Merlin.”

“I mean it. The athletic portion will be determined by Madame Hooch, so you’d better plan on impressing her with your sportsmanship as well as your flying, or you will have a difficult time winning the prize. “

Draco scowled. Hooch was always nattering on about not rubbing your opponents’ noses in their defeat, and where was the fun in that? Still, he didn’t think he’d have that much trouble charming the old witch. “Yes, Uncle Sev,” he said dutifully. “Thank you for getting the Headmaster to create the prize,” he added, remembering his manners.

“You’re welcome. I suggest we both start talking it up to your father, so that he is well aware of what a prestigious honor it will be for you to bring home.”

Draco nodded vigorously. “I’ll owl him about it tonight.”

Snape nodded to the table and the parchment and quill upon it. “No time like the present.”

The others arrived soon thereafter and settled into their usual routine. Harry reviewed his assignments with Snape while Draco and Ron played chess. The only difference was that Hermione was busy helping Ginny with transfiguring a grape into a marble and back again. After an hour and a chipped tooth, Ginny had it down pat.

“Great, Ginny!” Hermione praised. “See? It’s not that hard. It just takes a little concentration. Why don’t you take a break for a few minutes and then we’ll try it again, just to make sure.”

“Okay,” Ginny agreed, reaching into her bookbag for another assignment. Hermione wandered over to where Harry and Ron were now comparing notes from Charms, Draco having won the chess match.

“Hey, Granger, do you want to look over History of Magic together for the quiz?” Draco called.

“Sure. Let me just finish this,” Hermione answered, busy sorting out a discrepancy between the boys’ respective notes.

Draco tilted back his chair – another habit his father would treat severely – and looked absently around the room while he waited. His eye fell on where Ginny was quietly scribbling in a leatherbound journal. Curious, he leaned closer and nearly toppled over. “Weasley!” he yelped. “Where did you get that?”

Both Ron and Ginny looked up sharply, but Draco only had eyes for the girl.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” she snapped, clutching the book to her chest.

Draco jumped out of his chair and advanced on her. “That book! Where did you get it? It doesn’t belong to you!”

“Yes, it does!” Now Ginny was on her feet, too, and backing away. “Leave me alone!”

“What’s going on?” Ron hurried over in full-out Protective Big Brother mode. “Is he bothering you, Gin?”

“Leave me alone, all of you!” Ginny shouted, snatching up her bag. “It’s none of your business!”

“That’s not yours!” Draco made a sudden lunge for the book. Ginny screamed and jumped back, and Ron grabbed Draco by the back of the robes.

“Don’t you touch my sister!” he yelled.

“Leggo, you idiot!” Draco struggled against Ron’s grip. “She doesn’t know what that is!”

Snape pushed past Harry and Hermione, both open-mouthed spectators, and grabbed each of the boys with one hand. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

“He’s bothering Ginny!” Ron accused, stabbing a finger at Draco.

“Uncle Sev, look at what she’s got!” Draco pointed at Ginny. “The journal!”

Seeing that hostilities were quelled, Snape released the boys and turned to the redheaded girl. “Miss Weasley,” he began, extending a hand for the book in question.

Before he got any further, Ginny turned and fled his quarters, the precious book clutched tightly to her chest.

Everyone stared after her. However much she might not trust Malfoy with her possessions, Ginny had no conceivable reason to refuse to show her things to a professor. Even if the book was contraband, her reaction was out of all proportion.

“Mr Weasley,” Snape said, his cool voice revealing nothing, “what do you know of that book?”

Ron gave him a baffled look. “Nothing, Professor. I’m sorry. I never saw her with it before this term.”

“Has your sister kept a diary in the past?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Snape glanced at Draco, who was giving him a meaningful look.

“What?” Ron burst out. “What is it?”

Snape gave a small nod, and Draco turned to the redheaded boy. “I’m pretty sure I know that book. If I’m right, it’s a Dark artifact that used to belong to my father.”

Ron frowned horribly. “How would something from that bas — um, sorry.” Draco shrugged lightly. “From your father’s Dark Arts collection end up with my sister?” He gave the blond boy a fierce look. “You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you?”

Snape gave Ron a cuff on the back of the head before Draco could respond. “Mr Weasley! Use that brain, or I will motivate you through a different part of your anatomy! If Mr Malfoy had been in collusion with someone to distribute Dark artifacts to students at Hogwarts, would he really have brought it to our attention in this fashion?”

Ron rubbed his head and had the grace to look sheepish. “No, sir. Sorry, Malfoy. I guess I shouldn’t have stopped you when you tried to grab the thing.”

Draco tried not to show how gratified he was by the apology. “I’d probably be protective if I had a little sister too, Weasley,” he acknowledged.

“Draco, it just looked like a diary to me; what makes you so sure it’s the one that your father had?” Hermione asked, somewhat tentatively.

“It’s got some letters embossed on the front,” Draco replied. “TMR – that’s what first caught my eye. I had expected they’d be Ginny’s initials on her diary, so when they weren’t it made me think and I realized I’d seen them before.”

“I guess. It could still be a coincidence, though,” Hermione pointed out.

“But that is not a chance I intend to take with a potential Dark object, Miss Granger,” Snape said, ending discussion of the matter. “I will bring this to Professor McGonagall’s attention, and I am sure she will confiscate the book in question. In the meantime, if any of you see it, you are to inform Professor McGonagall or myself immediately. If it is a Dark object, it can be very dangerous, and I do not want any of you trying to touch or read it. Do I make myself clear?” All four nodded quickly. His tone left no doubt that he was taking this very seriously and would brook no disobedience. “I need also not remind you that Mr Malfoy’s position in this matter is quite tenuous. It would be extremely unfortunate if his father were to learn that Mr Malfoy has shared his knowledge with us tonight. Do I make myself clear?” The Gryffindors glanced at each other, then over to where a very pale Draco was staring at his godfather.

Draco looked at Snape with horror in his eyes. In the heat of the moment, he hadn’t realized what he was doing, but he had just blurted out information that his father would quite literally kill to protect. If Lucius were playing some deep game with the youngest Weasley as a pawn, it was quite likely to be at the Dark Lord’s behest, or at least on his behalf. If Lucius found out that his own son had helped to thwart his machinations, even Draco’s status as his heir was unlikely to protect the boy. At the very least, Draco could expect a close and lengthy acquaintance with the Cruciatus, coupled with other Death Eater favorites.

Snape put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “It will be all right, Draco,” he said softly.

“But if Father ever even suspects –“ Draco’s voice rose in terror.

“We won’t tell,” Ron interrupted. “I swear.”

“Me too.”

“You can have our Wizard’s Oaths if you want,” Harry offered.

“Honest, Draco. You were trying to help my sister. I swear none of us will ever talk about this again,” Ron, for once, looked straight at Draco without a hint of disdain or dislike.

Draco swallowed, some of his panic receding.

“It’s a shame in a way,” Ron joked, trying to make him feel better. “If I could tell the twins how you tried to help Gin, they might not prank you so often.”

Draco managed a weak sneer. “Your idiot brothers’ pranks are nothing compared to what my father’s reaction would be, Weasley. I think I’ll stick with them hating me.”

“Yeah, okay,” Ron agreed. “Um, sorry that your father’s such an arse.”

Draco made a noise that was half-laugh, half-sob. “Me too.”

“That’s enough,” Snape said firmly. “There is no value in insulting one’s parents, even – or perhaps especially – if they deserve it. Now, you may have some tea and biscuits while I floo Professor McGonagall, then I believe we could all use an early night.”

The students, somewhat chastened, headed for the sofa, while Snape went to floo Minerva.

Although an alerted McGonagall intercepted Ginny on her return to the dormitory, Ginny insisted she had lost the diary on her way from the dungeons. A search of her bag, room, and person confirmed that the book was missing, presumably stashed somewhere in the castle. Ginny was put on notice that when found, the book was to be turned in immediately upon pain of a visit to the Headmaster – and the notification of her parents – if she were discovered with it. She in turn insisted it was just a regular diary, where she was keeping track of her assignments and life as a first year, but, as McGonagall told Snape, “it feels wrong, Severus. She’s not responding the way she should. It’s like she’s parroting someone else’s words. I’m going to keep a close eye on her, and have Hermione, Harry, and her brothers do the same. If we don’t get to the bottom of this soon, we will have to notify her parents.”

Two days later, Ron received an owl from Charlie at breakfast. Ron waved it excitedly at his friends, and the three promptly fled the Great Hall for a more private spot.  “Here,” Ron said, opening it. “This is what Charlie says: Dear Ron, Thanks for the owl. Glad to hear you’re staying – mostly – out of trouble. Say hi to the rest of the clan and to Harry and Hermione for me. And tell all your teachers I said hi and that I use the stuff they taught me every day – that should help your grades! Ha, ha. You guys definitely get more interesting homework than I did as a student. I just remember boring old Binns and changing needles into toothpicks – or was it the other way around? Anyway, a question about “what creatures could a parselmouth talk to?” is a lot better. I didn’t even know you were taking the class yet! Planning to follow in your Big Bro’s footsteps, eh? Ha, ha! Anyway, there are a lot of creatures that are related to serpents – both magical and non-magical – that a Parselmouth might be able to talk to. Of course, this is all hypothetical (ask Hermione if you don’t know what that means. Ha, ha!) since there are no living parselmouths – unless you count You Know Who, which I’d rather not. Anyway, like I say, it’s all speculation because some of the animals are extinct and we don’t exactly have a parselmouth to ask, but here’s what I think. Since we know that parselmouths can talk to any living non-magical snake, they should also be able to speak with magical snakes and their relatives. So I would think that a parselmouth should be able to talk to snakes that are products of magic – like snakes in a magic portrait or tapestry – and maybe creatures that are serpents (like a basilisk) or descended from serpents. This could include dragons (wish I were a parselmouth, ha, ha!), nagas ( ½ man, ½ snake), chimeras, and maybe even the snakes on a medusa. Hope that helps. Boy, after all this, you’d better get extra credit! Take care, little bro, and don’t give Mum any reason to send you a Howler!!! Love, Charlie.”

They all were silent for a few minutes, thinking over the implications of the letter. “Oh no, not another dragon!” Ron groaned.

“But I couldn’t talk to Norbert,” Harry pointed out. “Maybe parselmouths can’t talk to dragons.”

“Or maybe it was because he was so young?” Hermione wondered.

“But that would mean that there’d be a grown up dragon around here somewhere, and from what Charlie says, there’s no way we’d be able to miss it,” Ron argued.

“Okay,” Harry said, “so we can cross dragons off the list. What’s next?”

“Nagas?” Hermione said. “But their top half is a human, so they wouldn’t need to speak parseltongue, right?”

“Right. What about chimeras?” Ron and Harry looked at Hermione.

“Oh, dear. I’m not really good at these,” she frowned, thinking. “I’m pretty sure chimeras have a bunch of heads and the body and tail of a snake. So that would be a possibility.”

“But if it doesn’t have the head of a snake, then how could it talk like a snake?” Harry pointed out. “What was that basilisk thing he mentioned? He said it was a serpent?”

“A basilisk is an enormous snake. Much bigger than regular Muggle or other magical snakes,” Hermione explained. “Maybe that would explain why it sounds so different?”

“I guess we can’t rule out the chimera or even a medusa either.” Harry sighed.

“We still have to figure out where the thing is. I mean, okay, we can’t hide a dragon here, but any of the others might be able to stay hidden at Hogwarts. It’s pretty big, after all. And that’s just the parts we know about,” Ron pointed out.

“I’ll see what Hogwarts: A History has to say about hidden places or secret passages,” Hermione volunteered excitedly.

Ron snickered. “Yeah, right. Like secret passages are gonna be mentioned in a book.”

“They might at least refer to legends about them, Ronald,” Hermione said, annoyed, “or to parts of the castle that have fallen into disuse and forgotten.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, okay then.”

“I’m going to go talk to Hagrid,” Harry said. “I’m not going to tell him anything, but I have some questions for him.”

Over lunch, he headed out to Hagrid’s cottage and was, as usual, greeted with happy cries from both Fang and Hagrid. Over a pot of tea and the lamentably unavoidable rock cakes, Harry worked the conversation around to the topic he wanted to discuss. “So, Hagrid, there’s something I don’t understand about magical creatures. Why are some of them Dark?”

“Ah, well, Harry, that there’s a good question,” Hagrid sighed. “Me, I think that creatures are just creatures – poor wee beasties usually don’t know any better. But if they like to eat people, then they’re usually labeled as Dark.”

“So… do they eat people because they’re Dark, or are they Dark because they eat people?” Harry pressed. At Hagrid’s befuddled look, he clarified. “I mean, are they choosing to eat people, or is it just their nature? You know, they sort of have to, the way cats chase mice.”

“To my way o’ thinking, Harry, it’s that they have no choice. See, the way I look at it, if they have a choice about eatin’ people, then that’s like you an’ me. We have a choice about being good or not, right? So if you’ve gots a choice an’ you choose to do bad things, then you’re evil, see. But for creatures now, there are some that don’t have a choice an’ it’s not their choice, but they’re still dangerous. So them’s the ones that I’d call Dark.”

Harry was now very confused. “So people can be bad or Dark when they choose evil, but if creatures can choose evil, then they’re not Dark? They’re just bad. But if creatures can’t choose but just like wired to eat people, then they are Dark?”

“Aye!” Hagrid said cheerfully.

“Maybe we should use different words,” Harry complained. “I guess what I want to know is which creatures don’t have a choice but to be evil and which ones do.”

Hagrid frowned. “Well, it depends. There’re lots o’creatures out there, Harry. You maybe want ter narrow the list some?”

“Well, what would be a magical creature that doesn’t have a choice about eating people?”

“I’d say a werewolf doesn’t have much choice when the moon is on ‘im. He’s gotta change and then once he’s a wolf, if he sees a human – that’s it. Lunch!” Hagrid paused. “Less’n he’s had some wolfsbane, I mean. See, that let’s them keep their human mind so they have choices, like.”

“But if a werewolf didn’t have their wolfsbane, then they have to eat people?” Harry pressed.

“Aye. Shame too. I know some right nice people who are werewolves,” Hagrid said sadly.

“So, Hagrid, when they haven’t had their wolfsbane and it’s a full moon, can you talk to them? I mean, if you were to try to have a conversation, could you have one? And maybe try to find out why they have to eat people?”

Hagrid wrinkled his brow in unaccustomed thought. “No – no, Harry, can’t say as I’ve ever heard of anyone havin’ a chat with a werewolf during the full moon. Mostly they seem to be howlin’ and growlin’ and rippin’ things apart. No real talkin’.”

“So, if you could talk with or understand the creature, would that mean you might be able to talk them out of eating people?” Harry asked hopefully.

“Well, now, I suppose that’d make sense,” Hagrid agreed. “Seems like you’d at least be able to see why they’re so determined to eat you. Not sure that’d really make y’ feel that much better in the long run, though.”

“Thanks, Hagrid!” Harry said, discreetly passing off his rock cake to Fang as he hurried to his next class.

Inspired by his conversation with Hagrid, and the hopes that he might be able to talk the creature – whatever it was – into adopting a human-free diet, Harry decided it would be safe enough to ask other questions, especially if he asked them of different professors. Accordingly, that night at his usual DADA session with Snape, he said, “Professor, what makes something Dark?”

Snape blinked. This was either a very stupid or very profound question. Before he could request clarification, Harry went on. “I mean, if something is smart enough to think – in words, I mean. Not like a dog or chicken or whatever – then is it smart enough to choose to be Dark? Or do you think that we don’t really have choices? That they’re made for us?”

Ah. He had wondered when the questions about the prophecy would come. Snape motioned the boy over to the sofa and joined him there. He thought for a moment about how to reply. “Harry,” he said, instantly capturing the boy’s attention, “I firmly believe that we do have choices in this life. However much our lives may seem pre-ordained, in the end we are the ones who choose the lives we lead. It is true that there is much outside of our control, but no matter what has happened, we still have choices. They may not be the ones we wish we had, but there are always options.” Snape was encouraged by Harry’s frown of concentration. Obviously the boy was finding this useful. “Look at me, Harry. I took the Dark Mark when I was not much older than you. Some would say that would remove all other choices from me forever. Yet I continued to make choices. I chose to return to the Light. It was not easy – it is not easy – yet it was a choice I could make and I did so. I chose to make you a part of my life –“

“That’s not been easy for you either!” Harry piped up, grinning.

Snape gave him a Look. “No. Not in the least. But neither is it a choice I regret. So you see, I do believe that if we are smart enough to be aware of ourselves, to be able to think as you put it, then I believe we choose our own destiny.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully. He wasn’t sure where Professor Snape had been going at first, with all this weird “preordination” stuff – he’d almost sounded like Trelawny for a moment there! – but in the end, he’d answered the question. Like Hagrid, he thought the creature could be reasoned with. Harry was heartened. He’d never yet met a snake he hadn’t gotten along with. Hopefully this creature would turn out to be the same.

“Can I ask you about an Unforgivable?”

Snape gave himself a mental shake. Where had that come from?

Oh. Was all this talk about Darkness and prophecies a sign that Harry was starting to think about his parents’ deaths? This could become emotional – he hoped he had extra handkerchiefs in his drawer. “Yes, you can ask me,” he said, uncharacteristically tentative.

“Can you Imperius a chicken?” Harry asked.

Snape stared at him. Whatever he had been expecting, this wasn’t it. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “Can you Imperius a chicken?”

Harry shook his head dismissively. “No, no. It’s not a riddle. I was really wondering. Can you Imperius chickens – you know, animals that aren’t human? Or can you only Imperius humans that can think and have minds and stuff?”

“The difference between the IQ of a chicken and that of some of my students is not as large as you might think,” Snape said drily. “At least based on the essays they turn in. But to answer your question, yes, it is possible to Imperius non-humans. Why?”

Harry thought quickly. He certainly couldn’t answer that it was because Hermione had discovered that the crow of a rooster could kill a basilisk, and the Trio had wondered how they could get a rooster to crow on command. But no alternative reason leapt to mind, and the delay raised Snape’s suspicions. “Mr Potter,” he said silkily, “if I learn that you have tried any Unforgivable on any creature, I promise you that you will regret it. Profoundly.”

“I’m not!” Harry protested. “I was just wondering. That’s all.” At Snape’s skeptical look, Harry changed the subject. “But don’t you think I should learn them, sometime I mean? If You Know Who’s gonna use them, then –“

“Yes, Mr Potter, the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters will certainly use them,” Snape agreed with a sigh. “And yes, you will need to learn them at some point, if only to defend yourself against them. But while I will be teaching them to you, it will not be for some time yet. You are still too young.”

Harry automatically pouted. “I’m twelve!”

“Exactly. Much too young.”

“But you will teach me someday,” Harry pressed.

“Yes.”

“Will you teach me all of them?”

“Yes.”

Harry frowned. “Even the green light one?”

Snape blinked. How did he know – ? “Yes.”

“I don’t want to learn that one,” Harry said flatly.

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to be a murderer like You Know Who,” Harry said fiercely. “I won’t!”

“Harry, you will never be a murderer like the Dark Lord,” Snape said tiredly. “I can teach you every Dark curse in the world and that won’t make you a murderer.”

Harry blinked in confusion. “But if you kill someone –“

“Harry, there is a saying: ‘If someone is coming to kill you, get up early in the morning and kill them first.’” Harry’s jaw dropped. “It is not murder to kill someone before they kill you or to stop them from killing another. It is murder to kill someone who poses no danger to anyone. That is why the Dark Lord is a murderer and you will never be. But, Harry, you must learn how to kill, because in order to survive, I promise you that you will have to kill.” Harry gulped. No one had ever stated it so bluntly before. “You will have to kill to protect yourself and probably to protect others, whether they are friends of yours like Miss Granger or Mr Weasley, or strangers who cannot help themselves. Death Eaters and the Dark Lord stand for murder and torture and deeds so evil I will not speak of them to you. They must be stopped, and to do that, they must be killed. If you will not do that, you must leave now. Leave the country and seek out a new life. Because if you remain, you will continue to be a focus for the Light and you – and those around you – will continue to be targets of the Dark. So, Harry, you must choose your path. If you will not kill under any circumstance, then tell me now so that I can make arrangements for your safety.”

Harry thought for a moment. “My folks – they – they fought Voldemort, didn’t they?”

“Yes, Harry. They fought him before they went into hiding, and again on the night he found them. I’m certain your father tried very hard to kill the Dark Lord before he was himself struck down. Your father was an Auror – he understood the distinction I am drawing and was comfortable with it.”

“I am too,” Harry decided. “Like you said, it’s not murder if they want to kill you. You just have to stop them before they can.”

“It’s more than that, Harry. If you know that they are coming to kill you, then you have an obligation to kill them first. If they will kill you, they will kill others, and knowing of the threat they pose, your obligation is not only to yourself, but to those other innocents as well. If Muggles like Mr and Mrs Granger were about to be attacked by Death Eaters, and the only way to save them was to kill their attackers, would you allow the Grangers to be tortured to death? Or would you kill the Death Eaters?”

“I’d kill the Death Eaters!” Harry answered immediately. He paused, his expression growing grim beyond his years. “I guess I always knew I’d have to. It just – I don’t want to become someone I don’t like.”

Snape’s lips twitched. “That is what your friends and I are there to prevent.”

“Well, okay then.”

A week later, and the Trio had made some progress. Hermione had learned enough about the various possible creatures to develop, with Ron’s help, plans by which they could be vanquished. “Harry, I really think we should go to a teacher with this,” Hermione finally said. “I mean, don’t you think Professor Snape will be annoyed that you haven’t told him any of this?”

“Yeah, mate. Does he even know you speak parseltongue?” Ron asked.

Harry squirmed. He felt guilty at not telling Snape, but he still had some concerns that he and his friends were wrong, and the voice was just in his head. He didn’t want to go to the professor with an elaborate story about chimeras and basilisks only to find that it was all part of his delusion. No, he’d wait until he had proof that there was some magical creature running around the castle before telling anyone. “He’s been really busy looking for that diary, guys,” he explained lamely. “I don’t want to bother him with this until we’re sure of our facts.”

The dubious looks he got made it clear that his friends weren’t fooled by his excuse, but he knew they’d keep his secret. A little longer, at least. “Hey, is Ginny any better?”

Ron’s face turned grim. “No. Professor McGonagall had Madame Pomfrey check her out. I don’t know a lot of what they found, but I overheard McGonagall talking to Percy –“

“Was that when you were accidentally leaning against McGonagall’s door?” Harry asked, grinning.

“Ha, ha. It’s not like anyone tells us anything,” Ron returned. “Anyway, she said something about how Ginny’s magical core is being drained, but they can’t figure out why. If they can’t stop it soon, they’re going to have to send her to St Mungo’s. Pomfrey’s keeping her in the Infirmary until they decide what to do.”

“This is so odd,” Hermione sighed. “Things like this don’t happen at Muggle boarding schools! What is going on this year? I mean, first Professor Snape decides he likes Harry – and Harry decides he likes Professor Snape – and then Malfoy starts acting like a human, mostly, and then some weird half-mythical creature starts haunting the place, and then Ginny gets sick and a Dark artifact goes missing and…” She sighed. “And this is only our second year!”

“You know,” Harry said thoughtfully, “you were talking about haunting. What if the voice is a ghost? Or what if Ginny’s being drained by a ghost?”

“There are plenty of ghosts around this place, mate,” Ron pointed out. “No one’s been bugging you or draining students before now.”

“I guess,” Harry sounded unconvinced. “I just wish I knew what the ghosts know. They’ve been here so long, after all. Like Hermione says, it’s only our second year. I wonder if any of this stuff did happen before. I bet the ghosts could tell us if it has.”

Ron shrugged. “Okay, so which one do we ask?”

“Ron, I didn’t want to say anything before, just in case this was the sort of thing Ginny normally does, but I’ve seen her sneaking into Moaning Myrtle’s lavatory several times,” Hermione revealed, looking pink.

The redhead looked insulted. “My sister doesn’t normally hang around in toilets!”

“Don’t get offended! I didn’t know if that was the only place in the Burrow where she could go to have some privacy.”

“Nah, Gin’s got her own room for all that girl stuff. She’s never spent any extra time in a lav before – I mean,” he blushed, “unless it was, er, necessary.”

“Then I say the first ghost we talk to is Myrtle,” Hermione said.

And so on Saturday afternoon, the three of them ventured into Myrtles’ lair. “Remember, be nice!” Hermione instructed. “Don’t go upsetting her!”

“Eeeeeew! Boys! Boys in the girls’ lavatory!” Myrtle floated over, pointing accusingly at Ron and Harry.

“Er, they’re with me, Myrtle,” Hermione offered. “They’ve been saying how much they’d like to talk with you.”

“Really?” Myrtle asked suspiciously. “Why?”

“Er, well, because you’ve been here a while and you must have seen some interesting stuff,” Harry began.

“Bad boy!” Myrtle scolded. “You’re a bad boy for wanting to know what goes on in a girls’ toilet! You have a nasty, dirty mind!”

Harry turned fiery red and started to stammer out a denial, but Myrtle turned her back on him.

“Er, Myrtle, I was talking to some of the girls, and we were thinking of having a makeover party here. Would you like that? We could all do each other’s hair and try different makeup styles.” Hermione offered temptingly.

Myrtle looked sulky. “You can’t do my makeup or hair. It’s not very nice to have a party where not everyone can participate.”

“I don’t see why you’d want to change the way you look, Myrtle,” Ron surged into the fray. “I think you’re awfully pretty just the way you are.”

To everyone’s surprise, Myrtle simpered. “Really? You’re a nice boy. What’s your name?”

“Er, Ron. Nice to meet you.”

“Hi, Ron. I always liked redheads,” Myrtle giggled. Hermione and Harry exchanged astonished looks behind the ghost’s semi-transparent back, while Ron smirked and tried to hide his blush.

“Well, uh, I always liked girls that – that look like you,” he said, manfully struggling to keep the conversation going. “Uh, I bet you had lots of boyfriends, um, before.”

“Oh, you!” she swatted at him with a ghostly hand. “You just say that to all the girls!”

“No, no!” Ron said with absolute sincerity. “Honest!”

“I like you,” Myrtle confided. “You’re not like the others who come in here. They just make fun of me or ignore me.”

“I can’t believe anyone would ignore you, Myrtle,” Ron protested.

“She did! That little redheaded girl always ignores me!” Myrtle insisted. “The last time, she walked right through me to get to that last stall! I think that’s just the rudest thing, don’t you?”

While Ron soothed and schmoozed Ginny, Hermione and Harry made a beeline for the indicated stall. Sure enough, a few moments’ searching revealed a leatherbound journal hidden behind the toilet. “Harry,” Hermione said flatly, “now we need to tell Professor Snape. No more delays. Not when it might help Ginny.”

Harry nodded. “You’re right, ‘Mione. Let’s go get him.”

Leaving the book where it was, they hurried out, finding Ron and Myrtle in companionable conversation. “Hey guys, look what Myrtle was showing me. She says hers is the only toilet in all of Hogwarts that has its own special decorations.” He pointed to some small carved snakes on the wall.

“Wow!” Harry said. “Those things almost look real.”

“We are as real as we need to be, foolish human!” Harry reared back. “You can talk?”

The snakes reared back, the stone carving following their movement. “You can talk?”

Harry turned to his friends. “Guys, look!”

“Does the little master wish to go below?” one of the snakes hissed.

“Below where?” “Why, into the Chamber of Secrets, of course. But beware, the Creature has Awakened and it hungers.”

Harry turned back to the others. “They’re talking about some Chamber with a Creature in it. I think there must be some kind of entrance here. Go get Snape. I’ll try to learn more about what’s going on while you bring him here.”

Ron and Hermione turned to go, then Ron turned back. “Harry – you won’t do anything on your own?”

Harry shook his head firmly. “No way. Snape would kill me.”

“And we would too!” Hermione agreed. She gave Harry a quick hug. “We’ll be right back, and we’ll bring help!”

 

##

Ron ran down to the dungeons. “Please be there, please be there, please be there,” he thought frantically as he pounded on the door to Snape’s quarters.

“Mr Weasley, you had better have an excellent reason for behaving in so boorish a manner –“ Snape snapped, yanking the door open.

“Harry – Chamber – Creature!” Ron panted, out of breath from his race down the staircases.

Snape’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Harry’s a parselmouth,” Ron gasped. “He’s been hearing voices. We think it’s a snake or basilisk or maybe a chimera somewhere in the castle. We – pant, pant – went to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom and found Ginny’s diary there, but then Harry started talking to some snakes and they told him about the chamber and they said there’s a creature –“

Snape’s lips had tightened into a thin line as Ron’s explanation progressed. “You foolish children!” he snarled, dragging Ron into his rooms. “Don’t you know how Myrtle died? She was killed by the stare of a basilisk!”

“Wow.” Ron was genuinely amazed. “We got it right. I guess research does work.”

Snape didn’t waste time smacking him, he was too busy running to the floo. “Albus! Minerva!”

As soon as the witch and wizard answered his urgent summons, he quickly summarized, “Potter is in Myrtle’s lavatory. He is a parselmouth and can apparently open the Chamber. He’s also found the Riddle diary. Get the other teachers and meet me there! Albus, if you have a pair of protective glasses from the last episode with the basilisk, bring them!” Not waiting for a reply, Snape dashed from the room. Ron started after him but then had a better idea and ran back to the fireplace.

Hermione, meanwhile, was equally busy. After Harry’s conversation with Snape, she had practiced and practiced and was now able to Imperius a chicken with ease. She raced to the Owlrey. “Hedwig! You have to come with me!” she said, grabbing the startled snowy owl. “Harry’s in trouble!”

Hedwig hooted and immediately latched onto Hermione’s shoulder as the girl raced down the steps, heading for Hagrid’s chicken coop. A few minutes later, she had two roosters and one half-giant hurrying behind her as she made her way back to the castle. “Oh! I almost forgot!”

“Hermione!” Hagrid bellowed. “That be the wrong way!”

“I need one more!” she yelled back, not slowing down.

Harry, meanwhile, had given up talking to Myrtle. The ghost, having decided he was a nasty boy, was giving him the cold shoulder. After much internal debate, Harry decided to retrieve the diary from the stall. After all, Snape was on his way, so it wasn’t as if he weren’t going to hand it over immediately. But ever since he’d seen the book, he’d felt a weird desire to touch it. Just to feel it in his hands. To see if he could sense the Dark magic Draco claimed it contained.

I won’t open it, he told himself. I’ll just pick it up and put it in my pocket. Carefully, using his robe to shield his bare hands, he pulled the diary out and slipped it into his pocket. It felt weird. Not cold exactly, but not like a regular book either. Or maybe that was just his imagination giving him the creeps.

Harry wandered back to the carved snakes. “Hi – um, can you please tell me about the creature?”

“Little speaker, beware. The Creature is hungry. It hurts. It aches. It needs to feed.”

Harry felt a twinge of pity. Thanks to the Dursleys, he knew what it was like to be hungry. “Where is it?” ”Down below.” “How would I get there?” “Just tell the way to open before you.”

“What do you mean? Just say ‘ Open, please’?”

And it did.

Whatever Harry had been expecting, it wasn’t the abrupt opening of the floor beneath him. He suddenly stood at the edge of a yawning pit, and frightened, he jerked backwards towards safer footing.

It was the leaky toilets which proved his undoing. He skidded on the wet, slick surface, and with a startled cry, tumbled forward into the abyss.

Harry found himself in a dark and cold stone tunnel and immediately drew his wand. Casting a Lumos, he hesitantly walked forward. The portal behind him had closed and it looked both steep and unpromising. He hoped he might find either another way out or a more defensible position further ahead. Snape’s DADA lessons at the forefront of his mind, he moved cautiously, wrinkling his nose at the crunch of bones underfoot.

“Hmmm, what have we here? You’re quite the runt, aren’t you?”

Harry jerked backwards, wand coming up protectively. “Who are you?” he demanded, looking at the boy in the Hogwarts uniform.

“Tom Riddle. That’s my diary you have there. Give it back to me, boy.”

Harry automatically bristled at the term. Uncle Vernon had always called him boy and he hated it. “What are you doing here? Are you a ghost like Myrtle?”

“No, you little fool. Haven’t you figured out exactly who I am?” At Harry’s confused look, Riddle waved his own wand and his full name appeared above his head. Then the letters reshuffled themselves and…

“You’re Lord Voldemort?” Harry gasped in shock. He looked at the other boy and wondered how he could have changed from an attractive young man to the horror he’d seen in the back of Quirrell’s skull.

Riddle sneered. “Obviously letting in all the mudbloods has caused Hogwarts’ standards to drop. I assure you students weren’t so slow in my day.”

“Oh yeah?” Harry snapped back. “Well, Tom, you’re in for a shock when you see what your future holds. Get ready to be real ugly.”

Riddle laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. “Get ready to be real dead, boy. Who do you think you are?”

“I think I’m Harry Potter,” Harry retorted. “I’ve already beaten you twice, Tom, so don’t expect me to get all worked up about doing it a third time.”

“Temper, temper,” chided the other. “Why so grumpy with me? You’d think I had injured you personally or something.”

“You killed my parents, you twisted freak,” Harry spat.

Riddle waved a hand. “So I killed your parents. I’ve killed a lot of people. Besides, what good are parents anyway? Take it from me, I did you a favor. Parents are useless. Always telling you what to do and belting you and stopping you from doing fun things.”

The argument might – just might – have worked on a more naïve pre-teen with nice, normal, protective parents. Someone who had not yet learned to appreciate their parents but who had merely begun, as adolescents do, to chafe under their increasingly burdensome rules. But for someone like Harry, an orphan who had always dreamed of having a family of his own, the words were a red flag to a bull.  Harry erupted in fury.

“YOU BASTARD! I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!”

“Not if I have it kill you first,” Riddle smirked, gesturing at something past Harry.

“Food? Food!” The voice was directly behind Harry and he froze. He remembered what Hermione had said about basilisks – or was it chimeras? – and knew he couldn’t risk looking around.

“Er, hello there?” he said nervously.

“It speaks! It is a speaker!”

“Yes, hi – I’m Harry. Nice to meet you. Erm, who are you?”

“Kill him!” Riddle interrupted. “This isn’t a tea party. Don’t introduce yourselves. Eat him!”

“Why are you listening to him?” Harry quickly asked, his eyes tightly shut and every muscle in his body trembling. “You don’t have to do what he says, you know.”

“My master sent him – I must obey,” the whispery voice said.

“Who is your master?” Harry gulped, feeling his last hope slip away.

“I serve Salazar Slytherin. This is his heir”

“What?” Harry yelped. “Slytherin didn’t send this idiot! If he told you that, he’s lying!”

“WHAT?” Both basilisk and Riddle shouted at him.

”Slytherin died a thousand years ago!” Harry argued. “This imposter never knew him. He may have declared himself Slytherin’s heir, but Slytherin never anointed him!”

“Is this true?” The huge snake’s voice was unmistakably menacing.

“Nonsense. The child lies. Kill him and eat him! Didn’t I promise you food? Here he is.”

“I’m not lying! Ask anyone – Slytherin has been dead for centuries. This freak isn’t even as old as Dumbledore!”

“Who is Dumbledore?”

“He’s the Headmaster. How long have you been down here, anyway?”

"I slept for many many years, then this one roused me some five decades past, telling me he was my master’s heir. Now he has awakened me again.”

“You mean he hasn’t let you outside in all these years? Not once?” Harry asked sympathetically. He knew what it was like to be locked up and starved. “Listen, I’ve been locked up in little places and not given any food too. You don’t deserve to be treated like that. No one does. Why would you listen to anyone who did that?”

“Shut up! I command you to EAT THAT BOY!”

“I don’t want to,” the basilisk retorted, sounding petulant. “He’s right. You have no proof that you are the heir of my master.”

“I am a parselmouth!”

“So’s he. He’s not claiming to be my master’s heir.”

“Listen, if you’re hungry, I can probably find you something to eat,” Harry offered. “Not people, mind, but we can work something out. I have a friend who has plenty of experience with – erm – challenging dietary habits. And he’s a half-giant, so you don’t have to worry about squashing him.”

“Hagrid? Are you talking about that idiot? I should have had him killed, not expelled!” Riddle screamed in fury. “I ORDER YOU TO STOP TALKING AND EAT HIM!”

“Oh, shut up!” Harry snapped.  “I don’t suppose you can eat him?”

“Alas, he is not really there. He is a magical apparition, tied to some object.”

Harry dug in his pocket. “You mean like this book?” he asked. “Can you eat it?”

“No! Stop!” Riddle turned pale. “Boy – Harry. You don’t want to do this. You don’t want to become a murderer.”

Harry’s eyes remained tightly shut, but his features could have been carved out of stone. “You killed my parents. You killed lots of other people. And you’re still telling your Death Eaters to kill more. You better believe I’ll kill you if I can. That’s not murder, it’s self defense. And this isn’t even that – I’m just recycling an old book.”

He tossed the diary towards the basilisk who snatched it out of the air and chewed meditatively, ignoring the shrieks from the disintegrating figure now clawing futilely at Harry. “A poor appetizer,” it commented. “You mentioned something about food?”

“Well, if you absolutely positively must have people, I can try to find you some Death Eaters, but it would be awfully convenient if you’d settle for some meat and veg. For example, how do you feel about sheep?”

“I have no strict requirement for human flesh. Basilisks are omnivores, you know. Sheep and cows are acceptable. I like fruit, but cabbage gives me wind. Broccoli is all right though. No chicken.”

"If it’s all right with you, I’ll go upstairs and find my friends. They’ll know where to get the food for you. Do you want to leave the Chamber? Take a walk or something?”

The basilisk thought for a moment. “That would be nice. It’s been a millennium since I’ve seen the sun, you know.”

“Okay, but it may take a few minutes. We don’t want you to petrify anyone.”

The basilisk sniffed. “It’s always one complication or another, isn’t it? Very well, but be quick about it, Master.”

“Master? Um, I’m not your – “

“If Slytherin is dead, then I have no master, and you have been the only Speaker in a millennium who has shown any concern for my wishes. You will do. Unless you do not wish to be my master?”  There was a pregnant pause.

“Er, no, no! I’d be honored!” Harry said hastily.

“Good choice,” said the basilisk meaningfully. “Now go get my food, Master.”

“Right, right.”

Harry hurried back down the tunnel and – now that he was no longer petrified of being eaten by a monster – was able to see what he had missed before. A narrow, winding staircase made its way up from the stony depths of the Chamber. He climbed as quickly as he could, then requested the stone serpents to open the portal. He tumbled out to find a riot occurring in Myrtle’s lavatory.

“Harry!” Loud voices hailed him from all sides, and he confusedly made out the voices of Dumbledore, McGonagall, Hagrid, Ron, and Hermione before he was roughly grabbed and enfolded in the tightest embrace he could ever remember.

“Harry, Harry,” a low voice whispered brokenly over and over into his hair.

Shocked, he twisted his head up to find himself staring at Professor Snape. Almost as soon as Harry realized who was hugging him, Snape realized what he was doing and shoved Harry out to arms’ length. “Are you all right?” he demanded furiously.

Harry nodded, speechless.

“DON’T YOU EVER DO THAT TO ME AGAIN!” He felt himself spun around and a hard whack landed on his backside.

“Ow!” he yelped, regaining his voice.

“Master? Are you in jeopardy?” the basilisk’s voice drifted up through the open portal.

“Uh, no. No, thanks for asking. Just, um, explaining what’s been going on. My – um – father wasn’t very happy with my going down there alone.”

The basilisk laughed. “I will not help you with that kind of peril, Master! You see why being hatched from an egg is superior to what you warmbloods do!”

Harry rubbed his butt. “Yes, I see your point. Hold on just a few more minutes.” He turned back to the others, now staring at him wide eyed. “So, um, that’s sort of my basilisk.”

The others just blinked at him. He stared back, chewing his lip and wondering where to begin. Hermione had Hedwig on one shoulder and Fawkes on the other, while Hagrid was holding onto two chickens and Ron had a third cradled in his arms. Dumbledore was wearing what appeared to be a peculiar pair of sunglasses, and McGonagall actually had tears streaming down her face. Snape wore his usual poker face, and if it hadn’t been for his smarting rear, Harry would have sworn he had imagined the panicked whispers and hug.

“Um, Hermione – what’s with all the birds?”

“Oh! Well, the book said that the rooster crow would kill the basilisk, but I thought I’d bring Hedwig and Fawkes along too in case the book was wrong and it was some other kind of bird song. I told Hagrid to bring his roosters, and I’ve got the Imperius down cold, so if you need them to crow –“

“No!” Harry exclaimed. “No – the basilisk sort of belongs to me now, and I promised we’d feed it and give it a walk and stuff. It’s been locked up there now for over a thousand years. No wonder it got a little hungry and cranky. Oh, and Voldemort was down there too – only this time he looked like he was a student here. It was really weird to see him with a prefect’s badge,” Harry commented absently. “But my basilisk ate the diary that was creating his magical illusion, so I think he’s pretty much gone now. Will that make Ginny better, Professor McGonagall?”

She sniffed and nodded. “Yes, Mr Potter. Good work. Ten points to G-G-Gryffindor.” She raised her handkerchief to her eyes again.

“Um, thanks. Er, Ron – what’s up with your chicken?”

Ron shrugged. The bird in his hand looked distinctly different from the ones Hagrid was holding. “I wasn’t sure if Hermione would be able to find any, so I floo’d home and grabbed one from the Burrow. Mum nearly had a stroke when I popped through, but I yelled you were fighting a basilisk and needed a chicken and that stopped her.” Ron paused, looking thoughtful. “On second thought, she might drop by to check on us.”

“Oh. Well, it’ll be nice to see her,” Harry said politely. “Hagrid, do you think you’d be willing to look after a basilisk? It’s very nice, actually, and I think once it gets fed it will be a lot less likely to talk about blood and killing.”

“Hmmm.” Hagrid scratched his head. “’M not sure I rightly know what basilisks eat.”

“It says they’re omnivores and likes sheep and cows and broccoli and fruit – but cabbage gives it, er, gas, so that probably wouldn’t be a good idea. No chicken, obviously.”

“Hmmm. Some of our neighbors got some flocks o’ sheep,” Hagrid mused. “How big is this beastie, Harry?”

“I’m not exactly sure, Hagrid. I kinda kept my eyes closed – you know, the whole thing about its stare?”

“Perhaps we can remedy that,” Dumbledore said, speaking for the first time. “Minerva, if you were to transfigure a pair of spectacles for the creature, I could perform a reversal of this spell…”

“And then, so long as the basilisk’s eyes were shielded, it would pose no threat! What a good idea, Professor!” Hermione finished brightly.

“Thank you, Miss Granger,” Albus twinkled at her. “Minerva, would you do the honors? Harry, perhaps you will put on my pair of protective spectacles and then ensure that your basilisk understands what is needed?”

“Yes, sir. Er, are you still there?” he called.

“Yes. Still here, Master. And still hungry,” came the rather pointed reply.

“I’m working on that. Um, would you be willing to wear something over your eyes so you don’t kill all my friends?”

“If you so order it, Master,” the creature sighed. “You know I will only kill upon your orders, though?”

“That’s good to know, but I think it would just make everyone feel a little safer.”

“As you wish. And the food?”

“Yes, I know. Um, do you have a name?”

“Would you like to give me one?”

Harry paused, realizing he wasn’t even sure of the basilisk’s gender. “Er, maybe it would be better if you chose it yourself.”

“Hmmmm. I have always liked the name Morgana.”

“That’s very nice. Just be patient a little longer, please, Morgana.” Harry turned to the others. “Okay, her name is Morgana –“

“Morgana the basilisk?” Ron choked.

“You want to argue with her?” Harry retorted. Ron shook his head vigorously.

“Anyway, she says she’ll only petrify people if I tell her to, but she’s willing to wear the glasses or goggles or whatever.”

“Fine, fine, my boy. I will give you this pair, and then you will go down and -”

“No.”

Everyone turned to Snape.

“Excuse me, my dear –“

“No. Harry is not going down there alone again. Conjure up some more spectacles, Albus.”

Harry started to say he didn’t mind, but one look from Snape silenced him.

Dumbledore looked nonplused. “It is not an easy spell, Severus, and –“

“Call Filius to help with the Charm, but Harry is not going down there alone.”

Dumbledore sighed and capitulated. In the end, Snape, Harry, Minerva, Hagrid, and Albus went down together, all wearing the protective spectacles.

When Harry caught his first sight of Morgana, he gulped and grabbed Professor Snape’s hand. Snape squeezed back hard.

Morgana was bigger than the Knight Bus. She was enormous. She was also very pretty, though it was hard to appreciate the irridiscent luster of her scales in the dim Chamber. Hagrid started oohing and aahing and making incoherent noises of admiration, which had Morgana slithering about him in a very affectionate manner.

“I like this one, Master. He is most appreciative of my beauty.”

“That’s Hagrid, Morgana. He’ll be in charge of feeding you.”

“I like him even more, Master. Hello, little human,” she rested her chin on Hagrid’s head and the half-giant managed – barely – not to collapse.

“She likes me!” he exclaimed happily “Look! She likes me!”

With McGonagall and Albus working together to size and charm the spectacles, soon Morgana was sporting an odd but efficient pair that completely covered her eyes.

“You look really nice, Morgana. It’s like an, um, fashion accessory,” Harry said politely.

“Thank you, Master. Now, where is my food?”

Getting Morgana out of the Chamber was a bit tricky. Filius had been dispatched to move all chickens from the area so there was no threat to the basilisk, but squeezing Morgana through the opening took both time and tact. Ron and Hermione, watching the giant serpent emerge, clutched hands and backed up into the farthest stall.

It was decided that McGonagall would go ahead to negotiate the purchase of several flocks of sheep and truckloads of vegetables from nearby farms. Meanwhile, in order to forestall any panic by students or staff, the Headmaster would accompany Hagrid and Morgana out of the castle. The house elves had already been asked to deposit all available fruits and vegetables from the kitchen – with the exception of cabbage – on the Quidditch pitch, as that seemed the most reasonable dining area for the basilisk. “I’ll also ask the castle to make Morgana a suitably sized entrance so that she may reenter the Chamber without so much inconvenience,” Dumbledore said. “It will be nice to have another means of protecting the school in these perilous times,” he added with a fond smile at Harry. “When I return, you will have to tell us the whole story.”

“Yes, Professor.” Harry smiled back. He had done it! He had saved Ginny and defeated Voldemort and he had even managed to befriend a giant snake! …So why wasn’t he feeling more excited?

He felt a hand drop on his shoulder and glimpsed a black sleeve. Oh. Right.

“I will see you in my chambers now, Mr Potter,” Snape said forbiddingly.

“Um, maybe I should go with Morgana?” he ventured.

“Now.”

Harry’s shoulders slumped. “Yessir.” He managed a weak grin at Ron and Hermione’s worried expressions.

“You two – await the Headmaster’s return at his office,” Snape instructed. “After you have made certain that the various fowl have been returned to their respective homes.”

“Yes, sir,” they chorused, watching as Harry and Snape headed downstairs.

The instant the door closed behind them, Harry burst into speech. “I swear I didn’t mean to go into the Chamber. I just accidentally opened it and then I fell in. You can ask Myrtle. I swear it was an accident. I wasn’t trying to go in alone. I promised Hermione and Ron I wouldn’t. It just happened. I didn’t mean –“

“All right. I believe you.”

“You do?” Harry asked, amazed. He had assumed he’d have to beg for Veritaserum before Snape would accept his word about something like this.

“Yes.” Snape didn’t tell him that during those long, long minutes after he had reached the bathroom and realized Harry was in the Chamber alone and there was no way for anyone else to open the portal, he had reduced not only Ron and Hermione, but Myrtle as well, to terrified tears by demanding to know exactly what had happened up to that point.

“Oh,” Harry breathed a little easier. “Okay. Well. Good. So, um, why do you still look mad?”

Snape removed his robe and rolled up his sleeves. Harry gulped and retreated a pace. “When did you first realize something was wrong?” Snape asked silkily.

Harry swallowed hard. “A couple of weeks ago.”

“And when did you share your parselmouth talent with your friends?”

“Around the same time.”

“And when did you plan to tell me about it?”

“Earlier today,” Harry squeaked.

“THAT is why you are being punished,” Snape said furiously, grabbing Harry by the ear and dragging him over to the nearest chair.

“Ouch!” Harry protested. “But – but – I would have told you eventually!”

“I have made it clear that you are not to keep relevant information to yourself, particularly when it pertains to your safety!” Snape retorted, pulling the boy across his knee. “Was I not very clear on this point?”

“Yes,” Harry admitted miserably.

“Indeed,” Snape replied and brought his hand down hard enough to make Harry howl.

Harry yelled blue murder as Snape proceeded to administer the hardest walloping Harry had yet received. The first half-dozen swats set up a fiery inferno over his entire bum, then the last few targeted the particularly sensitive area on which Harry normally sat.

In one small part of his brain, the only part that wasn’t fully occupied with the blazing sting in his backside, Harry appreciated the irony that Snape was saying, through gritted teeth, “I am NOT the enemy, you arrogant, foolish, shortsighted child! I am here to HELP you!” while he whacked the daylights out of Harry’s bum. Still, despite his loud protests, Harry knew Snape had a point. He had put himself and his friends at risk by not involving Snape until the last minute, and what was more, he had probably hurt the man’s feelings as well. Snape was doing so much to help Harry, and yet when a problem presented itself, Harry insisted on tackling it alone, ignoring all the effort Snape had put into building their relationship and helping Harry learn to trust him.

When Snape finally set him back on his feet, Harry was bawling, almost as much out of the guilt he felt as from the incandescent glow in his behind. He hadn’t known his bum could hurt so much. It felt like he was sitting on a hot stove while at the same time a swarm of fire hornets repeatedly stung him.

Snape marched him over to the nearest corner and stood him there. “Think about what could have happened because you were too idiotic to come to me,” he ordered, giving Harry’s behind one last smack and prompting a fresh flood of tears with his harsh tone.

Harry hated the corner. There was nothing to distract him from just how awful his bottom felt, and he shifted his weight from foot to foot in an awkward dance to ease some of the sting. He knew that the worst of it would soon fade, leaving only the heat and throbbing ache, but this time it was lingering much longer than usual. Snape must have been really mad.

Harry sniffled. He was such an idiot. He should have trusted Snape. He should have told him and gotten his help right from the start. What if he hadn’t been able to make Morgana like him? What would have happened to Ginny? What if Ron and Hermione had been with him when he fell into the Chamber? He wiped at the tears still coursing down his face. He could have gotten all of them killed.

His behind still stung and throbbed, but he was finally able to rest his hands on his sore cheeks. Rubbing still hurt too much. Harry’s breath hitched in a hiccup as he wondered what he could do to make things right with Snape. How could he prove to the man that he did trust him, when his actions argued otherwise?

“Here, you horrible brat.” A handkerchief appeared over his shoulder, and with a hiccupped “Th’k’y” Harry mopped up most of the tears and blew his nose.

“Are you composed enough to talk to me?” Snape asked, his voice still stern.

Harry nodded, too ashamed to look at the man. Snape took him by the back of the neck and marched him, limping and wincing, back to the chair. He sat down and – putting Harry between his knees – forced the boy’s chin up. “Now then, I believe I deserve an explanation.”

Harry sniffled again. He wished he could sit on Snape’s lap as he explained, babyish though that was, but even if Snape had been willing, he knew his battered backside wouldn’t be up to sitting anytime soon. He took a deep breath and forced himself to speak. “ ‘M sorry. I should’ve told you earlier. I was just…” He blinked back tears. “… scared that you’d think I was crazy and wouldn’t like me any more. That’s all. I do trust you. Honest,” he whimpered.

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, Harry,” he said, sounding more sad than angry. “You don’t. If you trusted me, you wouldn’t be so worried about my continuing regard for you.”

“No, no,” Harry tried tearfully to explain. “It’s not you. It’s me. I trust you. It’s me I don’t trust. I’m gonna do something to mess it up. Cuz I’m really just a worthless freak or crazy or something.”

“Those -----ing Muggles,” Snape snarled, and Harry’s eyes widened despite his tears. Snape had just sworn. And not just a nice normal curse. He had used a really bad one.

“Do not let me hear you use that term until you are my age,” Snape said quickly, and Harry almost smiled.

“All right, Mr Potter,” Snape said, fixing Harry with a gimlet eye. “You listen to me and mark me well. I will not permit anyone – including you –“ he said, tapping Harry on the nose “- to call my ward a worthless freak. It is insulting to both of us, it is unkind, and what is more, it is inaccurate. If you use that term again, you will be punished most severely.”

Harry gulped. With his rear this sore, even the thought of another spanking was enough to make him turn green with apprehension.

“Harry, would Draco be so jealous of you if you were truly a worthless freak?” Snape waited patiently until Harry reluctantly shook his head. “Would Granger and Weasley be so quick to follow your lead, risking their own lives in the process, if you were a worthless freak?” Harry shook his head again. “Would the Headmaster and Professor McGonagall care so much about you if you were a worthless freak?” Head shake. “Did you see Professor McGonagall earlier ? Do you think she cries like that over all her students?” Harry gave a tiny smile and shook his head. “Do you think I would care about you if you were truly a worthless freak?” This time the head shake was more tentative, and Snape scowled. “What about the Death Eaters, Harry? If you were a worthless freak, why would they care so much about the need for your capture or death? Why would the Dark Lord be so fixated on you if you were merely a worthless freak? Well? Can you come up with a reason?”

Harry took a deep shuddering breath. For the first time, he really started to believe what Snape was saying. “No,” he admitted. “I can’t.”

“I would think not,” Snape said with finality.

There was a moment of silence.

“I was really scared in the Chamber,” Harry said very quietly, staring at the floor.

“I was really scared while you were in the Chamber,” Snape admitted, equally quietly. “I wish I had been there with you.”

“I don’t!” Harry said, shocked. “I might have gotten you killed too!”

Snape stared at him. Too? What did the boy mean? “What are you talking about? You haven’t ever ‘gotten anyone killed’.”

Harry dropped his gaze and nodded once. “Did so.”

“Who?”

“M’ parents,” Harry’s voice was almost inaudible, but Snape reeled back as if slapped. What! What absurd notions were torturing the boy? But then again, what did Harry actually know of that night? Hadn’t someone said that the boy only learned about his parents’ deaths by reading a history text? Those ----ing Muggles. Snape was definitely going to leak their address to Lucius.

“What exactly do you mean by that?”

Harry sighed and looked at Snape with ineffable sadness in his eyes. “It was all my fault that they died. If Voldemort had just waited until we were all asleep, he could have come in and tried to kill me in my crib. Or spotted me through a window or something. Then the spell would’ve rebounded and he’d be gone and my parents would be alive. They only died because they were trying to protect me. That’s why I’m a worthless freak. Because my parents died for nothing. Trying to save nothing.”

Snape felt cold. Ice was running through his veins and his heart was cracking with the pain of it. He sat very, very still for a long moment then: “Accio healing potion.”

Harry looked at him, puzzled. He had thought he might get whacked again for calling himself a worthless freak, but he needed to make Snape understand that it wasn’t his fault that Harry was too stupid to tell him stuff. And right now, he just felt too sad and exhausted to really care all that much. Though that would probably change once Snape started walloping him again.

“Take this,” Snape said, holding out the potion.

Harry pulled back a little. “But I’m not hurt. Morgana didn’t hurt me and neither did Volde- “

“Not for the Chamber. For what I did to you.”

Harry stared at him in shock. “But that was just a spanking! I mean, it still stings and all, but you weren’t, y’know, abusive or anything.”

Snape’s lips twitched. “I know. But I don’t want you distracted from what I am about to tell you by anything, even the after-effects of a well-deserved punishment.”

Harry started to take the potion, then paused, looking at Snape warily. “Are you going to heal me and then whack me again later?”

Snape scowled. “When have I ever punished you twice for the same thing? Take the potion, brat!”

Harry hastily obeyed.

The smarting in his bum abruptly vanished, and he relaxed with a sigh of relief. He hadn’t realized how much it still hurt until it no longer did.

“It’s not as if you didn’t feel the sting of the spanking,” Snape pointed out, as much to himself as Harry. “It just didn’t last as long as it might have.  I trust you have nevertheless learned your lesson?”

Harry nodded quickly. “Yes, sir! No need for it to last any longer, sir!”

“All right. Then come here.” To Harry’s secret delight, Snape moved to the sofa and pulled Harry onto his lap. He paused, gathering his thoughts, then turned to face Harry. “I want you to listen to me very closely.” Harry nodded, his face equally serious.

“As I told you before, when I was a child, I lived near your mother’s family.” Harry nodded. “I knew both your mother, Lily, and your Aunt Petunia, from the time Lily and I were about eight. I tell you this so that you know I speak the truth. I’m not telling you what someone told me. I’m telling you what I saw and know.” He waited for Harry’s nod of confirmation before continuing.

“Harry, when Lily’s magic revealed itself, Petunia was wildly jealous.” He caught the boy as Harry nearly toppled off his lap in astonishment. “She wanted to be able to do magic herself, and she tried and she tried to prove she was a witch like Lily. When it became clear that she was a Muggle, all that envy turned to anger and hatred. She decided if she couldn’t be magic, then there must be something wrong with it. She deliberately married a man whose prejudices matched her own, who refused to see beyond the end of his nose and who hated and feared anything he didn’t understand and couldn’t control.

“The Dursleys were jealous and frightened of you, Harry. You had the magic that Petunia had always wanted. You would one day join the Wizarding society that was closed to Petunia. You were, even as a child, more powerful than your uncle, and he knew that. That’s why they tried so hard to control you, with words, with beatings, with anything they could. They accuse you of being the thing they know you’re not, Harry, because it’s how they feel around you.

“They are certain that they are the worthless freaks and so they turn it around and try to make you believe that it’s true of you instead. They want you to believe it not because it is true, but because it is false. It is the lie that they want you to accept, as that would suit their wishes and their petty jealousy.”

Harry stared at Snape, trying to process what he had said. Aunt Petunia was jealous of him? Uncle Vernon was scared of him? Harry’s world had just been turned on its head.

“The next time you catch yourself thinking that you are not good enough or smart enough or brave enough – the next time you begin to feel like you are stupid or worthless or freaky or crazy – I want you to remind yourself of what I’ve said. That those feelings are lies, drummed into you by two weak, frightened, jealous Muggles who desperately want what you have. Do you understand?”

Harry swallowed. “I’ll try,” he promised, his voice still uncertain.

Snape studied him for a moment, then nodded in satisfaction. He would have to say these things again – many, many times –  before Harry would be able to overcome the conditioning of his childhood, but they had made a good start here today.

“Now. On to the other misconception you hold.” Snape took a deep breath. “Harry, no one truly understands how you came to be protected from Voldemort on the night your parents died. But knowing Lily as I do and her brilliant skill at Charms, I suspect she tied her own life force – and probably your father’s as well – into a web of protection for you. Remembering that she and your father were in hiding for some time – they knew the Dark Lord was looking for them – and so they had time to plan for the worst case scenarios. They knew they might die, Harry, and I believe they made plans for that event.  They knew you would not die before them, because they intended to protect you even at the cost of their own lives. It was a choice they made, Harry. It was not an accident or a mistake.

“That web of protection – the power of not one but three wizards – turned back the Unforgivable and vanquished the Dark Lord. It would not have worked without your parents’ deaths, Harry. It only worked because the Dark Lord had already freed their life forces and made them available to protect you – the one person they both prized above Life itself.”

Tears were pouring down Harry’s cheeks, but he hadn’t said a word nor had his gaze faltered from where it remained locked on Snape’s own eyes.

“Harry, if by some quirk of fate, the Dark Lord had managed to get to you first, he would have killed you. And knowing your mother as well as I did, I can tell you with absolute assurance that your death would have killed her. She could not have lived without you. And James would not have survived the loss of his wife and child. So if you had died, Harry, your parents would still have died. Perhaps not at the hand of the Dark Lord, but they would still be just as dead.

“They knew the prophecy, Harry. They knew that you were the Dark Lord’s target. They knew they had a choice. They didn’t have to go into hiding with you. They could have turned you over to the Ministry for protection. They could even have handed you over to the Dark Lord when he arrived at the house in Godric’s Hollow. But they didn’t choose to do any of those things, Harry. They chose to stay with you, to protect you with their own lives, to die rather than allow you to be killed. They made that choice to protect you, not because you are a worthless freak, but because you were their precious, precious child.”

“And that is why you must never again take foolish risks with your life. That is why you must let me help to protect you. I chose to make you a part of my life, Harry, and that means I have made the same choices your parents did. I will protect you, Harry, with my life if necessary. But you must help me to do that. You must realize how much you are loved and treasured, and you must never do anything to risk yourself unnecessarily. If you are worried, if you are frightened, if you are upset – you come to me. Do you understand? So I can continue your parents’ dying efforts and keep you safe.

“That is how you honor them, Harry. That is how you bring meaning to their deaths, and that is how you defeat the Dark Lord. You are your parents’ legacy. Not you, the Boy Who Lived or the symbol of the Light, but you, their beloved baby boy. The child they adored and cherished above everything else. When you doubt your own worth, Harry, you denigrate their sacrifice. You call into question everything they lived and died for. If you wish to believe the Dursleys over me, that’s one thing. But don’t believe the Dursleys over your own parents.” His gaze never wavering, Snape reached out and cupped Harry’s face in his strong, potion-stained hands. “Do you understand what I am saying, child? Do you understand how very precious you are?” 

Harry’s face crumpled. He threw himself forward, collapsing into Snape’s arms and crying harder than he had ever cried before. He mourned his parents, his childhood, and the life he might have had and would never know. He grieved for the life he could have had, had his relatives been able to set aside their hatred and envy. He cried all the tears he had never been able to shed before, because no one had ever cared enough to help him do so. He wept with heartbroken abandon, the sobs coming from deep within his chest, while Snape held him and rocked him as if he were a young child.

Harry didn’t even notice when the floo roared to life and Dumbledore looked out. The Headmaster’s eyebrows rose precipitously as he saw Harry sobbing so brokenheartedly, then fell into a thunderous scowl as he looked at Snape. The Potions Master glared back and made little shooing motions with his hand. Dumbledore looked like he wanted to argue, but finally mouthed, “My office. Soon as you can” and withdrew.

After several more minutes, Harry finally began to get control of himself, and his sobs slowly died away to quiet tears then to hiccups and sniffles. The whole time, he remained clasped securely in Snape’s arms.

After he was certain from Harry’s breathing that the emotional maelstrom had subsided, Snape cautiously Accio’d a handkerchief and offered it to the boy. Harry pushed himself upright and did his best to mop up the worst of the mess. “Thank you,” he said quietly, too emotionally wrung out to feel any embarrassment at having cried himself to exhaustion on his professor’s lap. He felt a warm, safe feeling of peace that he had never known before, as if an enormous burden had been lifted from him.

“You’re welcome,” Snape said, relieved to see the boy was calm. He wished he could deposit Harry on the couch and let him fall into the deep, healing sleep that his body needed after such emotionally and physically grueling experiences, but that would really convince the Headmaster that he had beaten the boy to within an inch of his life. “I’m sure you are tired, but the Headmaster is waiting for us, and I’m certain your friends are convinced you are being tortured with hot coals.”

Harry grinned, even through his fatigue. “My bum pretty much felt like you were for a while there.”

Snape rolled his eyes. Such hyperbole. He had only delivered about ten swats, though he had to admit they’d been good and hard. But ten smacks, however soundly applied, hardly constituted the roasting the brat had claimed – and deserved – to have gotten. Still, the boy had undoubtedly felt it, and Severus’ point had been made. And accepted.

Even without the need to address Harry’s misperceptions, it would have been inefficient to prolong the boy’s discomfort once he had learned his lesson, Snape argued to himself. It wasn’t that he was lenient with Harry; it was merely that he detested unnecessary effort. A lengthy period of soreness for Harry would lead to extra work for Snape in the form of deflecting disapproving glares from the faculty, ignoring reproachful looks from the rest of the Trio, and rebuffing pitiful sighs and demands for extra shortbread from the brat himself. Much better to make the lesson sharp and painful, but short. And if the boy needed a brief embrace afterwards, it wasn’t that he was cuddling the brat, but merely acknowledging the reestablishment of normal relationships. “Go and wash your face,” he ordered sternly, determined not to lose his reputation as a strict disciplinarian.

Harry obediently trotted down the hall, while Severus quickly changed into a fresh shirt – free of all the tears and snot that Harry had sobbed onto his chest – and donned his robes. When Harry reappeared, his fringe dripping but the tear tracks gone, Snape took him by the hand and floo’d to Albus’ office.

No sooner had they arrived than Snape noticed Poppy, off to one side, surreptitiously performing a diagnostic on Harry. He scowled fiercely at the Headmaster. Did the old coot really think he would have injured the child? He pushed Harry over to where the other two Gryffindor students sat waiting on Dumbledore’s couch and stalked over to where the medi-witch was reassuring the Headmaster.

“Albus! How dare you find it necessary to perform an illicit examination on my ward!” he hissed furiously.

“Now, Severus, you must admit that you have a temper,” Albus began uncomfortably, “and Harry has a tendency to provoke you –“

“So after ignoring the abuse he suffered at the hands of those Muggles for a decade, you are now suddenly vigilant?” Snape sneered, pleased to find himself occupying the moral high ground in a dispute with Dumbledore.

“As I said, Harry is fine, Albus,” Poppy said reassuringly. “Not a mark on him, nor any signs of distress.” She winked at Snape, much to his annoyance, and left.

“I apologize, my dear boy,” Dumbledore said humbly. “I hope you can forgive me for my unfounded suspicions.”

Snape sulked a little more, enjoying Dumbledore’s increasingly remorseful expressions of contrition, until Minerva finally got fed up with the Potions Master and elbowed him in the side. “For Merlin’s sake stop pouting, Severus!” the witch snapped. “Albus didn’t make you grovel this much when you left Voldemort!”

“Minerva, I do not pout!” Snape denied hotly, but he grudgingly conceded her point and let Albus off the hook. “I’m glad you are – finally – looking out for the boy,” he sniffed, turning away from the older wizard and missing the impish look Dumbledore gave Minerva.

Meanwhile, Harry had immediately been hit with whispered questions as soon as he sat down with this friends. “Are you okay, Harry?” Hermione asked, worried.

“Need an extra pillow, mate?” Ron’s eyes danced mischievously.

“No, thanks,” Harry replied, grinning.

Ron’s eyes widened. “You didn’t get whacked? Blimey, how’d you escape that? I thought for sure Snape was going to –“

“I didn’t exactly escape,” Harry admitted. “I did get whacked – really hard too! – but then Snape, well, he needed to explain some stuff, so he let me have a healing potion.”

“What? Why?” Ron demanded, incredulous.

“He said he didn’t want anything to distract me from what he was saying,” Harry explained.

“You lucky sod!” Ron breathed, envy writ large on his features. “My mum says that the sting makes me listen, so she gives me a couple of extra whacks before she gets to the lecturing part.”

Harry squirmed a bit. “It wasn’t that kind of talk. I mean, it wasn’t exactly a lecture. He just explained some stuff about… stuff.”

“I think it shows how much Professor Snape cares about you, Harry,” Hermione said primly. “Although I still think that corporal punishment –“

“Yeah, yeah. We know,” Ron interrupted her rudely. “Merlin, Harry, when Snape walloped you in the bathroom, I nearly fell over. He’s totally into the dad thing now.”

Harry colored as he recalled how Snape had smacked his bum in front of everybody when he’d first emerged from the Chamber. Usually Snape was scrupulous about punishing Harry in private, so Harry had taken that as a sign of how furious and fed up Snape was with him. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, right – you’ve never really had a dad that you can remember,” Ron realized. “Well, mate, let me tell you that no one but a parent will go from hugging you to swatting you in under five seconds.”

“He’s right, Harry,” Hermione chimed in. “Professor Snape was just frantic when he got there and realized you must be in the Chamber. The look of relief on his face when the opening appeared and you stepped out was amazing.”

“Yeah, and the happiness when he saw you were okay – immediately followed by absolute fury – that sequence pretty much guarantees you a whack or two. I think it’s like a rule or something.”

“Even my father – “ Hermione started, then blushed as both boys stared at her in shock.

“You said your folks didn’t smack you,” Ron accused.

“They don’t,” she replied. “But the one time – the only time – that I got a smack on the bum was the same sort of thing. We were at a family reunion when I was around six. A younger cousin and I were playing outside while everyone else was indoors, and we went over by the swimming pool and I fell in. I couldn’t really swim and so my cousin ran for help. My dad came running out and jumped in with all his clothes on and rescued me. But as soon as he got me out and made sure I was okay, he hugged me until I couldn’t breathe and then before I knew it, he had started yelling and that’s when he smacked me.” She tried to act nonchalant. “It really hurt, too. He apologized later, but he explained that he had been very upset at the thought that they might have lost me. Professor Snape had that same look on his face, Harry.”

Harry studied his toes and tried not to let the idiotic grin spread all over his face. Smiling because he’d been whacked? How mental was that? He should be annoyed, right?

Above his bent head, Ron and Hermione exchanged a happy glance. Whatever challenges might still lie ahead for Harry, he would no longer have to face them alone, or with just the two of them at his side.

That was quite a relief, to be honest. And now that they had had some time to get used to it, both were happy – for different reasons – that it was Professor Snape who had befriended Harry. Ron was happy because Snape was the meanest, orneriest, most dangerous member of the faculty. No one was going to mess with Harry while he was around, and he’d be able to teach Harry to take on all comers, right up to the Dark Lord himself. He’d even challenge the Headmaster himself, like he was doing right now, though it seemed that that argument was over and – yep, Snape had won. Again. 

Hermione was happy because Professor Snape knew what it was like to be a Death Eater and he would therefore be the best person to teach Harry how to defeat them. He was very stern but when he said something, you could count on it. And he didn’t demand Harry take on unreasonable tasks, the way Professor Dumbledore sometimes seemed to do. It was as if the Headmaster thought that Harry was special and should be allowed to do things no other student was, but most of those things weren’t very good for Harry, whether it was risking a cold and being tired in class after some late night corridor wandering or meeting up with the Dark Lord in yet another secret chamber. Hermione was very glad that Snape actively discouraged Harry – in a very hands-on way – from breaking school rules. He wanted Harry to be safe, and he wasn’t shy about setting limits on Harry’s behavior and then enforcing them. Dumbledore didn’t appear to be very good at that, and Hermione felt strongly that consistency was critical in child-rearing. Her parents always said so.

Both Hermione and Ron were pleased that they no longer had to feel responsible for Harry. A formidable grownup had taken on that role, and they were glad to be relegated back to mere “friend” status. No more having to worry about whether his relatives were feeding him over the holidays or if his nocturnal wanderings were interfering with his studying. All that adult stuff could now be entrusted to Snape. They could go back to focusing on the fun stuff, like figuring out the best way to pass notes in History of Magic or cheering for the Quidditch team.

“So, children,” Dumbledore and the other teachers finally came over and settled themselves in chairs near the students. “I am sure you have a fascinating story to tell us.”

The Trio looked at each other, then both boys turned to Hermione. She looked at the teachers. “Well, it all started when Harry started hearing this voice…” It took a while, and the boys chimed in frequently, but in the end, the entire tale was shared.

“Let me see if I understand. You three uncovered a plot by Lord Voldemort to create chaos here at the school by draining Miss Weasley’s life force in order to animate a shade of his former self and awaken the basilisk. You not only destroyed the Dark artifact that fueled that shade, but you discovered Salazar Slytherin’s Chamber of Secrets and befriended his basilisk familiar before it harmed anyone here at the school. You correctly identified the creature based on very little evidence but a great deal of clever deduction (and the help of Charles Weasley), and you found the entrance to the Chamber. Concurrent with all this, Miss Granger taught herself how to cast an Imperius so as to be able to overcome the basilisk. When you discovered the diary and the Chamber entrance today, Miss Granger collected not only two roosters whose crow could dispatch the basilisk, but for good measure, she also brought along Harry’s owl and my familiar, Fawkes, in case they might prove helpful. While she was doing this, Mr Weasley first summoned Professor Snape, then obtained his own chicken by cleverly using the school’s floo network to dart home to where he knew a supply was readily available. While his friends were thus engaged, Mr Potter unfortunately fell victim to the slippery tiles in the lavatory but ended up destroying Voldemort’s horcrux and making a new, powerful ally. Did I omit anything?”

McGonagall and her students sat there, beaming, and it was too much for Snape. “Allow me to correct your interpretation of events, Headmaster,” he interjected coldly. “Mr Potter, Miss Granger, and Mr Weasley deliberately withheld information critical to school safety and/or their own well being. They engaged in a highly inappropriate investigation and lied to Mr Weasley’s older brother in order to solicit his unwitting assistance in their madcap scheme. Mr Weasley also violated school policy by using my floo without my permission for an unauthorized visit to his home.” Ron squirmed uncomfortably.

“Miss Granger has displayed an alarming talent for the Dark Arts by learning and repeatedly casting a highly illegal Unforgiveable, albeit only at barnyard fowl. She also kidnapped your familiar, Headmaster – I understand that she said something to the effect of “Come with me or I’ll pluck you bald” when Fawkes initially declined to accompany a wild-eyed child who burst into the office. I am sure it is coincidence that your gargoyle is sporting several new and deep chips in its stone body, as would be consistent with someone bullying it into unblocking the staircase in the absence of the password.” Hermione turned bright red and shrank back against the cushions.

“Despite being specifically told not to touch the Dark object, Mr Potter nevertheless stuffed said artifact into his pocket as if it were a stray quill that he had found in the corridors. His premature and potentially catastrophic tumble into the Chamber was due entirely to his impatient questioning of the snakes linked to the portal, when he knew perfectly well that he should wait quietly for a responsible adult to arrive. His ability to befriend the basilisk and destroy the horcrux – I will explain to you children what that is later, Mr Weasley; do not interrupt me again with your piercing whispers to Miss Granger seeking edification – was due more to sheer luck than to skill and planning. Despite all his training over these past few months, Mr Potter still is happy to rush in where angels fear to tread and his friends are only too happy to rush in alongside him.” Now it was Harry’s turn to look abashed, though he was still too happy at his friends’ explanation of Snape’s behavior as well as Snape’s own words to him earlier, to be downcast by the scolding for long.

“I assume you will be deducting an appropriate number of points for such reckless behavior, Headmaster?” Snape said meaningfully.

All three children’s heads jerked up in shock and alarm. Lose points? But they had fought off the Dark Lord and saved Ginny!

Their Head of House sailed to the rescue. “Your wits are wandering, Severus!” McGonagall scolded. “The children did what they had to do in order to rescue Miss Weasley and neutralize the threat of the basilisk. They should be rewarded, not punished, and I assume the House points will reflect that.”

Ron frowned. He wasn’t sure he was comfortable with “the ends justifying the means” argument, and he caught Snape’s eye upon him and knew the Potions Master was thinking the same thing. To his astonishment, Snape’s eyelid flickered in the briefest wink. Ron choked.

“Are you okay?” Hermione asked in concern.

“Minerva, only a muddleheaded Gryffindor could possibly advance such a flawed argument,” Snape retorted. “Their repeated violations of school rules and policies require a stern response.”

“The saving of the school calls for a generous reward!”

“Professors, professors,” Dumbledore said genially. “Please, think of the example you are setting for the young people.” Minerva and Severus broke off their argument with glowers of mutual hostility. “I propose that a general amnesty is declared upon today’s events. Miss Granger’s use of an Unforgiveable is concerning, although I do not believe that Imperiusing poultry is technically illegal. She has displayed unexpected prowess at the Dark Arts, however, and I agree that she will require careful tutelage to ensure her proficiency advances in a safe and legal manner. I must concur with Professor Snape in one thing, though; we cannot ignore the unsupervised study and practice of Unforgiveables.”

Hermione wrung her hands together anxiously. Surely they wouldn’t expel her, would they? “Miss Granger, I’m afraid you will have to be punished.”

She could feel the boys stiffening protectively at her sides. “Yes, Professor,” she said, her voice trembling.

His blue eyes twinkled. “I know how highly you students prize your free time, but I have no choice but to order you to attend special Dark Arts training with Professor Snape. I am quite certain this will also provide you with all the oversight you require to develop your skills to their utmost.” Hermione’s eyes grew huge with delight, and Harry perked up too. Now he’d have someone at his own level to duel with!

Ron grinned. If the two of them were getting extra DADA lessons, he was pretty sure he’d be included eventually, if only because Snape would go spare at the thought of the other two teaching him the stuff on the sly. Snape’s eyes narrowed at this blatant confiscation of his spare time, but he didn’t dare argue lest Albus decide to trust Hermione’s training to Lockhart. On the other hand, that might ensure the idiot’s rapid departure from Hogwarts, if not his demise. Providing poor quality training in the Dark Arts to a student with a high level of innate ability tended to be a self-correcting action. Terminally self-correcting.

“In terms of Mr Weasley’s unauthorized use of the floo,” continued the Headmaster, “since he merely went home – as his mother can attest – I do not believe any disciplinary action is required. I would suggest that you owl your brother with a full explanation and apology, however.” Ron nodded obediently. He knew perfectly well Charlie would be tickled pink at the adventure; he wouldn’t be at all upset at their fib but rather delighted to have participated.

“As for Mr Potter’s imprudent actions, I suspect he has already received appropriate chastisement,” Dumbledore twinkled and Harry blushed, “so we need not assign further punishment. But even you must admit, Severus, that his actions in the Chamber, while happily blessed with a large degree of good luck, also demonstrated initiative, courage, and ingenuity.”

 “I never stated otherwise,” Snape retorted haughtily. Harry beamed. Coming from Snape – well, sort of – that was a real compliment!

“Then having gotten the various punishments out of the way, we can move on to the rewards,” Dumbledore continued happily. “I believe eighty points each for their bravery and cleverness will acknowledge both the Slytherin and Gryffindor qualities that these young people displayed today. And we will have to find a way to award young Mr Malfoy his share as well – though perhaps we should wait a few days rather than risk any connections being drawn. I think twenty points is an appropriate reward for placing the rescue of an innocent above family loyalty, don’t you?”

Snape spun to stare at the children, but their gobsmacked expressions told him that none of them had told Dumbledore. So how had the old man known? The old coot twinkled maddeningly at Snape. “Don’t you agree, my boy?”

“That would be… acceptable,” he agreed grudgingly.

“Then, having recognized and honored the children’s actions, I suggest we all sit back and relax. This has been a very stressful day, after all. Severus – would you not agree that some tea and biscuits are in order?”

Snape glared at him. So the irritating old nitwit knew about that as well? “Oh, very well, Headmaster. I will inform the house elves. Will shortbread, peanut butter, and chocolate chip biscuits for the children be sufficient, or do you and Professor McGonagall insist on having your own favorites as well? Surely you ingest enough sugar through those disgusting lemon drops and do not require anything more.”

“Now, Severus, the house elves know to bring lemon squares for me. Minerva? Still enjoying sugar cookies? Sweets to the sweet, eh, my dear?”

The students stared as McGonagall actually giggled. “Oh, Albus!”

Snape looked as if he were going to be ill. “Good grief.”

Harry grinned. Yep, this was his family all right. Complete with squabbles, grudges, and lots of food. He looked over to where Snape was instructing a house elf and the professor, perhaps feeling Harry’s eye upon him, glanced up. He didn’t actually smile, but the stern expression lightened just a little. Harry sank back against the couch cushions and relaxed in the happy company of his new family. All this and shortbread too!

Harry pushed open the door and entered Snape’s quarters. In the sitting room in front of him, he could see Hermione and Neville working on the latest Transfiguration homework, while Ron and Draco faced each other across a wizards’ chessboard. Noises from beyond the far door indicated that Snape was getting something from his potions supply room. It was such a comfortable, normal scene that it made the Headmaster’s recent words all the more intolerable. Rage battled despair, was fueled by frustration and betrayal, and went looking for a target. Any target.

“Potter!” Draco saw the dark haired boy come through the door and was eager for a witness to his checkmating Ron. “About time you got home – you’re just in time to - oof!”

The word “home”, though for once not meant as a taunt, was all it took. Harry stopped dead, then took one giant step forward, punched Draco square in the nose, spun on his heel, and left. He didn’t even wait to see the effect of the blow, nor could he have – if pressed – identified his target. He had simply exploded in blind rage then fled, less to escape the consequences than out of fear of what else he might do if he stayed around other people.

Draco meanwhile had been taken completely by surprise. Blood spurted from his nose as, with a howl of pain and astonishment, he fell over backwards, toppling off the footstool on which he’d been sitting and clunking his head against the dungeon’s stone floor. Ron leaped up with a cry of alarm, while Hermione and Neville spun around in time to see Draco fall and Harry depart. “Harry!” Hermione shouted, her cry mixing with Neville’s yell of “Draco!” and Ron’s “What the bloody hell?”

Snape, naturally, came running, but by then Harry was long gone. Draco was in tears of mingled pain and fury, and the three Gryffindors were incoherent.

“SILENCE!” He snapped into ogre mode without hesitation, and instantly silence reigned. Even Draco’s sobs were muted to whimpers.

Snape took out his handkerchief and began mopping the blood off Draco’s face and inspecting the damage, even as he snapped, “Miss Granger, an explanation if you please.”

“I – I’m not sure, sir. Neville and I were studying while Ron and Draco played chess. I heard the door open and I assumed it was Harry. Draco said something and the next thing I heard was the sound of someone getting hit. By the time I looked around, Draco had just fallen and hit his head, and I caught a glimpse of Harry as he left.”

Having satisfied himself that his godson’s nose was not broken, Snape left it to the boy to keep the handkerchief pressed to his nose while Snape examined the back of his head. There was a tender area, but no lump. “What did you say?” Snape asked sternly, resigned to yet another round of Potter vs Malfoy. The truce had been nice while it lasted, but it had been foolish of him to imagine it could be permanent.

Draco’s indignant eyes regarded him over the handkerchief. “I diddit say adyting!” he protested thickly.

“Sir, he didn’t,” Neville spoke up, frightened but resolute. “I mean, I heard him. He didn’t say anything wrong, or even use a nasty tone. Harry just punched him for no reason.”

Both Draco and Snape stared at the blond Gryffindor in shock, though for different reasons. “Weasley?” Snape came out of it first and turned to the other witness for confirmation.

The redhead hesitated a moment, clearly unhappy at fingering his best friend, but in the end he nodded. “It’s true. Harry walked in, punched Draco, and left. Draco didn’t do anything to provoke him.”

Snape gritted his teeth. Something must have happened to make Harry act this uncharacteristically, and he was not looking forward to puzzling out what it was. Why couldn’t that blasted brat just come and tell him when something went wrong? “Get your things together; you’ll need to return to your dormitories while I locate Mr Potter.”

The Gryffindors exchanged miserable looks at the thought of what would happen to Harry immediately thereafter, but they knew better than to argue. Snape looked down at the Slytherin and was surprised to see Draco’s eyes were still streaming with tears. Even with the punch in the nose, he would have thought the boy would have been able to stop crying by now. Out of a desire to spare his godson embarrassment, he ordered, “Come with me, Draco. We need to fix that nosebleed.”

Leaving the other students to see themselves out – they were in his quarters so often that the thought didn’t disturb him – he guided Draco down to his bathroom. After mopping the boy’s face with a cold washcloth, he pinched his nose with one cloth and put another against the back of his neck. He waited while Draco’s silent sobs became hiccups, then eased.

“Are you all right?”

Draco nodded, as best he could when his professor was holding his nose in a firm pinch. “Why did dey say dat?” he finally asked.

“What?”

“Aboud Harry. Dey had to dow dat dey were gedding hib idto trouble!”

“Yes?”

“So why did dey tell you? Why diddit dey protect hib?” That was what was bothering Draco so much. The bloody nose had been painful, but when first Longbottom and then the other lions had actually defended him, a Slytherin, he had been stunned. He had expected them to lie in defense of Harry, not to protect him.

He knew full well that they didn’t like him at all; they only tolerated his presence because he was Snape’s godson, and he only came here to Snape’s rooms because he knew it annoyed them. It wasn’t like he enjoyed hanging out with a bunch of Gryffindorks, playing chess with the Weasel or going over homework with the mudblood or helping that pathetic Lardbottom figure out which end of his wand was which. He only did those things because he found it amusing to crash their little party and watch them have to grit their teeth and be polite to him. He would have been just as happy back in the Slytherin common room, surrounded by other purebloods. So what if Goyle and Crabbe couldn’t manage a coherent thought between the two of them? That didn’t mean he wanted to be around a bunch of would-be heroes. He’d much rather hang out with other Slytherins, although after his recent experiences, he was understandably apprehensive about running afoul of the plots and subplots that constantly swirled throughout the House.

But he was suddenly finding it hard to convince himself that he hated them as much as they hated him, when they weren’t acting as if they hated him very much at all. In fact, they were treating him a lot better than any bunch of Slytherins would have treated a lone Gryffindor in their midst.

Draco was familiar with duplicity, contempt, hatred, and fear. But kindness and respect were strange and confusing. He wasn’t sure why he felt such a warm, safe feeling deep inside himself. Surely he should be feeling nothing but scorn for the other students’ actions. Right?

“I assume they told the truth,” Snape said carefully, “because they did not want to see you unjustly blamed.”

“But why would dey do dat?” his godson demanded, his voice shaking. Snape looked into the boy’s eyes and saw confusion, doubt, and a tentative, almost frightened gleam of hope. Draco had been ruthlessly schooled since infancy in a code of eugenics which made Darwin’s concept of “nature red in tooth and claw” seem positively benign.  He had been told over and over again by Lucius that a Malfoy was to be feared, not liked; that other children were either worthwhile associates who should be cultivated as valuable contacts for later life or inferior drones who were to be exploited and/or insulted.

But now, thanks to his godfather, he found himself amongst a group of children who lived by a very different set of beliefs, and he was beginning to hope against hope that they might actually like him for himself. Despite his best efforts to convince himself to the contrary, Draco found he did enjoy the company of people of whom he knew his father would disapprove. If Lucius found out that Draco were hanging out with Gryffindors, let alone these Gryffindors, he would make his displeasure very, very clear. Yet Draco was, despite himself, having a good time. He found himself beginning to question his father’s pureblood beliefs and struggling to convince himself of their value. He reminded himself that the others hated him for being a proud pureblood as much as he despised Granger for her Muggleborn status. But now… he wasn’t able to convince himself of their hatred anymore.

Snape’s Slytherin heart rejoiced. It had worked. The boy might yet have a chance to escape his upbringing and not end up as a mere extension of Lucius. If Sirius Black could break with his family, why not Draco Malfoy? If Snape had anything to say about it, the Dark Lord would not be getting his godson without a fight. “You will have to ask them that question,” he replied calmly, not letting his exultation show, “but it would appear that they consider you one of their group and therefore entitled to the same protection and consideration as the rest of them.”

“But I’b a Slydderid! Dey ratted out Podder to you – I dow dey like hib bore dan me.”

“Yes, I’m sure they do, but that doesn’t mean they will allow him to treat you badly or protect him if he does so.”

Draco didn’t know how to feel. On the one hand, he was immensely gratified that the other three students had stuck up for him, but on the other hand, he was well aware that his own behavior back in Slytherin was in direct opposition to the ideals the Gryffindors had just embodied. As the unofficial “Prince of Slytherin”, Draco routinely protected people he liked and harassed those he didn’t. It was just part of the life his father had taught him: take what you can, however you can. As a pureblood and a Death Eater, Lucius used the power and influence at his command to promote his own interests; his son was already doing the same thing in miniature at Hogwarts. But here were three Gryffindors who were doing everything wrong, at least by Lucius’ standards, and yet it felt awfully good to be on the receiving end.

“Do all Gryffindors act like dis?”

“More or less,” Snape agreed.

“Dey’re stubid!” Draco announced, a bit desperately.

“Mm. Many in this House think so.” Snape refused to be drawn.

“Whad do you dink?”

Snape released his godson’s nose but didn’t relinquish his firm grasp on the back of his neck. He locked gazes and said gravely, “I think that’s a question you must answer for yourself. There are certainly a multitude of Gryffindorish tendencies that I would not encourage you to emulate, and their fairness and willingness to do the right thing regardless of personal cost are foreign to many in our House. But our House was never meant to be a haven for Dark Wizards – we symbolize cunning and stealth, the ability to think our way around and over obstacles. All ideals which are incompatible with blindly following anyone, be it a parent, teacher, or leader. You must choose your own path in life, Draco, and you must realize that your path will be much smoother if you have friends to guard your back. Not merely allies who are at your side so long as it is expedient for them to do so, but genuine friends who will remain with you no matter the odds. Harsh times lie ahead, and you must make your own decisions where your loyalties lie. Tonight you have seen that no doors are yet closed against you. Even Gryffindors will call you friend if you wish it. It’s up to you.”

Draco pulled away, abruptly uncomfortable. If his father knew what he was thinking… he shuddered. “What are you going to do to Potter?” he demanded, turning to what seemed a safer topic.

“You know perfectly well that he will be punished for his actions,” Snape replied firmly. “I assume you are not asking for details of that punishment?”

“No, no!” Draco hastily backpedaled. “I just was wondering why he acted that way. I mean, he seemed fine in class, and none of the others said that anything seemed to be bothering him, so what do you think happened?”

“I don’t know, but I plan to find out.”

Harry’s feet were functioning better than his brain at the moment. Correctly realizing that he would be waylaid by his friends in the Gryffindor Common Room or dormitory, and that Snape was already well-aware of his usual haunts of the Owlry, Astronomy Tower, and Moaning Myrtle’s lavatory, his feet took him to a place where his welcome was assured but others were unlikely to find him: the kitchens.

His arrival caused the usual stir among the house elves, but his request for a cup of cocoa and a quiet, hidden corner were promptly fulfilled. By the time he had finished his hot chocolate, his mind had emerged from the white-hot rage that had consumed him, and the enormity of his actions dawned on him.

Snape was going to kill him.

And when the professor was finished with him, Draco would have Crabbe and Goyle jump on what few scraps of tattered flesh remained.

But the worst part of all was that Harry deserved it.

He still wasn’t sure how it had happened. The Dursleys had treated him unfairly thousands of times, and he just took it and took it. He had never snapped like this before, never took out his fury on some poor soul who just happened to be standing there. Oh, Merlin! Did I just think of Draco and “poor soul” at the same time?

But this time, he was so angry with Dumbledore that he thought his head would explode, and what did he do? He went straight to Snape’s and punched the first person who spoke to him. Harry wasn’t sure he wouldn’t have socked Ron if he had been the one to address him. He had acted out of pure fury, not rational thought. At least Draco would have attacked someone in order to make himself feel better. Harry didn’t even have that excuse.

Harry sighed. He knew Snape wouldn’t actually kill him nor let Draco’s goons hurt him – much – but he also knew he was going to get about a million detentions and one heck of a spanking. And he also knew that he couldn’t console himself with the thought that Snape was overreacting or being unreasonable or unfair. He had behaved very, very badly and done something even Draco would have scorned. Draco would never have been dumb enough to just walk in and punch him in the middle of Snape’s quarters, for Merlin’s sake. Harry groaned. He was a complete idiot. And – based on his actions – not a very nice person, either.

Well, he might not be able to do much about being an idiot, but he could at least try to fix the other. “Twinkle,” he called to a nearby house elf. When the little creature promptly came over, twittering with glee at the prospect of being of service to Master Harry Potter, he asked her to bring Draco Malfoy to him. He could at least apologize to the other boy, not that he expected him to accept it.

“Yes, Master Harry Potter Sir! Twinkle is getting Master Draco for youse!” she popped away, clapping her hands in excitement.

Harry figured there was a good chance he was about to get a retaliatory punch in the nose, but he still had to say he was sorry. He knew Snape would make him apologize again, in public, but he also knew that Draco would – quite rightly – scorn that apology as one coerced by threat of gruesome punishment. Harry wanted Draco to know that he really was sorry, even if the Slytherin just sneered at him.

He sort of hoped that Draco would try to punch him, because he expected that the house elves around them would react very badly to the sight of the unpopular (at least with house elves) Malfoy attacking him, the elves’ favorite student. Then he berated himself for wanting to see Malfoy covered in chocolate pudding and pinched till he was black and blue; he needed to remember that, thanks to him, Draco was the victim in this situation and he was the villain. Still, it was comforting to realize that however much Draco might want (or be entitled to) revenge, he wasn’t going to be able to exact it right then and there.

A moment later, Twinkle reappeared, a struggling Draco in her grasp. “Here he is, Master Harry Potter Sir! Just as youse asked!”

“Potter, you f–“ Draco visibly got a grip on his tongue. Profanity was something the lower classes used. “I see you’re moving up from assault to kidnapping, Potter. The Headmaster will be very interested in this, I’m sure.”

“Twinkle! I didn’t tell you to kidnap him!” Harry exclaimed in horror. “I just wanted to talk to him.”

“Oh no! Master Harry Potter Sir is angry with Twinkle!” the hapless house elf wailed.

“No, wait!” Harry grabbed her just as she was about to bang her head against the flagstone floor. “I’m not angry. I just – erm – was surprised by your initiative. Good job.”

“Really?” Twinkle gasped with delight. At Harry’s nod, she danced away, ecstatic over his praise. Harry turned guiltily to Draco.

“Uh, sorry about that. I forget that house elves can get a little carried away. I really only wanted to talk to you.”

“And if I don’t want to talk to you? What are you going to do, punch me again? Oh wait, let me close my eyes so you can take me by surprise like last time.”

Harry colored. “Malfoy, can I please just apologize? You know I’m going to catch holy hell over what I did. I just wanted to say I’m sorry before Snape catches up with me.”

Draco sneered. “Yeah, right, Potter. Like you really regret hitting me. The only thing you’re sorry about is that Snape is going to punish you. Are you apologizing in the hopes I’ll tell him to go easy on you?”

“Yeah, right. Malfoy, the only thing less likely than you asking Snape to go easy on me is him listening to you if you did. We both know what I’m in for, all right? I don’t think he’d let me off if I fell off the Astronomy Tower and was in the Infirmary with a dozen broken bones. He’d just levitate me into position the second I regained consciousness.” Despite himself, Draco couldn’t suppress a snort of laughter at the mental image Harry had conjured up. Harry managed a rueful grin of his own. “And besides if I were trying to make points with Snape, would I really have brought you down to where I’m hiding out? You think the house elves care that I’m apologizing?”

Draco’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “So why are you apologizing, Potter? You can’t expect me to believe you actually mean it.”

“Look, Malfoy, we both know that you do plenty of things that I would be more than justified to hit you for, and in those cases the only way you’ll hear an apology from me is if Snape is making me. But whether or not you believe me, I am sorry for hitting you today. I wasn’t even mad at you. You were just in front of me when I lost it. And so for once you didn’t deserve it and yeah, I’m sorry.” Harry looked hopefully at Draco, but the Slytherin’s expression was inscrutable. As the seconds ticked by, Harry glanced furtively around to make sure the house elves were otherwise occupied, then leaned forward and whispered, “Look, if you want to punch me back, go ahead. I won’t tell.”

“And let you show Snape your own bloody nose? I don’t think so! Is this a set-up, Potter?”

Harry sighed. “No. Sheesh, Malfoy, you have a suspicious mind. I just thought you might feel better if you punched me. I forgot that you punch like a girl. That’s why you keep Crabbe and Goyle around.”

“Shut up, Potter!” Malfoy snapped. “Just because Malfoys prefer not to bruise our knuckles like you brawling troglodytes doesn’t mean we can’t punch when we want to. I’m just not willing to let you off so easily.”

Now it was Harry’s turn to frown in suspicion. “What do you want, Malfoy? I already apologized.”

“In Slytherin, if you do someone an injury, you’re expected to make it up to him. So,” Draco looked at him expectantly, “what are you offering?”

Snape started his investigation easily enough with a series of floo calls. “Minerva, have you seen Potter this afternoon?” he asked.

“Not since class. Why?”

“I’m looking for him. Any idea where he went after your class?”

“I think he and his friends said something about using their study period to prepare for Filius’ quiz. They didn’t seem too worried about it though – well, except for Miss Granger, but you know how she is.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “All too well. Thank you, Minerva.”

Similar calls to Flitwick, Hagrid, and Sprout turned up nothing noteworthy. All reported that Harry had been his usual self and didn’t seem to be planning any unusual activities. The only time Severus couldn’t account for was the thirty minutes after dinner and immediately before Harry burst into his quarters. As a long shot, Snape floo’d the Headmaster.

“Severus!” Dumbledore greeted him genially. “I’ve been expecting you, my boy. Come on through.”

Snape stepped into the Headmaster’s office, frowning. “You were expecting me?”

“Yes, well, Harry seemed a bit quiet after our talk, and I thought you might want –“

“What talk?” Snape interrupted. He knew he should have let Dumbledore ramble on and tell the story in his own time, but he was too impatient to wait.

“Lemon drop? No? Well, I asked Harry to stop by to discuss summer plans. He had been under the impression that he would be staying here at Hogwarts with you, so I explained that that was impossible.”

Snape’s eyebrows drew together in an even more fearsome scowl.  “You didn’t think to have me present at this discussion?”

“Severus, as you have pointed out, it is important for you to maintain a good relationship with the boy. As unpleasant as it is for me to be the bearer of ill tidings, I felt it was better that I be the one to break the bad news about his returning to the Dursleys.”

“WHAT?” Snape bellowed. “Return him to those abusive Muggles? Are you insane?”

“Severus,” Dumbledore said patiently, “I will of course make arrangements for Aurors to visit the home regularly to ensure that he was not harmed. But the blood wards –“

“- are irrelevant if there is no love to sustain them! The Dursleys don’t need to beat Harry to damage him. What do you think a summer of being called a worthless freak will do to him? And do you really imagine that having Aurors coming by is going to endear him to those magic-hating sadists? Are you so naïve as to believe that Harry would be safe in their care? They’ll just time the beatings so the Aurors don’t see them. Even his walrus of an uncle is smart enough to do that, and Potter knows it.”

“Severus, I’m glad you feel so protective towards Harry, but we must be reasonable. With Voldemort’s location a mystery and the Death Eaters regaining their strength, we must take every precaution to keep Harry safe. I’m sure you have plans of your own, and Harry cannot remain at Hogwarts unsupervised. Although his friends’ families might offer to host him, that won’t answer either. The Weasleys are off to Egypt to visit Bill, and while they have offered to take Harry along with them, it is much too dangerous. The Grangers are Muggles and therefore vulnerable, Mrs Longbottom is getting on in years and can’t supervise a child as – curious – as Harry can be. Who else is there? No, my boy,” Dumbledore didn’t wait for an answer, “as much as it pains me to admit it, the Dursleys remain Harry’s only option. We will simply have to do what we can to protect him while he’s there.”

“And this is what you told him?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore said sadly. “He took it very well, really. It was clearly not the news he’d hoped to hear, but he just nodded and said he’d make arrangements for Hagrid to keep Hedwig here. He recognized that the owl’s presence would unsettle his relatives.”

“You mean he realized his relatives were all too likely to kill her!” Snape exploded. “That child has more sense than you, Albus! What are you thinking? Do you have any idea of the damage you’ve done? Potter finally reveals the Muggles’ abuse to us, and your response is to send him back to them? Are you trying to teach him not to trust us? You might as well tie a bow around his neck and send him to the Dark Lord! Lucius Malfoy couldn’t do a better job of turning him away from the Light. How can you possibly justify this to yourself?”

“But, Severus,” Dumbledore argued, taken aback by the Potion Master’s palpable fury, “there are no other choices. I agree it’s not ideal but Harry has accepted –“

“No, Albus, he has not. He was simply incapable of directing his anger at the person who deserves it and instead took it out on the first person who crossed his path. By now, I am quite certain he will have started taking it out on himself, aided by the additional guilt he now bears for striking an innocent. You are a fool, Albus, and I will not have you damage this boy any further with your crackpot ideas.”

“Then what will –“

“I will take him for the summer,” Snape snarled, “and what is more, I will be filing for permanent custody of the boy. If there is so much as a hint of interference from you, old man, I will transfer him to Durmstrang so fast your beard will fall off. Do you understand me?”

“My heavens, Severus, have a lemon drop and calm down,” Albus urged. “If you feel this strongly about the matter, I will not oppose you.”

“See that you don’t!” Snape snapped, robes billowing as he stalked out of the office. It was a magnificent exit, though the Potion Master might have been a bit nonplused if he had seen the satisfied smirk on Dumbledore’s face as the door closed behind him.

Snape was not foolish enough to waste his time and energy searching Hogwarts for one missing 12 year old. Instead, he summoned the head house elf and demanded to know where Potter was. He knew perfectly well that the house elves kept a close tab on The Boy Who Lived.

“Weeeeelll, Master Harry Potter Sir is being very busy just now,” Hortense prevaricated. “Perhaps Professor Master Snape should be waiting –“

“Where. Is. He?” Snape said in the quiet, silky tones that made even the most irritating house elf shut up.

“Kitchens!” squeaked Hortense then vanished with a pop.

Snape swept down to the kitchens, alternating between rage at the blinkered old fool of a Headmaster and exasperation at Harry’s childish outburst. Now he was going to have to play the ogre once more and punish Harry when the boy had merely been lashing out under a burden that would have reduced most adults to catatonia. If only Harry had controlled his temper for another minute or two, Snape could have stepped in and for once, Harry would have had a happy outcome. But now, Snape was going to have to discipline the boy – and given the victim, he could hardly make it a token punishment – and by the time that the dust had settled, Harry would hardly greet the news that Snape was to be his guardian with unmitigated delight.

Yes, it was good news that Harry no longer just accepted unfair treatment whether it was at the hands of his uncle or his Headmaster, but he obviously needed to work on how he dealt with his newly unleashed anger. Snape sighed. He would never admit it to anyone, but he would dearly love to let the boy off with a warning just this once. Of course, he knew full well that that was the worst thing he could do for the boy. Harry needed one adult in his life who was consistent in holding him accountable to pre-established rules, and it was just Snape’s luck that it had to be him.

Harry knew perfectly well that it was unacceptable to punch someone like that, and letting him off would not only teach him the kind of lesson that Tom Riddle had embraced (“You’re special. You’ve had a really hard life. Rules shouldn’t apply to you.”), but it would also send a different, equally dangerous message to Draco (“You don’t matter. You don’t count. People can hurt you and get away with it.”). So once again, thanks to that bumbling idiot, Snape was going to have to be the heavy-handed martinet and at the worst possible moment.

How in Merlin’s name was he supposed to scorch the boy’s backside one minute then break the news about his summer plans the next, and not have the boy think that it was a punishment? Dumbledore had already convinced the boy that no one cared enough about him to take him for the summer, so he was sure to assume that Snape was doing so only out of a sense of duty or obligation. That would hardly set the stage for a pleasant, productive summer. The brat would probably spend the first six weeks misbehaving out of a displaced sense of worthlessness, angst, resentment, and despair.

Snape entered the kitchens and made his way to the farthest, darkest, most hidden corner. If he were a worried second year, hiding out from a furious Potions Master, that’s where he’d be. Sure enough, as he drew closer, he heard Potter’s voice.

“So? Have you had enough?”

“Oh, Merlin, Potter...” Snape stopped short. What was Draco doing down here? He faded into the shadows even as he edged his way closer.

“Well?” Potter’s voice was – strange. There was an undercurrent of frustration and threat and… amusement?

“Potter, please…” The hairs on the back of Snape’s neck rose. Draco Malfoy begging? What on earth could Potter be doing to him? 

“You want more?” Yes, there was definitely something – off – about Potter’s tone. Snape fought down an unaccustomed sense of fear. Could Potter be more Dark than anyone had suspected? Was today’s outburst more characteristic than anyone had guessed? He moved closer still.

“Merlin…” Draco’s voice trailed off into little moans, and Snape gathered himself to jump out and halt whatever depraved little torture session Potter was conducting.

“Good grief, Malfoy, you’d think you’ve never had ice cream before.” Potter’s words caught Snape in mid-leap.

“This isn’t ice cream, Potter. It’s ambrosia. Gimme more.”

“It’s called a hot fudge sundae, Malfoy, and it’s not even that hard to find. Maybe you should spend more time on Muggle Studies.”

“Yeah, right, Potter. And after my father beats me to death, I can have all the hot fudge sundaes I want in Muggle heaven. Shut up and tell the house elf to bring me another one.”

“Oh, come on, Draco. It’s a stupid sundae. Your father won’t –“

“Shut it, Potter. You’re not the only one with scars on your back,” Draco sneered. “Do you have any idea what my father did when I made the mistake of asking to wear Muggle clothes one time?”

“Well, it couldn’t have been any worse than what my uncle did to me the time I made the glass in the snake exhibit at the zoo disappear,” Harry retorted.

“Whinge whinge whinge. All those Muggles could do was hit you, right? Do you have any idea how many curses there are?”

“All right, congratulations, you win. Here’s your stupid sundae,” Harry said resignedly.

“Ha! Never try to outcompete a Malfoy, Potter. Besides, what are you bleating about? It’s not like you have to go back there. I’m stuck with my father.”

Harry snorted but didn’t reply.

Draco gave him a sharp look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Dumbledore’s sending me back.”

“What? Why?”

Harry shrugged, elaborately nonchalant. “Guess that your father and his friends have spooked him, so he wants me safe with my loving family.”

“So if the Death Eaters don’t finish you off, your uncle will? I thought the Headmaster liked you, Potter.”

“Yeah, well, I thought you wanted to be a Death Eater just like your dear old daddy, Malfoy,” Harry snarled back.

“Just because I don’t like mudbloods doesn’t mean I want to join a psycho who Crucio’s his own followers,” Malfoy retorted. “Besides, anything that both my father and my loony aunt Bella agree upon is definitely a bad idea. But try telling that to my father and you’d better be able to keep up your Protego for the next forty years or so.”

Harry sighed. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Dumbledore says that he’ll send the Aurors by every week or so to make sure I’m okay, but since they won’t be able to take me away from there even if they see something, it’s not like they’re going to be any help.”

“Huh. Hope you’re good at glamours, Potter. You’re going to need them. Better keep the Aurors fooled or your uncle will really kick the snot out of you. Sev once saw me after a whipping and yelled at my father. Father nearly killed me that night. I couldn’t walk for a week, and that was with the healing charms my house elf smuggled in.”

“Merlin, Malfoy, if your father treats you like that, then why are you such a git? I’d think you’d be nicer to people.”

“And let them treat me like shite? You need to get control of people fast and keep it, Potter, and you do that through fear.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“You’re a moron.”

“Death Eater.”

“Gryffindork.”

Harry sighed. “Finish your sundae. I’m all done with mine, and I need to go see Snape and get this over with.”

Draco scraped up a spoonful of fudge and licked it, his eyes glazing over with pleasure. “Merlin, this is good.”

“Just remember, the house elves only smuggle it in for me, so you’d better not tell anyone about our discussion.”

“Right, Potter, like anyone would believe we’ve been sitting here chatting like a couple of girls. You’re really dim, you know that?”

“I mean it, Malfoy. I better not hear anything about my relatives from Crabbe and Goyle or you’ll never get another hot fudge sundae as long as you live.”

“Relax. If I tell your secrets, you’ll tell mine. Besides, you have the upper hand. If you tell my father about this, he really will kill me. Or make me wish he had.”

Harry frowned. “So why did you tell me? That’s not exactly a Slytherin thing to do.”

“Because I can hardly complain about my father to anyone in my House, now can I? What did you call them? Oh yeah, a bunch of Junior Death Eaters. If Goyle heard me say anything even remotely critical of my father and then mentioned it to his father, I’d be back at Malfoy Manor in no time, and you can imagine what would happen next. Besides, you’re a nauseatingly honorable Gryffindor. I could probably say almost anything and you’d feel honor-bound to keep your mouth shut.”

“Snake.”

“Dimwit.”

“Dark Lord in Training.”

“No, no, Potter. That would be you. Haven’t you figured that out yet? Hey, you do know I was serious about not going to Sev, right? I mean, thanks for the apology and the hot fudge sundae and all, but I still want your arse blistered for punching me,” Draco smirked.

“You’re evil, you know that?”

“Goes with the House,” Draco agreed, licking his spoon with great satisfaction.

Snape withdrew as silently as he had approached.

Harry sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He felt better than he had expected he would. Draco was actually kind of fun to talk to, once he’d gotten enough ice cream and fudge sauce inside him. He had a snarky sense of humor that Harry enjoyed but that neither Ron nor Hermione really appreciated. He was a lot like Snape, actually, except for the part about refusing to put himself in any danger. Draco made no bones about wanting to avoid pain in any form, hence both his secret disaffection for Voldemort and his outward obedience to Lucius’ schemes.

When the two boys were stuck in the infirmary together, they’d actually had quite a few interesting chats. Discovering that they both had suffered numerous injuries at the hands of the very people who were supposed to care for them the most, had more or less opened the conversational floodgates. Draco still held pureblood beliefs that Harry found disgusting. Harry still intended to defeat Voldemort, which Draco considered insanely suicidal. But other than that, there were plenty of topics on which they agreed. The awfulness of Snape’s punishments being an obvious one.

That thought reminded Harry of where he was going, and he groaned aloud. He was under no illusion that the next thirty minutes would be pleasant. He just wondered how hellish they would actually be. Knowing Snape… He sighed and forced his dragging footsteps onwards. 

##

“Enter.” Snape laid down his quill and looked at the boy who had just slipped into the room. His eyebrow rose fractionally.

“Look, before you say anything, just hear me out, okay?” the boy said rapidly. “What I’m about to say is going to sound ridiculous, but I’m serious. I don’t want to tell you why and I don’t want to talk about it either, all right?”

Snape inclined his head in agreement.

“Okay,” Draco took a deep breath then released it in a rush. “I don’t think you should hit Potter. He already apologized to me and he’s kind of having a bad day, so maybe you should really scare him, but actually go kind of easy on him. Just whatever you do, don’t tell him I said so.”

“Is that all?” Snape inquired calmly.

“Yes. Um…can I go?” Draco asked awkwardly.

“Yes.”

At the door, Draco paused and looked back, a worried look on his face. “Uncle Sev, is it Slytherin to…” he trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

“Yes, Draco. It is very Slytherin to keep others guessing by acting unexpectedly. Ten points.”

His godson grinned and vanished.

Four minutes later, Potter appeared. “Um, Professor, can I come in?”

“May I.”

Potter looked confused. “May you what?”

Snape rolled his eyes. “Get in here, Potter.”

Harry reluctantly edged his way forward. “I – I came to apologize.”

Snape just looked at him. Harry swallowed hard. “And – and for my punishment for punching Malfoy.”

“Explain your behavior.”

Harry dropped his gaze. What was the point of going into details? Snape must know about the summer plans – it wasn’t like the Headmaster wouldn’t consult him before talking to Harry – so if he complained about them, he’d just sound like a whinging baby. Of course, if he didn’t explain, it would look like he’d deliberately punched Draco.

He decided to compromise. “I – I was upset, and I just lost my temper. It wasn’t anything Draco said or did. I didn’t even know I was going to punch him before I did it. I’m really sorry.” He hung his head.

“I see. And what was so calamitous that it drove all rational thought from your head?”

Eyes still downcast, Harry shrugged one shoulder. “Doesn’t matter. Shouldn’t have behaved that way.”

“You are correct. How do you hope to reach adulthood, let alone defeat the Dark Lord, if you cannot even control your own temper? How does your action towards Draco differ from that of your uncle, lashing out at you whenever he had a bad day at work?”

The rebuke struck Harry like a blow. He hadn’t thought of it in that light, but his taking his frustration out on Draco was exactly like what Uncle Vernon used to do – and would soon be doing again. That was it. The tears began to flow.

“Regardless of how you are feeling, it is never acceptable to strike out blindly,” Snape scolded. “Don’t you remember what it feels like to be the recipient of such violence? The bewilderment, hurt, anger? How could you cause someone else to feel that way?”

Harry couldn’t suppress his sobs. He was turning into his uncle, the one thing he’d always sworn he’d never become.

“When you became upset, why did you not use your Occlumency lessons to calm yourself before you reached the point where you lost complete control?”

Harry stared at him, shocked through his tears. It had never occurred to him to use Occlumency in such a manner.

“Potter,” the professor snapped impatiently, “did you never think that the Dark Lord will taunt you? That he too will try to upset you? That he will say dreadful things in the hopes of making you lose control and thus lose your focus and ability to fight or defend yourself? What do you think mind control is all about?”

“I – I didn’t…” Great, now Harry felt both guilty and stupid.

“If you are this inept, you obviously require additional tutelage,” Snape frowned. “You will now have an extra Occlumency lesson on Saturdays, and I better not hear any complaints about your lack of free time. In addition, you will spend an extra thirty minutes before bedtime meditating and clearing your mind of excessive emotion. That means,” he said pointedly, “that until further notice, your bedtime is moved up half an hour. Perhaps if you get more sleep you will be able to demonstrate greater emotional control than a cranky two year old.”

Harry longed to protest that none of the other Gryffindors even had a bedtime, but as upset as he was, he really wasn’t suicidal.

“Furthermore, I expect a three foot essay on the dangers of an abused child becoming an abuser himself, along with ways to avoid falling into that trap.” Harry nodded resignedly. With final exams coming up, he needed another essay like he needed a hole in the head, but he couldn’t really argue that this wasn’t an appropriate punishment. Besides, it might actually prove helpful.

“And you will of course apologize to Mr Malfoy.”

“Yes, sir.” Harry gulped. Here it came. Now that the preliminaries had been attended to, it was time for the painful part of the evening.

But Snape wasn’t moving from his seat at the desk.

Harry waited a minute, confused.

“Was there something else, Mr Potter?”

“What – what about the rest of my punishment?” Harry managed to stammer.

“The rest?”

“Aren’t you going to, erm, you know?”

“Ah, yes. Thank you for reminding me. Come here.”

Harry took a deep breath and stepped over to Snape’s chair, waiting for the professor to push his chair back and haul Harry across his knee.

“Here.” The Potions Master handed him a piece of parchment.

Blankly, Harry took it. “What’s this, sir?”

“An ever refreshing parchment. It will erase itself once you have completed 100 lines upon it so that you can start again. I expect 100 lines of ‘I will learn to control my temper, my emotions, and my mind’ every week for the next ten weeks.”

“That’s a thousand lines!” Harry gasped in shock.

“Yes.”

“But – but – Every week for the next ten weeks? That will take me right through the end of the summer holidays!”

“Yes.”

Harry stared at the man. Was he being deliberately dim? “Sir, I won’t be able to do this over the summer.”

“Then you can expect a spanking for not completing your punishment, Mr Potter,” Snape said severely. “Perhaps I was in error to think that you already understood the seriousness of your behavior and therefore did not require corporal chastisement.”

Harry blinked, trying to decipher the professor’s statement. His eyes grew wide as he realized the import of the words. “You’re not going to whack me?!”

Snape forced back his snickers. It really had been fun to mess with the brat’s mind like that. But now he needed to explain things.

“Harry,” he said, his use of the boy’s first name causing emerald eyes to fly to meet his own. “I will only ‘whack’ you if I think you have not appreciated the consequences of your actions. I do it to get your attention as well as to dissuade you from continuing with inappropriate behavior. I believed that in this case, you are already well-aware that you were in the wrong and that such actions must not happen again. Was my assessment incorrect?”

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat and shook his head, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “I – I do understand. I really do,” he promised. Then another thought struck him, and the tears threatened to spill out. “But I can’t do the lines. Uncle Vernon won’t let me have a quill and parchment. I can try to hide them or use Muggle pen and paper, but –“

“Harry, do you really think I would allow you to go back to the Dursleys? I had always assumed you would spend the summer with me as my ward.”

Now Harry was really crying. “The Headmaster won’t let me. He said –“

“I have already spoken to the Headmaster this evening, Mr Potter,” Snape said, his voice deliberately sharp. “And I have made it clear that where my ward is concerned, I make the decisions, not him. So you can stop trying to weasel out of your punishment. You will be doing 100 lines a week, or you will find sitting down acutely painful. Do you understand?”

The snarl at the end of the words was masterfully delivered, but the accompanying glare went unnoticed by its intended recipient. Harry flung himself at Snape, his arms twining so tightly around the professor’s neck that Snape had to fight for air. Out of sheer self-defense (or so he told himself), his arms went around the boy’s sobbing form.

“Shh. All right, all right. That’s enough,” Snape soothed as Harry wept into his robes, hoping to calm the little fiend quickly. He wasn’t being caring, dammit, it was just that prolonged emotional outbursts made his head hurt.

Harry clung tighter, shoulders shaking. Great. More snot. And this time on the shoulder of his robes. Even more attractive.

After several more minutes of Harry’s heart-wrenching sobs, Snape began to wonder if he shouldn’t have simply swatted the boy. At least he composed himself reasonably quickly after a spanking.

“Harry, you’ll make yourself sick. Calm down or I’m going to have to get you a potion,” Snape finally said, tapping the boy’s rear to get his attention. The threat of a potion had the desired effect. Harry’s tears subsided into hiccups.

Snape stifled a sigh and hoisted the boy onto his lap, letting him lean against him. Harry was really much too old for this sort of thing, though Merlin knew he didn’t get any affection when he was younger. He handed Harry a handkerchief and waited patiently as the brat mopped his face and honked his nose. “Really, Potter,” Snape said once it was clear that the boy could actually focus on what was being said to him, “what part of ‘you must learn to control your emotions’ was unclear to you?”

“S-sorry, Pr’fes’r,” Harry mumbled, but he didn’t sound particularly apologetic. His green eyes gleamed beneath his fringe. “So I really get to stay with you for the summer?” he asked.

“Yes,” Snape said forbiddingly. “And you had best resign yourself to a great deal of studying. No more of this doing your assignments on the Hogwarts Express or expecting to copy Miss Granger’s notes on the reading material. You will complete your schoolwork, obey your assigned bedtime, and adhere to my rules. You will also assist me in my laboratory, as that may help your dismal performance in Potions, and complete any additional homework I see fit to assign.”

“You’re going to make me read ahead? That’s so unfair! No one else has to do extra,” Harry whined. Only the delight in his eyes gave away the game.

“Do you imagine I will allow my ward to remain a mediocre student?” Snape retorted testily. “If I cannot get you to assimilate the knowledge in here –“ he tapped Harry’s forehead “- then I shall attempt to motivate you from here –“ he administered a light swat to Harry’s bum. “And I shall have the whole summer to do it, Mr Potter, so be warned.”

“You probably won’t let me fly even a little bit,” Harry complained, but he watched Snape very, very carefully through his fringe.

“You’re right. No flying,” Snape agreed, hiding his smirk as Harry’s eyes grew wide with horror. “…Unless you have behaved yourself and completed your daily assignment and eaten all your meals properly.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to do the lines then,” Harry muttered as sulkily as he could manage.

“You may do the first hundred tonight,” Snape ordered. “The essay can wait until after exams are finished, but you will be sure to apologize to Mr Malfoy before lunchtime tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.”

Snape eyed the boy assessingly. Harry was doing his best to hide the beaming smile that threatened to burst out any second, but it was clear he would soon lose the battle. On the other hand, his eyes were red from weeping and his cheeks were splotched with tears. Under the circumstances, it was probably the best time to send him back to his dorm. Anyone who saw the boy would assume Snape had thoroughly punished him for striking Draco, thus preserving the Potion Master’s fearsome reputation.

“You will go straight to your dormitory, Mr Potter, and complete the first set of lines before bed. No dawdling in the common room or exchanging gossip with your little friends. Do I make myself clear?” He had the boy up and moving to the door before he knew what was going on.

Harry stopped dead. “No biscuits?” he asked, shocked.

Snape opened the door. “On top of all that ice cream, Mr Potter? Do you want to end up as rotund as your cousin? Now be off with you.” And he turned the open-mouthed child around and gave him a brisk swat that sent him scampering on his way.

Harry hurried out of the dungeons, his mind in a whirl. How could Snape know about the ice cream? Had Draco told him? But that was impossible! But if he knew about the ice cream, then what else did he know about? And was that why Harry had escaped a walloping?

But all that was almost irrelevant. The one, all-encompassing, blissful thought Harry had was that he wasn’t going to have to go back to the Dursleys. Snape could have threatened to smack him every day of the summer holidays and twice on Tuesdays, and he would still have preferred to go with him. But instead, Harry was going to be able to eat and study and fly and be a normal kid. Snape might, just might, even allow Harry to have a real birthday cake. Harry grinned. This was going to be one heck of a summer.