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I love this chapter. It's ugly, but it's true.
Chapter Four: Snape-BaitingSirius brought the bike lower as they came in towards Hogwarts, much to Harry's relief. They could see the castle glittering across the lake now, and the towers reflected in the water. Harry shielded his eyes with one hand, until he grew used to the dazzle of spells and wards. He had not realized until that moment what the purpose of some exercises Snape had given him was. They had strengthened his ability to see magic. He could make out lines of blue and green and gold that he knew hadn't been there last year.
"There's Hagrid!" exclaimed Connor suddenly, and leaned off the bike at a crazy angle to wave. "Hagrid! Hagrid, up here!"
Harry looked down, even as he pulled his brother back to a firmer seat on the bike, and saw the half-giant leading a creature out of the Forbidden Forest. Hagrid looked up and waved, calling back to Connor, but it was the creature next to him that caught Harry's attention. It appeared to be a black horse, but bat-like wings spread from its shoulders, and when it slewed its head around and looked up at them, Harry caught a glimpse of glowing white eyes.
"What is that?" he managed to say, strangled. If Hagrid brought such creatures out to play when Connor was with him, Harry had never heard of it, and he would certainly have to reevaluate how dangerous it was for his brother to visit the gamekeeper. Perhaps he could arrange to go on most of the visits from now on. That would serve his own goal of getting to know Hagrid, too.
"What is what?" Connor asked, this time leaning off the left side of the bike and looking at the ground.
"That thing next to Hagrid—" Harry started, and then looked up and caught Sirius's eyes. His godfather shook his head, face gone dark and sad again. Harry blinked, then laughed. The laugh sounded forced and shaky to his ears, but Connor turned around and looked at him expectantly, so he said, "Oh, it's just a tree. I thought it was something dangerous."
"Hagrid's pets aren't all that dangerous, really," said Connor, and waved a final time to the half-giant as Sirius turned the bike to land in Hogwarts's courtyard. "Everyone thinks they are, but they're more misunderstood."
Harry kept his opinion of that to himself, and sighed in relief as the bike touched down. Sylarana writhed on his shoulder, and then said, I did not know that you could see thestrals.
Harry was sure she could see the blank incomprehension in his mind, because she once again adopted the bored, lecturing tone. A thestral is a creature of death and bad luck, originally. They live in the Forbidden Forest. No one can see them who has not first seen death. She sounded as if she were quoting a book in that last sentence, though Harry was not sure if snakes read books.
I didn't—he started, and then remembered that he had seen Quirrell die. He shuddered. That had been a bad death, a frequent feature of his nightmares, when he wasn't dreaming about the two dark figures or Tom Riddle trying to cajole the answers to silly questions out of him. He was glad that he had prevented Connor from seeing it.
So Connor could see the thestrals if I hadn't prevented him from watching Quirrell's death? he asked.
Yes, Sylarana confirmed. Of course, he would not know what they were, and would shriek. He is a great lump of a boy, really.
Harry said nothing to that. They were always going to disagree about his brother. He climbed off the bike as Connor did so. Connor promptly began chattering about the flight to Sirius. Harry looked around. They seemed to have arrived before the majority of the students, as he couldn't see any of the carriages pulling up yet.
In fact, that was probably where Hagrid was taking the thestrals, he realized abruptly. They probably pull the carriages that the older students take.
Feeling pleased with himself for having figured it out, Harry turned back to watch Sirius restore their school things to normal size, and then stopped. A dark figure stood near the castle wall, staring at them.
Harry thought it was one of the two shapes from his dream, for a moment. Then it straightened and took a step forward, and he recognized it.
Professor Snape.
Harry wondered what to say, what to do. He had his battle plans for facing Snape, but most of them depended on specific scenarios and places, such as the Potions classroom or during detention. He hesitated, and in that moment Snape revealed himself with a lazy drawl.
"Black. I suppose that Potter hired you to bring in our arrogant celebrity, who is clearly too good to ride the Express with the rest of the commoners?"
Sirius shot around as though a bee had stung him, and Harry saw a fierce gladness in his eyes. Here was someone to rouse him from mourning about Daphne Marchbanks, or whoever had come after her. He was grinning, but it was not the kind of grin he used in his mock-fights with James and Remus. "Snivellus!" he called. "Good to see you. It was good of Dumbledore to turn out a welcoming committee for us, even if it's just one greasy-haired git."
Snape strode forward now, his robes billowing around him. His eyes had found Harry, and he stared at him even though the words that followed were clearly addressed to Sirius. "As you know, Black, it is against the rules for students to arrive at the school by any means other than the Hogwarts Express. I can and will take points from Mr. Potter. Gryffindor will begin the year in negative points." He smirked. Harry folded his arms and glared. That just made Snape's smirk grow wider. Connor looked too astonished to protest, his mouth simply gaping open.
"That's where you're wrong, Professor Snivellus the Sneery," said Sirius cheerfully. "I'm going to be helping Madam Hooch with the Quidditch matches this year. That means that I'm technically a professor, and can take away points, too—and give them out." He glanced at Connor and smiled. "Ten points to Gryffindor for being in a House without a bunch of slimy snakes," he said.
Harry was watching Snape, and saw his face go dark with rage. He edged away. He didn't think that he wanted to be in the middle of a contest of insults as foul as this one was about to become. He wanted to put his school things in his room and then slip back into the Sorting Feast without attracting any attention. Draco, doubtless, would badger him with questions if he were late.
That movement, unfortunately, drew Snape's attention. "Potter," he said, his narrowed eyes saying that he hadn't forgotten the end of last year. "Come with me. There are matters that we must discuss before the school year begins, you and I."
"No can do," said Sirius, still with a manic grin on his face. "I need to take both Connor and Harry to the Headmaster. He'll want to see and hear that they've arrived safe and sound."
"I am the boy's Head of House," said Snape, his hiss a rival to Slytherin's mascot.
But not to me, said Sylarana smugly from under Harry's jumper. No one hisses better than I do.
"But I'm his godfather," said Sirius, He shot out an arm and grabbed Harry's shoulder, pulling him in close against his body. Harry stumbled and then turned to make sure he could draw his wand, should he need it. Snape's fury was such that he thought he might. "And I don't intend to let you hound him and ride him like you were doing last year, either, Snivellus. Harry should have been in Gryffindor. He'll take lessons in courage and fairness from me, since he's hardly going to learn them with your little vipers."
Harry blinked, then relaxed. This was special treatment he would hardly have dared to ask for, since Sirius was here to protect Connor, but he would welcome it. Sirius was actually going to watch out for him, not just protect him from the Dark if he noticed Harry backsliding. Harry was relieved. It made his plan to act like a Gryffindor this year much easier.
Snape didn't say anything. Harry thought that might be a good sign at first, an indication of his bewilderment in the face of such a sudden assault, but when Snape spoke in a voice almost too soft to be heard, he realized it was a very bad one. Other people shouted when they were deeply angry. Snape whispered.
"Shall we make a bet, Black? Shall we make a wager? I recall Gryffindors to have been rather fond of them, in such days when I noticed anything about them other than their overwhelming incompetence at Potions."
"Professor Snape," began Connor, and he sounded nervous now, as if he could sense that a bet between professors might be bad for the school. Harry was proud of him for showing such concern, but he suspected that both men were too far gone to pay attention to the Boy-Who-Lived, and he was right.
"Of course," said Sirius at once. "What bet? And what stakes? They should be fair, Snivellus, since I recall Slytherins to have been rather fond of cheating, myself." His eyes shone.
"By the end of the year," said Snape, nodding at Harry, "I would wager that this Potter twin will have acted more Slytherin than Gryffindor, that he will have learned more from me than you will ever teach him." He paused, and Harry could almost see him debating as to whether what he would say next was a good idea. But the imagined sound of the words was too attractive, apparently. "And I will wager," Snape whispered, his voice on the edge of hearing, "that Harry Potter is the true Boy-Who-Lived."
Sirius burst out laughing. Harry could hear the dog's voice in his, and cringed. He knew, then, that Sirius was not going to resist the worst words he could speak, either.
"I'll take that bet, Snivellus, since there's no way I can lose," said Sirius, and put out a hand. Snape clasped it. Both men shook their hands off afterwards, as if to remove an invisible film of grease. Harry might have found that part amusing if he wasn't in such shock. "Connor's the Boy-Who-Lived, I know it," Sirius continued. "And Harry was always more Gryffindor than Slytherin. I don't know why the Sorting Hat decided he should be placed in your hissing House, but he'll be free of it before the end of the year." He paused. "And what are the stakes if one of us loses?"
"I will not try to influence Mr. Potter again," said Snape. "I will support his transfer to Gryffindor House myself."
Sirius nodded. "Accepted."
"And if you lose," Snape said, "then you will step aside as Potter's godfather, and relinquish all control of him."
Sirius stopped smiling. "That is not accepted."
"Your stake matches my own," Snape said. He paused, then, and taunted, "What are you afraid of? Not losing the bet, I hope?"
Sirius again jerked as if stung, and shook his head furiously. "Not at all," he said. "I should have known you were the kind of bastard who would try to separate a boy from his godfather, Snape." He bared his teeth, and all the amusement was gone from his voice. "You're on."
"Stop it!"
Harry blinked. Connor had darted out to stand between the two men, staring from one to the other of them. His dark hair had been mussed, as though he'd raked a hand through it. His fists were clenched in front of him now, and his eyes blazed with a force that Harry thought would have made James step back from him.
"You don't have the right to do that!" Connor said. "He's standing right there. You can't make bets about him as if he were—as if he were a thing, a Galleon!" He turned around and glared at Sirius. "How could you do that?"
Sirius knelt down, instead of exploding or trying to defend himself with bluster, the way Harry had expected. His face was grave, and that probably restrained Connor's tongue, too. Harry even found himself leaning forward to hear what his godfather would say.
"You don't understand where the rivalry between Slytherin and Gryffindor comes from, Connor," Sirius said gently. "We're good. They're scared of being good. They have to hide from the light, because otherwise it blinds them, destroys them, like snakes or cockroaches." Harry heard Snape suck in a breath, but Sirius went right on talking. "Snape wants to turn Harry into a cockroach like him, teach him the Dark Arts and make him a Dark wizard. I'm going to make sure that that doesn't happen. Don't worry, Connor. We won't lose Harry. And we'll make sure that the Slytherins are sorry that they ever tried to harm someone who's a Gryffindor, even if he sleeps in the wrong room and goes to the wrong classes." His smiled widened across his face, and he clapped Connor on the shoulder.
Connor glanced back at Harry. His eyes showed uncertainty. Harry could understand why. Connor had suspected him of being a Dark wizard last year, given his attempts to lie and his temper and his powerful magic. It only made sense, in the words Sirius was speaking, that someone like that had a greater chance of being lost to Slytherin than someone like Connor. Of course his brother would see that they needed to guard Harry, put that way.
And a bet would be a way to humiliate the Slytherins for ever thinking that they could take Connor's brother away from him.
Harry understood all that.
The odd thing was that he found himself wanting to protest, to say that not all Slytherins were like that, that Snape had healed the damage he'd taken from Crucio last year, that Draco's family had gotten him a broom for his birthday.
But he couldn't say any of that. Connor still didn't know about the broom, since Harry had decided it would only cause trouble and kept it packed away. Snape's healing had been followed by his giving Harry Veritaserum, which Harry knew he couldn't forgive. And if he thought Sirius was wrong about Slytherin…
That only showed how little he knew, didn't it? It only showed how deeply the Snake House had already gotten its fangs hooked into him. Harry closed his eyes and shook his head.
This is a gift. This is the excuse I was looking for to be more Gryffindor. I have to become that way, or the Slytherins will corrupt me. And I can't let that happen. I'm no good to Connor if I'm Dark, or if I'm thought to be.
His breathing relaxed. He opened his eyes and managed to smile at Sirius.
You are such a fool, said Sylarana. There is food in the castle. I can smell it. And you are standing out here, talking.
Snape hissed. For one wild moment, Harry thought he must have heard Sylarana, but then he realized that Snape had been waiting to see how Harry would react to what Sirius had said.
"I will destroy you, Black," Snape whispered. "You will never see it coming, what will happen to deprive you of the rewards you expected to win. You will be, in the end, as ground down under my heel as a flobberworm is. And in the end, crawling on the ground, crying and screaming out to the stars, you will know this moment as the beginning of your end."
Harry had never seen such sheer hatred on anyone's face as was on Snape's when he looked at Sirius—except last year, when their parents had come to the Slytherin-Gryffindor Quidditch match and Snape had glared at James that way.
And then, in a flash, he understood. He wondered how he could not have understood it before, or excused it.
"You hate my godfather," he said quietly. Snape turned and looked at him, but did not relax the glare on his face. Harry had not really expected him to. "You hate our father. Of course you're going to do this. It doesn't really matter to you, whether I act more Slytherin than Gryffindor. What matters is that I'm Sirius Black's godson, and James Potter's son, and the brother of the Boy-Who-Lived. You're only making this bet to get back at people who've wronged you, in real or imagined ways." Harry paused, thought about trying to articulate everything that he was feeling, and in the end shook his head. "You don't care," he said, and was startled to hear a wistful tone in his voice. Had he wanted Snape to care?
Maybe, he answered that part of himself, and lifted his head to meet Snape's eyes. "You don't care anything about one student acting Slytherin or Gryffindor," he repeated. "You care about revenge." He shrugged. "I can't do anything to stop you from making the bet, or trying to fulfill it, but I can refuse to go along with you."
Snape's face was wiped clean of all expression. Harry knew by the slight widening of the professor's eyes, though, that Snape had received his silent message. Harry wasn't referring just to resisting whatever Snape tried to do to him in the name of making him more Slytherin. He was referring to the private dueling lessons that Snape had given him last year, and the extra Potions work Snape had had him do in class, and trying to win games on the Slytherin Quidditch team, and everything else where Snape had blackmailed Harry into doing what he wanted.
First it had been threats against Harry's free time, and then against Connor's. That wouldn't work anymore, Harry thought, oddly detached, as he watched Snape's face. Oh, Snape would put Connor into detention, no doubt. But detention was a small price compared to the devastation Connor would feel if Harry became a Slytherin.
He thought of Draco, then, and winced. But that was on the same order of things, really. He would hurt Draco when he turned away from him. Draco would scream and rage and demand explanations. And Harry could tell him the truth.
Connor came first. Connor would always come first. Harry had thought, someday, that he would regret the friendship he was forming with Draco, and he now had cause to regret it. Yes, he didn't really want to hurt Draco, but he wanted to hurt Connor even less.
"I choose you, brother," Harry told Connor, not caring that everyone, even his brother, was staring at him. He didn't have any responsibility to be a respectful student, or someone who didn't say things that made other people uncomfortable. He had every right to be what he was born to be, his brother's protector. This was merely the first public declaration of his allegiance. "I choose Gryffindor, and all the things that you love and value."
Connor's face lit like the sunrise. Harry basked in it, and didn't turn to take in Snape's expression. He knew that he wouldn't see anything valuable there.
Snape had never been in such a foul mood, and he knew it.
Now if only the recipient of said foul mood knew it, too.
Harry Potter gave no sign that he knew he'd displeased Snape. He gave no sign that he knew he'd displeased Draco, even, and last year the brat had responded to Draco when he responded to no one else. Draco was sulking because Harry refused to spend time alone with him, and sought out his brother instead. He had had a screaming match with Harry in the corridor last week, just after Snape released the second-year Slytherins and Gryffindors from their first Potions class. Snape had watched. Harry had kept walking, his gaze fixed straight ahead, no sign of strain in his posture. It must be a strain on him, but he showed no sign of that. He made his resistance to Draco's pleas look effortless, and that just drove Draco into more and more angry displays.
Or tearful ones. Snape grimaced. If I never have to spend another evening in my office while the Malfoy heir rants at me about a Potter ignoring him, then it will be too soon.
Harry had not come, once, to Snape for dueling lessons. He had suffered pranks from his roommates, and never retaliated; he came to breakfast in the Great Hall with boils growing on his face, or hair on the palms of his hands, and calmly ignored the laughter. It had grown less frequent this week. Snape had had the deep displeasure of listening to the second-year Gryffindors, who included Ron Weasley, agreeing that anyone who could take a joke like that wasn't half-bad, and they ought to encourage Harry to come up to the Tower sometime.
And Harry no longer did the work Snape wanted him to do in Potions class.
Snape had realized he had made a mistake the first time Harry looked up, green eyes wide and innocent and perfectly clear, over a perfectly-made Hair-Changing Potion—which should have been a perfectly-made potion that would help the victims of the Cruciatus Curse recover from their shaking. In fact, he had made several mistakes, and the first of them was giving Harry extra homework over the summer. Harry had learned how to turn one potion into another with the addition of a very few ingredients. He didn't make noisy mistakes. He made quiet ones, and then widened his eyes and suggested that the potion would work, just not the way that it should have, had he followed the original instructions.
The potions were always perfect.
That only enraged Snape further.
He assigned Harry to work with Neville Longbottom. That was another mistake. He had intended to frustrate Harry, condemning him to work more slowly and with the chance of singing off his eyebrows or melting through his cauldron in every class. Harry had happily trooped off to the other side of the classroom, however, and was soon instructing Neville in whispers and patiently coaxing him through his mistakes. Neville's potions improved, Harry did second-year work instead of the advanced work Snape had planned on instructing him in, and he sat among the Gryffindors, who now appeared to close ranks around him and bristle slightly whenever Snape came near.
By the end of the second week of the school year, Snape's colleagues had taken to avoiding him. Sirius Black, of course, grinned from a distance, and Minerva now and then looked at him as if asking why in the world Snape had made such a ridiculous bet, but none of them willingly shared a conversation or even a meal with him, eating quickly and leaving the Great Hall as soon as possible. Snape knew he spent too much time glaring at the Slytherin table, and the stubborn boy who had managed to defy him as he had never been defied before. The only exception, the only possible outlet for his rage, was that fool Gilderoy Lockhart, who made ceaseless conversation about himself and never seemed to notice Snape's insults—and whom it was not permissible for Snape to hex.
Something had to give. Something would crack.
Snape did not know what it would be yet, but he was determined to find the weakness, and exploit it. No twelve-year-old boy was as competent at defending himself from insults as Harry seemed to be. No student could consistently stand up to his professor like this and get away with it.
He found the weakness during the third week of school.
Snape was patrolling the corridors near the dungeons—something he trusted not even the Slytherin prefects to do properly—when he heard a low, continuous, disturbing sound. It made his spine stiffen with memories of some of the stranger curses performed during the Dark Lord's reign. He gripped his wand and eased around the corner, pressing his shoulders flat to the stone.
Harry Potter knelt on the floor not far from the Slytherin common room, hissing at a black-and-golden snake that Snape recognized in instants as a Locusta. Not far from him lay a broom finer than any the school possessed.
Snape lingered a moment, to absorb the scene and savor his triumph. The snake hissed back at Harry, whose face became a grimace. He shook his head and said something else in the snake-tongue, then sighed and reached out to stroke the serpent's back. She accepted his touch, something Snape had thought was impossible for a Locusta, and even twined under his fingers, as if enjoying it.
The boy is a Parselmouth.
Snape felt victory like ripe fruit in his mouth. He had only to bite into it.
And the broom—it was obviously Harry's. Harry had given no indication that he possessed it, and certainly not to Marcus Flint, who would have found some means of insuring that a member of the Slytherin Quidditch team rode it, even if Harry refused to participate. So far as Snape knew, Harry had not yet informed Flint of his decision not to play.
And now he never will.
Snape stepped out of hiding. Harry whipped his head up and stared, caught. Snape let his smirk widen across his mouth. The Locusta turned and hissed at him, but when Harry hissed something else in a commanding tone, she twined up his arm. Harry bowed his head and rose slowly to his feet.
"What do you want, Professor Snape?" he asked.
"I want to know things," Snape said quietly. Never let it be said that I rush my revenge. "Why are you outside your common room?"
Harry looked up again, and this time there was a spark of hope in his eyes, as though he hoped he might get away with this. "Because I go flying at night, sir," he said, and indicated the broom next to him. "I just—need to relieve the pressure."
Snape nodded gravely. The admission was sweet to him.
And it was only a taste of the promises he would now extract from Harry. Snape felt near giddy with excitement and power. He pushed back the feelings, though. The last thing he wanted to do now was distract himself and let the chance slip past him.
"And why were you talking to a snake?"
"She introduced herself over the summer," said Harry, and gave a sort of helpless shrug. "She's a Locusta. Her name's Sylarana. She said that she would bite Connor if I didn't take care of her, and since then she's threatened to bite other people. So long as I take care of her, she doesn't."
Snape felt a faint shadow touch his good mood; of course the boy would have sacrificed himself to save his witless brother. But he pushed it away. Harry was still—
"You are a Parselmouth," he whispered.
Harry nodded. "I know it's a potentially Dark talent, sir."
"Yes," said Snape, and paused a long moment. "And one that you would give a great deal to keep concealed, yes?"
Harry stepped away from him, putting his back to the wall in turn. His magic was rising around him. Snape was glad that he had strengthened his shields. The exercises he had assigned Harry over the summer had worked almost too well. His power was tremendous now, leaping easily to his call. Snape wondered if Harry had yet noticed that he was reaching for magic more and more often, something that the seemingly harmless homework had made him used to.
"If you reveal this—" Harry began.
Snape shrugged. "You seem Dark," he said. "Slytherin." He paused. "And I win the bet. Do you imagine that your godfather and your brother will take you back when they find out you can speak with serpents, just as Voldemort can?"
Harry snarled at him, and for a moment the pressure of his magic broke through Snape's shields. Snape calmed his breathing and hoped that the strain of fighting the agony in his head didn't show.
Harry was caught, though, and he knew it. He dipped his chin and looked away after a moment. "What do you want?" His voice was strangled.
"Two things," said Snape. "In return, I keep two secrets: that you are a Parselmouth and that you fly outside the school."
Harry stared at him, calculating, then nodded. "That sounds fair."
Snape bit his cheek to restrain a delighted edge to his sneer. The boy spoke like a Gryffindor, but he reasoned like a Slytherin. He would win the bet with Black, after all. A dazzling rush of much-deserved good fortune had come on him tonight.
"The first," said Snape, "is that you will play on the Slytherin Quidditch team, and that you will use that broom."
Harry nodded slowly. "And the other?"
"That you will repair your friendships with your Housemates, or at least with Draco Malfoy," said Snape. "Such resentments and rivalries could turn out to be deadly to our success on the Quidditch field."
Harry stared at him. Snape knew that he didn't understand. He would have expected Snape to ask him to let Snape win the bet with Black, or to stop making mistakes in Potions class.
What he didn't know was that neither of those would have worked half as well for the professor's ultimate goals. Snape intended to win the bet with Black on his own efforts, more subtle ones, that Harry would not see well enough to oppose. And there was nothing particularly Slytherin about a talent for Potions, though it would make Snape grind his teeth to see such a talent go to waste.
Forcing Harry back onto the Quidditch team and into the company of his Housemates would increase his Slytherin tendencies. It had worked last year.
And that would help Snape win the bet.
Harry bit his lip. It was obvious he wasn't happy, but he slowly nodded. "All right, then. And you'll keep the secret that I'm a Parselmouth, and you'll let me fly at night."
Snape nodded back. "I am not surprised that you need to fly at night," he added delicately, as he turned away. "Fighting what you truly are surely requires a good deal of effort on your part."
He could feel Harry's eyes on his back, but he didn't turn around. He also resisted the temptation to put a spring in his walk until he was around the corridor.
He was winning. He would plant doubts in Harry's mind and draw him back to his own Slytherin qualities with stratagems too subtle to resist. The direct approach did not work with Harry. It had to be the indirect one. He would win the bet with Black, and put one over on two men he hated.
And the boy is a Parselmouth.
Snape could not restrain a shiver that he told himself was more excitement than fear. The Dark Lord had been a Parselmouth as well, true.
But this simply marks the boy as Slytherin—beyond all question, Slytherin. When he finally takes his place as the Boy-Who-Lived, he will be ours. No one will dare call him a Gryffindor then.