His body shivered.

Everything hurt.

He’d expected the pain in his hand, but everywhere? After his detention with Umbridge he’d gone straight to bed, barely noticing Ron’s worried eyes watching him in the dark. The blood quill was the norm now, but every day he was simply opening the same wounds over and over again, and the pain grew with each detention. The words I must not tell lies were barely readable anymore, each letter knitting together with the next. His hand ached like it could drop off any second and he let it flop heavily into his lap. He’d noticed the swelling days ago, but only now had he realised its severity. He tried to straighten his clawed fist and flatten it on the bed, but he couldn’t move his thumb for the swelling.

It was horrible. He didn’t like to look at it; its message frustrated him to the point of anger – even to the point of lashing out at his friends.

Hermione, this is anything but simple, he’d said, and he knew that since then they were watching over him. But he couldn’t just tell somebody like they’d wanted him to because who was there to tell? Umbridge was backed by the Ministry, and the Ministry was full of pencil-pushers and hypocrites that couldn’t see as far as their own feet. He’d have been expelled (and probably more) long before anything was done about Umbridge.

With an almighty heave, his feet were on the ground and he was finally out of bed, smiling a little at this small victory, but his triumph was short-lived as, much to his disgust, he noticed that the back of his hand had started to weep. The colour made his stomach lurch. Searching quickly through his bedside drawers, he finally came across a box of ordinary muggle plasters. Shaking them out onto his bed, he took one of the largest ones and tested it for size against his poorly hand.

Not big enough, he thought with a groan, the padding won’t cover it, but the yellow mess he could feel eating away at his skin was getting too much and all he wanted to do was hide it and pretend it didn’t exist.

He checked under his bed and in his trunk to see if he had any bandages instead, but he found nothing.

I can’t go around with it like this; it was hard enough hiding it before.

His eyes flickered back to the plaster that was now strewn on his bedside table.

Anything is better than nothing...

With a despairing sigh, he hastily picked up the plaster, tearing off the backing paper and covering his hand as best he could. Some of the sticky bit stuck to his cuts, but he certainly didn’t want to have to peel it off and try again. Though it still hurt, he couldn’t help but feel relieved when he realised he didn’t have to see it anymore.

At that moment, Ron stepped out of the bathroom. “Alright mate?”

“Yeah, fine,” he croaked back, stepping in front of the packet of plasters spread over his duvet.

“I’m starvin’. Reckon I’ll go get breakfast now. Meet you downstairs in a bit?” Ron said, but his expression suddenly twisted into a look of concern – one Harry was quickly growing to hate. “You look awful, mate. Sure you’re alright?”

A shiver crawled up Harry’s spine, but he didn’t feel cold at all. No, actually his skin felt flushed and warm.

“Yeah, just woke up, that’s all,” he said, nodding, but instantly regretting it as his brain shifted back and forth in his skull.

“Alright,” Ron said sceptically, “I’ll see you at breakfast.”

As the door closed behind Ron, Harry quickly brought a hand up to his forehead, but couldn’t tell what was warmer, his head or his hand. And now that Ron had mentioned breakfast, Harry could feel the nausea mounting, like an anchor rising from the depths of the sea, slowly being reeled in through his oesophagus.

The upside, he realised, was that everyone was going to Hogsmeade today, and since Umbridge banned him from going, at least he wouldn’t have Ron and Hermione pestering him while he was sick. They meant well, he knew, and he tried so hard to just deal with it, but being sick, or injured, or in trouble all the time caused their constant mollycoddling to grate on him.

He rolled his shoulders, trying to work some of the tension out of his body, but his joints felt achy and sore. He supposed he was coming down with flu.

Truth be told, he wanted to crawl back into bed, but he’d promised to make an appearance at breakfast – Ron and Hermione would only wake him up if he didn’t show himself and he didn’t want to make a big deal out of a little touch of flu.        

After trudging his way to the bathroom, he filled the sink with water and scrubbed at his face with one hand. He ran his wet fingers through his hair, trying to tame it, but when he looked in the mirror, he was shocked at his own appearance. He knew he was pale at the best of times, but this was ridiculous. Granted, his cheeks were flushed red and hot to the touch, but the rest of his face looked gaunt, his skin mottled with off-white and grey. His own reflection made him feel more ill.

Leaving the bathroom, he searched clumsily through his clothes and picked out a pair of trousers and a thin jumper, along with his socks and underwear. 

When he was dressed, he decided it was time to go to breakfast. So with a painful stretch, he grabbed for the door handle with a clammy hand and carefully lumbered his way to the Great Hall.

*

Breakfast was loud and bustling, so thankfully he didn’t feel conspicuous walking in a little late. Taking a seat across from his friends, he said a quick “hello” and poured himself a glass of pumpkin juice. Hermione was watching him. He could see it from the corner of his eye, but she quickly averted her gaze when he turned to her.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Ron said, jumping in before Hermione could say anything.

“You’ve both got that look again, like you want to say something...”

Harry picked his glass up with a shaky hand and took a large gulp of juice. It did nothing but make his stomach churn.

“Oh Harry, you look ill,” Hermione blurted out, not able to hold it in.

“I’m fine, Hermione, just woke up on the wrong side of bed, that’s all.” Before he knew what was going on, Hermione’s body was leaning across the table and her hand was pressed firmly on his forehead.

“You’re hot and clammy,” she said as Harry swatted her away.

It was completely by accident that his eyes strayed to the right, glancing at the head table, but to his embarrassment and dismay, Professor Snape was looking directly at him.

He probably saw all of that. ‘Little baby Potter’ he’s thinking.  

He turned back to Hermione – the lesser of two evils – and told her not to worry and that he was fine. But in truth, he really didn’t feel well, and watching Ron shovel food into his mouth wasn’t helping matters.

“You aren’t fine, Harry,” Hermione said and Ron grunted his agreement with a mouth full of food.

“It’s alright,” Harry implored, “I’ve probably just got flu or something.”

“Do you want us to take you to Madam Pomfrey?” Hermione said, her brow knitted tightly together. Harry sighed inwardly. I’m not a child!

“I’ll be fine, I’ve had worse.” He forced a weak smile. “I might just go back to bed for a while.”

“D’you want us t’get you ‘nything from Hogsmeade?” Ron said through a mouthful of bacon.

Hermione jumped in. “We could go to the apothecary for you, see if they have any fever reducers –”

“No!” Harry said more forcefully than he’d intended. “No, honestly,” his tone was softer this time, “I just need to get to bed.” As he stood abruptly from the table, he could feel Professor Snape’s gaze boring into him, but he refused to pay him any heed. “Enjoy Hogsmeade.” He climbed unsteadily over the bench and started to leave.

“But Harry, you haven’t had any breakfast? Harry...”

He didn’t stop, opting to wave them off instead and head back to his dormitory.  

He didn’t bother to get undressed, deciding to collapse straight onto his bed in a heap, but his aching limbs didn’t sink into the mattress like he’d hoped. Lying down just drew more attention to the throbbing. He took off his glasses and closed his eyes, willing the world away for a while. When another shiver wracked his bones, he pulled the duvet from under him and wrapped himself up, letting his injured hand hang off the bed. He honestly wasn’t sure whether he was hot or cold, but every time he moved, sickness overwhelmed him so he decided to remain under the duvet. Curling into himself, he hoped that Hermione and Ron would have the sense to leave him alone for the day.

Moments later, he could feel his head lolling on the pillow and before he knew it, sleep had finally found him.  

*

Harry awoke when he felt a tickling sensation on his nose. He shivered and groaned, untangling his arm from the duvet to scratch his itch, but as he brought his hand away, it was wet. Dragging his heavy eyes open, he checked his hand to see if it was blood, but thankfully he wasn’t bleeding. Wiping his face, he realised it was sweat. He tried to sit up, but his limbs were shaky and stiff, and every move evoked a grunt.

A deep breath.

Another deep breath.

Countdown. Five, four, three, two...one.

With grimace, he pushed himself up into sitting position, but held his trembling arms out in disgust as it dawned on him just how much he’d been sweating. He was saturated, soaked, dripping! It wasn’t all over, but parts of his jumper clung to his skin. He grabbed his glasses, ready to walk to the shower, but the first thing he noticed when he put them on was the darkness outside.

How long have I been sleeping? he thought.

As a chime rang out through the room, Harry’s attention fell on the clock, and suddenly he felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. His slightly chattering teeth were all he could hear.

I’m late!

He grunted as he stood quickly from the bed, but a sudden wave of nausea stopped him from moving anymore. His trembling limbs were difficult to hold still, so he wrapped his arms around himself to calm the shivers down. When the nausea passed, he walked on rickety legs to the stairwell and, picking up speed, made his way down to the common room. Evidently everyone was back from Hogsmeade.

“Alright mate?” Ron said, seeing Harry’s sickly figure walk through the threshold.

“It’s 7:30! Why didn’t you wake me?” Harry snapped, eyeing Hermione next to Ron on the sofa. 

“You were asleep; we didn’t think you’d be going to detention tonight. Harry, you’re sick!”

But Harry couldn’t stay around to chat; he was already late for his scheduled detention with Umbridge. For a moment he thought that perhaps she might take pity on him because he was sick, but he decided that was the fever talking.

No, he knew Umbridge and she was cruel. It was as simple as that. He continued dizzily down the hall, certain that he was walking his pale and sweaty hide towards his doom.

*

“Mr Potter, how nice of you to join me,” she said sweetly, but her face betrayed her voice.

“Sorry I’m late, I haven’t been feeling –”

“I did not say you could speak!”

“No, but –” Harry argued.

“Quiet, Mr Potter! We have had enough of these detentions; even a brainless boy like you should have realised the rules by now.”

He clenched his jaw. Umbridge had moods. From his time in detention, he’d seen her mood of indifference, her mood of smugness and her nightmare mood. Judging by her grouchiness and no-nonsense attitude, she was in a nightmare mood.

“Sit down.” Harry did as he was told, fighting the urge to snap at her. He hunched his shoulders together, trying to ward off his fever. A moment ago he was burning up, but now he felt freezing. “Here is your quill. You know what to do.”

Shakily picking up the quill, Harry sucked in a breath before starting to write his lines. He decided to keep his hand under the desk, unsure whether Umbridge would have a problem with him covering it up with the plaster. She never normally asked to see his hand; she seemed to revel more in the pain on his face.

His words were wobbly on the parchment and he hissed as the first few lines were etched into his skin.

As the evening went on, his writing got worse. The shivering was becoming more difficult to control and, in his head, he was becoming less attuned to everything. He didn’t know how many lines he’d written, but the words were beginning to lose meaning. For a moment, he even forgot what it was he was supposed to be writing. Waves of sickness bled through his skin throughout the evening and he was convinced that if he looked in the mirror his face would be green. He felt so cold, like the room was filled with dementors, but the odd bead of sweat still dripped from his brow.

Umbridge berated him for his handwriting, but paid no attention when he tried to protest.

“I can’t help being unwell,” he tried to say, but his voice shook with every shiver. She was having none of it.

Leaning on his desk, she spoke calmly, but her voice carried an unmistakeably threatening edge.

“You, Mr Potter, are not here to be coddled. You are here to learn your place in this school.” Then her face turned severe. “I will have none of your whining!”

Harry kept his head down for the rest of detention and frowned when he noticed the mixture of red and yellow seeping through his plaster. He thought he might gag. Closing his eyes for a second, he let out a shaky breath and wiped an irritating bead of sweat from his forehead.

He began writing again, wincing at the feeling of skin being scraped away.

Merlin, I hate her.

“Potter! You may leave,” Umbridge squawked from her desk.

He didn’t hesitate to get up, fully intending to leave before she had a chance to change her mind, but he moved too quickly and had to stop to let his swimming head settle.

“Oh and Mr Potter,” she said in that sickly, syrupy voice that made Harry clench his teeth. He managed to turn to her, blinking away the dizziness. She tilted her head and threw him a fake smile. “You will be having a double detention with me tomorrow –”

“What? Why?” Harry snapped heatedly.

“I do not tolerate lateness and I certainly do not tolerate obnoxious young boys with appalling attitudes. You deserve this, Mr Potter. You know you do.”

Harry simply stared at her, a retort failing to form on his lips.

“It is approaching curfew,” Umbridge said, “I suggest you get to your dormitory before I have to issue another detention.”

Merlin, I really hate her.

*

He was hot again – unbearably so – and definitely starting to regret not wearing a t-shirt under his jumper. The halls were virtually empty as he made his way back to Gryffindor Tower, but he tried to focus on nothing but putting one foot in front of the other. The heat made his head hurt and his eyes droop with tiredness. He wanted desperately to get to bed, but his legs were shivering as much as the rest of his body, despite the warmth he was exuding. Hearing the shuffling of his own feet, he was sure he was stumbling more than walking.

Rounding the deserted corridor, he was caught off guard when his stomach lurched and an uncomfortable lump formed in his throat. He had to stop. Hanging onto the wall, he bent forward thinking he might be sick in the corridor, but immediately jumped back up when a hand clamped down hard on his shoulder.

“Loitering in the corridor after curfew, Mr Potter, how very you.”

Harry went to speak but, before he could do anything to stop it, his stomach squeezed painfully and he bent forward, expelling its contents all over the stone floor.  

Snape scrunched up his nose in disgust as Harry stood, hunched and panting with his eyes closed wishing everything away.

With a flourish of his wand, Snape muttered a quick scourgify to banish the mess from the floor and crossed his arms, waiting for an explanation. Too much Firewhiskey, perhaps, he thought, readying himself to chastise the boy. Hmm, or no time for a proper breakfast, but enough to gorge on chocolate frogs? His usual sneer was plastered to his face as he waited for Harry to collect himself and look up.

Harry could feel the eyes on him, so he decided to wait for the dizziness to fade before he even tried to move. Every breath he took felt like one too many with the man’s gaze burning into him. As the feeling of nausea subsided, he slowly straightened himself up and turned his attention to his professor.

At the sight of Harry’s face, a less attuned person would have said Snape didn’t react at all, but it was there in the deepening crinkle on his forehead and the slight widening of his eyes.

Snape took in the spectacle before him; a sweaty, pale, shaking Harry-Potter-shaped mess. The drop of sweat hanging precariously from his eyebrow was disconcerting.

“Mr Potter, this is the wrong way for the hospital wing.”

“I know that, Sir,” Harry retorted more tersely than he’d intended. Snape was about to scald him when Harry quickly turned away again, leaning on the wall and retching.    

“Come with me,” he said, grabbing Harry. With a tug, Harry was pulled into motion.    

“Where are we going?” Harry asked thickly, tripping over his own feet as they walked.

“I suggest you focus your attention on walking.”

They managed to reach the hospital wing without Harry falling down or throwing up again, much to his relief. 

“Poppy!” Snape bellowed, leading Harry to a bed. He looked around, but there was no sign of the medi-witch anywhere. “Poppy!” he shouted again, marching towards her office. Then he spied the note on the door.

Dear All

I have been called away and am currently in a meeting with Headmaster Dumbledore. In case of emergency, please notify the headmaster or contact your head of house.

P. Pomfrey

Snape ripped the note from the door, growling under his breath. “Apparently Madam Pomfrey is otherwise indisposed, Mr Potter.” He swept towards Harry, taking note of the boy’s appearance and chattering teeth.

“How do you feel?” he asked stiffly.

“Sick.”

“Yes, Potter, I can see that. In what way?”

“C-cold again and dizzy,” Harry said, unable to hold back his shivering.       

“Anything else?”

“N-no, Sir.”

Snatching up Harry’s wrist, Snape intended to take the boy’s pulse, but was distracted by the discoloured plaster on his hand.

“What is this?” he said, waving Harry’s hand in front of his face. Harry pulled it back, tucking it under his arm with a hiss.

“Nothing, Sir.”

“Do not lie to me, Mr Potter. I have neither the time nor the patience to play games.” Snatching the hand back, ignoring Harry’s feeble attempts to pull away, Snape slowly peeled back the plaster and Harry found himself having to look away. Although Snape knew there was some form of wound, he couldn’t see it through the sickening mixture of blood and yellow ooze. “How did you do this?”

Harry thought for a moment, his head swimming. He couldn’t tell Snape. If Umbridge found out, his life wouldn’t be worth living. Not that it is now...

He settled for the age old excuse, “I fell.”

Snape harrumphed and fetched some disinfectant from Pomfrey’s stores. A chair scraped across the floor and Harry found himself face to face with the Potions Master.

“I didn’t think you could get any more dim-witted, Mr Potter. This wound is infected; it’s not surprising you feel unwell.” Harry gulped. Snape daubed the disinfectant onto some cotton gauze. “This will sting.” 

As soon as the gauze hit his hand, Harry felt a burn. Unable to hold back, an ahh erupted from his mouth and he tried to tug his hand away, but the professor’s grip was too firm.  

Snape continued to dab at the wound, cleaning the sticky mess away. “I’m afraid the muggle way is the only way unless you tell me what you really did.” Not once did he look up at the boy.

“I told you, I f-fell,” Harry stuttered through chattering teeth.

“And I don’t believe you.” Rubbing harder at the dried patches of blood, Snape tightened his grip. Harry hissed again. “There are various spells and potions for infections, Mr Potter, but each is specific. Magic surpasses muggle medicine when infection is concerned and we can cure it quicker and more efficiently, but I cannot give you the same potion for an infection caused by a glass wound as I can for an infection caused by wood or metal. So I suggest you use that sorry excuse for a brain and tell me how you did this.”

Harry’s head did a flip. On the one hand, if Umbridge ever found out he told, she’d find a way of making his life a living hell...but on the other hand, he already felt like hell. His eyes caught the stern gaze of the Potions Master.

“Have you ever heard of septicaemia, Potter?” Snape said, and Harry gaped. “People die from septicaemia and if your infection gets worse, someone will have to explain to your little friends that you died through your own stupidity.”   

Harry felt a lump in his throat. “P-Please, Sir, promise it stays between us.”

“I will promise no such thing, Potter. The shaking you’re feeling, the sweating, the nausea? That will only get worse. Now, out with it.”

“I can’t,” Harry said with pleading eyes.

“Please yourself. If you will not tell me, I will fetch the headmaster from his meeting.” Snape rose from his chair, dropping Harry’s hand, and with a flourish of his robes, headed for the door. Harry’s heart skipped a beat at the sudden change in the situation.

“What...no, Professor! Wait!” Harry begged.

Step.

Step.

Step.

A hand on the doorknob.

A twist.

A click.

A creak.

A wave of cold air sweeping through the open door.

Snape stepped over the threshold. Harry’s breath hitched.

“A blood quill!”

Snape stopped in his tracks, whipping his head round to meet Harry’s desperate expression. He was telling the truth, Snape could see it in his eyes, but the truth was difficult to take in. After checking the corridors outside to see if anyone was around, Snape closed the door and stalked back across the room, not once taking his eyes off Harry.

“Who?” Snape asked, clenching his jaw and struggling to school his expression.

“Does it matter, Sir?” Harry knew that it did.

“Somebody has brought dark magic into this school, Potter. It matters.”

“Umbridge,” Harry said, but immediately regretted it. “Sir, please, if she f-finds out I told you, she’ll kill me.”

Snape didn’t doubt it. If the woman was willing to use a blood quill on a student, she was capable of anything. He puffed a hot breath through his nose, like a dragon. How dare she? How dare she torture my students? Lily’s child. Vile, evil –

“P-Professor?”

 “Wait here,” he said, disappearing into Pomfrey’s stores. He came back with two vials, a jar and a small first aid kit. “Take this.” He thrust one of the vials into Harry’s hand.

“What is it?”

“An antibiotic. Drink.”

“What’s th-that one?” Harry looks at the vial still in Snape’s hand.

“A fever reducer, Potter! Now, drink!”

Harry gingerly brought the first vial to his lips and downed it in one. Snape swapped the vials, giving him the fever reducer. Without hesitation he swallowed the liquid, grimacing at the taste.

Snape began laying an array of materials on the spot of bed next to where Harry was sat.

“Hold out your hand.” Harry did as he was told, his hand trembling as he watched the man douse another square of gauze in disinfectant. He closed his eyes, waiting for the sting.

“Ah!” he yelped. The pain was intense, but short-lived as Snape pressed down hard and wiped off the rest of the blood and ooze. He brought Harry’s hand close to his face and was just able to make out the words.

“I must not tell lies? Why this?”

“She d-didn’t believe me,” Harry said, “about Voldemort.”     

Snape picked up the jar and opened it. He tipped a splodge of off-white cream onto clear bandage and carefully lowered the back of Harry’s hand onto it. The cream was cold and soothing, taking the sting away. Snape wrapped the clear bandage around Harry’s hand tightly, pressing it down at the sides to stop the cream from oozing out.

“The antibiotics and cream should fight the infection in your hand.” Harry nodded. “You will likely feel ill for the next day or so. The fever reducer should already be working.”

“Yes,” Harry said, “I don’t feel as shivery as before.” He held out his hand and saw only a slight tremble. “Thank you, Sir.” Snape said nothing, packing away the first aid kit instead. “Professor, what happens now?”

Snape knew he meant about Umbridge.

“It’s late, Mr Potter. Nothing will change between now and the morning. You will sleep here tonight. I will remain until Madam Pomfrey returns.”

“But –” Harry protested weakly. He had so many more questions.

“This is not an option. You will need more antibiotics when you wake, so you will stay here.” Snape disappeared once again into Pomfrey’s office and came out with a pair of Hogwarts pyjamas. “I will be in Madam Pomfrey’s office. I suggest you change into these and get some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.” Leaving the pyjamas on the bed next to Harry, Snape flourished his wand muttering a quick Nox and left Harry in darkness.

*

Snape slumped down into Pomfrey’s armchair, only just resisting the urge not to storm down the halls and pay Umbridge a little visit.

Potter – despite his constant attempts to think him otherwise – was legally still a child. He was a child that Snape had vowed to protect. For Lily. Always for Lily.

His thoughts were on nothing but justice and vengeance on behalf of the witch he loved. Nobody, not even Potter, deserved to be tortured – especially not by someone he was supposed to trust. Umbridge had abused her power – it’s not like you’ve never done that, Severus. You torture the boy every day! – Snape shook his head. I have never laid a finger on him. I have never harmed him like this. He tried to swing a punch at his conscience, but it kept eating away at him.

He wanted to bring Umbridge down, but the presence of Dumbledore complicated things. He was already in trouble with the Ministry, so any attack on Umbridge would be brushed aside and labelled in The Daily Prophet as Dumbledore’s Revenge. No, he needed proof. The blood quill. 

He sat for hours, mentally cursing the woman.

*

When Harry awoke in the morning, the first thing he noticed was that he wasn’t shivering anymore. He could actually hold his hand out without it trembling. He still felt weak though, like all his energy had been used up during sleep. To his relief, the back of his hand, though still swollen, didn’t seem to be weeping anymore. At least not that he could tell through the bandage.

But then there was the nausea. It wasn’t overwhelming, but judging by the way he felt, he assumed his face was still ghostly. Hearing the sound of footfalls, he assumed Madam Pomfrey was on her way to check on him, but his thoughts were cut off as Snape’s robes swept into view.

“Mr Potter, you’ve decided to join us.”

Harry promptly tried to shift himself into sitting position, but failed miserably. As he tried again, Snape’s hand came down upon his shoulder and pushed him back into the bed. He snatched Harry’s hand and peeled back the bandage. The cream had soaked in, eradicating most of the infection, but it left an ugly scar. Snape grimaced slightly; he’d hoped the cream would help fade some of the scarring, but it hadn’t worked, probably due to the nature of the dark magic. He took a fresh bandage from his robes and re-dressed Harry’s hand as a precaution.

“You will be staying here for the rest of the morning, so I suggest you spend this time resting.” Snape’s figure seemed to loom over him as he lay in bed. Snape thrust his hand into his pocket. “This,” he said, holding out a vial, “is a blend of two different antibiotics. Take half now and half in an hour’s time. I have left a fever reducer on your bedside table. You are to take it after you’ve taken the last dose of antibiotics. You are to stay in bed until I excuse you, is that clear?”

Harry took the vial from Snape’s grip. “Yes, Sir. But what is going to happen today, I mean with Umbr –”

“That is none of your concern at the moment, Mr Potter. Now rest.”

“But Professor, what if she finds out–”

“Rest assured, it will be dealt with,” were Snape’s cryptic words before he swept from the hospital wing as quickly as he’d arrived. 

Snape strode down to the Great Hall for breakfast. He was a little late due to his stop at the hospital wing and many of the staff had already eaten and left, but as he walked in he saw Umbridge sat smugly at the table, sipping her tea, conversing with no one, just sweeping her superior gaze over the students as they ate, like a King or Queen would survey their court. She was sitting in Dumbledore’s usual seat. That irked Snape more than anything else. He swept along the staff table and sat in the seat next to Umbridge. For once he would be able to use his severe reputation to his advantage.

“Good morning, Dolores,” Snape drawled.

“Snape,” she replied curtly.

Snape served himself some pumpkin juice and said nothing more. On closer inspection, it seemed Umbridge wasn’t just observing her kingdom, she was looking for someone, and Snape knew exactly who it was.

“I bumped into Mr Potter last night,” he said.

Umbridge’s high pitched squeak told him he was right. She set her cup and saucer down and turned slightly in her chair to face Snape whose expression showed nothing but an air of indifference. Umbridge sat waiting for him to make his point.

“Whatever you are doing in these...detentions...is obviously working. I have never seen Potter so obedient,” he said lingering on the last word.   

Umbridge shifted in her seat. “Yes, well. The boy needs discipline. Firm discipline. Something I’m sure he’s never seen in his life here at Hogwarts.” Her voice then took on a lighter tone, but Snape was sure he heard a hint of fear. “Did Mr Potter speak of anything else?”

Snape paused deliberately, taking a long sip of his pumpkin juice.

“No.” Umbridge visibly relaxed. “But I am curious about your methods. I’m sure whatever it is, he deserves it,” Snape said. Lowering his voice, his tone turned bitter and he added, just for emphasis, “Every day he pushes me further towards casting an unforgiveable. That insolent boy gets away with far too much. Before your arrival, the Headmaster let him run riot in this place.” He drew his face easily into a scowl. “Just like his father.” The scowl could barely be considered false – the very thought of James Potter making it very easy to dredge up the ongoing bitterness and resentment he felt.

A small smile crept onto Umbridge’s face. “Finally, a wizard in this castle with some sense,” she said, picking up her tea and sipping it once more. “I was beginning to think it impossible to find a professor in this school that wasn’t foolish enough to be taken in by the lies of some teenager.”   

Snape inwardly cringed. You do not know how wrong you are, woman. “I assure you, Dolores, he has no sway with me. I have been telling Dumbledore for years that Potter needs more discipline than weak words and a lemon drop. I am pleased to see that somebody is willing to kick the boy off his pedestal.”

“His lies are creating rather a fuss at the Ministry,” she said irritably. “It will take weeks to dispel the rumours he is spreading. The quicker the boy learns to behave, the better.” Umbridge’s eyes swept over the house tables. A crease settled above her nose when her gaze fell upon the Gryffindor table.

Snape cleared his throat. “If you require another on your side, I am willing to help in your little crusade.” He served himself some more pumpkin juice. “In fact, it would make me more than happy to...seek a little retribution...perhaps use a more fitting punishment now that Dumbledore and his obscene rules have been... ousted,” he added lightly, though every bad word he said about Dumbledore made him detest Umbridge even more.

Umbridge paused with her teacup raised to her mouth. Lowering it slowly back down to the saucer, she sat with pursed lips, obviously thinking. Snape schooled his features back into his usual look of indifference. Umbridge leant forward and placed her tea gently on the table before sitting back in her chair and resting her hands in her lap.    

“If you are certain that I have you on board,” she clipped, “as my headmaster duties are proving quite the task, the Defence Against the Dark Arts post may suddenly become...available...should you be interested.”

Snape’s eyebrows rose in surprise. He had wanted that position for so long. He went to speak but found he couldn’t, stunned as he was. He could have the job he’d always wanted but Dumbledore had always refused him. It was being offered to him on a plate...for a price, yes, but how big was that price? Merlin, Severus, stop gawping and remember what you are doing, his conscience chided. He couldn’t believe he was actually thinking about it. It’s obviously a bribe to keep me quiet, he thought. But what a bribe! Snapping his mouth shut, he composed himself and said deeply, “I am most certainly on board.”

“In that case, Snape, would you like to escort me to my office?” she asked, getting up from her seat.

“Indeed I would.”

Snape downed the rest of his pumpkin juice and exited the hall with Umbridge, fighting hard to keep his lips from quirking upwards. Both professors were oblivious to the two sets of eyes watching from the Gryffindor table as they left.

*

Ron and Hermione followed Snape and Umbridge with their eyes as both left the hall together.

“They’re getting cosy,” Ron said looking like he’d just eaten something rotten.

“Something’s going on,” Hermione replied absently.

“Disgusting if you ask me.” Ron stuffed a large chunk of sausage in his mouth and continued. “A bat and a toad. At least keep it within the species.” That earned him a clout around the head with a copy of The Daily Prophet from Hermione. He wasn’t sure if it was because of his comment or his manners.

Hermione sat in front of her half-eaten breakfast, her hands in her lap restlessly rolling the newspaper. “I’m worried about Harry,” she said finally.

“Look, we’ll check the hospital wing before class. He was sick last night so he probably did the sensible thing and went to Pomfrey. If he’s not there, we’ll check with McGonagall, OK?” Ron said through a mouthful of food.

“You’re probably right.” Hermione sighed. “Do chew your food, Ronald,” she chastised before going back to her breakfast a little less concerned than she was.

*

Stepping into Umbridge’s office, Snape forced himself not to roll his eyes at the cat plates adorning the walls.

Umbridge shut her office door and rounded her desk. From her breast pocket she retrieved a key and bent down slightly, poking it into the lock on her desk drawer. As the key settled in the lock, it glowed blue. Drawing her wand she then muttered, “Alohomora,” under her breath and the key turned slowly. Snape could hear the tiny clicks as each component of the lock came undone. What with the extra safe protection on the drawer, Snape knew exactly what she was hiding in it. 

Grasping the handle, she paused. “Just what are your limits, Snape?” she asked. Snape was caught off-guard and at his moment of hesitation, Umbridge jerked herself upright, releasing the drawer handle. “If we are to keep Potter in line, how far are you willing to go?” she asked sweetly, but the look in her eyes told Snape she was deadly serious. He thought for a second.

“I am open to suggestions, however, as long as Potter remains alive and breathing, the methods are of no concern to me,” he said, face resolute.

Umbridge’s hand hung sceptically over the drawer. “And what are your views on...Dark Magic?”

“I did not become a master of the Dark Arts without reason,” Snape said cryptically. “I am more aware of the effects than most. I am also very aware of the antidotes and cures if, Merlin forbid, something goes...awry.” For a moment, they locked eyes. Snape didn’t take a breath as Umbridge’s fingers curled around the drawer handle again and this time she slowly slid it open.

Snape took an eager step forward. He kept his eyes on her hand as she withdrew something from the drawer. There it was. Pinched between her fingers was a blood quill, black as the magic inside it.

“I know what you are thinking,” she said quietly, “not your usual method of punishment, but he is learning, you said so yourself.” Placing the quill on her desk, she pushed it towards Snape. “In this case, I believe the end justifies the means, don’t you?” She cocked her head to the side, smiling.

Snape picked up the quill in his hand, bringing it up to his eye. He scrutinised it, studying the shape, taking in the colour of the feather, the sharpness of the tip. Yes, it was by no mistake a blood quill.

“Ingenious,” Snape said distractedly.

“I will be able to obtain an extra quill when I next visit the Ministry, though I would ask for your discretion.” Snape nodded and continued taking in every detail of the quill. “It will likely be tomorrow. Potter has another detention with me tonight.” Umbridge smirked to herself. “They are very...handy...for lessons such as the ones we will need to teach Mr Potter.”

“Indeed,” Snape said deeply. He carefully handed the quill back to Umbridge who smiled smugly at it before shutting it away again.

“Before you go,” she said, rounding her desk, “As of tomorrow, welcome to your new post as Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Snape.”

It felt so strange to be hearing those words – stranger still that Snape knew he probably wouldn’t get to teach a single class.

*

“Harry!” Ron and Hermione said in unison. They both strode over to his bedside.

“Hey guys,” Harry said groggily. He sat up and felt around for his glasses. “How did you know I was here?” he asked, making sure to keep his infected hand out of sight.

“After all these years we’ve come to expect it,” Hermione said, flashing him a smile.

“How are you feeling?” Ron asked, but before Harry could reply, Madam Pomfrey click-clacked into the room.

“Mr Potter, you should be resting,” she clipped. Harry groaned loudly. “Don’t give me that look, young man, Professor Snape’s orders – said you were wandering the halls sick with flu, silly boy.” She rounded the bed and felt his forehead. “Hmph, you’re still a bit warm, but you look better. How do you feel?”

“Just a bit tired.”

“You will do. Professor Snape said he gave you a fever reducer earlier?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry said.

“Then I cannot prescribe another one for an hour or two, which gives you ample time to rest, Mr Potter.” She gave him a reproachful look and then extended it to Hermione and Ron. Hermione took the hint, but Ron was oblivious as usual.

“Come on, Ron,” she said, tugging on his sleeve, “we should leave Harry to get better.” Ron looked about to protest, but the glare from Pomfrey and Hermione’s authoritarian tone made him rethink.

“Sorry, mate. Get better, yeah?” Ron said awkwardly as Hermione pushed him out of the hospital wing.

“Get well, Harry!” she called back, giving Harry a little wave.

Pomfrey continued bustling around the hospital wing. Harry removed his glasses again and rearranged his pillows. Madam Pomfrey absentmindedly marched up to his bed and cleared the empty vials on the table, scrutinising the boy in front of her.

“One of these days you’ll learn to do the sensible thing and come to me of your own accord when you’re sick rather than constantly need to be coaxed into it,” she said lightly. Walking away, she added, “Though at least when that day comes, I’ll know it’s serious.” Harry saw her mouth quirk upwards into smile as she disappeared into her office.

As he lay down in the hospital bed, his thoughts were plagued not only by Umbridge, but by Snape as well. He’d covered for Harry...the flu story...just what was Snape up to?   

*

After setting his afternoon third year class to work, Snape did his usual rounds of the room, berating the Gryffindors and praising the Slytherins. Half an hour into the class, most of the students were at the stage in brewing where all they could do was stir and watch their cauldrons. Usually Snape didn’t allow idle chat in his class, especially not when potentially dangerous potions were being made, but his mind was elsewhere as the students quietly talked and laughed amongst themselves. Snape allowed himself this little breather; after class there was so much to do.

Sitting at his desk while his students worked away, he thought about Potter, deciding it best to allow the boy the rest of the day to recuperate. He still needed a few more doses of the antibiotics to keep the infection at bay, but Snape didn’t see the need for the boy to remain cooped up in the hospital wing for the rest of the day; he had a perfectly good bed in Gryffindor Tower where he wasn’t getting under anybody’s feet.    

As the students began bottling their potions, Snape was drawn from his reverie.

“Label your bottled potions and put them on my desk, then you may leave,” he bellowed over the inane chatter of students.

As soon as the last student was out, he locked the potions away and trekked to the hospital wing. When he arrived, Madam Pomfrey was dealing with a sick student who on first glance looked very ill, until Snape spied the open packet of ‘Puking Pastels’. Blasted Weasley twins again.

Leaving Pomfrey to her duties, Snape headed straight for Harry’s bed and was surprised to find the boy fast asleep. His first instinct was to clear his throat loudly and snap Potter’s name to give him a bit of a fright, but after everything that had happened, he decided to leave the boy to sleep. The last thing Snape needed was for him to collapse on the way back up to Gryffindor Tower and end up back in the hospital wing, using up more of his potions.

Striding into Pomfrey’s office, he wrote a quick message on a piece of parchment and, after retrieving two vials from his pocket, quietly swept around Harry’s bed and placed them and the note at his bedside. Leaving the hospital wing, he nodded to Madam Pomfrey and marched back down to the dungeons. When he reached his quarters he wanted nothing more than to sit in his chair with a cup of hot tea and a book, but no, first he had some errands to run and some people to see. He stepped into his fireplace ready to floo to his first destination.

*

Harry had been sleeping soundly for three hours. It had taken him forever to drop off, but not even the intermittent clicking of Madam Pomfrey’s heels or sound of a first year retching could keep him awake once he’d succumbed to slumber. The infection had really taken it out of him. When he awoke, he took a deep breath and felt pretty good – still groggy and exhausted, but better than he had been feeling at any rate. Apparently he really did need to sleep.

Feeling around the bedside table for his glasses, Harry’s heart jumped as he knocked over some potion vials. He almost leapt out of bed as he scrambled to keep them from falling off the table. Thank goodness the stoppers were in. Finding his glasses, he put them on and immediately noticed the note underneath the vials.     

            Potter,

Whilst you were sleeping some of us had things to do, so here are your potions. Remember, half the antibiotic now, half in an hour, and then take the    fever reducer. Once you have consumed the potions, you may return to Gryffindor Tower to recuperate for the rest of the day.

Come to my quarters at 6pm for your final dose of antibiotics.

Prof. Snape

Harry yawned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Snape had given him the rest of the day off. He hadn’t even assigned him any catch up work. More to the point, he’d let him sleep. Any other day Harry would wager that Snape would take great pleasure in scaring him awake.

Harry uncorked the antibiotic, downing half in one gulp. He lay back down in his bed trying to think of a way to pass the time. His mind wandered to Umbridge and a scowl planted itself firmly across his face. Part of him had foolishly hoped she’d be banished from the school by the time he woke up in the afternoon. He’d even dreamt that she was dragged away by Aragog on a visit to Hagrid’s hut. There were no cheers though, nor any laughter, so he assumed his dream hadn’t come true. At least he’d managed to wangle a night off from her incessant torture.  

It was almost four in the afternoon before Harry got to leave the hospital wing. Pomfrey stopped him as he was readying himself to go, but he showed her the note and the empty vials and she quickly admonished him for not going to see her sooner and then shooed him out with a warning that she would assign him his own healer if she saw him again that week.

Strolling through the castle to his dormitory, Harry felt strangely free. It wasn’t often that he had a completely free afternoon. Hermione and Ron were probably still stuck in classes. He picked at the bandage on his hand and lifted it, frowning at the red scars that blemished the skin. As if he didn’t have enough scars already!

Harry muttered the password for the portrait and looked around the common room. A couple of people were milling about, but no one he really wanted to talk to. Instead, he turned and headed for his room, intent on starting his Astronomy homework. He sat cross legged on the bed and opened his book. He managed to read two paragraphs before slumping back on his pillows and falling into a deep sleep.

*

The clock had struck six o’clock precisely four minutes ago. Snape sat in his quarters, resting his chin between his thumb and forefinger. Harry had not yet been down to collect his antibiotics, but short of storming up to Gryffindor Tower, there wasn’t a great deal he could do about it. Truth be told, for what seemed like the first time ever, Snape didn’t mind too much; this was the most rest he’d had all day.

Another three minutes later and there was a quiet knock on his door. Snape got up to open it.

“Sorry, Sir, I fell asleep and didn’t realise the time.”

“Surprisingly, Potter, I hadn’t banked on you being on time.”

Snape stepped aside, allowing Harry in and Harry stood awkwardly in the middle of the room. “Sit,” Snape ordered and Harry quickly sunk down into the nearest chair.

Snape strode over to his bureau and removed a vial, quickly checked the label, and then walked back to Harry, handing it over.

“I trust you know what to do with it now?” Snape asked.

Harry nodded, uncorking the bottle and downing half. Snape moved back to his armchair and rested his wrists on the wooden arms. The fingers on his right hand drummed the oak. If Harry wasn’t mistaken, Snape looked agitated.

“Is that all, Sir?” he asked, hoping that it was. He wasn’t in the mood to be on the receiving end of Snape’s temper tonight.

“Yes, Potter.” Snape paused and Harry took that as his cue to leave. Before he got to the door, however, Snape stopped him. “Potter, as soon as you have taken your last dose, report to Umbridge for your next detention.” His voice was strained.

For some reason Snape found it very difficult to maintain eye contact – it was like watching Lily’s wonderful eyes crumble before him. 

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. Snape still wanted him to go to detention with Umbridge? His mouth drooped, his expression doing nothing to hide the devastation he felt.

“I have to go back?” Harry asked incredulously.

“Always trying to get out of detentions. A Potter through and through aren’t you?” Snape quipped.

“You saw what she...how can you make me...” Harry shook his head, feeling furious that he’d even thought it possible to trust the man.

“Things do not always work out the way we want them to, Potter,” Snape said, his face turning serious. There was something in that look that Harry couldn’t decipher; however he wasn’t given any time to think on it. “Professor Umbridge will be expecting you at 7pm. Do not be late. I do not expect her to be as forgiving as I have been tonight.”

“But I thought –”

“You thought what, Potter?”

“I...” Harry looked at his professor, but the man’s face now held nothing but the usual snide loathing he was accustomed to. Why had he been so stupid? This was Snape. It was all a game. Just like always. Harry dropped his gaze to his shoes. “Nothing.”

“Then why are you still here?” Snape asked sharply before rising from his seat and marching to the door, throwing it open.

Harry didn’t know what to say. That was the last thing he was expecting to happen that night. He couldn’t keep the frown from his face; it was as though a lead weight was pulling on the corners of his lips. Snape wasn’t even looking at him. As Harry stepped over the threshold, Snape slammed the door behind him, clipping the back of his heels.

Harry’s stomach clenched at the thought of seeing Umbridge again. Snape was right; sometimes things didn’t work out the way he wanted them to. After years of let downs he thought he should be used to it by now.

*

Harry had spent the last hour wringing his hands and pacing in his room. Ron had asked him what was wrong, but Harry fobbed him off saying he was still feeling a bit under the weather and just wanted to be left alone for a bit.

Now, standing outside Umbridge’s office at 6.58pm, he downed the final dose of antibiotic, stowed the vial in his trouser pocket, and gave the door a firm knock.

“Come!” Harry heard from inside.

As he walked in, he saw his usual desk set up. The sound of the cats crying on the wall did nothing to quell the feeling in his gut.

“Ah, Mr Potter, you are early. You must be eager.” Umbridge smirked, standing from her desk. As she stalked towards him, he shuddered at the quill in her hand. “Sit down, Mr Potter.” Harry sat behind the desk and Umbridge stood there, looking down at him. “It might interest you to know that Professor Snape will be your new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor whilst I spend my time cleaning up the mess Albus Dumbledore has made of this school.”

Harry’s head shot up. She bought him off! She bought the bastard off with the DADA post! Harry wasn’t sure whether he should be angry or upset. He knew Professor Snape didn’t like him, but he didn’t think he was shallow and cruel enough to be swayed by something so materialistic.

Umbridge started pacing. “This does not mean, however, that our detentions are finished. Your...rehabilitation...will continue until I see a measurable change in you, Mr Potter. When I am not available, Professor Snape has agreed to ensure you are kept in line.”

Harry went rigid. So now Snape wanted to torture him to? He told one person, one person, and they betrayed him. He felt physically sick.

“I think by now you should know what to do.” She placed the quill in front of Harry, smirking. Harry picked it up shakily. “Oh and Potter, I want to see two hundred today.”

Harry gulped audibly. Everything had gone downhill so suddenly. Shaking his head, he tried to keep his mind on the task at hand. If he thought about his day any longer he was sure he’d scream or cry or do something foolish and embarrassing in front of the toad.

He took a deep breath and touched quill to parchment.

At that moment, the door broke free from its hinges, a loud crash ringing through Harry’s ears. As the dust cleared, Dumbledore stepped across the threshold, accompanied by a small army of Aurors.  

“Hello, Dolores,” Dumbledore said. Umbridge whipped out her wand, but Dumbledore was too quick and disarmed her. “Put it down, Harry,” he said, eyeing the quill in Harry’s hand. Harry dropped it immediately and scrambled out of his chair to join the crowd of Aurors at the door.

“You have been abusing your power, Dolores.”

“I- I don’t know what on Earth you’re talking about,” Umbridge sputtered.

“I believe you misjudged the loyalty of one of our faculty,” Dumbledore said before turning to Harry, giving him a wink, and standing aside. To Harry’s astonishment, there stood Snape, sending a death glare towards Umbridge.

“You!” she cried. “You tricked me! You tricked a Ministry Official! You will pay for this, you mark my words, Snape!”

“In this case, Ms Umbridge,” Snape drawled, “I believe the end justifies the means...don’t you?”

“Thank you, Severus,” Dumbledore said.

A smirk adorned Snape’s face, infuriating Umbridge further, and then he swiftly turned on his heels and swept from the room. Harry gaped. Snape hadn’t betrayed him at all.  

Two Aurors moved forward, seizing Umbridge’s arms. “Get off me, you fools!” she screeched. “Cornelius will –”

“– hear about this?” Dumbledore finished for her with a smile. “Yes, I quite imagine he will. A blood quill, Dolores? On a student? The Minister will indeed be interested.”

Another Auror levitated the quill from Harry’s desk, dropping it into a secure container.

“Mr Potter needed to be punished, Dumbledore! Don’t you see?!” Umbridge said, her eye ablaze as she tried to explain.

“No, Dolores. All I see is a trained witch using a dark artefact on a young boy. Severus has relayed what you told him and has relinquished his memory of this afternoon’s conversation, so you are cornered, figuratively speaking.” Dumbledore stepped towards her menacingly and lowered his voice. “Voldemort you are not, but the evil in your veins is just as pure.” He then whipped his head round to face Harry who was stood there in shock. Striding over to him, robes billowing behind, Dumbledore put a hand on Harry’s shoulder and steered him through the crowd of Aurors.

“Come, Harry,” he said as they left Umbridge’s office, “let us leave the Aurors to their work.”

That night, Harry spent the evening describing his detentions with Umbridge and trying to explain why he kept it quiet. Dumbledore listened intently like he always did, offering a comforting hand when Harry looked about to burst with emotion and soothing words when Harry had run out of steam.

Dumbledore explained what would happen to Umbridge, and Harry felt little sympathy for her. Harming a student would come under child abuse, which was usually punishable by a term in Azkaban, but on top of that she had stolen a dark artefact from the Ministry. She would not be bothering Hogwarts again for a very long time.

It was late by the time Harry left Dumbledore’s office. With a handful of lemon drops, he trudged back to Gryffindor Tower thinking over the events of the day. His opinion of Snape had morphed several times in the last twenty four hours and Harry felt somewhat ashamed of the way he acted in front of the man in his quarters now that he knew it was all just an elaborate plan to catch Umbridge out. Dumbledore always told him to trust Snape, but Snape had never given him any real reason to. Not until now. Now the man had gone out of his way to get rid of Umbridge for good.

Reaching the tower, Harry climbed the stairs to his room. The sound of snores filled the air. Harry assumed Ron had been waiting up for him by the way he was slumped awkwardly on one side with a quidditch magazine underneath him. Quietly, he climbed into bed, not even bothering to change. Sleep didn’t come easily, but when the feeling hit him, he succumbed quickly. Merlin, he was exhausted.

*

Ron woke Harry up the next morning by giving him a rough shake.

“Wha?” Harry grumbled, face pressed into his pillow.

“Breakfast, mate.”

Harry groaned, but was persuaded to slide out of bed by the loud growl in his stomach.

Down in the Great Hall, Harry and Ron joined Hermione at the table and talk soon turned to Harry’s detention the night before.

“She’s vile!” Hermione exclaimed after Harry told them in a roundabout way that his detention had gone on longer than expected. Taking a bite of his toast, Harry shrugged his shoulders.

“Don’t worry, ‘Mione,” he said, “I have a feeling she won’t be around anymore.”  

Both Ron and Hermione stopped eating and turned to Harry as if to say explain now.

“Dumbledore found her blood quill. The Aurors took her away last night,” Harry said, keeping his explanation to the bare minimum.

“Harry!” Hermione said, smiling, “that’s great news!”

Ron laughed to himself. “The greasy git will be upset now his troll’s gone, ha!”

“Ronald!” Hermione admonished. She noticed Harry’s raised eyebrow. “Oh, we just saw Professor Snape and Umbridge whispering to each other at breakfast yesterday. Ronald here decided it was some kind of sordid affair.”

Harry merely smiled, realising that it was all probably part of Snape’s plan to catch Umbridge out. “Don’t be stupid, Ron,” Harry sniggered. “Even Snape has better taste than that.” They all laughed and Ron started tucking back into his breakfast again. Harry picked up his toast, but he was distracted. Peering surreptitiously up at the staff table, he noticed Snape wasn’t there. Until he’d fallen asleep last night he was running over the day in his mind. The one thing that popped into his thoughts frequently was the strong urge he felt to thank Snape for everything. He certainly didn’t want to go through another bout of sickness again after Umbridge had had her way, and Snape was the one to stop it from happening. Snape was the one to save him once again. The man was making a habit of it.

Taking a last bite of his toast and a swig of his drink, Harry climbed over the bench and grabbed his things.

“Where you going now?” Ron asked swallowing a mouthful of bacon.

“I just have to go and do something.” Harry swung his bag over his shoulder. “Meet you in Herbology.” Without giving them chance to question him, Harry sped out of the hall and headed for the dungeons.  

*

Snape was sat in his armchair sipping a potion-laced coffee. The escapades of the last couple of days had left him utterly exhausted, but that was nothing a bit of caffeine and a weak dose of Pepper-Up potion wouldn’t cure.

A glass sat on the coffee table, the dregs of brandy visible, after the late night visit he received from Dumbledore – not that he minded; the man was generally good company and Snape had gained something from the visit too. He hoped Dumbledore would leave him to reveal it, however. Rarely did he get to have a bit of fun.

A tap on his door drew Snape out of his reverie. He put down his cup and went to answer it expecting one of his Slytherins to be standing outside, so he was surprised when the door swung open to reveal Harry Potter, The Boy He’d-Seen-Too-Much-Of-Recently, looking up at him as dishevelled as ever.

“Hello, Sir, can I have a word?” Harry asked uneasily.

“May I have a word,” Snape corrected rolling his eyes. “Come in if you must.”

Snape shut the door behind Harry and then swept passed him, settling himself back into his seat. Harry stood awkwardly, thinking over what he wanted to say.

“Potter,” Snape pushed when the silence dragged on too long.

“I...er...” Harry combed a hand through his hair, messing it up further.

“Spit it out,” Snape said, exasperated.

Harry swallowed thickly trying to find his voice. “I –” He cleared his throat and tried again. “I just wanted to thank you...for...y’know...everything really.”

Snape searched Harry’s face and saw nothing but sincerity. “Your gratitude is neither required nor wanted,” he replied derisively.

“I know but...well.” Harry shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “I also wanted to apologise.”

Snape actually looked taken aback. “For what exactly?”

“The way I acted last night.” Harry looked to his shoes and smoothed down his robes. “I should have trusted you. Dumbledore always said –”

“Professor Dumbledore, Potter.”

“Professor Dumbledore,” Harry repeated forcefully, “always said I should trust you. I think...I think I’m beginning to understand now.”    

“How touching,” Snape said in a bored tone. He sat there, unblinking, making Harry feel very uncomfortable.

I guess this was a bad idea, Harry decided. He thought that perhaps he should’ve just continued appreciating the man’s help from afar.    

“That’s all I wanted to say, Professor. So thanks and yeah...I’ll be...” Harry pointed a thumb over his shoulder to the door and turned to leave.

“Eloquent as ever.” Harry stopped and turned around, opening his mouth as if to say something, but Snape cut him off. “Your bumbling aside...” Snape sighed and inclined his head, “you are welcome, Potter.”

Harry felt the tension drain out of him immediately and he couldn’t help the small grin that spread across his face. Nodding to Snape, he said a quick “Goodbye, Sir!” and made to leave. Just as Harry was closing the door, Snape’s voice rang out.

“Oh and Potter!” Harry poked his head back around the door. “Do not be late to your afternoon class. Now that Umbridge has...moved on, I think you’ll find your new professor to be quite...severe.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “Permanently?” was all he could muster up.

Snape nodded. “If you want to thank me, you will keep it to yourself. I think I have earned the right to see firsthand the look of horror on Mr Weasley’s face.”

Snape just made a joke...Umbridge must’ve killed me in detention...

“Run along, Mr Potter, your presence is fast spoiling my day.”

Maybe not.

Harry’s head disappeared from the doorway and the door clicked closed. Snape leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming against the wood. His first lesson was not for another 30 minutes, so he let himself relax. As his mind wandered, he felt the anger build at the thought of Umbridge; he felt satisfaction swell inside him at the thought of the Aurors whisking the old witch away; he felt mixed emotions at the thought of Harry Potter, the boy it seemed he lived to constantly save from harm; and he felt nothing but contentment at the thought of Dumbledore offering him the job he’d always wanted since the beginning his career at Hogwarts.

Sipping his now cold coffee, the clock in his quarters chimed and Snape stood up straightening his robes, ready for the day ahead. As he marched through the dungeons, the severity of his gait did not match his mood in the slightest. He was the new DADA professor. That would rattle some cages. He smirked to himself. The class would be his; he wouldn’t be just a replacement as he was for Lupin those years ago. As he walked, his purposeful march slowed to an amble. For the first time in a very long while, something good had come Severus Snape’s way. The dungeon corridors seemed somewhat brighter and as his relative good mood tugged on his thoughts, he gladly succumbed, his distracted mind pondering clouds and silver linings.