Severus Snape attributes it to some sixth-sense that teachers have: the ability to know when some of their students are inevitably getting up to trouble. They can't explain it. They can't help it. They just know. And it's this just knowing that has Severus pacing the corridors of the seventh floor at well past midnight.

The whispering finally gives them away. Children should never sneak out with friends; no matter how quiet they mean to be, they can't resist the pull of their own unutterable stupidity - thus it becomes their downfall. Severus lets a grim smile curl his lips as he rounds the corner, flourishing a glowing wand tip to illuminate the guilty party.

He narrows his eyes. "Nott. Zabini."

Several theories are playing through his head, but steps forward to get a better look at the third figure, hanging back and still encased in shadows. He knows who it is even before he says the name.

"Potter," He growls.

Ah. He should have expected this. He might not know how yet, but Potter is absolutely responsible.

"Sir," the boy mutters.

Lowering his wand arm so his lumos isn't quite as blinding, Severus straightens, robes falling outward around him, trying to dampen some misguided sense of betrayal and anger. Because Severus Snape is angry, make no mistake about it, righteous fury rushing straight through to his head, and it's all directed at the muzzy haired little idiot in front of him.

He's angry, and it takes him a little by surprise, because in the past few weeks since Severus gave Potter the photography, they've been stuck in some sort of uneasy neutrality. Anger against the boy - well, he's tried to find it on more than one occasion, tried to conjure some up when those round glasses and ridiculous hair caught the edge of his line of vision, but it seemed there simply wasn't any to summon.

This, though, this blatant advantage-taking of Severus' good graces, galls him. He may, in a moment of weakness, have given the boy a token, but that does not mean he gets to skip around carte blanche with Severus' favor! This sort of gratuitous, haphazard rule-breaking is exactly what Severus has sworn to break in the boy, and after one kindness, one reluctant extended hand, the presumption, the nerve of the boy to -

"Respect, Potter! Head up!"

Potter lifts his head reluctantly, and all three of the boys shuffle closer together, straightening before him like they're facing some final doom. Well, he won't disabuse them of the notion. Not before he gets what he wants out of them.

Severus gestures sharply with his wand and and even though his voice addresses all three of them, his black eyes don't move from Potter's face. "Explain."

Potter's jaw shifts, his top teeth dragging against his lower lip as his eyes dart to his comrades.

"I -" He stops and swallows, starts again, resolve gathering rather obviously beneath Severus' glower. "I challenged them to a race. Flying. It's my fault, sir, they didn't want to -"

Severus is barely bothering to pay attention to Potter's words, though, because Blaise Zabini's brows are plunging in a dubious expression, and Nott's face has gone suspiciously neutral. Severus had a feeling they're both screaming at Potter in their heads, but, well, that's what happens when you leave the one person who's a terrible liar to speak for the group (really? They're on the seventh floor because they're headed outside for a broom race? If he didn't know it was just Potter's innate and all-consuming brainlessness, Severus might feel offended by the suggestions of his own level of intelligence in such an obvious lie). Severus' lips stretch into a smile.

"Lying to protect your friends? An appallingly Gryffindor tendency, Potter."

Potter falls silent, and this is where it starts, the fear, his pulse quickening, his throat pulsing. Severus can see him fight it down, search for a sharp reply, then falter.

"Alright," Potter's blinking, in the dim light, his eyes shimmering behind their glass. "Alright - but I talked them into this -"

"You," Severus glares, meeting each boy's eyes in turn, "have seconds to tell me what you are actually doing in this hall before I lose my patience and assign Potter an even harsher detention and endless weeks without his broom - which," his voice slides smooth and sibilant, "incidentally Potter, you seemed to have missed carrying with you when you set out for your midnight broom race!"

Dismayed, indignant, Potter nevertheless draws himself up stubbornly, lips closed in muted rebellion. Zabini glances at the other boy, then sends a reluctant, almost apologetic look at his Head.

It's Nott who surprise Severus, studying him intently for a moment with a steady, assessing gaze, his small, dark eyes strangely intense.

After a moment, his lips purse.

"It's Potter's owl, sir." He says finally.

"Potter's owl?" Severus' lips thin as he swivels forbiddingly toward Potter. He should have guessed - they're close to the entrance of the West Tower. "If you think that I'm going to let you off with light consequences because you missed your pet, I assure you -"

"Not that! It's sick!" Blaise Zabini pushes forward, sounding a little desperate, but Potter hasn't spoken at all, and it makes Severus pause.

Potter won't look at him, shoulders hitched up, not even bothering to glare at his friends.

So. Poor little Potter's pathetic owl is sick.

"And what, exactly, were you three planning to do about it?" Severus sneers.

There's a long silence before Theodore says evenly, "Well, Blaise and I wanted to see her, first, try to ascertain more of her condition, but -"

He reluctantly draws out a handful of rather limp looking small green leaves from his pocket.

"Valerian, Mr. Nott?" Severus jolts to look at him.

"We got it from Hagrid's garden," Blaise admits.

"So I see," Says Severus, softly, coldly. "And have you any concrete idea of what feeding the animal valerian leaves might do to it?"

Potter protests, "It's got loads of healing properties, we just thought -"

"Enough!" Severus snaps.

Potter, he can see Potter being motivated by strong bursts of emotion, logic in the wind, but the other two? Two true Slytherins jumping into a rule-breaking scheme with such a shaky idea of what they were doing, no substantial plan? He expected better of Zabini and Nott.

"Potter, detention."

"Yes, sir," the boy mutters resentfully.

"Tomorrow. With Filch." Severus bites, and finally sees the flash of dismay in Potter's eyes before they sweep to the floor again.

Feeling better now that he's punished the brat, he stares the boys down.

"Nott, Zabini, to bed." He says.

Nott doesn't even hesitate, lips barely turning up at his head as he squares his shoulders and turns away, and Severus pushes away the feeling that Nott's just trustingly handed over the well-being of his friend to his Head.

"What about me?" Potter says in a small voice.

Severus stares him into silence. "You stay."

Zabini bites his lips and slumps, glares a little at Severus, but after a moment follows Nott back down the hall.

Potter's body stiffens as he registers the abandonment of his friends. He draws a breath and gathers his classic braced, defiant look to meet Severus' gaze.

"Not expecting a beating, are you, Potter?" Severus taunts, a cold smile curling his lips.

There it is. Potter's eyes flare with anger.

"Why, Professor? Are you thinking of handing one out?"

Severus leans back. "I don't think I need to, Potter, do I?" He says smoothly. "What I would like to do, far better, is to see what you think is worthy of the risk of incurring my wrath this night."

The boy's brow wrinkles warily.

Severus motions him ahead to lead the way. "Take me to your owl, Potter."

Those white little fists clench again, and Severus swears the next word on the boy's breath is going to be no. Merlin, was there ever a boy so contrary!

"Sir," Potter starts, his voice surprisingly level, and his eyes have softened to an appeal as he peers up. "Please don't - I've been doing the best I can, don't, don't punish her because of me -"

The boy really is prone to babbling, isn't he?

"Potter!" Severus snaps. He doesn't have time for this. "I won't ask again."

It's a silent, uneasy trek, and when they reach the steps, Potter pauses.

"Sir -"

"I'm not here to listen to your whinging, Potter. Show me your owl or it suffers for your impudence."

That makes the boy swallow his words, dismay flashing in his gaze, and without another word he takes the first stair up to the tower of the west corner.

The air at the top of the West Tower is high and cold; there's a draft from all the open windows, and a distinctly unpleasant barnyard smell despite them.
The boy, still barefoot, with his school robe wrapped over his nightclothes, makes a beeline for a white snowy owl resting on a low perch in the corner. Clinging woozily to it's perch, the owl is swaying, resting it's head against the cool stone wall. It cooes a little at the boy, looking disgustingly pleased to see him.
Potter's on his knees in front of her, whispering and petting soothingly, hard edges and adrenaline falling away from him like snow melting off a warm jacket.
"It's alright, Hedwig. It's alright," The boy's murmuring over and over, and it's as if he doesn't even remember Severus is in the room.
"Potter," Severus says sternly.
"Sir!" Potter's all urgent and imploring as he turns, and Severus is taken back to see a glimmer in his eyes before he blinks it back.
The word "help" won't pass his lips, Severus knows, but the boy's begging for it all the same, in a way he never would for himself (already, Severus knows this about him).
"She's worse, sir. She's worse than the last time I saw her -"
Severus pulls him harshly away from the owl, steps into take a look at her.
Alright. Alright, he's immediately able to dismiss the wiggling, whinging voice at the back of his head that is so sure that this whole thing was some prank of Potter's to keep Severus out of bed.
The owl peers at him, glassy-eyed and dubious. Severus is used to being the subject of a distrustful gaze, so he ignores it and is reaching out a hand to get a better look at her when she seems to rally weakly, gnashing her beak at him.
"Potter!" Severus snarls, snatching his hand backward, while the boy leaps forward with a startled cry.
"Hedwig, no!"
Severus glances over his pale skin to verify that the beak didn't actually catch him, and looks up to tell Potter to get control of his bloody bird. But the boy's standing, wedged in-between the rather annoyed looking fowl and Severus, body curved protectively over his owl, and the words die in Severus' throat.
"Don't hurt her!" Potter says fiercely, and if the boy was begging earlier, he's not now, aura radiating fight me as much as his small body can project. "She's sick, and tired, and she doesn't know you-"
"There is one person of authority in this room, boy, and it is not you!" Severus grinds out. "Now step away."
Potter draws himself up, guarded. "Only if - I mean, will you promise you won't hurt her?"
Oh, the boy wants him to promise…something dark and painful in Severus scoffs. There's innocence yet; one day he will learn how very little words mean.
"Potter," Severus warns him evenly.
The boy stares at him for a moment, probably fighting every instinct he has, and Severus expects to have to haul the boy away kicking, if not screaming. A little intimidation hasn't gone wrong before...
He's surprised a moment later when the boy lowers his tense stance reluctantly, swallows, lets out a single nod.
There's something new, tentative, in his swirly green gaze, because every other time he's given way to Severus, it's been fear, fear, terror, grown-up authority hurt hurt hurt. Severus is not stupid; the boy has more often purposefully antagonized him than yielded to him, but when he has yielded, that has been his motivation. Placate angry adult NOW, and Severus is all to aware of that particular impulse.
This, for the first time, feels different.
This, for the first time, feels like permission. Like an offering….like a gift. Like two-and-a-half-weeks-ago sitting in Severus' office with a photograph between them and something blossoming unspeakable and new. This, for the first time, feels a little bit like trust.
The thought makes Severus stiffen in alarm, want to take that fragile branch of trust and shove it back at the boy, but all he can do is stand there feeling the slightest bit ill while Potter turns back to crouch by his bird.
"Hedwig, I know it's hard," the boy hushes her, his face so eleven-year-old solemn. "I need you to let him…he's going to help you, alright?"
He pets a finger affectionately down one snowy white wing and she slumps into it a little, giving a feeble, agreeable hoot.
Severus' hands are awkwardly gentle as they reach for the sick bird again. Potter's voice a panicky babble in the background as he inspects the fluffy, sleepy bird.
"I try to come up often, and I don't think she's left the Owlery for almost two days. Usually she'll go out and hunt but…I don't know - I couldn't figure out what was wrong, I didn't know what to do -"
Severus turns away from his examination, and the eleven-year-old braces his shoulders, shoving his fisted hands as far down into his pockets as they'll go. Face grim, Potter lifts resigned eyes.
"Is she…will she make it? Is she…" He hesitates.
"Don't be so melodramatic, Potter," Severus says. "Your bird will be fine."
"But - there's something wrong with her. What's wrong with her?"
Merlin help me. "I'd love to spend what little time I have before dawn explaining extensively the inner working of an owl's biology to you, Potter, but maybe this once, you should actually do what you're told without wasting vast amounts of time with your unnecessary questions!"
Potter's chin jerks up, his cheeks flaring with heat, for a moment he looks like he's going to spit out one of those scathing replies he's so well-known for, but then his gaze shifts to his bird, and Severus watches him bite it back.
"Fine." Potter says. "What needs to be done, then?"
When Severus doesn't say anything else, pinning the boy with his eyes, Potter speaks again, his voice not quite steady, but shot through with resolve.
"I mean - just tell me. Tell me what to do to save her. I'll do it, you won't have to do anything, she won't be any extra work for you."
He watches Potter break apart under the silence, watches him collapse and rebuild himself with that temperamental youthful flexibility and a painfully hard-headed tenaciousness. His face and expressive eyes flash through so many emotions, it seems like a toss-up where the features are going to settle.
"Sir, you can't - help me, blast it! Please. Please? Don't let her suffer because of me. You can't just stand there, please, it's not her fault I picked her! You can't just stand there and not help her. You can't."
Potter's mouth sets stubbornly, the edges of his eyes are wrinkling but he's still not crying, not even one tear let loose, you can't, he says, like his very denying of it will make it a physical impossibility.
Part of Severus wants to protest the undeniable pain in the boy's eyes as exaggerated and theatrical - it's not like his bird's dying, after all.
But nobody has to explain to Severus Snape the damage that people can do by just standing there.
It's another harsh beat of nothing, nothing heard but the ruffle of feathers as the owl moves golden eyes to glare at Severus, and the panting breath of the boy in front of her before Severus says anything, trying to quiet the unfamiliarity of things raging beneath his skin. His voice is stony and automatic when he does speak.
"The bird has a slightly bruised wing, which prevented her from leaving the Owlery to follow her normal hunting routine and led to her current condition of dehydration and undernourishment."
Severus pauses, then, "She needs warmth, quiet, rest, food…I have a salve in my laboratory that will accelerate her healing if we wrap her wing with it."
"Can you - will you-" Potters stops, then admits it, voice low, says it like he's confessing to a crime. "I can't think of anything to give - I'll give you something, anything, I don't know what you would want from me-"
He chokes a little, resignation written all over his slumped body.
"A decent potions essay would be a start." Severus says before he can think better of it, the words quick and off-handed.
Potter's messy head jerks to him, eyes incredulous. "What?"
"Honestly, you fool. Do you assume me to be so heedlessly cruel as to allow an innocent-" (well, mostly innocent, that rabid fowl did try to bite his bloody finger off,) "-animal to suffer needlessly and for no reason?"
"Well. I-"
Yes, says his confused gaze.
Severus sniffed. "I may be spiteful, but even I draw lines somewhere. Beside, if I expected pay-back every time I helped one of you sniveling idiots, I'd live life sour and disappointed."
He barely hears the hurried mutter, "And that would be different how?" before Potter says louder, "So you will? Help her?"
"My office would be a suitable temporary place." Severus says stiffly.
Potter nods.
"I'll take her," he says quietly.
He unwraps his school robe from around him, soft and smooth in the dim light, and wraps it around the owl before gathering her up, her white feathers a contrast against the black. Slytherin's green emblem blinks up off the cloak at Severus from somewhere down the owl's chest.
A minute shiver from Potter tears Severus' gaze away. The boy's nightclothes - which now that Severus looks at them, are appalling, is that what the child wears to bed? - are short sleeved and raggedy, offering almost no barrier to the night air. Potter shifts uncomfortably under his gaze.
"You won't have to - sir, I can take care of her." Potter pledges earnestly. "I'll even, I mean, I can find a way to pay you back for anything she costs you."
Ignoring him completely, Severus sweeps his hand out widely.
"Potter, come," he orders, and Potter does.

When Harry gets back to the dorms, there are two shadowed figures waiting for him on his bed. His brain is so scattered, he draws himself up tiredly at first, thinking of Malfoy and his goons, laying in wait, waiting for a fight. But a whispered, “lumos”, and then Blaise’s face is illumined behind the dim glow of his wand, just enough light to see each other by, not enough to wake the other boys.

“Hey, Harry,” Blaise hails, with an easy little wave of his non-wand-holding hand and a smile far too warm and perky for this time of - well, morning.

Nott acknowledge him too, tone unreadable.

“Potter.”

Harry should probably be angry, probably feel betrayed. The memory of Blaise blurting out Harry’s secret to their severe Head of House, the way Nott straightened, spun, how he walked away down that hallway without looking back. Harry thinks he should, but he just can’t summon the energy.

“Hello,” he says cooly.

But then Blaise leans forward, concern flashing in his warm eyes, and says, “how’s Hedwig, mate?” and Harry feels something snap.

The other boy told Snape, Snape is practically his nemesis, everybody in the House knows that, and Blaise did it anyway. He can’t do that, and then look at Harry all friendly that way and call him that. He doesn’t get to.

“You’re not my mates,” he flares.

Not sniffs, folding his arms across his chest. “First I’ve heard of it,” he says.

“Alright.” Blaise says finally, all easy and gentle. “Fine, we’re not mates. Take it easy. Now how’s Hedwig?”

Harry crumbles a little, and he doesn’t throw himself at Blaise, but he wants to, more than anything.

“I thought -“ he gasps a little, trying to get the words out. “I thought she was going to die and I - Snape has - her wing - she bit him and - but she’s. She’s alright. She’s alright.”

“Of course she is,” Blaise says firmly. He has Harry by both shoulders, and Harry feels like that’s all that’s keeping him upright. “Shhh, don’t want an audience for this, Harry, let’s not wake anyone else. Only got a couple more hours ‘till breakfast. You can tell us all about it-“

“And you will tell us about it-“ Nott says,

“-in the morning.” Blaise stresses, eyeing Nott.

“Just one thing - Potter,“ Nott says suddenly, stepping so close to Harry that Blaise has to back up to make room for him. “Professor Snape, he helped you?”

“Hedwig’s in his office now,” Harry admits.

There’s a sort of satisfied gleam in the other boy’s eyes as he leans back that Harry is almost too tired to wonder about.

Harry doesn’t quite remember how he ends up in bed, but he does know that it’s Blaise who fluffs the pillow right before Harry puts his head down on it, and that when Harry just curls around his knees on his bare sheets, it’s Theodore Nott that wordlessly draws the blanket up over Harry’s shoulders.



Harry wakes up.

He wakes up, and is overcome with the creeping feeling of something off, body almost vibrating with the sense of wrong wrong wrong. The last time he bolted up feeling this apprehensive, he had woken up an hour late on a Sunday morning at the Dursleys - nope, no, not there, he thinks blindly, fingers strangling his soft velvet duvet as proof.

He’s exhausted - he feels like his eyes closed for mere seconds before they’ve opened again, and they’re stinging in protest, blaring against even the low light of the dorm. But there’s no way Harry is going back to sleep.

He heaves a sigh, creeps from his bed, hauls himself up into the body-sized window seat, and lets himself wake up slowly. His mind is groggy, protesting one long minute and the next - his eyes widen through crusty-layered corners. Hedwig. She’s not there, not in the tower, she’s sick, she’s - she’s with Snape. In fact, Harry’s last remembrance is Hedwig, Hedwig and Snape, the box he settled her in, Snape about to slather salve on Hedwig’s bruised wing before Harry stepped forward (“I can do it. Sir,” being gentle, so gentle, fingers so light brushing over her).

Immediately, Harry feels a rush of guilt. Hedwig is sick, and he left her alone. She sick, and alone, in an unfamiliar place, with a person she doesn’t trust (does Harry? He can’t - doesn’t - has to). He didn’t want to leave her, remembers hesitating, but.

It wasn’t like Harry could take her back to the dorms; heaven forbid Malfoy or one of the others try to use her to get to him. Harry shudders. Malfoy isn’t so much like Dudley, but he probably wouldn’t mind tormenting an innocent animal to get to Harry, either, or having one of his goons do it. With the amount of smalltime spite Harry’s still dealing with, and he is - dealing with it - it’s not enough to make Harry do anything about it really, but it’s enough to express their sentiment, and it’s not a sentiment he wants to put Hedwig in danger of experiencing.

He was still reluctant, though, he remembers that, remembers almost asking Snape if he could just - just stay with her. Just for a while, until she got used to things. He could curl up, be quiet, wouldn’t make a sound, he’s good at that when he wants to be, wouldn’t need a blanket or anything….but he couldn’t bring himself to ask. Snape was doing more than he’d expected already; he couldn’t reasonably be asked to do more, he’d undoubtedly reject the idea in the most sound and violent way possible. Harry’s done enough, revealed enough, dragged Snape into this bother already. Just because Harry cares about something - cares very, very much - doesn’t mean anyone else should.

He recalls quiet, the calming tinkle of potions bottles from the other room, laying his head down next to Hedwig's box, one thumb still stroking her good wring as she blinked at him with her knowing eyes.

And then, stumbling back to the dorm. Blaise - Theodore - “you’re not my mates”. Harry sucks his breath in so sharply his ribs ache and thinks about what it would be like to lose the only friends he’s ever made.

He thinks about it all through breakfast, too - sitting by himself. Between that and Hedwig swimming around in his mind, he’s finds he’s got very little appetite, but he chokes down a crumpet and some pumpkin juice anyway. It’s still early, so there’s hardly anyone around in the Great Hall yet, a couple of sleep-tousled Gryffindors and a small group of upper-year Ravenclaws that seem to be performing some kind of experiment over their food; they hardly notice when he stuffs a few pieces of crispy bacon into a napkin that he tucks into his bag, and then wanders back out of the Hall.

He spends most of the morning going everywhere he knows Blaise and Theodore normally aren’t, all the lonely tucked in corners and hidden spots that a place like Hogwarts hides so well. It reminds him of wandering around the Dursley’s neighborhood, kind of peaceful by himself, if a little lonely, a little wary.

The hours tick by slowly until he hears some boys passing his spot and realizes everyone’s rushing for their first class of the day.

He’s hurrying around a corner, about to join the general throng of frantic students, when he hurls hard past a taller body, clipping them on the side and sending himself stumbling, grasping at the wall to catch his balance. He regains himself quickly, though, and turns, an apology falling from his lips,

“Sorry, wasn’t looking where I w’s-“ and then Harry’s teeth click shut as he tries to school his expression into something beside, oh, drat.

It’s an older Gryffindor, one who’s at least a fifth year, and Harry knows very little about him except that he’s not good news, and he’s with the full fifty percent of Hogwarts students that seem to hold some kind of grudge against Harry. He remembers the boy’s thick, sandy curls, eyes like he’s scrapping for a fight, the tiny scar by his left eye. Coote, that’s his name. Ritchie Coot. And tripping over Harry Potter in the corridor is obviously the most exciting thing that’s happened in Ritchie Coote’s day.

Harry’s barely swallowed his apprehension before his bones are jarred against the stone wall behind him, rough hands squeezing the lapels of his Slytherin robes.

“You were sayin’, firstie?” Coote growls.

“My mistake,” Harrys says. “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

“We’ll see about that,” the Gryffindor growls.

“Not in the mood, Gryff,” Harry huffs.

“No?” The other boy sneers, hands tightening against Harry’s collar. “Then you should stay outta my way, you slimy little pipsqueak!”

Harry has absolutely zero objections to that but right now he’s little more concerned about breathing.

“Little-easier, to- do-if yer no’-holding me agains-a, wall!” He gasps.

Coote decides that’s an invitation to haul Harry up harder, instead of letting him down, and Harry’s just starting to worry that he might be late to his first class - which is Transfiguration with McGonagall, and not one he wants to be late to, when a cheerful voice breaks the stalemate.

“Here I thought you’d been avoiding me, and now I find you’re just up to your usual trouble!” Says a cheerful voice.

It startles the older Gryffindor just enough that he loosens his grip, and Harry wiggles downward, trying to wrench away.

“Blaise?”

“H’lo, Harry.” Blaise gives Harry an easy little grin, greets him exactly as if they just happened to bump into each other on a pleasant walk.

“Well, what a happy reunion.” Coote does drop Harry, now, and backs a way a few steps, facing the the two of them.

“It’s good to see you, too, Coote. I’d love to chat, but I think Harry and I have places to be. Right, Potter?”

Harry purposely doesn’t look Blaise’s way as he nods agreeably.

“I think if we’re much later, Professor McGonagall might turn us into cats or something,” he says.

The Gryffindor’s glare sours, but he glances away as if suddenly anxious about being late to his own class, and apparently decides it isn’t worth it.

“Whatever,” he growls. “Just make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

And then Blaise and Harry are left alone.

Harry feels Blaise’s hand rest lightly, briefly on his shoulder, before it pulls away, and the other boy says finally,

“We really had better get to class.”

Right. Right - no time now, not to deal with this, these confusing swirls that Harry’s feeling, because Blaise just rescued him. Well. Not that Harry had needed it, but still. They’re supposed to be fighting. Blaise is supposed to be - well, not doing that. He’s supposed to stiff and seething and smirking and like everyone else now.

But Harry is pretty used to Blaise being confusing by now, so he just follows him silently as they dart into the crowd, which is quickly thinning out as people find their places. By the time Harry and Blaise walk into the Transfiguration classroom, nearly everyone is there. McGonagall isn’t yet, though, so they’re not late, and Harry breathes a little easier.

It’s not that he doesn’t like Professor McGonagall - he does, it’s just, she’s just…one of those adults. Everything about her is sharp and cool and precise, and Harry always feels clumsy under her shrewd gaze. She’s not overly fond of Slytherins, but she doesn’t treat them badly either, and that’s more than Harry gets from other people, so he’s tried to do alright by her class. And of course, she doesn’t hold for fooling around any more than Snape does.

“Here, Potter,” and Harry looks over to see Blaise motioning him to the seat next to him. It feels a little like the first day all over again, except this time, Harry is hesitating.

Blaise can’t possibly want to sit next to him. Not after what Harry said to him last night. Not since Harry’s still trying to decide whether they’ve made up or not.

Harry’s feels a shove against his side, and he moves away, expecting it to be another Gryffindor moving into the classroom, but the body follows him.

“Thought we had a deal, Potter.” Is all Theodore Nott says, and it takes Harry a moment to remember that they've been waiting to hear the whole story about last night.

“Yes, well, I don’t remember being part of that agreement,” Harry grumbles, but he finally slips into the seat next to Blaise, and Nott slides smoothly down one over from him.

“Look, Harry,” Blaise says. “You might not want to be our mate, but - “ he breaks off reluctantly, leaving the unspoken words hanging. But we’re still yours.

Harry tries not to look as taken back as he feels.

He was ready for a fight, for words dull and dark and crushing, but how is he supposed to handle this?

Actually, he doesn’t have to, because at that moment Professor McGongall sweeps into the room, claps her hands to bring them to attention, and says, “That’s enough, students, we’re about to begin!”

By the time class is over, Harry is walking away with Blaise and Nott on either side, realizing what he really knew all along: this place is still a little bit a stranger to him, and his enemies are dangerous in a different way here than they are at Number Four Privet Drive.

He can’t afford to not have friends.



Potions is after Transfiguration, which Harry is both dreading and looking forward to, because he might be able to ask Snape about Hedwig. He lets Nott and Blaise walk him to class, although he doesn’t really talk to them, and the class seems to drag on agonizingly long.

Snape seems to be himself - Harry wasn’t really expecting otherwise; but he’s determined to be at his best today. He wedges himself in at the cauldron between Nott and Blaise, and tries to focus.

While Snape rattles off a short spiel about the potion they’re going to make - something called Wiggenweld, Harry gathers ingredients that are written on the chalkboard. It’s just one class. If he can be good enough this once, can grit his teeth and get through it, do the potion well, dodge any disastrous confrontations with his Professor, maybe Snape will let him see Hedwig tonight. She does need her rest, but Harry wouldn’t bother her, he could just be there. So she wasn’t alone. Being sick and alone is one of the most miserable things out there, and Harry would know, he thought bitterly.

Besides, not making Snape angry, while it’s never been high on Harry’s priority list - he’s going to do all he can to keep Hedwig safe, and while he certainly doesn’t expect the Professor to abuse her, if he swept out of class as fuming at Harry as he normally was, the temptation of having Harry’s owl right there in his own office…

Well. Harry just doesn’t want to take any chances, is all, which means it’s his best behavior from now on. In fact, he can almost hear his aunt’s voice in his ear, horrible and screechy, like she does when they’re having guests over sometimes. “I want you on your best behavior, boy! Not a word from you!” He snickers a little at himself, and all the sudden a very different voice is in his ear.

“Something funny, Mr. Potter?”

Harry vanishes the smirk from his face and tries to look solemn.

“Absolutely not, sir.”

“And what are you doing just now?” Snape peers at him suspiciously.

“I’m-uh, the salamander blood - the fourth time, it should be turning…”

Curses, curses! Color, potion - should be -

Blaise nudges him under the table, barely breathes the word, “pink”.

“Pink. It should be turning pink, and then red, then add the lion fish spines.”

“How many?” Snape says sharply.

“Five. And then, five more?”

“Is that a question or an answer?”

Harry looks away, shoves that temper down, down - “An answer.”

“An answer-?”

“An answer, Professor.”

Snape hums, looks at him shrilly before wheeling away, cloak swirling, on to criticize some Gryffindor who hasn’t made it past step 6 yet.

“Odd,” is Blaise’s low comment.

“What?” Harry questions, matching his whisper.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll find something to really bite into you for a little later,” Blaise says, smirking a little.

“Thanks for the reassurance.”

Flobberworm mucus, where is his -

It’s not quite the shimmering turquoise it’s supposed to be when it’s done, but at least it’s blue, which is more than a lot of others managed, even though it’s been on of the easier potions they’ve done so far. He’s just about to breath a sigh of relief, when he hears a shuffle from Snape’s desk, and a “Potter! See me after class!”, and Harry’s heart sinks.

“What’d you do this time?” Sniggers Goyle, and actually Harry has no bloody idea. He was doing good, he was!

He bottles some of the Wiggenweld potion and waits to be the last to bring it up.

“You can go,” he whispers to Blaise and Theodore, who are standing by the classroom door, waiting.

“We’ll meet you in the hall,” Blaise says firmly, and then they’re gone.

Harry takes a breath, forces his head up, and clutches the potion in his hands. It’s fine. It’s good. It’s better than half the others in class.

“I hope you know this attempt at a Wiggenweld potion was a barely acceptable performance, and I’d expect better from a true Slytherin.”

That’s all it takes, and Harry can feel the heat rise recklessly in his cheeks. If he can wait long enough to ask about her -

“Sorry.” Harry grinds out. “I was - a little tired. Professor.”

“And whose fault is that?” Snape says silkily. “Speaking of which, Mr. Potter, I’m delighted that you brought that up -“

Ah, drat.

“I have a detention slip here for you to take to Mr. Filch this very night.”

Harry bites his lip, dismayed. He’d already forgotten about that, he did get one last night, didn’t he? Well, he’s not sorry. Hedwig’s got her wing wrapped now, she’s warm and safe - he’s really not sorry at all.

Ugh, but Filch.

Harry takes the slip, and tries to slip out quietly before Snape can remember anything else from last night that he really ought to punish Harry for.

“And Potter?” Snape stops him in his tracks again.

“Professor?”

“Your dratted bird sneaks away and devours one more of my ruffed grouse hearts and I’m putting a lid on that box she’s in…”

Harry isn't sure whether to be terrified or indignant, but then decides he doesn't need to be either, and when he turns away again, it's to hide the beginning of a growing, hesitant little grin.

When Harry walks out of the Potions classroom, he’s thinking so hard about Snape that he doesn’t even notice at first. But when he glances up, mouth already open, expecting to see Blaise and Nott leaning casually against the wall, muttering to each other as usual, they’re just…not there.

He doesn’t feel anything, no speeding heartbeat, no rush of adrenaline, just blinks at the space where they should be standing, where they always stand, waiting for him in the corridor, and frowns at it. That’s not right…that’s not…that’s wrong, it’s not supposed to look like that.

Blaise and Theodore aren’t waiting for him. He feels morbidly curious, wonders what it was he did, because they seemed fine with him at the end of Potions. Not back to normal, but that was mostly Harry’s fault, because he didn’t know how to feel about them, or what you did when someone who was - is - your friend, did something like that. How are you supposed to react? Harry doesn’t know, but he obviously did something wrong, because they’re…they’re just not there. They said they would be. But they’re not.

Harry quickens his step as he makes his way to History of Magic. Maybe they went ahead (even though they said they’d wait). Maybe they’ve saved him a seat in History of Magic and they’ll all sit together making fun of Professor Bins (in the most low-key, non-distracting manner, of course) like normal, before this whole disaster happened.

Except when Harry walks into the History of Magic classroom (what seems like an eon later), they’re not there, either. And that’s when Harry feels the first jolt of foreboding. Maybe this isn’t about him. Maybe they’re in danger!

He wiggles on his seat, raises his hand as high as he can.

“Professor Binns!”

Binns drawls to a stop mid-lecture, wrinkling his forehead at Harry - which looks very, very odd on a ghost.

“Yes? You have a question about the Gargoyle Strike of 1911?”

“Er, no, sir. I was wondering, Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott - they’re not in class.”

Blast, if they were skipping out for some reason and Harry called attention to the fact (when Binns would never have noticed otherwise, really) and they got in trouble for it, that wouldn't be a good way to endear himself, would it?

“Ah, yes -“ Binns wheezes. “Unfortunate happening; they’ve had an excused absence.”

“An excused absence?” Harry questions sharply. “What for?”

Binns peers at him disapprovingly. “It’s my understanding that one of the boys was escorted to the hospital wing.”

Harry shoots up from his chair. “I’ve got to go,”

“I’m unaware of any excused absence on your part - Mr. Potter, isn’t it?”

Harry mouth twitches unhappily, but he sinks back down into his seat. The rest of this class is going to be torture. At least usually he can sneak a nap in or snicker at passing notes with Blaise and Theodore. Now he’s not going to be able to think of anything else. Which one of them had to be escorted to the Hospital Wing? What on earth for? Who would hurt Blaise or Theodore Nott?

The moment - and maybe even a few seconds before - Binns dismisses class, and everyone rises lethargically to their feet, Harry is out the door and winging it through marbled corridor toward the first floor and the arched double doors of the Hospital wing.

Hurling himself through them, he stutters to a stop as his eyes drink in the sight. Blaise and Theodore, standing casually next to one of the hospital cots talking to Madame Pomfrey, who hustles over to Harry immediately.

“Don’t tell me you, too -“

"I'm fine, Madame," Harry feels bad for brushing past her, but he does it anyway, pushing toward Blaise and Theodore until he's right beside them.

“You’re alright?” Harry breaths. “What happened?”

“’S all good, Harry.” Blaise quirks a sort of sideways smiled at him, though it seems tight around the edges of his lips. “Theodore here just got into a little tiff with Malfoy.”

Harry scowls. Of course it was Malfoy. “Well, and?” He presses.

This time, Theodore speaks up, sounding not a little annoyed. “He managed, by no skill of his own, mind you, to hit me with a furunculous jinx.”

“That’s awful!” Harry gasps. Then, a second later, “Er - what exactly does that do?”

“Boils,” Blaise says brightly. “Great, honking ugly boils. Painful, too.”

Theodore glares at Blaise, and Harry shudders.

“You don’t look bad,” Harry offers to Theodore.

“An easy fix!” Blaise explains. “There’s a potion gets rids of them. He’s his endearing old haughty self now.”

The boils may have been an easy fix, but whatever started the fight obviously isn’t - and it had to have been something quite inflammatory, because Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen Theodore coerced into drawing his wand before. Theodore Nott looks like he’s plotting murder, and honestly, Harry wouldn’t really put it past him.

“Well,” Harry jests weakly, “at least you got out of History of Magic.”

Blaise’s eyes go wide as he swivels away from Theodore abruptly. “But Harry! What about you and Snape? Are you in trouble?”

“No,” Harry says slowly. “Well, not any new trouble, anyway. My detention’s tonight.”

Blaise stops, folding his arms. “We were caught with you last night. We should go to detention, too-”

“No!” Harry protests vehemently. “It was my idea, I was the only reason you were out.”

Blaise sighs. “I’ll have treacle tart waiting for you?”

“No, you won’t,” Harry grins. “It’s with Filch, remember? He always manages to keep me late, you’ll be in bed asleep.”

Blaise purses his lips stubbornly. “I’ll leave it on your bedside table then.”

“You know Malfoy will eat it before I get to it.”

“Well, I’ll just have to make sure he doesn’t, won’t I?”

“How?”

“We’re Slytherins, Potter. I’ll figure it out.”






“D’you think Theo’s reading that book, or trying to glower it to death with his eyes?” Blaise whispers to Harry.

Harry snickers. “You could ask him.”

“No thanks!” Blaise shook his head, grinning. “It wouldn’t be the book in danger of death, then!”

Whatever happened with Malfoy, Theodore Nott isn’t able to shrug it off like Blaise has. He’s been irritated - more than usual - and snappish the whole evening, stiff and withdrawn, and they haven’t been able to tease him out of it.

When Blaise starts a pillow fight in the corner of their common room, Harry welcomes it, both as a distraction from his looming detention and as an outlet for his nervous energy.

At the end, he and Blaise are sitting in a pile of fluff as feathers shower down around them, and their shouts of laughter are finally dying down. Nott is reading in a chair, not having been convinced to join them.

“So,” Blaise turns to Harry. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

For a moment, Harry goes still with surprise, because Blaise says it lightly, but his brown eyes are soft and questioning, and Harry can’t think of what to say.

Nott’s book snaps closed.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Nott says cooly. “We did what needed to be done the other night, Potter, and you know it.”

Harry bristles, pulling himself until he’s sitting up straight. “Is that so?” He says. “You decided that, did you?”

“Well, you weren’t going to decide. Not when you were too busy trying to hold a grudge against the one man who could actually have helped -“

“Ah, yeah, because that’s all adults want to do, help-“

Nott’s eyes hardened. “Snape helped you!“

“Bit of a gamble, though, wasn’t it?” Harry bit out.

“Of course it was, Potter, everything is, if you don’t take risks, you can’t achieve anything, and you certainly won’t advance beyond all the other safety-hugging cowards-“

“Coward, now!” Harry cries with a sharp laugh. “And what are you, a Gryffindor?”

Not stiffens and Harry sees Blaise wince out of the corner of his eye.

Theodore’s face has darkened, looking impossibly shadowed. His tone is flat. “I like you, Harry. Don't - don’t cross me.”

“Or what?” Harry says. “You’ll snitch on me to Snape? Oh, except-“

Theodore stands abruptly, movements sharp, and Harry realizes in that instant that Theodore’s hand is on his wand. He catches his breath, bracing, he isn’t sure for what. Something dangerous and unknown is swirling around the other boy - but Nott rips his hand from his wand, snatches up the book he’d been reading from the chair and stabs it into it’s place on a low bookshelf before whirling and striding from the room. When he leaves the air settles slightly, feeling like they’ve just missed by inches being hit by a devastating thunderstorm.

Harry’s fists are clenched, and he’s trembling; he can feel his fingers shaking against his palm.

“He-“ he seethes at the empty doorway, nearly spitting. “He doesn't have the right to gamble with what isn't his - my life, with Hedwig-”

Blaise, for once, doesn’t say anything.

And then, very quietly - “Harry,”

Harry turns on him, nearly says something cutting and unforgivable, but - none of this is Blaise’s fault. Harry deflates, tries to catch his breath, the anger seeping from him slowly, and he can feel an unutterable sort of sadness flood in behind it.

“Don’t take it too hard, Harry.” Blaise says softly. “Theo’s - not himself. He got a letter from his parents today.”

Harry feels like that should mean something to him, but he doesn’t understand, and he’s tired of not understanding.

Harry’s right, isn’t he? Getting yelled at, taken things out on, just because someone’s had a bad day - he gets enough of that from the Dursley’s, doesn’t he? It’s not fair that he has to put up with it from his friends, too.

Then Blaise stands, helps Harry up, leaving a corner of the common room exploded with in white plumage - leaving a mess behind them - as they shuffle into the boy’s dorm.

“Blaise - you, Theodore….you’re the only ones I’ve ever had on my side,” Harry says quietly.

“Leave him be, awhile.” Blaise advises gently. “He’ll come back.”

“I- yeah.” Harry says, not looking at him. Then, he startles. “What time…? I’ve got to get to detention.”

“That’s right,” Blaise gasps. “Go on, then, Harry.”

At the last minute, just before Harry rushes out the door, Blaise catches him and wraps his arm around him tightly for a long second before he lets go, giving Harry a shrug and a little grin afterward.

“Good luck with Filch, mate.”

Harry nods.

He can feel Blaise's hug all the way to Filch’s office.