‘What, Potter, are you doing in my quarters at four o’clock in the bloody morning?’

Harry blinked, rubbing his eyes. What had brought him here? He head meant to see Dumbledore, to tell him the stupid plan was off, and he wanted to be Harry Potter again. Yet, somehow, his feet had lead him down another corridor entirely, stumbling six flights of stairs, bumping into walls, and finally to a small relief of a troll smashing out the brains of a wizard who looked remarkably like James Potter – spectacles and all.

‘Puh-druck,’ he said thickly.

Snape raised an eyebrow, but, for the first time in his life, refrained from commenting. The boy was half-asleep, and appeared to be suffering some teenage affliction. ‘Padriac,’ he repeated. ‘I am well-aware your name, however,’ he stepped a bit closer, taking in Harry’s red-rimmed eyes and weary frown, ‘what I am not aware is why you are in my quarters at four in the morning.’

Harry stepped back involuntarily, eyebrows knitted curiously, lips pursed. ‘Why’m here?’

‘Yes, boy. Why you are here.’

It was this question that Harry could not respond to. How could he explain heading off to Dumbledore’s office, only to find himself twenty minutes later in the dungeons, in Snape’s private quarters? He shrugged, blinking some more. ‘Dream, my mum. You. Dumb-le-do-or.’ He swayed on his feet, and Snape immediately guided him to the sofa.

The man was dubious. Potter had come to him, of all people, because of a bad dream? What on Earth had possessed the boy to even consider it?

‘Boy,’ he addressed sternly, glaring at Harry’s tousled hair and clouded grey eyes, ‘you are not to enter my quarters without permission. Is that quite clear?’

Harry nodded slowly, his sleep-fogged mind guiding him without thought. ‘Noughtagain.’

The ever-pulsing vein in Snape’s forehead was giving him a migraine, and he massaged it roughly with sallow fingers, eyes trained all the while on his apprentice. This boy was going to drive him mad, he could feel it.

‘Never again.’

Potter nodded. ‘Ne’er-guhn.’

‘I suppose you’ve got at least four feet on your essay?’

It was a miracle. Where his eyes had once been droopy, mind clogged with useless ponderings and old dreams, Harry found himself seeing painfully clearly. He started, hands jerking to his lap, mouth flapped open to form a perfect “o”. A shadow crossed Snape’s unpleasant face, but he appeared to be controlling his temper rather well, considering.

‘You haven’t given it a thought, have you?’ he questioned wearily; this was become tiresome. Harry’s terse nod was the cue for a lecture. ‘You skip my class, my lessons, any contact with me at all; you hover around those blasted Gryffindors as though hoping somehow they might smell the Harry Potter in you. Tell me, Po – Padriac, how is it you can find time to mope about mourning the loss of those snivelling, pathet-’

‘I didn’t come here to be lectured on how horrible my friends are, sir,’ said Harry hotly. He matched Snape’s glare with one of his own, lips pulled into a taut line. The man stopped mid-sentence. A reply formed on his lips just as he glanced at the boy’s face. Pink-cheeked, narrowed eyes, mere lines for lips. Padriac Domingart looked every inch his father, though there were places here and there that were clearly (to Snape) Lily Evans. His almond-shaped eyes and high cheekbones, for one. The feathery eyebrows that resembled a doll’s. A perfectly squared chin that would last into old age. They sat in ossified silence; each wrapped in his own thoughts until Harry said finally, ‘I’m tired.’

Snape snorted, and it broke the tension. ‘Lie down, then. What am I, your nurse?’

Though the man was cross, Harry flopped back onto the sofa with a smirk on his lips. ‘What if we forget the essay and I never skive off again?’

A second snort, though it lacked derision. Snape stood, scratching his forehead bemusedly. How had he gotten himself mixed-up in all of this? Taking care of Potter as though the boy was five?

‘You can write your essay,’ he articulated, casting the boy a stern glare, ‘or you may pickle frogs every night until I am quite satisfied you have learnt your lesson.’

Of course, the answer was painfully obvious.

‘Nite, sir!’

From the day he turned four Harry Potter had dreamt of having a father. A proper one, like Jeffrey Dunn’s, who played football with him every day after school when they were in primary. He had been the only boy who never spoke of late-nights watching football matches on the television, or how his dad was always nicer than his mum, or who packed a better lunch. His corner of the room was deserted on every Parents’ Night; there was no to tell him how wonderful he had done on his maths exam, or how clever he was for using the word “extravagant” in an essay, no one to rant about his drawings and claim he had to be the most talented young artist in the history of talented young artists.

No one was proud of Harry Potter, but that had never stopped him –

Until now.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would have laughed in his face to see him the way he was with Snape. Ugly, in his opinion, sour-tempered, unkind to his friends – he had his father now, but he had changed his mind. It was overrated this having parents business. No one told him having a dad would be as torturous as Christmas on Privet Drive. He was told when to go to bed, what to eat for dinner, how to do his homework. He was criticised for every fault, compared to a Hufflepuff more than once, and treated like a house elf whose only purpose in life seemed to be kissing the feet of Severus Snape. It hardly took long for the rest of the school to realise this.

‘Need some breath mints, Domingart?’

What for?

‘Breath mints are no good, Seamus, he’s kissed too much arse – it’s a permanent stink.’

‘Ooh, professor, don’t make me sit next to Domingart! I’ve only just had lunch!’

‘Arse-kisser.’

‘Blood-Traitor.’

‘Death Eater.’

By the time he reached double Potions, Harry was in no fit mood to be around people. He was not a Potions person, a Herbology person, a Transfiguration person, a Defence person, or any type of person at all. He sat where he was told to sit and tried to ignore whatever varied and unoriginal insults floated his way. He smirked and played sarcastic, and though Remus had returned from his leave of absence and Harry Potter was now safely away at St Mungo’s, Padriac Domingart was very much alone. Alone and despised was how he saw it, yet neither Snape nor Dumbledore seemed to care.

He sighed, rearranging his ingredients for what must have been the sixth time. The seat beside Harry was unoccupied. He was sat in the front, only half-aware of the sniggers and muttered comments behind him. Snape had him brewing a potion today, his first time since they had taken up the act. It was hardly complicated from what the book said, but Harry found himself unable to begin.

‘You should have finished preparing your ingredients by now and be well into the first stages.’ Snape’s silky voice drifted lazily from where he was sat at his desk; he kept his eyes on the essays in front of him.

Harry swallowed his groan, but he was the only one. Apparently, he was not the only criminally incompetent brewer in the sixth year. Seamus Finnegan was having to re-dice his roots, after a particularly vicious attack with the silver chopping knife, Neville had somehow managed to melt his cauldron before the actual potion-making was even begun, and, to Harry’s immense satisfaction, Malfoy was looking at a spectacular telling-off for his horribly mangled worm root.

Unfortunately, however, none of these (pleasing) observations would be of much use in the brewing of his own Pimple-Popping Confixer. His ingredients lay beautifully prepared on the table, ready to be loaded carefully into the simmering water. He reached for the worm root, ready to add it in moderation, as the book advised, and the next thing he knew Harry was sprawled on the floor, puddles of water steaming on the stones beside him. He groaned, clearing the water quickly, but it did not take long for Harry to realise that fate could never be so kind as to allow for an easy clean-up. Of course, his bag would be drenched, along with every bit of parchment he owned. Of course, Neville Longbottom would be wringing his hands, looking very much as though he was about to cry, and apologising profusely while the Slytherins sniggered. Of course, his potions book would be dripping, soaked to the core, its soggy pages a blur of ink and wood pulp.

Harry stood; Neville gulped.

‘Sometimes, Longbottom, I wonder if that brain of yours is not as twisted and empty as your cauldron,’ hissed a snaky voice from somewhere near Harry’s left earlobe. He felt himself stiffen, standing almost at attention, deaf to Ron’s muttered comments of having a stick shoved too far up his arse. What did it matter, anyway, when Neville was looking as though he was about to wet himself with fright, and all because he’d knocked into a stupid cauldron? ‘Clean it up, Domingart!’ Snape barked, thrusting a tatty book and a rag into his hands. ‘I’d have Longbottom do it, but obviously his idiocy runs deeper than even I had imagined.’ He turned to Neville, who backed away, looking stricken. ‘Leave, you feather-brained imbecile, before you manage to melt something else.’

And Neville ran. Harry pursed his lips and busied himself examining the book Snape had given him. It was the sixth year set book, but had obviously been hated by someone in a previous life, for he/she had scratched love notes all over the pages, in between the margins, and sometimes crossed things out. He sighed, flipping through the pages as though they were made of lead. As if Advanced Potion-Making was not complicated enough without some hormonal teenager’s scribbles on –

Pimple-Popping Confixers?

Excitement coursed through his veins; making his hands tremble on the flimsy pages, smudging precious black lettering.

Add two cups beetle eyes, the book read. Someone had crossed out half of the instructions, listing his (for Harry had begun to think of this mysterious faux-love-letter-potions genius as a he) own. Add three cups beetle eyes, crushed to a fine powder. Mix with juice of pomegranate seed.

He hurried to add the beetle eyes, curiosity driving him more than anything else. Snape must not have realised his students were marking up their set books, or he would have been absolutely furious.

Confixer should be yellow-orange, lightly simmering; golden mist. Temperature 40ºC.

Harry could have kissed this person, whoever he was. The Confixer brewed like magic, each step progressively easier as he learnt to decipher his mysterious helper’s cramped penmanship.

‘Your confixer should now be deep blue.’ Snape sniffed over Ron’s boiling green mess, stopping once to sneer at Hermione’s nearly-perfect confixer, which was just one shade too light, and moved on to the Slytherin side of the room, his nose eternally wrinkled. He paused over Malfoy, taking a moment to comment on the faint silver mist hovering just above the cauldron. Harry waited with bated breath, self-consciously stirring his own confixer every few seconds, as the book instructed. He felt, for once in his life, that he had actually succeeded in potions. If only Occlumency had a magic book like this to tell him what to do; he was certain it would be far easier if Snape could teach like this unnamed saviour.

‘Crabbe, add some root. You’ll set the table on fire if you let that go any longer…. Parkinson, Nott, mix in some – put that disgusting thing down, McKnight. Twenty points from Gryffindor.’

A mousy-haired boy sat next to Dean scowled and stuffed a magazine into his bag with astounding speed, face flushed red. Harry muffled his sniggers with a cough, earning himself a glare from Ron and Seamus. A few weeks ago, he might have been muttering under his breath with the rest of the Gryffindors, furious with the greasy git for picking on his house again, but now it was humorous. Tory McKnight was a stupid fool thinking he could get off reading dirty magazines under the table in Snape’s class, and if six years with the man hadn’t taught him that, the idiot was hopeless.

‘Domingart, explain to the class why they shall all be receiving a T for the day’s lesson,’ snapped the professor. The Gryffindors protested angrily, moaning and insulting, but the Slytherin side was silent. They listened attentively, eyes glittering in the dungeon lights. If he had been Snape, Harry thought, he would have found himself an illiterate deaf mute and the incantation to the Fidelius Charm.

‘Because,’ he cleared his throat, glancing at Snape pleadingly. ‘Because mine is the only confixer with, er, a gold mist over it, and the proper colour, and…’

‘….And I’ll eat Weasley if I ever see a more pathetic display of arse-kissing,’ Malfoy grumbled. His friends laughed nervously. ‘Honestly, Domingart, why don’t you lick the shi –’

‘Detention, Mr Malfoy,’ Snape said coldly. His nostrils were flaring, and Harry had a difficult time deciding whether to wet himself or sing for joy. Malfoy had got himself detention – from Snape – and all because he’d been insulting Harry! Even Ron was staring at Snape’s apprentice with renewed interest, obviously torn, as was everyone else whether he ought to smile, clap, or return to his work as if nothing had happened. But, the Pimple-Popping Confixers were forgotten in the excitement, and a slow clap had started, Harry was surprised to see, by Hermione, who was looking for all to see as though House Elves had been given rule of the world.

‘Sir, but - !’

‘But nothing. I shall see you after class to – ’

BOOM.

It happened simultaneously throughout the room.

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM.

First with Ron, then Seamus, Dean, Tory, Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, Nott, Pansy Parkinson, Bode Miller, Parvati Patil, and Lavender Brown. Blaise Zabini followed, and then Allyson McKeenan, Roger Finks, Anthony Robbergottem, Logainne Woods, Sarah Peters, Daniel Kay, Fiorella Marcks. A few unnamed Slytherins Harry had yet to meet.

BOOM.

The class screamed, diving under desks to avoid the spray of poorly made confixer. Snape could be heard above the din, swearing loudly from behind Goyle’s hulking frame, Malfoy whimpering by his feet. Harry alone stood at the front of the room, untouched, grinning at the spectacle and wondering how he could ever have been so lucky. The entire class was covered in oily pimples the size of kumquats. They moaned; he snorted. Snape stood in the centre, a fantastic pimple rapidly enveloping his nose.

‘Detention,’ he breathed. ‘For everyone.’ And then he saw Harry, calmly returning to his seat at the front, rows away from the contained explosions and tending to his potion as though this was an everyday occurrence for him. ‘With the exception of Domingart.’

Let them grumble about favourites. Harry Potter hardly considered himself a favourite. Was it his fault he was lucky enough to get a book that taught him how to make a proper potion, one that would not explode? He felt like emptying his Gringott’s vault for Neville. Never before had Harry been so pleased with the other boy’s clumsiness. He hastily shoved the book into his bag and hurried for the door. He was the only one.

‘Keep smirking, Domingart,’ someone growled. Oh, yes. There was a promise he could keep.

‘Keep blowing up cauldrons,’ said Harry lightly, nodding to the glaring girl, ‘and I assure you you’ll never go smirkless again.’

She sniffed, but Harry was the one walking out, pimple-free.