The Dueling Club by overlyenthused

“I wonder who’ll be teaching us?” said Hermione. “Someone told me Flitwick was a dueling champion when he was young—maybe it’ll be him.”
“As long as it’s not—” Harry began, but he ended on a groan: Gilderoy Lockhart was walking onto the stage accompanied by none other than Snape, wearing his usual black.
Lockhart waved an arm for silence and called, “Gather round, gather round! Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start this little dueling club, to train you all in case you ever need to defend yourselves as I myself have done on countless occasions—for full details, see my published works. And let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape,” said Lockhart, flashing a wide smile. “He tells me he knows a tiny little bit about dueling himself and has sportingly agreed to help me with a short demonstration before we begin. Now, I don’t want any of you youngsters to worry—you’ll still have your Potions master when I’m through with him, never fear!”
“Wouldn’t it be good if they finished each other off?” Ron muttered in Harry’s ear.
“I’d pay to watch that,” Harry murmured, watching Snape baring his teeth.
“One—two—three—”
Both of them swung their wands above their heads and pointed them at their opponent; Snape cried: “Expelliarmus!” There was a dazzling flash of scarlet light and Lockhart was blasted off his feet: He flew backward off the stage, smashed into the wall, and slid down it to sprawl on the floor.
“Do you think he’s all right?” Hermione squealed through her fingers.
“Who cares?” said Harry and Ron together.
“Well, there you have it!” Lockheart said, tottering unsteadily to his feet. “That was a Disarming Charm—as you see, I’ve lost my wand—yes, an excellent idea to show them that, Professor Snape, but if you don’t mind my saying so, it was very obvious what you were about to do. If I had wanted to stop you it would have been only too easy…”
Snape was looking murderous. Possibly Lockhart had noticed, because he said, “Enough demonstrating! Time to pair you up. Professor Snape, if you’d like to help me—”
They moved through the crowd, matching up partners. Snape reached Harry and Ron first.
“Time to split up the dream team, I think,” he sneered. “Weasley, you can partner Finnigan. Potter—”
Harry moved automatically toward Hermione.
“I don’t think so,” said Snape, smiling coldly. “Mr. Malfoy, come over here. Let’s see what you make of the famous Potter.”
Malfoy strutted over, smirking.
“Face your partners!” called Lockhart, back on the platform. “And bow!”
Harry and Malfoy barely inclined their heads, not taking their eyes off each other.
“Wands at the ready!” shouted Lockhart. “When I count to three, cast your charms to disarm your opponents—only to disarm them—we don’t want any accidents—one… two… three—”
Harry swung his wand high, but Malfoy had already started on “two”: His spell hit Harry so hard he felt as though he’d been hit over the head with a saucepan. He stumbled, but everything still seemed to be working, and wasting no more time, Harry pointed his wand straight at Malfoy and shouted, “Rictusempra!”
A jet of silver light hit Malfoy in the stomach and he doubled up, wheezing.
“I said disarm only!” screamed Lockhart, taking in the chaos around him, but Snape took charge.
“Finite Incantatem!” he shouted; Harry stood, Malfoy stopped laughing, and they were able to look up.
“I think I’d better teach you how to block unfriendly spells,” said Lockhart. He glanced at Snape, whose black eyes glinted, and looked quickly away. “Let’s have a volunteer pair—”
“How about Malfoy and Potter?” said Snape with a twisted smile.
“Excellent idea!” said Lockhart, gesturing Harry and Malfoy into the middle of the hall as the crowd backed away to give them room.
“Now, Harry,” said Lockhart. “When Draco points his wand at you, you do this.”
He raised his own wand, attempted a complicated sort of wiggling action, and dropped it. Snape smirked as Lockhart quickly picked it up, saying, “Whoops—my wand is a little overexcited—”
Snape moved closer to Malfoy, bent down, and whispered something in his ear. Malfoy smirked, too.
“Scared?” muttered Malfoy, so that Lockhart couldn’t hear him.
“You wish,” said Harry out of the corner of his mouth.
Lockhart cuffed Harry merrily on the shoulder. “Just do what I did, Harry!”
“What, drop my wand?”
But Lockhart wasn’t listening.
“Three—two—one—go!” he shouted.
Malfoy raised his wand quickly and bellowed, “Serpensortia!”
The end of his wand exploded. Harry watched, aghast, as a long black snake shot out of it, fell heavily onto the floor between them, and raised itself, ready to strike. There were screams as the crowd backed swiftly away, clearing the floor.
“Don’t move, Potter,” said Snape lazily, clearly enjoying the sight of Harry standing motionless, eye to eye with the angry snake. “I’ll get rid of it…”
“Allow me!” shouted Lockhart. He brandished his wand at the snake and there was a loud bang; the snake, instead of vanishing, flew ten feet into the air and fell back to the floor with a loud smack. Enraged, hissing furiously, it slithered straight toward Justin Finch-Fletchley and raised itself again, fangs exposed, poised to strike.
Harry wasn’t sure what made him do it. He wasn’t even aware of deciding to do it. All he knew was that his legs were carrying him forward as though he was on casters and that he had shouted stupidly at the snake, “Leave him alone!” And miraculously—inexplicably—the snake slumped to the floor, docile as a thick, black garden hose, its eyes now on Harry. Harry felt the fear drain out of him. He knew the snake wouldn’t attack anyone now, though how he knew it, he couldn’t have explained.
He looked up at Justin, grinning, expecting to see Justin looking relieved, or puzzled, or even grateful—but certainly not angry and scared.
“What do you think you’re playing at?” he shouted, and before Harry could say anything, Justin had turned and stormed out of the hall. A large number of Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, and Gryffindors followed.
Snape stepped forward, waved his wand, and the snake vanished in a small puff of black smoke. Snape, too, was looking at Harry in an unexpected way: It was a shrewd and calculating look, and Harry didn’t like it. He was also dimly aware of an ominous muttering all around the walls. Then he felt a tugging on the back of his robes.
“Come on,” said Ron’s voice in his ear. “Move—come on—”
“POTTER!” bellowed Snape. “Come with me.”
Harry paled in confusion, turning to shoot glances at Ron and Hermione. Hermione shook her head slightly, and Ron grimaced in sympathy. Snape strode over and grabbed Harry roughly by the collar of his robes. The crowd of onlookers had thoroughly diminished, though many Slytherins were watching the altercation with undisguised glee. Snape gave Harry a rough push out of the hall and towards the dungeons. Harry trembled, not daring to look up at the Potions Master. Ron and Hermione hung back, uncertain whether to follow or retreat.
“The rest of you gawking dunderheads had better get to your dormitories or I promise you’ll all be scrubbing cauldrons until Christmas!” Snape snarled, glaring down his nose to the room at large.
The remaining knot of students practically fled the hall, and Lockhart slipped out with one last wobbly grin at Snape and Harry. With a snap of his cloak, Snape turned on his heel and headed down to the dungeons. He hadn’t let go of Harry’s robes, so Harry flailed about for a bit in Snape’s wake before finding his feet and matching Snape’s brisk pace.
By the time they reached the dungeons, Harry was breathing heavily. He’d gotten himself worked up by recounting the scene with Draco’s serpent. Harry didn’t have a clue what was going on. He couldn’t understand the way everyone had looked at him, like he’d contracted a particularly foul disease. Without letting go of Harry’s collar, Snape shouldered his way into his office and shoved Harry into the spindly chair in front of his desk, then, at last, released his grip on Harry. He leaned against the door frame with his arms crossed, as if he expected Harry to bolt at any minute.
“How long have you known you’re a Parselmouth, Potter?” Snape asked with a calculating stare.
“I’m a what?” said Harry.
“You can communicate with snakes, you insolent boy!” Snape spat. Harry stayed silent. Raising an eyebrow, Snape prompted, “Well? How long have you had this ability?”
“I don’t know, sir. That’s only the second time I’ve ever done it,” said Harry, shrugging one shoulder and lowering his gaze to his hands in his lap.
Snape sneered, “And the first time was?”
Harry looked up. Snape’s expression was unfathomable. Not for the first time, Harry had the distinct impression that the Potions Master could read minds.
“I suppose it was—er, it was at the zoo—before I knew I was a wizard. A boa constrictor was telling me it had never seen Brazil and I—I sort of, er set it free without meaning to,” said Harry. Snape’s lips twitched into a smirk, but the rest of his features remained masklike.
“And you never saw fit to tell anyone about this ability before—never wanted to use it to show off to your little fans? You decided it was best kept a surprise until the duel? A bigger audience, perhaps?” Snape jeered with a scowl.
“How was I supposed to know Malfoy would set a snake on me?” Harry said hotly. “Besides, I bet loads of other wizards can talk to snakes, and I didn’t even know I was doing it—”
“No. They. Cannot,” Snape bit out. He strode over to Harry’s chair, and leaned down until Harry could see the small white reflections of light in the dark pools of his eyes.
“Do you know what this means, Potter? Do you know why this might matter?” said Snape in a dangerously quiet voice. Trembling in his chair, Harry shrank away from the professor’s malevolent glare.
“No—no, sir,” Harry choked out.
“Foolish boy! Have you no inkling of historical knowledge in that miserably empty skull of yours? Salazar Slytherin—I hope that name registers somewhere in your miniscule mind! —was famous for his ability to speak Parseltongue, Potter.” said Snape.
Harry opened his mouth to talk, but he closed it quickly; Snape went on before he could interject.
“The only other known Parselmouth in the last century—century, Potter! —is the Dark Lord,” hissed Snape.
Harry’s mouth fell open again.
“The ability to speak Parseltongue is a very…Slytherin trait,” Snape said, a glimmer of guarded curiosity in his eyes.
Harry’s breath quickened.
“But then everyone’s going to think I’m the heir of Slytherin—or a dark wizard or something!” he said, trying to control his alarm. “And I’m not! I’m Harry—just Harry!”
Then a thought struck him. He tried to sit up, but the room seemed to be spinning around him. Snape drew back, watching him cautiously.
“Oh no—oh no!” Harry cried, putting his head in his hands. “Last year—at the Sorting—the hat—it told me I would do well in Slytherin. But I—I asked it not to put me there…” Harry trailed off nervously. In his panicked state, he’d all but forgotten who he was talking to. Head of Slytherin house and all. He could feel heat flaring on his cheeks.
Snape’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth pressed into a thin line.
“I see,” he said.
Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He glanced up at Snape with no small amount of apprehension. To his bemusement, Snape snorted.
“You convinced the hat to change its mind. Or you asked for a choice in the matter,” Snape mused. “Either way, that was rather cunning of you…rather Slytherin.”
His lips twitched into a smirk, but Harry could tell there was no malice behind it.
“It would be…prudent of you to lie low for a while, Potter,” Snape said, focusing on a point somewhere above Harry’s head. “No heroics, no conversing with snakes, no flying cars…” His eyes found Harry’s again, and he sneered.
“And no chucking fireworks into other students’ cauldrons so that your friends can pilfer from my potions store,” Snape added silkily.
Harry’s eyes widened. He tried to quickly rearrange his expression from surprise to confusion.
“I’m—I’m not sure I follow you, sir.” Harry managed.
Snape merely huffed.
“Don’t even think about running to me when you three poison yourselves with a botched batch of Polyjuice,” he said. “Whatever hairbrained schemes you have planted in your imbecilic mind must be abandoned.”
Harry opened his mouth to contradict Snape, but the Potions Master barreled on.
“I know I’ve threatened you with expulsion on almost a weekly basis at this point, but it must be evident even to your insolent intellect that recent events have compounded the grave nature of any mischief making and such incidents will not be taken lightly,” Snape breathed. “I’m warning you, Potter, if you or either of your friends puts so much as a toe out of line—” He left the threat open-ended. Harry took it upon himself to imagine the implications and gulped.
“I understand, sir,” said Harry. Snape re-crossed his arms and nodded sharply. The two regarded each other in silence for a few moments. Harry wasn’t sure if he was free to leave, so he waited for Snape’s explicit dismissal. Minutes passed. Harry fidgeted in his chair. Snape still hadn’t moved.
Resigning himself to wait, Harry considered their conversation. His thoughts circled back to his Sorting.
“Sir,” he began with some trepidation, “d’you—er, do you think I would have done well in Slytherin?” Harry’s question tumbled out quickly, his curiosity struggling to win out over his embarrassment.
Snape’s eyebrow hitched in surprise. Harry could tell Snape hadn’t been expecting the query. When half a minute went by and Snape hadn’t answered, Harry flushed.
“Sorry, sir, I suppose my question was rather pointless,” Harry apologized in a rush. “I only meant—I mean—I only wondered…” He looked down at his lap and shrugged again.
Snape cocked his head and looked at Harry appraisingly. Harry forced himself to meet the dark eyes.
“I’m sure you would’ve found it most disagreeable, Potter,” Snape said quietly. “Given your little—rivalry—with Malfoy and…other circumstances of note.”
Harry looked up at Snape with a sad smile. Harry knew very well the other circumstances were Snape’s deep and personal loathing of Harry stemming from Snape’s own schoolboy rivalry with Harry’s father; Dumbledore had told him as much after he'd fought Quirrell last year.
“You’re probably right, sir,” Harry agreed. “It’s just that sometimes I wonder, is all. If I’m really supposed to be in Gryffindor. If maybe I shouldn’t’ve overruled the hat like that.”
Snape balked. Deciding that since he’d already opened this can of worms, it wouldn’t hurt to satisfy his curiosity a bit further, Harry steeled himself to ask another question.
“Sir, if—if I had been put in Slytherin,” Harry started, “d’you think—er, that you might—er, dislike me less?”
Snape’s jaw clenched and unclenched. He seemed to be working out something to say. Harry met his gaze tentatively, green eyes blazing with pain and dejection.
“I think that’s enough of your infernal curiosity for one day, Potter,” Snape said in a low, neutral voice. His tone had none of his trademark vitriol, only hollowness. With a flick of his wrist, his office door flew open. Snape moved aside so Harry could leave.
Harry bit back another question as he stood and headed to the door. When he reached the threshold, he turned back and looked at the professor.
“Good night, Professor,” Harry said. He gave Snape a small, cautious smile, then left. Snape had been—not pleasant, exactly, but…decent. To Harry. It was a small miracle. But then…was it? Hadn’t Snape been decent to Harry before? Harry recalled his conversation with Quirrell the previous year in front of the Mirror of Erised before he’d taken off his turban. Quirrell had told him that Snape, of all people, had been trying to protect Harry from Quirrell. At Harry’s first Quidditch match, Snape had tried to counter Quirrell’s jinx on Harry’s broom. He’d even refereed the next match to ensure Quirrell didn’t try anything again.
Harry came to a halt in front of the steps that led out of the dungeon. He turned around and jogged back to Snape’s office before he thought better of it. Without giving himself time to reconsider, Harry rapped lightly on the door he’d left not a minute before.
“Enter,” Snape called from within. The door swung open, and Harry found Snape sitting at the chair behind his desk grading papers. Snape looked up for a moment, then back down at his work.
“What is it now, Potter?” he asked tersely, crossing out a few lines of someone’s potions essay.
Harry started, “Well, sir, I just—I realized I never thanked you—for stopping Quirrell jinxing my broom.”
Snape looked up again, discomfited.
“I—that’s—you’re welcome,” Snape spluttered. “Is that all, Potter?”
“Yes, sir.” Harry had the good sense to reply quickly.
“Off to your dormitory then, boy. Minding your curfew is a good place to start for minding the school rules in their entirety,” said Snape.
“Yes, sir,” Harry said, already halfway out the door. “Thanks again.”
He’d said the last bit quietly, but he was sure Snape heard it nonetheless.
He turned around to close the door, and he caught the professor with the smallest hint of a smile on his face.