Happy New Year!
A/N 1: Thank you to Fan, Hamlet, Federica, Blaise and guests.
A/N 2: I've probably taken liberties with Harry's scar - but bear with.
Chapter 3: Two Tired People
Slytherin common room, 10:35 am
"MALCOLM! That's gross!" Yelled Tracey, wiping the wet lump from her neck.
Malcolm Baddock expertly dropped the springy ruler down his shirt sleeve and out of sight.
"What?! What've I done, eh?! Nothing!"
"Baddock! Give me your wand this instant!"
Snape's entrance into the common room caused Malcolm's impudent grin to first freeze, then drop away entirely.
"Now!" Thundered Snape.
He grabbed the first-year, taking both wand and ruler.
"Please sir! Oh, please don't do it! I promise I'll never flick another spit ball ever again. Ever!"
If possible, Snape looked even more annoyed.
"Who's been telling the first-years I'll break their wands if they misbehave?"
His eyes roamed the common room, narrowed briefly at Pansy Parkinson, moved to Bletchley but finally rested on Philip Aitcheson.
"He misunderstood, sir!"
"Did he now?" Said an unconvinced Snape, "I think that's the equivalent of a note, don't you?"
"I've already got two!" Squawked Philip.
"Then I look forward to our meeting."
Snape smiled a thin smile that wasn't really a smile, and Philip jabbered in an attempt to overturn the unprecedented Snape note-giving.
"But sir?! Sir! You never give notes. You don't! Only the prefects give notes!"
"Complaint, Aitcheson? Pop it in the complaints box." Replied Snape, pointing Malcolm's ruler at the rubbish bin.
He then used the ruler to give three springy slaps to Malcolm's hand, finishing up with a quick shake.
"You foolish child! I want to borrow your wand, not break it. And never flick spit balls again."
With that, he stormed back to his study.
oOo
It might have appeared Snape was in a bad mood. Not so. As a matter of fact, he was giddy with excitement. Granted what led to the wand-borrowing had been unpleasant, but one thing leads to another and as Snape walked through his office and entered his study, he was beaming. Beaming, that is, minus the actual upturned lips, and the crinkly, twinkly eyes.
As arranged, Pomona had sent word the second Potter left the hospital. Thus, when the boy wasn't looking forlorn outside his study door five minutes later, Severus knew he'd taken himself off elsewhere. The little toad … No doubt he'd appear when he was good and ready and not a second before - and with a ready made excuse that was neither provable, nor disprovable. Snape had been so annoyed he'd gone to the cabinet behind his desk, taken out the cane, and given it several severe swishes just to make himself feel better. Then he'd had a better idea.
The map Moody had returned to Potter last night! He'd known last year it was a Marauder specimen. Back then, Lupin had leapt to the boy's rescue before he could confiscate it, but Moody had been a lot less helpful to Potter - all the better for Snape. He'd raced into his quarters to retrieve the map. There was a spell to open it, he knew. What he didn't know was how long it would take to discover it. Better get started. But no sooner had his wand tapped the map than a dark-inked insult revealed itself letter by letter on the closed parchment,
Messrs. Mooney, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs wish to convey
the following message to Snivelling Snape of Slytherin
(if he can keep his greasy hair out of his eyes long enough to read it):
Keep your long, droopy nose out of our affairs, or we
solemnly swear we'll spell your conk to a foot long!
Even after all those years it stung. Arrogant, vicious bastards … they'd probably have done it, too. His pale skin flushed, and he threw down his wand. Clearly it was of no use, but that could soon be remedied. As he marched out to borrow another from the common room, he couldn't help but replay the insult in his mind. At first it made him angrier, but somewhere betwixt bedroom and office the penny dropped. Those hoity toity posh boys had inadvertently helped him. That was why the insult hurt so much; it was so redolent of how they'd spoken to him during his school days. And a person with Snape's propensity for brooding ran their callous words through his head time and again. He knew how they spoke, and an idea had now entered his head of what the incantation could be.
oOo
He sat, dining table cleared of journals. A wave of Baddock's wand failed to arouse the suspicion of the map.
"We solemnly declare …"
A corner of parchment crinkled and quickly lay flat. Wait a moment, thought Severus; the 'Marauders' might have used the map individually.
"I solemnly declare …"
The corner of parchment now waved at him.
Declare? Avow? State? The same tiny wave from the corner. Swear. The top flap unfurled itself.
"I solemnly swear I am about to make mischief."
The side flaps gave a wriggle but remained stubbornly unfurled. He knew the sentiment was correct, and cast around in his mind for synonymous phrases. Five minutes later, he paused for a cup of tea, only to come hurtling in from the kitchen before the water had boiled,
"I solemnly swear that I'm up to no good!"
The parchment opened up like one of the paper fortune-tellers the first-year girls were so keen on making.
"Severus Snape."
He said, bringing down Baddock's wand to glance off the parchment. Nothing happened. Then he stepped from side to side, and tiny footprints appeared on the map, correctly located in his rooms. He tried others. Minerva was with Grubbly-Plank; Trelawney was in her tower, and Flitwick was in his rooms, still being studiously avoided lest he prevail upon someone to read his dreadful manuscript.
"Potter."
Where was that? The disused belfry … well, well. Why on earth was he there? A talk too private to be had in the dungeons? And with whom? Severus pictured the common room he'd just left; who'd been missing? Ah yes, she was missing. Had she been there, the redoubtable Miss Bulstrode would have made short work of Baddock's mischief.
"Bulstrode."
Bulstrode's footprints flickered into life. It was a powerful piece of sorcery; he had to hand that to the Marauders. But something stopped him from questioning the map further. Despise the Marauders as he did, their intent had been mischief - sneaking off to The Three Broomsticks to flirt with Rosmerta, or evading Filch. Wrong undoubtedly, and if Potter copied them, Snape would dole out a memorable punishment, but what he was doing was much, much worse. A desire for total dominion was the preserve of tyrants, something The Dark Lord would do. Snape put the map in his back pocket. He wouldn't go down that road, and neither did he need to. He knew who'd joined Potter and Bulstrode up in the belfry. He didn't need magic for that.
The wait for Potter's appearance was unwelcome. His meeting with Lucius Malfoy was itching to be properly digested, but that would need to wait until he'd slept. That frustrated him. The delight he'd gained in tricking the map receded and he was left exhausted and angry. All admiration for The Marauders' skill was gone; only the memory of their bullying remained. It was too beguiling to link Potter's insolence to the vileness of his father; Snape felt his anger surge. Only one thing for it at times such as these: retreat to what he could control. Potions. In any case, summer term and exams were looming, along with frazzled nitwits who insisted on cramming a year's study into two weeks. Poppy would soon be demanding a batch of The Draught of Peace.
The attention necessary for the crushing, slicing and paring cleared his mind of encumbrances. And when the potion was underway and matters became mechanical enough to permit new thoughts, well, he was sufficiently soothed by that point to think on them. Antipathy between himself and Alastor Moody was a given, but something about last night particularly alarmed him, though he couldn't think why. Had … oh, maybe not … wait … had Potter also seemed wary of the auror? He'd certainly looked relieved when Moody had left and when Potter had taken back his father's map. The map! What was a respected auror doing playing around with a schoolboy contraband map? It didn't sit well with Snape - and neither did the fact Potter had leant it him. What was the idiot boy playing at? After all the close calls he'd had in his Hogwarts career and he goes loaning something like that out to a person he barely knows?!
Hesitant raps at the door. Severus refused to answer - out of spite. He knew it was Potter. Well, now the boy could wait until he was ready. He stirred the potion and gloated each time he ignored the knocking.
oOo
12:05 pm
Harry knocked again. The door finally swung open to reveal an empty study and The Git standing in the office beyond, his tall sinewy frame hunched over a large cauldron. He must know I'm here; he spelled the door open, thought Harry. Minutes passed and still Snape didn't speak, didn't even raise his head. Say something, or stay quiet? It was a tricky choice; Snape hated being interrupted at the best of times. But the minutes grew, and eventually Harry spoke.
"I'm here."
"I'm aware."
The hypnotic stirring continued. Harry's tired eyes were drawn to it and his exhausted body began to sway in time to the long stirrer, as if spinning an invisible hula hoop. He caught himself gyrating and felt ridiculous, then angry. Twat! He was awful last night and blamed me for everything. I couldn't sleep because of him and now I'm so knackered I'm almost dead. Why am I here if he won't sodding speak?
"You wanted to see me."
An ounce of belligerence had seeped into his voice, though if Snape noticed it, he said nothing. The stirring continued for a minute longer until Snape pulled out the long stirrer, wiped it clean and turned to Harry.
"Wanted to see you? Somewhat of an overstatement, Potter. That way."
The stirrer pointed Harry back to the study. It was bloody long - three feet easily. A horrible thought entered Harry's head and grew as he was prodded towards the sofa. However, Snape merely told him to sit and dropped the stirrer on the coffee table.
"And here we are at last … the most fêted and pampered boy in Hogwarts finally has an opening in his busy schedule for his lowly housemaster…"
Such a beautiful voice! Such arch words!
He pulled The Marauder's Map from his back pocket.
"Tell me Potter, is there no end to the illicit magical artifacts you've been given?"
"They were my dad's!"
Snape twitched, then jerked his head, flicking his long hair from his face.
"I know who they belonged to."
It was a terse reply delivered with quiet fury. Harry should have panicked. Three feet of pliable willow with a flat, perforated stirring head some eight inches by four was lying before him. His tired brain dimly recalled Philip Aitcheson regaling the common room with the tale of his encounter with it. Bletchley had coined a new term, 'to be stirred', and as one the house had shuddered at the new addition to Snape's arsenal. Though in truth, everyone had thought Philip was exaggerating. They'd blithely assumed he'd 'been stirred' with the same stirrer they used in class; not the monster Snape used for the hundred pint cauldron in the corner of his office. Yet Harry didn't panic. Maybe the sofa had some benign charm placed upon it? Or more likely, it was simply its comfort enveloping Harry's weary body. It cocooned and cossetted him 'til fear and anger ebbed away. He looked on dully as Snape continued.
"A map that allows you to sneak in and out of the castle. An invisibility cloak. What else do you have? Perhaps a charmed quill that completes your homework, so you can devote more time to breaking rules?"
That didn't work, thought Harry. Snape was such a bloody tyrant he made them all do their homework in the common room while he checked on them. Mercifully, he hadn't the energy to point that out.
"Or maybe some enchanted shoes that lead you in precisely the direction you have No. Business. Being?"
That one works and he has a point, but sod it; I don't care anymore. Harry would've liked to make a few observations to The Git. Number One: he hadn't asked to be dragged up to the hospital with Malfoy. Number Two: he'd been stuck up there for bloody hours. Number Three: he still didn't know why. And Number Four: he knew he'd been rude, but he'd been exhausted and Snape was just plain mean. He said none of that mainly because Snape was a scary sod, but also because he was so very, very, very tired. He slipped slightly to the right, and found an even more comfortable position. His left hand reached for a cushion, and hazy, lazy thoughts entered his head. Maybe he should always turn up sleep deprived to a bollocking from Snape, being knackered took the edge off everything. He felt sure his knackered nerve receptors would refuse to transmit pain even if Snape used that bleeding stirrer. Glassy eyes watched as a black whirling dervish spun around the room, becoming angrier as he became calmer.
" … magical items whose properties could be used for purposes both mischievous and nefarious … items you claim deep attachment to … and what do you do with them, you cretinous boy?"
The scolding grew to a hissed crescendo,
"You loan them out to people you barely know!"
Snape wiped a fleck of spittle from his cheek and turned to pierce Potter with a glare. He stumbled back,
"How dare you? You obnoxious little wretch!"
Harry Potter was fast asleep on the sofa, mouth open and hugging a cushion to his chest.
oOo
Kick him, or hex him awake? Or let sleeping Potters lie? While not as satisfying, he chose the last option. A long thin finger jabbed Harry down to lying. Next, he pulled off Harry's glasses and shoes, placing his feet up on the sofa. Keep the swine sleeping longer; that was his plan. It would allow Severus time to dream up a punishment he would never forget.
No housemaster could overlook being spoken to in that manner. And he'd no doubt Potter had regaled the Snakes with his cheek. A pre-supper thrashing in front of the house it was then. Let Potter be an object lesson to them all; his Slytherins needed to be regularly jolted back into line. Snape nestled down in his favourite armchair, his eyes switching between the map on the table to the boy on the sofa. Harry Potter, son of bullying James Potter … He wished he could grow into a fury, declare that Potter was a chip off the arrogant, old block and turf him out, but that was impossible. Firstly, he'd run out of energy for fury, and secondly, it wasn't true.
Potter was reckless and arrogant, but unlike his father, it wasn't an arrogance borne of privilege. Potter's arrogance sprang from an excess of grim determination; a refusal to ask for help because help had seldom been offered him. He recalled secretly observing his first hour in the Slytherin common room. The boy had been meek and appreciative of the Snakes who'd spoken to him. He'd kept quiet when Parkinson and Greengrass had launched their attack. No. He was far removed from James Potter. And Lily, too. True, he had her eyes - and if he heard that tired old line one more time from Minerva, Snape was spelling them grey - but he had so much more. For all Draco Malfoy's poor behaviour - and it had been abysmal - Potter had stood by him. Severus knew it would take a lot more than uttering 'mudblood' in a moment of anguish to turn Potter from someone's side.
And if he were honest, Potter's steadfastness of last night impressed him. He pondered the manner in which the boy had addressed him. Snape had deserved it. From Potter's viewpoint he had abandoned Malfoy; he couldn't in all conscience punish him for that. But what he could punish him for was giving into the temptation to utter those words. When The Dark Lord returned - and return he would, Severus was sure of it - life would grow a lot grimmer than a professor appearing unkind. The plans for the sound public thrashing were moved from the mental 'definitely warranted' basket to the 'possibly deserves it' basket.
His thoughts turned from Potter to the others in his house. Theodore Nott was safe now. What a dreadful prospect for so many of his Snakes when their best hope lay in being orphaned. Not all of them thankfully; there were many fine families in Slytherin House. Still, those that didn't have that fortune would need rescuing. Oh, the plan! Getting the saddest souls in Slytherin away from their Death Eater parents. Audacious and daring - but even with Minerva at his side, would he be able to pull it off? Not if he didn't get some much needed kip, he wouldn't.
He'd report back to Minerva that evening. But for now he put his feet up on the coffee table, slumped his head upon a cushion and comforted himself with the happy thought that had James Potter lived, he would no doubt have ensured his son was every bit as obnoxious as he had been - and all whilst feckless Lily stood by and watched. Sweet slumbers indeed.
oOo
The hospital wing, 2:20 pm
"What're you doing here?"
"Alright. I'll go."
"I didn't say that! I just asked what you're doing here."
Millicent walked to the bed without answering Malfoy.
"Hmm … thought so. There's nothing wrong with you."
"I know." Replied Malfoy tartly.
"So why are you here? Snape never lets us lounge in bed when we're feeling okay, and Madam Pomfrey wants people out as soon as possible. Did he tell you to tell everyone you had an upset stomach?"
"How do you know?"
"That's what he told us at morning inspection; he'd have to keep the story the same."
She turned to leave.
"Come back!"
"What's the magic word?"
Evidently Malfoy was unused to the muggle expression.
"Which one?"
"Oh you bloody Pure Bloods! Please. The magic word's please.'
"Sod off, Millicent! I'm not saying please to you. You're the reason I'm in a hospital bed."
"Am I?"
"Yes! You and your payback because I didn't put my name down to search Snape's study. You think I didn't know what you were up to?"
"Yeah, you're right … sort of. Budge up." Millicent got into bed with Malfoy and turned to him conspiratorially, "Listen, wanna know what I think?"
"What?"
"I think I was played. I was used to set you up. Hey?!"
"What?!"
"Why the frigging hell aren't you terrified? You met a Death Eater!"
Malfoy gave a nonchalant shrug.
"I can take it."
Millicent rolled her eyes.
"Yeah well, get this." She said, "I think the Death Eater was a phoney!"
"Get this, Millicent. I think so, too."
They didn't know who the phoney was, or why they appeared, though Malfoy had suspicions he wasn't ready to share. Millicent pulled out a muggle note pad and biro and told Malfoy to jot down all his memories before they grew cloudy.
"I don't know why we use quills and parchment. This stuff's way better and it's easy to hide under your blanket if Snape comes to visit."
No sooner had Malfoy checked out the biro than they heard Pomfrey's steps. Millicent bolted off the bed and hid behind the long curtains.
"I need to go out for a few minutes, Mr Malfoy. Everything alright?"
"Fine, Madam Pomfrey."
"You will be good, won't you?"
"If I have to."
"You do."
Pomfrey left and Millicent got back into Malfoy's bed. She wanted to know when he was getting out, but he had no idea. Malfoy wanted to know what he'd missed.
"Brainbox is trying so hard to work out what's happening her brain's going to melt. Oh! Weasley got the note back! We're saved!"
"I know."
"AB's auditioning to be the new Snape; he gave Pucey a note for not giving me a note, then gave me two notes himself. Wanker."
Malfoy laughed.
"What for?"
"For trying to get out and see you."
"Imagine that! You love me after all!"
"I don't trust you more like! The others are raving on about how great Alicia's party was. What else? Vince and Greg took the leftover cake to Filch …"
"Bollocks they did; they'll have scoffed it themselves!"
"They did. Came back with crumbs and icing all down their fronts."
"Snape didn't spot it?"
"He wasn't around, must be in his rooms. Oh, that's right! Potter had to go and see him about 'appalling disrespect'!"
Draco snorted.
"I know that, too."
"He's been gone for hours." She added with a snort of her own.
Malfoy laughed out loud.
"Ha! He'll be in the dorm, lying face down trying to think of anything to drown out his throbbing arse!"
"Do we ever feel sympathetic? Us Snakes, I mean."
"What good would that do?"
"Fair point."
And they sniggered some more.
"Mills? You do realise that we're up to our necks in a caper with Potter, Granger and Weasley, don't you?" Asked Malfoy, "We shouldn't be here in Pomfrey's ward; we should be in the nutters' ward at St. Mungo's!"
"I know. Great, isn't it?!"
oOo
Snape's quarters, 2:30 pm
Malfoy was wrong about Potter's whereabouts. At that precise moment, Harry rolled in his sleep, draping his arm around the wooden bed post. Snape looked on horrified.
"Get your arm off my leg. NOW!"
Harry was jolted awake with such force he rebounded off the back of the sofa and shot down onto the carpet. His glasses were shoved in his hand and he realised with all-consuming shame he'd just been snuggling a Snape calf. But how?
"What … how? Erm … Oh God! I'm sorry, sir."
"You were instructed to come here immediately after you'd seen Malfoy. You disobeyed. Am I fond of being disobeyed, Mister Potter?"
"I don't think it's one of your top three pastimes, sir."
"Precisely. And watch your cheek; we had enough of that last night."
Oh, bugger … now he remembered … him going apeshit at Snape last night. Harry thought he'd been right to say what he had. He could have said it a little less vehemently, but he was right nonetheless. Being sat in a heap at Snape's feet, however, didn't predispose a person to fight their corner.
"Am I getting whacked now?" He asked gloomily.
His ear was grasped and he was pulled to standing.
"Possibly."
Possibly? What kind of answer was that? A brilliant one! The Git never dilly dallied over a whacking. 'Possibly' meant 'no'. Snape just couldn't bring himself to say it and risk sounding decent and kind. Blimey! He'd sworn at Snape and got away with it! Hang on! Was this really Snape, or had Voldemort appeared in the sewn together skins of missing potions professors? Was the whacking cancelled only because Harry was about to be slowly crucio'd to death?
"Stop looking at me like that." Snapped Snape, "You're even more annoying when you're perplexed than when you're shooting your foolish mouth off. You've possibly avoided a thrashing because, though egregiously rude, you were being loyal to Malfoy. You were also wrong about my abandoning him."
"But you did, sir. I mean … erm … I'm not trying to be rude, but you did leave him."
"He wasn't alone at any point; he was with you and Madam Pomfrey. You saw his parents?"
"Yes."
Harry gave Snape a 'so what?' shrug.
"Everything I do is by design, Potter. Now lunch."
oOo
'Harry's alcove', 3:00 pm
Millicent spotted the tapestry of Vindictus Viridian and thought he looked even more foul tempered than Snape.
"Thanks for not being headmaster anymore." She muttered as she swept him aside and entered the second floor alcove.
"Well?!" Hermione shrieked.
"He doesn't know when he's getting out; Madam Pomfrey's saying nothing and Snape hasn't been up to see him today."
"Did you give him the notebook?"
"Yup."
"And the biro? You didn't forget the biro?!"
"Nope."
"And he's going to write down all his memories?"
"Yes."
"Because you know that's really crucial, don't you Millicent?"
"I know."
"People think they'll remember stuff but they don't. Details start falling away after eighteen hours, sooner if they've had a shock. Do you know that?"
Brainbox was being just a little too manic for Millicent's tastes. As the alpha female of Slytherin, she didn't take kindly to being interrogated.
"Malfoy's sorted, Granger. Stop banging on, or I'll punch you again."
Hermione gasped.
"I'm joking! Sort of … but you should give your mouth a rest."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Anyway, it's Potter who's the wild card. He still hasn't left Snape's study, so I'm going back down to wait for him. You coming?"
"No, I've got to go and do something …"
"What?"
"Not sure yet … but Draco's in isolation and now Harry's not around. This is all getting away from us! Look, do whatever it takes to get Harry and meet back here at 5:00."
oOo
Snape's quarters, 2:50 pm
By the time Snape and Harry had snoozed, lunchtime was long gone. Snape was hungry and reluctantly decided he'd better feed the boy, too. He served up mushroom omelette and a green salad, criticized Harry on how he held his knife, told him he ate like a toddler and that his posture was appalling, scoffed when he didn't use his napkin, informed him he didn't chew his food enough, and finally, told him his chewing was too loud. After life with Aunt Petunia, Snape's sniping was amateur hour. Harry thanked him effusively following each observation, which annoyed Snape no end and made him search for fresh gripes. Harry thoroughly enjoyed curmudgeonly Snape; he was a hoot.
"I cooked; you're doing the dishes."
But he helped Harry clear the table.
"Which shelf does the salt and pepper go on?" Asked Harry.
"Shelf …" Said Snape, "How could I forget?! Shelf!"
Harry panicked as Snape darted back to the sitting room. The note! He's checking for the bloody note! But why would he? Maybe he did a weekly check of his notes? A bit weird, but then Snape was. Yeah, Ron said it'd been put back, but in exactly the right spot? Highly unlikely. Then Harry remembered Ron saying something about the fireplace being booby-trapped. He wished he'd asked more about it, but he'd been so knackered in the morning, he hadn't bothered. What if the booby-trap somehow proved what had happened? Oh Christ! They were all in for it big time.
Relief, however, came swiftly. A clearly disgruntled Snape returned and snatched a tea towel. It was at this point things started to get a bit odd.
"Feeling … a little blue … today, Potter?!"
"Erm … no."
"Hmm … I'm quite sure you were … feeling blue … last night, and … feeling blue … takes days to wear off."
Harry supposed it was good of Snape to check if he was sad, but he had a strange way of going about it. He paused and cocked his head at an odd angle every time he said 'feeling blue', reminding Harry of the Burmese Python that time with Dudley at the zoo.
"I wasn't feeling blue; I was just tired."
"I'm quite sure you were … blue, Potter …"
What was Snape going on about?
"And if you were … blue … last night, then you're bound to be … blue … now!"
"I'm happy!" Squeaked Harry, "I am!"
"Roll. Up. Your. Sleeves!"
An innocent enough collection of words - if superfluous. Harry had washed enough dishes to know not to plunge his shirt cuffs into the water. But it was the way Snape said it, slow and sinister - like a man who gained unnatural delight from seeing the bared forearms of young boys. Weirdo, thought Harry. He unbuttoned his cuffs hoping Snape didn't lick his lips or anything freaky like that. He needn't have worried; Snape just gave a huff. Harry's forearms were clearly disappointing.
The lacklustre forearms went into the water and he began washing dishes, aware that Snape's eyes were now lingering on his earlobes. As quick as a flash, Snape pulled back the collar of Harry's shirt and peered down.
"What?!"
"Hmm …" Said Snape, his nose moving to an inch from Harry's, "Mark me, Potter. Someone is feeling blue and I aim to Find. Out. Who!"
For a roving Samaritan determined to alleviate depression, Snape's manner was seriously off. The man really needed to work on his tone and lose the obsessive eye contact. But The Daily Prophet was never going to hold the front page for Harry's news that Snape was an oddball. Everyone knew that. And after a while, the silence lost its awkwardness and the two worked side by side, Harry washing and Snape drying.
"Am I supposed to wipe off the bits you've missed?"
The plate was shoved back at Harry, who scrubbed again at stains visible only to Snape. He could have taken umbrage at having his cleaning skills derided; he had, after all, had a large portion of his childhood forcibly devoted to learning the craft. Harry, however, was enjoying his time with Snape, and he'd escaped a whacking. Obviously a boon, but somewhere amongst the mass of sparking synapses in his brain was lurking a barely formed notion. Better than getting off scot free was the realisation that Snape had considered him.
The Git was almost mechanical in the punishments he doled out. Put your shoes up on the common room sofas, and you were relegated to sitting on the floor for the night. You tapped on the tank and annoyed the guppies? You were cleaning out the fish tank at the end of the week. Three notes from a prefect gained you automatic admission to Snape's 'Slipper Club', no questions asked, no excuses borne. Harry had found himself in the ridiculous situation of actually appreciating that side of Snape. You knew where you were with the man. You knew he knew what was going on. It was a treat not to have to look out for useless adults. Yet this time, Snape had paused and given thought to how Harry must have been feeling, and that made him feel great.
He handed Snape a scrupulously scrubbed water glass, guaranteed to escape criticism. Snape gave a pained sigh.
"You're washing this glass now? Glassware should always be washed before cutlery and crockery. Really, Potter …"
Knowing there could be no reprisal cuff around the head - Snape had his hands full with tea towel and glass - Harry ventured a cheeky riposte.
"Start again, sir? Or do you think you can handle the heartache of poorly-timed washing up?!"
Snape moved to the side and 'accidentally' trod on his toe. Harry laughed. Who'd have thought washing dishes with The Git could be so enjoyable? The synapses of his brain sizzled again as they fought to make sense of the situation. Snap! Crackle! Pop! They came good. Snape had become the one adult whom he felt truly at ease talking to. There were times when it was wise to keep your mouth clamped tight shut, of course. And he didn't always like talking to Snape; he'd never go that far. The man was nearly always in a bad mood; he was sarcastic and specialised in mocking those who'd annoyed him with vindictive delight. But for all that, Harry spoke freely with him. He loved McGonagall but he'd more or less given up on her listening to him. Maybe that would change with his 'punishment' Sunday afternoon teas? He hoped so. The same could be said for Dumbledore and, in any case, Harry was too in awe and too eager to impress his headmaster for his real feelings to come out. He did say whatever he liked to The Dursleys, but they weren't real conversations; that was just him punctuating the boredom of existence by goading them.
He loved Sirius, but sadness pervaded their conversations. Sirius' time in Azkaban weighed on Harry as if it were somehow his fault. Lupin was kind and admirable, but as with Sirius, Harry always chose his words carefully. It seemed to him that the night Voldemort had killed his parents had also, in a way, ended their lives. They were no longer the bright stars soaring across the night sky that they seemed in Hagrid's recounts of their youth. They were diminished, and Harry felt the burden of having to prop them up. He felt no such responsibility to prop up Snape. Snape was mean and gnarly and the type of person who'd spit out a boil hex if he so much as suspected a student was trying to reassure him. When Harry was with Snape, he opened his mouth and let the words come tumbling out.
"Y'know, sir? If my cousin helped me do the dishes, it'd be heaps better."
"You mean it would be fairer, or something else?"
"Given up on fair at The Dursleys." Said Harry, with no hint of self-pity, "I mean, you think it's a boring job … and it is … but you do it with someone and it's not actually that bad. Plus, you kind of end up not minding the person you're doing it with, no matter how rotten they are!"
"You, as ever, need to watch your cheek. But you make a sound point. It's called fellowship, Potter. Even the worst that life can throw at us can be borne with fellowship. Remember that. There may come a time in the future when it's near all we have."
Harry looked down and realised he was pulling the plug from the sink. The washing up was finished and Snape was handing him the tea towel to dry his hands. He did so, then dropped it as his right hand flew to his scar. Snape heard Harry's glasses clatter on the stone floor, and spun around from the doorway.
"What is it?" He demanded.
Harry couldn't speak. He gripped the kitchen bench, his eyes screwed tight. Snape must have left because he heard urgent steps coming back towards him. The next second, his hands were pulled from his head and a thumb gently traced the line of the scar. A bottle was sloshed and something cool dabbed onto his forehead. Ice cold and all the better for it; it smelled like lying in the long grass of Little Whingeing playground. He was guided back to the sitting room and manoeuvred into an armchair. His hand rose to rub at the scar, but was pushed down.
"Don't do that; you'll aggravate it."
His head was tilted back and something cold placed over his eyes and forehead. The needling pain lessened and Harry didn't have to screw up his eyes so tight. He became more aware of his surroundings. The light had been dimmed, and his feet were raised on something soft. He shuffled them, a cushion on the coffee table. The same meadow sweet smell of before bathed him and the tick … tick … tick of the clock set a calm pace. Just the clock and the rhythmic expulsion of air through Snape's long nostrils … not too close … Harry gauged he was on the armchair opposite.
"Lean your right ear towards your right shoulder."
Before Harry could ask why, Snape told him stretching the muscles of his neck and back would help. It did, too. Keeping his eyes closed, Harry obeyed Snape's every demand: rolling his shoulders, pushing his forehead down to his knees, leaning left, leaning right and on it went. It was the best bloody headache he'd ever had. Hermione was right; he should've told Snape about them way earlier. He liked Snape's care: unfussy, practical, calm. He wasn't sure how long he sat there. An odd thing but a ticking clock defies you to count; you're lulled into timelessness.
"Any better?"
"Yeah … yeah it's gone now. This thing really helped. Thanks." Said Harry holding the cold compress.
"Dittany and dandelion root. I'm glad it was useful."
Snape reached over and handed Harry his glasses. Vision reinstated, Harry was pleased to note the man's expression was as grim as ever.
"It is. I feel like the headache never happened. It normally stays with me for a while."
They sat in companionable silence but something had to stop that. Unfortunately for Harry, it was the increased furrowing of Snape's brow, the tapping of his chin, and his menacing, tortured enunciation.
"It … normally … stays with me for a while … normally …"
Harry would never be the star turn on a debate team. Though perfectly adequate, his mind simply didn't make rapid-fire connections. He was constantly dreaming up retorts to Malfoy's jibes seven weeks after The Prat had made them. But even Harry knew what was going on in Snape's head. He'd let slip that this headache wasn't a one-off, and was about to be bollocked for keeping them quiet.
"Just when did these headaches become normal?"
The sensible thing, or even the sane thing, was to lie. He'd lied to Voldemort in his first year. Didn't do him much good; Voldemort still knew where Flamel's stone was. But he had lied. Snape was different. He opened his mouth and words fell out. They weren't normal headaches; it was his scar, he was sure of it. He was getting more and more of them, and if it was his scar, then …
"Give me the timeline, Potter." Ordered Snape through clenched teeth.
"I got the first one on my first night here."
"Your first night in Slytherin?! That was six months ago! How on earth has it taken this long to tell me?!"
"Umm."
It was a defining moment for Harry, causing him to question everything and finally throw in his lot entirely with Snape and the Snake House. But those deep contemplations would only come at the end of the school year. Back then, the defining moment was much more commonplace, and not a little humiliating.
The 'umm' had told Snape all he needed to know. In one bound, he was out of his armchair and in front of Harry, his left foot planted firmly on the coffee table. Next thing, Harry'd been hoiked over Snape's leg and lay dangling, 'Aitcheson's Nemesis', the fearsome potions stirrer, but inches away. Then Harry saw nothing. Firstly because his glasses fell off, and secondly because his eyes screwed tight at the almighty cracks that were landing on his backside.
Sound and fury blared throughout the small sitting room, Snape's arm working like an out-of-control windmill. But some eight or nine cracks in, Harry managed to open an eye and saw the blurred stirrer untouched on the table. It took a moment to register that he wasn't in all-encompassing agony, just had a very heated backside. The heat was augmented by a dozen more whacks before Snape pulled him to standing.
Two people stood staring at each other, one furious and the other indignant.
"That's not how it works! People don't do that!"
"What are you blathering about?" Snarled Snape.
"You said I wasn't getting whacked!"
"I said you possibly weren't. Evidently I decided you were."
"No! Possibly means not happening! No one does it like that. People yell and get all angry and say they're going to punish you, and then … then they back down and do nothing, just tell you you're really gonna cop it if you do it again. You got it back to front! You can't start off being all reasonable then go mental!"
"That wasn't for last night's insolence; it was for not disclosing your headaches."
"I did tell you about the headaches." Sulked Harry, "You didn't have to do that; there's nothing more to tell you."
"Until the next time."
"What?" Asked Harry.
"Something else in your catastrophe-strewn life is bound to rear its head, Potter. You will learn the wisdom of confiding in an adult, and not tottering on alone in your misplaced stoicism. And for the record, you didn't tell me; you slipped up. There's a world of difference. There's also far more about your headaches that I need to know."
Just as it seemed Snape was calming down, he reeled around to grab Harry's arms and shake him.
"Your first Sorting Feast?! That's when your scar began to hurt? The unmitigated arrogance! The Dark Lord … terrifying to all but Harry Potter …"
"I'm terrified!"
"Are you? When you came into contact with him your scar burned. By your own admission, it's been giving you blinding headaches throughout the year, and you did what exactly?" Snape paused, but only to answer his own question, "The Golden Boy continued with his deluded martyrdom. Let me tell you again, Potter; circumstances conspired to make you who you are. You have no intrinsic greatness; you are as frail as the rest of us."
He'd heard it before from Snape, but it still hurt. Not the words, it was the venom Snape used.
"Be glad of that. Frailty is a gift. It makes us human and if we can learn to accept it in others, is what stops us becoming monsters …"
The delivery was less toxic, and Snape even gave a momentary clasp to Harry's shoulder.
"Nevertheless, you have one frailty I cannot tolerate. You suspected the cause of your headaches and you said nothing. Is The Dark Lord only a threat to you? Is your arrogance so complete?"
Snape looked at Harry expecting outraged denial, but he didn't get it. Harry's eyes welled with tears and he ducked his head to his chest. Snape gave his shoulder a gentle shake.
"What is it, Potter?"
Harry tried to say something, but it came out as incoherent, snotty babble.
"Idiot." Said Snape.
Not a sneer. There was some exasperation, but mostly the single word held tenderness. Snape moved his hand to cup the back of Harry's neck.
"For goodness' sake! You're upset! Stop being such a bloody martyr and start snivelling like any sane person would!"
"I feel like a dickhead!" Harry got in between sobs.
"I fail to see why. You're hardly the first child I've brought to tears with a hiding. In any case, these tears are from the emotion of the day, not the hiding."
"It wasn't even a hiding! You put me over your sodding knee like you do with the first-years! You didn't even use that thing!"
Harry covered his red eyes with one hand and used the other to indicate the stirrer.
"Good God, Potter! What kind of monster do you think me? That stirrer would take the skin off you! And is this all you really have to say to me?"
"No."
"Then say more."
Harry took a few deep gulps to banish his sobbing.
"You're right. I should've told someone about the headaches 'cos it affects loads of people, not just me."
"Better, but far from perfect. You should have told someone about the headaches because you could have been helped sooner. You've been dealt a bad hand, but there's no need to embrace misery so entirely. You're just as important as everyone else. And for the record, I didn't put you over my knee; I put you over one knee - far more dignified and befitting your elevated status and maturity …"
He was being sarcastic, but that was okay; he was also being kind.
"You should take a leaf out of Mister Aitcheson's book; be grateful for small mercies and then concoct a tale of immense cruelty. There's enough suffering in the world without seeking out more. Now, are you fit to listen?"
Harry nodded.
"Then sit down."
Snape took the opposite armchair, and thought for a moment before speaking.
"He's coming back. I know it and you know it. The trouble is, we don't know when. So here is our plan …"
Harry leant forward eagerly.
"You come to me with anything unexpected …"
"Like my scar hurting?"
"Or anything else unexpected."
"Like what?" Asked Harry.
"I don't know, Potter. If I did, it wouldn't be unexpected, would it?"
"S'pose. What else, sir?"
"You do as I tell you."
"And?"
"And that's it. We live our lives, and I and the other professors deal with matters as they arise."
Harry threw himself back in the armchair, growling at the shittiness of Snape's plan.
"Some plan! That's what always happens! Shut up and let the grown-ups get on with it!"
"Given your track record, Mister Potter, I find that a bit rich."
"Yeah well, I had to do stuff; no one else was doing anything!"
Snape raced over to perch on the coffee table in front of Harry.
"Do you understand what happened to Malfoy last night?"
"Not really. I wish I did."
"No idea?"
Snape's eyes searched Harry's face.
"He was attacked, but I don't know why … I …"
"Yes?"
"I keep thinking about his dad."
Snape gave him a funny look. Not a sneery one, one that seemed puzzled and pleased at the same time.
"Do you think I ignored Malfoy?"
"I did last night …"
"You were tired and upset. I was cruel to you. What do you think now?"
"I don't think that's something you'd do."
"Just so, Potter. Do you think me a good head of house?"
An unexpected question.
"You may answer freely."
"Well … yeah. Yeah, I do. You're strict, mega-strict actually, but you're fair. Y'know, sort of. Not all the time. Well, not fair a lot of the time really. But I'm not saying you're always unfair, or anything!"
Snape raised a brow and Harry wondered if he was bumbling into a trap, but then he spotted an upwards twitch of the man's lips.
"Not always unfair, eh? Do carry on while I sit here polishing my halo."
"But I'll tell you what you do do. You get everyone to join in. And you always do what you say you're gonna do. And you know what people are doing, and I like that."
"Why?"
"Dunno. Gets us all in trouble a lot of the time, but I still like it. I suppose you knowing about stuff means we don't have to."
"Hmm."
It was all Snape said, but it wasn't his usual dismissive 'hmm'.
"What are your thoughts on the tournament?"
Harry was flummoxed; another question he hadn't expected.
"It … I dunno … it's terrifying. What do you think about it, sir?"
Snape breathed in deeply and gave a long sigh.
"I'm suspicious of this tournament above all else - with the possible exception of Morris dancing. It bothers me … the timing bothers me …"
Snape stared at an indistinct spot on the carpet, and Harry assumed he'd finished saying whatever he wanted to say. The weird thing was that sitting so close to his silent housemaster didn't feel weird at all. Snape looked up from the carpet and tapped Harry on the knee.
"You told me I know what people are doing. Not always true. I wish it were. So there we have it. I've given imperfect answers to impossible questions; make of them what you will. But I repeat again that if anything unusual occurs, you report back to me."
"Yes, sir."
"However … even with the threat of death and almost certain maiming that shrouds you, I do wish you and your housemates an enjoyable term …"
Harry laughed, but Snape actually seemed serious.
"Never forget fellowship, Potter; no one gets left behind. No one. Darkness always comes back to childhood and loneliness; lonely children do desperate things. There'll come a time when I'll expect far more of all of you than anyone has a right to expect from children. But until then it will please me greatly for you all to keep being the dunderheaded fools you are supposed to be."
"I'm really going to try my best with that one, sir." Smiled Harry.
"Get out, Potter. All this niceness is making me bilious. Oh, and bed at nine o'clock."
"I was expecting that."
"For a week."
"Fine … sir." Grumbled Harry.
