Unlike Draco, Severus was very patient, but two weeks into the school year with no demands, not even a smug smirk, had his patience ready to wring Harry Potter's neck.

Harry Potter, as of late, was absorbed in thought. The idea itself caused its own personal grimace, but it was true. He was withdrawn and quiet. Severus thought at first that he was sulking. It was certainly not below the boy, but his face was wrong, as was the set of his shoulders. It lacked the sense of self-justified suffering. Severus had even caught him reading one time. His jaw had ached to find some insult, lingering before the crack in the door for a good five minutes.

Severus watched him closely. During study hall, he noticed that when he was bored, he would flick his fingers and distractedly light a fire over his thumb. He rubbed it out against his knuckle and flicked it on again, like a muggle lighter. He toed his shoes off in class. He was shocked to spot the duck-taped mess of them below the counter. He pushed his glasses up and constantly fiddled with them, and he liked to pull the skin loose from his chapped lips. There was no nervous habit of foot tapping or knee bobbing or hair pulling or tongue biting or any of the thousands of things that Severus observed from the pubescent idiots that roamed Hogwarts. Even Draco had a nervous habit of dangling his foot that drove Severus insane.

Draco, he also noticed, spent an inordinate amount of time watching the lad. There was a soft yearning on the boy's face that made him seem very beautiful, though Severus quickly killed thoughts of that. The evolution of emotion was quick and worrying. How the dissatisfaction and hatred turned to dissatisfaction and confusion to dissatisfaction and curiosity to dissatisfaction and heartache. Draco had always been such an easy person to read, one of the reasons that he fared so poorly during the war.

Draco really was a lost lamb, bleating wildly for attention and terrified that he was going to be left alone. The war hadn't snuffed out his complacency, but something Harry Potter did certainly had. And he was determined to find out what.

o.O.o

Severus was on his way to meet Draco for the second time in the same day. He was about to step off the stairs, spotting Draco at the other end of the hall when a commotion from the courtyard caught his attention.

Five boys - three Hufflepuffs and two Ravenclaws - had converged on Pansy Parkinson. This was a common occurrence of late. People like Parkinson, who had not been directly involved with the war other than to suffer the tyranny of the Carrows, were being targeted by the students for 'justice,' a term Severus used figuratively in light of its similarities to mob-fashioned lynchings. None of the Slytherins were immune, not even the younger students who knew what was going on only from hearsay.

Severus prepared to step forward, a snarl on his face when a shout made him falter.

"Oi!"

Severus knew that voice. Most of Europe knew that voice, though only Severus and Draco could claim the familiarity of its anger. He watched from the shadowy passage as Harry Potter stormed into the courtyard. Parkinson, never one to miss an opportunity, darted for her wand. The motion pulled the boys from their stupor enough for one of the Hufflepuffs to grab and twist her arm.

There was a blast that erupted without light, and everyone winced, covering their ears. The Hufflepuff, who had released Parkinson, was suddenly lifted upside down and shaken hard enough for his brain to knock against his skull. He collapsed in a heap on the ground, groaning dizzily.

Harry had his wand out and looked furious. "What the hell are you doing?"

"She's a Slytherin," one of the Hufflepuffs said. Severus identified him as Rolands, though the first name escaped him. Harry pointed his wand at his throat, and the boy raised his hands, eyes going wide.

"What the hell does that mean? What exactly did you think you were going to do with five on one? Rape her?"

Severus was rather stunned he even had the balls to voice that. The students winced, quick to deny anything of the sort. The Ravenclaw was braver, a seventh year named Geoffrey Goodchild. He dwarfed Potter, hair a shade darker than Weasleys though he had less freckles.

"Why are you defending her?" he asked, and Severus heard the emphasis on you rather than her. Apparently, Potter did as well, if the flash across his face was any indication. Goodchild gave her a sneer, which Parkinson had no qualms returning even from the ground. "She tried to turn you over to You-Know-Who. Don't you know what she did to us?"

Potter moved his wand. Severus watched his grip, impressed despite himself. He handled his wand like a Death Eater rather than an auror, curling his hand beneath the handle so that it looked effortless but threatening nonetheless. Goodchild's nose flared and he took a step back.

"I don't care," he said bluntly, shocking everyone in the hall.

"She tortured us!" Rolands yelled. "She tortured us. And she's still here. She wasn't even punished. We deserve something!"

"Blake," Harry said in a soft, soothing voice, though he didn't lower his wand. "Have you talked to anyone about this?"

"This isn't a therapy session," Goodchild spat.

Potter ignored him. "Blake, do you want to hurt her? Do you really?"

The boy bit his lip. "She deserves it."

"Did you?" he asked softly.

"I didn't torture people!" he shouted back, eyes blazing with self-righteousness.

"That's right, Potter," the Ravenclaw said. "You weren't even here. You don't know what it was like."

Potter ignored him again, giving sympathetic eyes to the crying Hufflepuff.

"You felt helpless. You felt helpless and weak, and you think that punishing her like this will make you feel in control. But it was more than just Parkinson, wasn't it? Some of the faces you don't even remember because you couldn't look at them anymore. And even though you did it to protect yourself, you think it made you weak now. Because you should know. You should know who was hurting you."

It was silent, not even that idiot Goodchild speaking.

Was that was Potter felt, when he had men in masks bearing down on him at all sides?

"You can't take revenge on the Slytherins," Potter continued in that same reasonable, soft voice. "They had to, Blake. Or they would have been on the floor beside you. And their family might be as well. It's not easy torturing people." He shook his head. "She's just spoiled, Blake. Not even she wanted to. This won't make it hurt any less and it won't make you feel in control. Because the faces you do remember every time, the ones that laughed and told them want to do and which spells to use, are already dead. Do you understand? They're dead, Blake. They can't hurt you anymore."

The younger students looked confused, glancing back and forth between Potter and Parkinson, except for Rolands. He was a sixth year repeating fifth year like the rest of them. Severus had tried to protect the students, had kept the worst from them, but they were still children who understand pain was pain, even if they didn't lose limbs or spent the rest of their lives blind.

Rolands' eyes were fastened on Potter, a clear, crystal blue that Severus suddenly realized greatly resembled Dumbledore's. He was still struggling with great emotion, wand limp in his hand. Potter watched him and only him, though Severus saw how his hand still framed his wand in an easy, lightning grip.

Goodchild broke the spell. "Pretty words, Potter. What are you? Why are you saving them now? You're supposed to be on our side."

"I'm not your parent," Potter snapped, turning quicksilver eyes to him.

Rolands lowered his head, shivering slightly.

"I didn't chose to be your savior, and just because I killed the bastard doesn't mean I'm going to be your bloody spokesman. I don't pick sides," he sneered, gazing for a moment at the floor, as if the phrase itself rather than the speaker upset him.

Goodchild flushed an ugly red. He glanced down quickly at Parkinson, but Potter made a subtle gesture with his wrist and took his gaze again.

"Let's go," Goodchild barked

He went to grab Rolands arm, and Potter growled, raising his wand.

"Let him go."

"You can't just do that!"

"Do what?" Potter challenged. "Tell you to release a student."

"Blake, come on."

The boy looked up at Potter hesitantly.

"I won't stop you if you go with them," Potter said calmly, eyes on Goodchild. His gaze fell a moment later, after the statement, resting with heavy acceptance on the child. "But I would like you to come with me."

There it was, lain out simply. Potter had his full attention on him, and this time he did not look away, waiting for his decision.

Goodchild tugged on his arm. Potter nodded as if that had been an answer.

"Come to me if you have any questions, Blake. About anything. I'll listen to you."

Goodchild scoffed, tugging the entourage down the hall.

"Mr. Potter?" one of the Hufflepuffs said hesitantly, halfway following Goodchild.

"I'm eighteen, Alfons. Bloody hell," he said without much reproach. "Just call me Harry."

He turned and looked at where Goodchild was disappearing. "Do you really think…" He glanced at Parkinson, who realized she was still sprawled ungracefully on the ground and snarled.

The boy backed away.

Potter didn't deign the girl with a glance, though his jaw hardened. "They aren't nice, and I don't want you to try to befriend them, but yes. With very few exceptions, they aren't murderers, and they were just trying to survive. The same as you." He crudely jerked his chin where the Ravenclaw had disappeared. "Don't let older students rile you. They didn't have any more control over the situation than you did."

When the boy looked at Parkinson, who was standing, Severus saw true fear in his eyes. He only knew some of the details about what the Carrows had made his students do, but he hadn't expected a look like that on a thirteen year old, especially after the war ended and the Light won.

"Alfons," Potter called, breaking the boy's stare. "You're safe now. And if you feel like you aren't, come to me. Not pricks like Goodchild."

He ran off. Potter ran a hand through his hair, making the large cowlick at the back of his scalp stand even more to attention. Parkinson had gathered her wand and other than ruffled and bruised, look no worse for wear. She observed Potter through narrow eyes, shoulders hunched. The emotions that Potter displayed for her were much more complicated than the ones he'd given Rolands or Goodchild.

"Do you expect a thank you?" she sneered.

"No."

They spent another minute in cold silence, evaluating each other.

"What?" the girl eventually snapped, unable to turn her back on him.

There was a wild, confined look on her face that Severus was used to seeing on his Slytherins now. She didn't try to straighten her hair or pretend that she wasn't planning escape routes. The sympathy that Potter extended to Rolands would be completely unwelcome. Severus didn't know if he understood that or didn't care, but he backed away and kept his trap shut. Parkinson watched him suspiciously, not that Severus could blame her. He'd done the same after Potter had interfered with his trial, waiting for the moment when he'd betray him or demand payment for gratitude that Severus did not feel.

"I tried to turn you over to the Dark Lord," she said viciously at his back.

Idiot, Severus hissed to himself.

Potter stopped and turned around.

"I don't regret it," she said when he didn't answer.

"I know that," he said impatiently. It was silent again, and he seemed to realize that Parkinson wanted a reaction. "I've never expected anything more of you."

"Don't you want revenge?"

"For what?" he said with a small, irritated smile. "We aren't friends. You wanted to save your skin. I never expected more of you," he said again. "So it's not like you betrayed me. I don't get what you want from me, unless you want me to say that you hurt me." He glared in. "In that case, you're deluded."

Parkinson didn't gape but Severus saw the way her teeth shut against her lips.

"You don't care that I wanted you dead."

Potter gave her an incredulous look. "Half the people I know, and don't know, want me dead. The other half wants me to stand still and be a fucking idol. Sorry but I'm afraid the second half pisses me off more. You actually try to kill me and I'll start to care."

Pansy backed away. Potter looked completely bewildered by the reaction but didn't comment, instead turning away and continuing down the hall.

"Why did you help me?" she whispered.

"Why does it matter?" he said without stopping.

"Because it doesn't make any bloody sense," she whispered, though this time it was too soft for Potter to hear.

Severus watched her stiffen and turn in the opposite direction. He resolved to tell his Slytherins to buddy-up when they left the dorms. He looked up and was startled to realize that Draco wasn't on the step anymore. He cursed, knowing which way he had gone.

He followed after Potter, strides long and swift. The boy was the Chosen Savior, England's darling. No matter any court convictions, they would not survive antagonizing him.

He caught up to see Potter spin around and direct his wand towards Draco's face. Severus made a soft oath and flicked out his wand. Potter frowned and surprisingly lowered his arm when Draco continued to stare at him dumbly, hands raised.

"What is it, Malfoy?"

Draco swallowed then braced yourself. "I wanted to thank you."

"You what?" he sputtered, eyes almost popping out of his skull.

Severus enjoyed that reaction for a moment, much more pleasing that the soft sympathizing look he wore when he tried to be reasonable and soothing.

"Thank you," Draco repeated. "For Pansy."

Potter eventually blinked and glared. "Why didn't you help her?" he rounded.

"You got there first," he said honestly.

Potter shook his head, nursing what looked like a massive headache. "I'm going barmy."

"It's barmy for me to thank you for helping a friend?"

He opened his mouth and changed his mind again, making Severus begin to wonder if, in the year foraging for horocruxes and attending trials, he'd actually learned to control his tongue.

"I thought Slytherins had a rule never to use expressions of gratitude."

"I've decided it won't hurt me to thank you."

Potter gave him a long, accessing look that looked a shade bit humored. "Don't thank me, Malfoy." His eyes went hard. "I didn't enjoy defending her."

Draco nodded contritely, which seemed to confuse Potter even more. "Isn't that a better reason to thank you then?"

He stared at him, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else. Interestingly, his face softened though. He looked no less suspicious, but it was there.

"You don't have to thank me," he stammered.

Draco took a deep breath. "Thank you for speaking at my trial too. And for my mother."

Potter looked even more unsettled now, but his gaze didn't leave Draco's face.

"Thank you for keeping quiet at the manor."

Draco's eyes widened. He controlled his expression a moment later but still had to look away.

"You don't mean that. I did that because I was a coward, and you know it."

Potter didn't deny it, but something entered his face, like respect among the confusion. He gave a small shrug but his eyes were bright.

"I shouldn't assume that I know what goes on in your mind," he said lightly. He coughed, suddenly awkward. "For the trial… I don't expect anything from you. I just spoke the truth. But… you're welcome, Malfoy. Since you said thanks."

He looked strangely vulnerable, Severus thought. Much more comfortable defending his enemies that accepting gratitude from them. Severus had never known that about him. It was such an odd thing to have anyway.

Severus still didn't think that Harry was a wonderful boy savior, Dumbledore's little hero. He was still arrogant and believed in a justice that relied entirely on his own system of morals, but it was strange that he would defend the people he hated. Not as strange though as his recognition that his side was not the only victims of the war. Severus had never expected that. His father certainly had never possessed such depth, but his mother too had been merciless and unforgiving when she'd been wronged. She had sympathy for the forgotten child as Spinner's End but not for the man-child that spurned her in a fit of humiliation.

That was an uncomfortable thought. He'd praised Lily, for years and years and years. It had been so long since he'd reviewed her faults. (And even now he was hesitant to say there were any.) Severus had still been a child when he had last seen her. After so long, his love for her remained pure, the only thing he held onto that couldn't be sullied. He knew with a knowledge marked by age that he'd been in love with her because she was kind and beautiful, that his feelings leaned more towards obsession than passion because that was what he needed to survive.

Now though, he could look at her son and see all the things she couldn't be. Compassionate only when it was convenient and fiercer in her loyalties than her convictions.

Severus didn't suddenly hate Harry Potter any less. He was still insufferable and self-righteous and foolhardy, though he still didn't know what the last bothered him so much more than the first two.

Severus left the hall, his mind awhirl with propositions that he hadn't considered since a green-eyed girl had once convinced that not all the world was made of sin.