A/N: Thank you all for your kind reviews and for reading this fic! You all mean the world to me.
Chapter Four: Sugar Quills
"Why doesn't anyone use pens?"
"What?" Malfoy rolled onto his side to look at Harry.
It was day three of their early bedtimes, and as much as the two boys tried to ignore each other, staring at the ceiling in stubborn silence, their own curiosity was more overpowering. Somehow an ongoing discussion had started each evening when they settled down in the dorm, and ended when the rest of boys joined them two hours later. As much as Malfoy was an unpleasant turd shaped like a human, Harry enjoyed these conversations, if only because it meant he could wind the former up a bit.
It all came down to the fact that whenever Harry asked why wizards did things differently than Muggles, Malfoy took it as a barb toward how wizards chose to do things. This wasn't the case; coming from the Dursleys and their reliance on everything being normal and in its place, Harry loved the wizarding world and its completely bonkers approach to just about everything. If it had been anyone else he was forced to share his evenings with, Harry probably would have spent his time raving about how utterly brilliant Hogwarts was. He still thought Hogwarts was utterly brilliant, but Malfoy's defensiveness made it far more interesting to question.
"Pens. Like a biro. Muggles use them instead of quills." Harry, who'd counted the stone tiles overhead more times than he could count, rolled over as well. "It's a plastic tube with ink. The ink comes out the tip. That way you don't have to dip it in anything, since it's already there."
"What happens when the tube runs out?"
"You get another." Harry shrugged. "They're not expensive or anything. Maybe ten or twenty pence." Noting Malfoy's expression, he added, "That's, what, a Sickle?"
"That's stupid, is what it is," Malfoy said with his eternal air of superiority. "With a quill, you never have to throw it out."
"Yeah, but what about the bottle of ink? That runs out," Harry pointed out. "And with a biro your hands don't end up stained."
Malfoy smirked and held up his ink-free hands. "Looks like you're just clumsy. How very Muggle."
"Shut up," Harry, who indeed was going through a bit of a transition to using quills, said under his breath, but after a moment he went on to ask, "And why do you use parchment?"
"As opposed to what? Smoke signal?" Malfoy didn't bother to hide his sneer, but he did try (and fail) to mask his genuine interest. "Don't tell me Muggles don't know how to write."
"Of course they know how to write. What do you think the biros are for?"
"Don't look at me. You're the Muggle expert." Malfoy stretched and pushed himself off the bed, paced a couple of times across the room, then, with nowhere to go, flopped back onto his bed. "What do they use instead of parchment, then?"
"Paper," Harry said. "Normal paper."
"Parchment is normal paper." Malfoy stared at Harry as though he were insane. "Let me guess, you're still using stone slabs and just calling it paper?"
"Yeah, because that makes sense. I'm talking about notebook paper. Lined paper. Don't tell me you've never heard of it? It's white instead of all yellow-y, and the sheets are thinner."
"That's weird," Malfoy said frankly but with less judgment than usual. "And what do you mean, lined? All your paper has lines on it?"
Harry opened his mouth to explain, but Malfoy quickly came to his own conclusion. "Oh, is it because Muggles are so bad at writing they need the lines to write straight? I suppose otherwise they'd just write in zigzag every which way."
Harry just gave him a look that said Are you kidding me? That being said, he didn't despise the conversation as much as he might have. Malfoy was... well, he was an absolute buggering idiot, but he was manageable. He was like Dudley, if Dudley were less thick and had a bit more curiosity about the world, even if he was convinced his viewpoint was the only correct one.
"Why do you keep defending them, anyway?" Malfoy asked. "You're not a Muggle. And you said your relatives are awful."
"They are awful. But... I don't know." Harry shrugged. "I love magic. I love Hogwarts. I love all of this. It's just different, that's all. If we didn't talk about it, I probably wouldn't think as much about it."
"Hmph." Malfoy placed both hands between his head and pillow, interlinking them. "I know it's different. You know, I may not have known you were living with Muggles at the time, but I did try to offer you help. I said I could show you how this world works, and you wouldn't even shake my hand."
"Yeah, because you insulted my friend," Harry reminded him. "You called him riffraff and said if I wasn't more polite I'd end up like my parents. Can't imagine why I hesitated at that kind of friendship."
"The Weasleys are riffraff," Malfoy snapped, but there wasn't as much conviction in his voice as usual, even if he did believe it. "Everyone knows it. Besides, some friend. You get sorted into Slytherin and now he won't even look at you."
"That's not true," Harry argued, though he knew Malfoy had a point. With more conviction, he added what he knew would be a conversation ender. "And he's not riffraff, whether your father thinks so or not."
As it was, Ron wasn't exactly being rude to Harry. If they bumped into each other in the hallways or before class they stopped and talked a bit. But it was nothing like that wonderful afternoon when they'd shared sweets on the Hogwarts Express and talked about their families. Ron regarded him now as though he were a landmine from a long ago war that had probably been deactivated, but there was no way of knowing for sure.
"What's it like... there?" he'd asked once, in a hushed voice, as though afraid to be heard. "Is Snape awful? Or does he let you get away with everything?"
"Neither," Harry said simply. "He goes mental over little things sometimes but he's not that bad."
Ron only gaped at this before nodding and hurrying to his seat as Professor McGonagall strode in and started the lesson. He thought of sitting next to him, but he'd already cottoned onto the fact that no one sat with the Slytherins but other Slytherins. He wasn't sure whose choice this was, but he wasn't about to draw more attention to himself in addition to what he already received by simply existing, and instead chose an empty seat next to Blaise.
He still hadn't quite figured out when to use surnames. In his head, he thought of everyone by their first names minus Malfoy, but most people seemed to go by their surnames, at least outside of the common room. Within the common room, however, things changed, and first name vs. surname usage seemed to be an even split, with many people using either name interchangeably depending on their mood. The girls always seemed to be called by their first names, though, for reasons Harry didn't fully understand. He wondered if Dudley was dealing with the same thing at Smeltings, then remembered Smeltings didn't let in girls, and that Dudley probably wouldn't think too hard about it to begin with.
Was it Snape? Was that why he was suddenly so damn curious, even moreso than usual? Harry wouldn't have his first Potions lesson until Friday, but he'd spent some time with the man. He often spent an hour or two in the common room every evening, and even though Harry and Malfoy had to get ready for their seven o'clock bedtime every night at 6:50 PM (always to cheers and ribbing from the rest of the room) there was still some time to be had with the inscrutable enormous bat.
Snape didn't encourage curiosity, at least not as far as Harry could see. Instead the man was crazy for rules and regulations. Somehow he could spot nail polish on a third year from a single glance across the room. In the split second it took to ready a spitball, Snape's hand already darted out to land a solid cuff on the back of the head of the offending party. Hemlines were enforced; shirts were to be buttoned all the way up; personal appearance was one of Snape's obsessions. He was not a cuddly housemaster who encouraged his students to buck authority. In fact, Harry cringed at the thought of anyone trying. But he was always snapping at them to think first, and use their damn heads, whether Miles Bletchley was about to knock over a vase or Millicent Bullstrose seemed ready to pick an argument over something that wasn't really worth it.
He wasn't like the Dursleys, who had always shouted at Harry not to ask questions. Well, now he was, and he was getting answers. It was a new sensation, to not be snarled at for wanting to know things. Well, maybe Snape snarled a little, but it was different. Somehow, it was just... different.
Severus Snape was fond of Fridays. So much, in fact, that a Ravenclaw passing him after his last class might have suspected that the left-hand corner of his mouth might be tilted upward the tiniest fraction of a percentage, if they'd bothered to look in the first place. Although the weekends were arguably more work, with his Slytherins suddenly afforded the free time to conduct all their wildest dreams of mischief, he enjoyed them. Besides, he kept his house on a relatively short leash, keeping them busy with chores on Saturday morning and under his eye during the week. The house elves did most of the work around the school including the dungeons, but Severus wasn't about to have his house lie about and never do anything for themselves.
Still, he couldn't keep his house under constant watch, nor did he want to, so weekends meant that Severus could enjoy himself for two blessed days without focusing quite as much on what his little turds were up to. Of course, one or two inevitably ended up in his office because the urge to stick all the furniture on the ceiling was just too great, or some other such nonsense, but Severus supposed that was inevitable with children. Didn't mean he had to be nice about it, though, and he wasn't. Still, once it was done, it was done. At least he didn't moon over his students' misdeeds the way Pomona did with her Hufflepuffs or Filius with his Ravenclaws.
He still shuddered when he thought of the great Hufflepuff rebellion the year prior. Said "rebellion", Pomona's phrasing, had consisted of a group of fourth and fifth years sneaking out every night to commit what they considered pranks, such as large googly eyes stuck on portraits (whose inhabitants simply moved out of the way while grumbling about the indignity of it all) and sticking fake mustaches on the upper lips of busts. Once Argus finally caught them, it was a parade of saintlike misery every day in the break room from bloody Pomona. She'd never imagined her sweet, wholesome Hufflepuffs would ever disobey her, and the thought of them committing such misdeeds tore her apart.
"Do you know, Severus, what the worst part is?" she'd said sadly one day, staring down at her mug of chamomile tea while Severus tried to work on his lesson plans. "They must think so little of me to act in such a way. So little of me."
Severus hadn't looked up, so she didn't see him roll his eyes so hard he thought they might come out his ears. They were children. They hadn't been thinking of her; they hadn't thought of anyone but themselves, and it was ridiculous to moon over it. If they'd been his students they'd have fallen asleep on their stomachs, but that was all there was to it. Ridiculous to think they'd think that much about their housemasters, but Severus supposed everyone was unfortunately different, and he wasn't Pomona. Thank God. Though she was impressively well read, and Severus couldn't deny that he appreciated their conversations about literature and music.
Severus's thoughts on the Herbology professor were cut short as he reached the ground floor, and shortly after that, the stretch of hallway that contained Argus Filch's office. The caretaker poked his head out the door, brightening slightly when he saw who it was.
"Severus," he said, holding up a small bag of Sugar Quills. "Wild pack of Gryffindors were hurling them at one another."
He nodded at his office, an invitation, and Severus accepted. Though he imagined the students of Hogwarts suspected he lived off blood and perhaps garlic tripe now and then, he had just as much a sweet tooth as any other human being. Besides that, for a man who found himself happiest when alone, he didn't mind spending time with Argus.
He'd known the man since he was twelve years old. Apollyon Pringle retired during the summer between Severus's first and second year, and when he returned to Hogwarts he found the eternally frowning Argus Filch in his place. It never made much sense to him that Dumbledore hired a Squib to look after a giant castle filled with hordes of magical children- surely it was an impossible task for a man who couldn't do magic himself? The more he thought about it, however, the more he realized the house elves did most of the work; the cooking, cleaning, and general upkeep. Argus was an extra set of eyes; someone to keep the children in line. And as terrible as Severus imagined it must be to be surrounded by a constant reminder of what you weren't, who else would hire him?
Severus never paid much attention to him as a Hogwarts student except for one occasion. On Severus's thirteenth birthday, which everyone but Lily had forgotten, James and Sirius had cornered him near the tapestry of Merlin's lost pig one floor below the Arithmancy classroom. Argus appeared out of nowhere, shouting at them to bugger off and calling them a pair of bullies. James and Sirius had begrudgingly buggered off, and though it was a simple, mundane moment, Severus never forgot it.
Well, that wasn't entirely true; he'd forgotten it those brief years when he'd been a Death Eater. No, Severus thought, not forgotten. Attempted to forget. But then, those years weren't ones he allowed himself to dwell on much anymore. He'd done his dwelling; years and years of it. There was no use returning to that well.
"They're especially horrid this year," Argus said almost cheerfully as he flopped into the moth-eaten chair behind his tiny desk. The entire office was cramped, having once been a small storeroom. "Already confiscated four Fanged Frisbees. Four!"
"Hopefully from none of mine," Severus said, before beginning to suck on his Sugar Quill.
"Of course not." Argus let out a small snort. "They're too smart to let me catch them."
"Or you look the other way when it comes to them," Severus shot back. "They're not that stealthy."
Argus just smirked and gave Severus a look that said he had no idea what he was talking about. It was true; Severus knew for a fact that Argus was willing to give a Slytherin student a second (and occasionally third) chance, something he never afforded to the rest of the school. Perhaps it was the fact that Severus's students were the only ones who ever had a friendly word for the man, or actually treated his ancient, short-tempered cat with affection. The creature was surprisingly cuddly if given positive attention.
"They're all little snots," Argus said with the tone of someone who had been repeating the same thing for years. "Even yours. I really think we ought to bring back the whip. Maybe find some old cells deep in the dungeons and leave 'em there. String 'em up by their pinky toes. That'd stop the hallway duels and all the bloody messes I have to clean."
Severus exhaled through his nose, his preferred version of laughter. Argus had always had a way with words when dreaming up fantastical ways to deal with transgressing students, sometimes outshining even Severus's best efforts. Even more amusing was how seriously the younger students took him.
Argus leaned back and ran a hand across the polished chains and manacles he kept hanging behind his desk. They were his proudest possession, loudly referenced to many a misbehaving child, and came from deep within the dungeons, from a sealed off portion when Hogwarts had been a stronghold in a war seven hundred or so years ago. Argus once confided in Severus that the chains had appeared in his office five years ago- "on my ruddy birthday if you'd believe it; d'you think the damned castle heard what I wanted and gave it to me? Does it work that way?"- something Severus had been required to react to with surprise and just the right amount of cluelessness.
All the staff's birthdays were posted on a bulletin board in the break room, much to Severus's consternation. He'd made it clear long ago that the greatest present he could receive was absolutely no fanfare or foolishness on his own special day, something which was soundly ignored each and every year. Minerva usually gave him something to "spice up his office", including truly horrendous embroidered throw pillows and one year a tea kettle with flowers on it. Of course, she typically also gave him a bottle of something expensive; the other items were for her own amusement at the look on his face when he unwrapped them.
Argus's birthday was up on the board with the rest, but as he didn't frequent the break room (or fraternize much with anyone), there was never any real acknowledgment of the day. Severus ignored it for several years; after all, he disliked attention on his own birthday. But he also knew from his childhood what it was like to have it forgotten by nearly everyone each and every year, and what a bit of kindness on that day could mean to a lonely soul. After all, he scoffed at his gifts each year, but not nearly enough for his coworkers to stop giving them. So, late the night before Argus's forty-third birthday, he'd enlisted the help of a couple of house elves to retrieve the chains, then quickly hung them in the caretaker's office with a flick of his wand.
He figured it was something the man would appreciate. After all, he'd been going on and on for years about how he wished he could chain up the students, and he'd see as quickly as anyone else that the manacles didn't actually close anymore.
He was sure Argus suspected, but Severus also knew Argus knew him enough to know better than to ask.
"Strange year, isn't it?" Argus said after a moment, not bothering to remove the Sugar Quill from his mouth. "And we're just five days in."
Severus grunted his agreement, enjoying the sweetness of his own quill.
"How's the Potter boy? Anything like his father?"
"Opposite," Severus admitted. "Almost irritatingly so."
Mrs. Norris wandered in and regarded Severus sternly. He glared back at her, and she hopped into his lap and curled up into a ball.
"So," Argus said, leaning back in his chair. "What's going on with Quirrell?"
Severus raised an eyebrow. "You've noticed it too?"
"It's my magic that's broken, not my eyes," Argus said with one of his short laughs. "He was always a twitchy little thing, but it's getting ridiculous. And that turban?"
Severus couldn't help but let out a larger than usual exhale through his nose. "Says he got it removing a troublesome zombie."
Argus laughed hard at this, putting his Sugar Quill momentarily aside until it was safe again. "What's really going on?"
"I don't know," Severus admitted. "But I'm keeping an eye on him."
At Dumbledore's request, he didn't add, but he'd be keeping an eye on the man either way. What with the bloody Stone in the school- something Severus strongly objected to and still was still seething over with Minerva, who took an infuriating "Yes, it's ridiculous, but I see both sides" mindset.
Severus would have liked to discuss the matter with Argus, but he agreed with Albus that the fewer people who knew exactly what Hagrid's horrific beast was guarding, the better. He was sure Argus had plenty of theories. He half-wished he could see what Argus's own contribution to the Stone's security would have been, if he'd been asked. Something painful, that was for certain, and delightfully petty.
"Let me know if you see him lurking by the third floor corridor," Severus said after a moment. "He's not the type to support the Dark Lord voluntarily, but he's weak. I suspect he's been compromised."
"Of course. I've already been watching. So what is the dog guarding?" Argus asked casually, with the half-joking tone of a person who knows they're not going to get a direct answer.
"You know I'd tell if you I could." Severus shook his head and sighed. "It's something absolutely ludicrous that does not need to be here, and its mere presence is putting the children at risk."
"Sounds about right." Argus pointed his Sugar Quill at Severus. "This school has fallen apart under Dumbledore. You know you should be headmaster."
"Please," Severus said, rolling his eyes. "I'm barely holding onto my sanity looking after two hundred of the little shits, much less nearly a thousand. I'd kill them all in the first week."
"True," Argus agreed. "But you'd be one hell of a memorable headmaster if you did."
"I suppose I would be."
They sat in silence for a long while, the only sound being the purring of Argus's wretched cat. Severus reached down and scritched it behind the ears, prompting it to reveal its belly, which he gave several perfunctory rubs as well, grimacing all the while. Mrs. Norris glared back, but the rumble in her throat revealed her satisfaction.
Upon finally leaving Argus's fish-scented office half an hour later, Severus found himself the owner of a paper bag with nearly all the remaining Sugar Quills inside. He imagined they'd go quite well with a few shots of Ogden's Finest.
Harry scrambled to find his left trainer; he knew he'd taken it out of his trunk but it had seemingly vanished in the split second it took to put on his right one. Malfoy, who'd come with Vincent Crabbe to the dorm to retrieve his Gobstones set, watched with barely concealed revulsion.
"You're going where?"
"To visit Hagrid," Harry said in a voice that he hoped conveyed that he didn't want to discuss the topic. "He invited me to tea after my first week of classes."
"I don't know why anyone would visit that oaf," Malfoy said with what Harry had come to realize was a very practiced sneer. "It sounds miserable."
"Yeah, well, just because no one wants to visit you doesn't mean that's how it is for the rest of the world," Harry shot back, not letting the words affect him as much as they might have five days ago; he knew Malfoy was just trying to get a rise out of him. "Why do you even care?"
"What are you going to do?" Malfoy ignored the question. "Sit around and scratch at bug bites?"
"I don't know," Harry said, finally finding his trainer and jamming his foot into it. "He said he was going to bake something."
Vincent perked up at this, and joined the conversation. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Harry said back, not surprised that this was what piqued his interest. "At least that's what he said."
Watching Vincent inhale his dessert each night was practically a sport in itself (Three Sickles if the whipped cream hits someone else! Twelve Sickles if it makes it all the way to another table!), to the point that Professor Snape had actually come down from the Head Table one evening and, with a flick of his wand, vanished Vincent's entire bowl of pudding. He'd looked up in horror, met the murderous gaze of his housemaster, and sheepishly hung his head. A moment later his pudding reappeared- well, a third of it, at least. That night they'd had to endure a long lecture in the common room about how a Slytherin composes oneself in public before being allowed to enjoy themselves, which, as boring as it was, Harry supposed could have been worse.
That was one thing he'd noticed about Snape. He he was stricter than Harry thought he really needed to be, but it applied equally to everyone. Harry was used to Dudley attacking his meals like a fighter jet, but if he himself so much as let a drop of milk hit the tablecloth Aunt Petunia would lose her mind. Maybe Snape overdid it a bit, but at least there weren't certain rules for some, and nothing for everyone else.
"Did he say what he was baking?" Vincent asked, sidling over to Harry's side of the dorm.
"Not sure," Harry said. "I think he mentioned rock cakes with raisins."
"Yeah?" This didn't put Vincent off at all; in fact he seemed even more interested.
"You can't be serious," Malfoy said just as Harry sucked it up and reluctantly asked, "You want to come with me, Vincent?"
"All right!" Vincent said, nodding happily. "I love rock cakes!"
He hurried to grab his cloak, while Malfoy stared at the two of them with a mixture of bewilderment and fury.
"Really?" Malfoy asked. "You'd rather spend time with Potter and that half-wit than Gobstones with me?"
"It's rock cakes, though. I love rock cakes. We'll play later," Vincent said, his voice muffled as he looked under his bed for his own shoes. "'And 'sides, you can come with us if you want!"
Harry cringed at this; the last thing he wanted was Malfoy tagging along and ruining the entire day. Still...
"Do you want to come?" he forced himself to say as neutrally as possible.
"Sound more enthusiastic, why don't you," Malfoy shot back. "Of course I don't want to come. Potter, you're a lost cause, but I expected more from you, Crabbe."
He stormed out of the room, and Vincent pulled himself out from under the bed, unruffled. To Harry, he said simply and genuinely, "He's a bit of a baby, but he's all right. He'll be fine by tonight. Come on, I want those rock cakes."
Harry grabbed his own cloak, wondering if he'd made the right decision, but it was too late now.
"So, tell me, Vincent," Harry said as they started down the hallway to the common room. "What's your story?"
And Vincent started to speak.
