For Lily's Sake

by mlocatis

AU James Potter sacrificed himself for his wife and child, protecting baby Harry and sparing Lily from Voldemort, though Harry still bears his scar. By Harry's third year, Severus Snape has reinserted himself into Lily's life and successfully proposed marriage. Harry finds himself trying to balance his mother's happiness with his new stepfather's vicious hatred of all things Harry

6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

What did he want? It was a good question, Severus thought, as he did his best to meet Potter's defiant glare.

Forgiveness, but judging by the anger simmering in those green eyes, he was not about to be getting that anytime soon. Another chance to prove himself capable of decency. A Time-Turner, perhaps, so that he could stop Lily from finding out about his behavior from Longbottom, and rather simply come clean himself.

He opened his mouth, then abruptly closed it when he realized that he had very little to say.

Another thing he desperately wanted—to know what to say just then.

Well, best to be blunt, he thought. "I came to apologize to you."

Potter very nearly rolled his eyes. But when he spoke, his voice was filled with a cautious hope. "You did?"

"Yes." Severus was heartened by that small note in the boy's voice. Maybe this would not be nearly as impossible as he'd feared.

The boy's eyes flickered to the door. He nodded at it pointedly, indicating, Severus was certain, that he wished for this moment to be private. Severus stepped further in, pulling the door shut behind him.

And then Potter turned away from him, flopping onto his back to stare at the ceiling, as if he actually did not want to hear what Severus had to say. Severus had to fight down the urge to snap at the boy.

Severus cleared his throat lightly, trying to gather his thoughts. He'd behaved very badly, he reminded himself. Potter—Harry—had every right to sulk and glare and even to insult him. "Harry, I—"

"Mum can't hear you," the boy cut him off sullenly.

Severus flinched. Hadn't the boy pleaded his case to Lily? Hadn't he argued that Severus should be given a second—well, third, really—chance? So why was he acting now as if Severus couldn't possibly want to express genuine remorse? "I am not here for your mother's sake—"

Potter had the audacity to bark out a laugh at that. "Don't bother. I'll still act as if you apologized and made nice with me, all right? You don't need to stand here and lie through your teeth to me."

"I scarcely think deceiving your mother further is in anyone's best interest."

That certainly got a reaction out of the boy. He whipped around to glare at Severus, eyes blazing. "I lied to keep you from hurting her," he hissed, pushing himself up into a sitting position. "You lied to protect yourself, because you're selfish and arrogant and blind. And in spite of all that, she needs you, and she needs to believe that you can be good to me. And you can't be. I know you can't be. You hated my father, and you hate me, and that will never change. But Mum doesn't need to know that, because it doesn't matter to me. You don't matter to me. So save your 'apology' and your breath, because as long as you can be civil to me I won't ever complain. You don't have to worry about that." And then the boy slumped back down violently and turned so that his back was to Severus.

The words hit Severus like a punch to the gut. And wasn't that odd? he reflected through the pain of it. How long had he told himself that he cared nothing for the Potter brat, that he was arrogant and disrespectful and useless? That the boy's hatred meant nothing, that he should wear it like a badge of honor, even? But those words…. You don't matter to me. It stung nearly as badly as Lily's anger and rejection.

"I have behaved inexcusably," Severus tried, his throat closing again. It was hard to get the words out. "And I do mean that—"

"No you don't. And I already told you that I don't care. So don't think you have to put together some pretty speech for me, all right? You just keep to yourself and I'll keep to myself."

"Harry, I truly am sorry—"

"Fine," Harry spat angrily. "You want to do this? Well, Snape, I'm so glad you apologized. Thank you so much. You're forgiven. Everything's good. Happy now?"

The words were like acid flung in his face. Why wouldn't the boy just listen to him? Or—or even believe that he might be sorry? Why not just tell Severus that he was too hurt still to forgive him, that he would have to do more penance? Why didn't Harry say that he needed more evidence that Severus was truly remorseful? Hadn't the boy fought for him? Hadn't he braved his mother's anger because he believed Severus could do better, that he was capable of redeeming himself? Was the proof of that not resting in his pocket at that very moment?

But no, Harry spoke as if it wasn't even remotely a possibility, as if Severus would only ever utter an apology to manipulate him or his mother….

Lily. Perhaps it was time to take a different tack with this. "I made a promise to your mother when she accepted my proposal. I swore I would love you as a son—"

No. Definitely not the right strategy. Those words seemed to undo the boy.

Harry was on his feet so fast that it was a wonder to Severus that he didn't lurch forward. "Don't you ever—ever—call me that. You're not my father, and you never will be—and you have no right to even try to be, after what you've put me through. I don't care what you promised Mum. I don't care if you've decided you want to be stepfather of the year now to get back into her good graces. You stay the hell away from me, as much as you possibly can, and I'll return the favor."

Severus' mind was working overtime, trying to find a way to salvage this. He hadn't meant to delve anywhere near to that sticky, uncomfortable topic. He'd only meant to—what? To try to argue with points Harry had already conceded. That Severus loved Lily more than life itself, that he would do all he could to make her happy. And from there, to present the argument that a genuine, amicable relationship with her son was clearly a desirable goal, because his happiness would be her happiness.

But no, Harry had immediately honed in on that single word—son. Yes, Snape knew that he never would be anything akin to a father to the boy, and if he was honest with himself, he didn't particularly want to step into that role. The boy had other male role models, deplorable as they were. Lupin would suffice, though.

Even so, it was what he had promised Lily. To look after the boy as he would his own. To offer protection and guidance, if nothing else. And Harry didn't seem capable of believing that Severus would want even that much for him. No, he was convinced that even now Severus was only intent on making amends with Harry in order to placate Lily. To crawl back into her good graces, as the boy had said.

One more time. He would try one more time to get somewhere with this apology. "I know that you do not believe it," he began carefully, "but I genuinely regret how I have treated you. It had nothing to do with you, Harry, you must understand. Your father and I did not get along during our school years—he was cruel—"

The boy's eyes hardened. "He was a bully," Harry agreed quietly, voice like steel. "He was terrible to you and arrogant and full of himself, and I would be ashamed to ever act like he did during his school years. I know. But he grew up and became a better person. He died to protect us! He gave everything he had just to keep us safe! He loved us so much that his death called up ancient blood magic! Magic that's still protecting us! So don't you ever bring my father up as an excuse! You don't have any right to even talk about him!"

The boy's fists were clenched hard at his sides, and he was trembling, as if he were fighting the urge to launch himself at Snape. But he closed his eyes suddenly, and gradually his hands relaxed.

"Get out."

Again, Snape had to fight the urge to snap at the boy for his lack of respect. It was ingrained, and he knew that he was going to have to do some serious tempering of these automatic reactions. After all, the boy had only heard Snape foisting blame onto James Potter, not the explanation that was to follow about childhood trauma and displaced resentment.

"I did not mean to insult his memory. I only meant to say that I have allowed myself—"

"Get out! I don't want to hear any of it, all right? I'm not stupid. You're not going to win me over or lull me into believing a word, so just—just get out, before Mum sees me upset and changes her mind about you."

Severus fought the urge to flinch at that very real possibility. His truce with Lily was fragile at best. And if Potter breathed even one word of complaint to her….

But no. That was not what this was about. This was about the boy. About righting wrongs. And what had he done so far? Offered trite words and excuses. Nothing that would persuade his stepson that his change of heart was genuine.

There was nothing he could say that would prove that. So instead he murmured, "I will do better. I swear it to you." And he withdrew then, knowing that the boy would just throw those words back in his face, would only mock them as insincere.

He made his way to the floo, all traces of euphoria gone from his system. Yes, he was thrilled that Lily was not washing her hands of him, but that moment of light and joy was gone, and he was left in a heavy state of sobriety to face down all the work he had before him.

XXXXX

"Are you going to actually eat your food?" Hermione demanded primly. "Or just mangle it?"

Harry stared down at the mutilated remains of his porkchop. He could feel Snape's eyes on him still; the man had been staring at him for the entirety of that evening's meal, and it was seriously starting to grate on his nerves. "Maybe I'd have more of an appetite if he would stop staring."

"Want me to stare back?" Ron offered through a mouthful of potatoes.

Harry snorted. "So he can take points, and all of Gryffindor can hate us? No thanks."

"We'll just tell the creep we thought he was trying to get our attention."

"More points from Gryffindor for lying or disrespect or something," Harry muttered. "It's not worth it."

"You said he apologized," Hermione cut in.

"I said he pretended to apologize. Now he's probably just calculating how far he can push things. Or when he can start pushing things again." Harry shoved his meal away. "I'm going out to the pitch." He stood up, slinging his school bag over his shoulder.

"You hardly ate anything!" Hermione protested.

"And practice doesn't start for another two hours," Ron added. "Come on, Harry, don't let the bastard win. Don't let him affect you like this."

Harry slumped back down in his seat. He didn't move to reach his plate though. "Well, he does. And he will, because he's always going to be there."

"What do you mean?" Hermione questioned gently, laying a hand on Harry's arm.

"This was my first weekend home with him. Well, with him and Mum. Before the wedding, during the summer… well, I was at the Burrow so much, you know. He'd stay the weekend, I'd be there during the week. I was trying to avoid him."

Hermione nodded in understanding. Subtly, she used her left hand to drag Harry's plate back toward him. At the same time, Ron maneuvered Harry's fork so that it touched his fingers.

"I just didn't realize that he's always going to be there. For dinners, and when Mum tells me goodnight, and when she gets on me for keeping my room too messy."

"Just tell your mum that you want him to take a hike!" Ron burst out. "You said that she was ready to kick him out!"

Harry started to push his plate away again, but Ron's hand caught the edge, preventing it from going further than a few inches. "Look, it's not that simple. I already told you that she needs him there."

"She has you, though," Ron argued. "She doesn't really need that greasy snake in her life—"

"She does," Harry snapped, seizing the fork that Hermione was sliding insistently beneath his fingers. "He's something to her that I can't be. I hate it, and I wish it wasn't true, but it is. Everything has been really hard on her, especially after—well, it wasn't just Dad that she lost, you know? Aunt Alice and Uncle Frank—Neville's parents. Black betrayed her and Dad, and that hurt more than anything. And then he killed Peter—I don't think she liked him as much, but it still got her. I tried to—to—I don't know. Make her feel better. But I wasn't enough—"

"Harry, that's not true," Hermione murmured, squeezing his arm tightly. "You were too young when it all happened, and now… it's not because you're not enough."

Harry sighed. "I don't want to talk about it anymore." Reluctantly, Harry speared a stray piece of porkchop. "Ron, you said you had big news?"

Ron's face remained crumpled with concern for a moment before finally clearing. "Yeah! Dad won a drawing at work, so he's getting this big bonus, and he and Mum decided they're going to use it to take us all to Egypt this Christmas! You know, to see Bill!"

"Ron, that's wonderful!" Hermione exclaimed, her eyes lighting up. "There's so much history and culture there, not to mention the possibility of studying ancient magics. We've just started a unit on the use of Egyptian hieroglyphics in place-related hexes and curses—which is incidentally tied into the Muggle mythology of Egyptian tombs being booby-trapped…."

It was a relief to be able to listen to Hermione prattle on about the tomb of King Tut and ancient Egyptian wizards. He was almost able to forget about Snape's eyes on him. Almost. At least the burning sense receded to something of a prickle.

XXXXX

Potions the next day was strange. Harry had been certain to time his arrival to the classroom just as precisely as he always did—three minutes before the class started. It ensured that there were at least a few other students in the classroom, but also that he would have adequate time to gather his ingredients and settle at his station without drawing Snape's ire for tardiness. He, Ron, and Hermione took their regular place far at the back-left corner of the classroom (not that attempting to stay as far from Snape as possible had ever really helped Harry).

Snape was already there, as usual, writing out instructions on the board. Harry glanced over to see what page Hermione had turned to, and copied her before turning to the list of ingredients needed for the Obfuscation Draught. The recipe was familiar; Harry had, as usual, taken care to study the assigned text, and done supplemental reading to ensure he was familiar with every aspect of the brewing procedure.

Not that it ever helped him much. But at least it usually kept things from turning into a true disaster.

Draco Malfoy strutted into the room, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. He caught Harry's eye immediately and smirked before leading his goons over to the empty bench beside Harry, Ron, and Hermione. "Don't mind if I sit here, do you, Potter?" he inquired sweetly, his eyes promising trouble.

Ron was about to open his mouth, but Harry tugged on his robe sleeve and jerked his head up toward Snape's turned back. They'd never get away with turning precious Malfoy down, much less with the nasty retort Ron was undoubtedly planning.

"Suit yourself," Harry replied neutrally, turning back to his textbook. Turning to Hermione and Ron, he offered in a lower voice, "I'll get the supplies."

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle trailed him over to the student supply cupboard. Harry did his best to ignore them, concentrating instead on the list of things he'd need to gather. Spider eggs, a squid's ink sac, doxy wings….

Harry felt his feet twist together suddenly, and he lurched forward, crashing into the supply cupboard. Several jars of ingredients rained down on his head and back, causing enough pain that he needed to bite down on his lip to keep from crying out.

"Gracious, Potter, you should watch where you're going," Malfoy commented snidely.

Harry didn't look at Malfoy at all. He knew that he was inches away from breaking and either hexing the blond or punching him right in the nose. Instead, he focused on gathering up the fallen ingredients before Snape noticed.

Too late. "Merlin's sake, Potter," the man hissed out. "Is anything broken?"

Harry continued to stare down at the flagstone floor as he righted the thankfully unshattered glass jars of ingredients. "No, sir, it's all intact," he mumbled.

"Don't be an imbecile," Snape drawled. "The glass is all charmed. As you're not whimpering, can I safely assume that you have not been gravely injured? Or shall I send you to the hospital wing?"

Harry felt an angry flush creeping over his skin. Of course the man had to humiliate him. Of course he'd fall right back into old habits, regardless of how things had blown up just that weekend. I'll be better. Hah. It was a good thing Harry had thick skin and really wasn't bothered much by the man's taunting.

"I'm fine, sir," he ground out, still not lifting his head.

"Good. You will see me directly after class to discuss proper safety precautions when around volatile—and expensive—ingredients."

Harry drew a deep breath, willing the angry haze that was threatening to overtake him to recede. "Yes, sir."

Malfoy and a number of other Slytherins sniggered openly at him.

"Potter the Putz," Malfoy sneered quietly, loudly enough for most of the class to hear him.

"Better than Malfoy the Muff!" Seamus jeered from the Gryffindor side of the room.

"Mr. Finnigan." Snape's voice was not loud, but it trickled through the room like ice water. "Twenty points from Gryffindor for foul language, and if I ever hear such filth in my classroom again, you will be tasting soap for the rest of the semester. Is that clear?"

Harry couldn't resist the urge to twist back toward his Gryffindor classmates. Seamus had turned beet red, but he turned toward Harry and some of the embarrassment ebbed away, replaced by steadfast resolution.

"Yes, Professor," Seamus responded, managing to sound not at all sorry without being too disrespectful.

Harry finished gathering his ingredients and scurried over to his seat as quickly as possible, still fighting back his residual anger. Whatever vows Snape had made to his mother, it likely didn't include him turning a blind eye to Harry at all times. The man would feel himself justified in whatever punishment he intended to dole out, since it had been Harry's "clumsiness", after all, that had caused the mess.

Ron was glaring conspicuously at the Potions Master when Harry returned to their workbench. Hermione's attention was on her textbook, but from the set of her face—nose scrunched, brow furrowed, as if she'd scented something particularly foul—it appeared that she was about as pleased as Ron at what had just unfolded.

"Tell your mum that you want shut of the git," Ron growled in a low voice. "Letting Malfoy hex you in class like that. Ought to be sacked."

"S'not worth it," Harry grumbled as he laid out his supplies.

Malfoy and his goons arrived at their workbench, Malfoy still grinning like the cat who'd eaten the canary. "All right, Potter? Good thing we don't need to worry about things hitting your head, seeing as you can't possibly be any more brain-damaged. Really, I can't believe you haven't been barred from this class yet. You're practically a health hazard."

Ron tensed, but Harry grabbed his friend's wrist. "He's not worth it either."

Ron cast a dirty look at Malfoy. "You're right," he said just a little too loudly. "Probably just go sniveling to daddy anyway."

Malfoy snorted. "At least my father can respond to my complaints, Weasel. Yours is always too busy trying to find two knuts to rub together—"

A loud crash echoed from the front of the room. Snape stood at his podium, glaring out at the class over the large volume he'd just slammed down. "If we are quite through with inane chatter," he hissed at the then-silent room.

It was odd. Harry could have sworn that the man's eyes actually lingered on Malfoy for once. Much good that it did, since the Slytherin seemed entirely oblivious to the fact that he might have irritated his Head of House.

Snape launched into the day's lecture then.

It wasn't until they'd actually started brewing that things took a turn for the truly bizarre.

As usually, Snape was making a show of sweeping around the room, peering down at cauldrons, barking out the occasional curt instruction to add more of this, to lower or raise the heat, to stir clockwise.

He arrived at the back of the room. But instead of heading straight for Harry to launch into a scathing diatribe, he lingered before Malfoy's desk.

"I find it interesting, Mr. Malfoy," he began in a low, smooth voice, "that you have dragon's bile laid out with your ingredients when today's assignment does not call for it. Surely a student of your caliber has not made such an elementary error?"

Harry tried to concentrate on extracting his squid ink as he listened to every word of this exchange.

"No, sir," Malfoy replied confidently, tone still supremely smug. "I merely thought to experiment a bit—"

"Intriguing." Snape drew out the syllables of the word to make it clear that it was not intended to be a compliment. "And what did you hypothesize might occur, should you add dragon's bile to this particular concoction?"

Malfoy seemed to falter a bit. "I'm not certain, sir."

"Oh, surely you have an idea. I have, after all, devoted a great deal of time this year to ingredient interaction. Tell me, how does dragon's bile usually react to doxy wings?"

The soft burble of simmering cauldrons was the only answer to that question. Quite suddenly, Harry was certain that nearly every student in that room was listening as intently as he was to this quiet conversation.

"Come now, Mr. Malfoy. You wrote a rather admirable essay on the topic not one week ago."

"Explosively, sir." The words came out as a mere whisper.

"Interesting, too, that you have chosen to forego your normal seat this class. But I am certain the two choices are unrelated."

Harry watched from the corner of his eye as Snape snatched the small vial—the topic of their discussion—from Malfoy's bench and pocketed it efficiently.

"You will drop by my office at seven this evening, Mr. Malfoy, to further discuss this fascinating little experiment." And with that Snape turned on heel and glided over to the other side of the classroom, leaving Malfoy looking a great deal paler than usual.

Somehow, Harry doubted that Snape would be helping him to design an extra credit project that evening. The look on Malfoy's face alone spoke to that. But did Slytherins get into trouble? Didn't Snape play favorites? Didn't he always turn a blind eye to their misdeeds?

Well. There was no doubt that the dragon's bile was intended for Harry's cauldron. And if it would have reacted so explosively—which Harry knew it would, as he, too, had turned in an essay on that very topic—then it was a health hazard. And Snape wasn't going to win any points with Lily by allowing Harry to be seriously injured in his class.

As for the veiled threats he'd leveled at Malfoy—if they could be called that—they were likely merely a warning for him to be subtler in how he chose to torment Harry. Snape would likely chastise the boy for being so obvious that evening, then send him on his way with a pat on the head. Or whatever the Snape equivalent was.

The rest of the class passed relatively uneventfully. Malfoy, surprisingly enough, seemed to have been chastened by Snape's words, and concentrated solely on his cauldron, scarcely bothering to look up or even exchange words with Crabbe and Goyle.

For his part, Harry minded his own cauldron, and was infinitely grateful that Snape seemed to wish to avoid him. The Potions Master kept to other parts of the classroom, only venturing back to their corner to do a perfunctory check of their brews.

"Lower the heat, Weasley," he warned snappishly, "before it boils over. And perhaps read your instructions rather than making haphazard guesses as to what to do next."

Ron had shot the man a nasty look as soon as his back turned.

"Well, he's right," Hermione had muttered quietly. "It says right there to reduce to a gentle simmer after adding the powdered obsidian."

At the end of the class, Harry considered just fleeing the classroom after turning in his bottled sample. After all, what was Snape going to do? Likely Harry could just hint at mentioning the day's events to his mother and the Potions Master would back right down. After all, he was the head of Slytherin; he had to have some sense of self-preservation. And it wasn't as if Harry actually had earned whatever punishment the man had cooked up for him over that long, abnormally silent class period.

But in the end Hary chose to stay behind, as instructed, knowing that more animosity between them was not what was needed. The more neutrally he felt, the less likely it was that he would slip up and show his resentment in front of his mum. And he had to hide that resentment perfectly, he knew, at least for a good month or so while things settled.

Hopefully Snape would eventually take a hint and start curbing his own behavior to make things easier.

Ron and Hermione lingered behind as they always did, Ron glaring and Hermione looking concerned. Harry waited in front of Snape's desk, jaw clenched and eyes on the flagstone floor before him as he tried his best to rein in his temper.

He jumped slightly when the Potions Master stormed out from the supply closet, wand already drawn. He glared darkly at the pair of loitering Gryffindors, who reluctantly retreated. A wave of his wand and the classroom door banged shut.

Then the Potions Master waved his wand twice more. Harry felt the familiar tingle of wards extending over the room.

Snape's harsh features smoothed then, though his black eyes remained shrewdly critical. "You're certain you were not injured earlier?"

Ah. So that was the game Snape wished to play. Concerned, doting stepfather. Harry barely kept himself from scoffing. Instead, he fixed his gaze on the corner of Snape's desk. "No, sir."

Snape sighed heavily. "I will straighten Malfoy out. Though in the meantime I would advise avoiding him in the halls."

"Yes, sir." Harry waited for the lecture to begin. Though, he reasoned, if Snape was playing the sympathetic Potions Professor today, maybe there would be no lecture. Maybe instead there would be saccharine assurances about his good intentions, and more promises to "do better". More sweet lies that he didn't need to waste on Harry.

"Harry."

Harry winced automatically at the sound of his name uttered from those lips. It made his skin crawl. But he knew he would get nowhere by expressing his disgust, or demanding that the man not call him that unless Lily was present.

So instead he inclined his gaze just slightly, enough to show that he was listening, if reluctantly.

"I wish to express, once again, how deeply I regret how I have treated you—"

"Don't you—" Harry caught himself before he could launch into a full tirade. "I told you I forgave you," he intoned dully, dropping his gaze back to the desk corner.

"You didn't mean it—"

"I meant it as much as you meant your apology. Sir." Harry tightened a hand on the strap of his bookbag, willing himself not to say any of the number of evil things that were floating about his mind just then. "May I be excused?"

Snape seemed to hesitate then. Likely because he was shocked that his fine little plan to manipulate Harry had not worked. "Yes. But…." The man stumbled. It was too odd to hear. Like seeing Dumbledore rolling his eyes, or Hagrid kicking a puppy. "If you should need anything, I am available. Just get a note to me discreetly and I will do all I can for you."

Harry wanted to snort. But he settled for replying in a passable imitation of Snape's own sarcasm, "I'm certain, sir." And with that he left, not liking the slight, niggling doubt that was already rising in his breast. The doubt that wondered if Snape was sincere, if he really did feel badly that he'd treated Harry so cruelly.

Harry shoved that little doubt aside violently as he caught up to Ron and Hermione. There was one constant in this world, and that was that Severus Snape loathed Harry Potter. That loathing defied all reason, and would continue until the day that same Severus Snape was rotting in his grave. Maybe past that. Believing anything else was foolish, and Harry prided himself on being anything but a fool.

If Snape wanted to play the good stepfather now, fine. Harry would let him. But he wouldn't be disappointed when the man once again felt secure in Lily's affections and dropped the pretense. It wasn't like he wanted the man to like him. It was just as he'd told Snape: it didn't matter.

XXXXX

Severus glared hard at the Malfoy boy. He'd yet to say a word to the brat, apart from the barked "enter" needed to have the boy enter his office.

He knew very well that part of his ire this evening stemmed from self-remonstration. After all, his Slytherin had felt confident enough in his class to openly harass Potter—Harry, he corrected himself forcefully. Confident enough, even, to purposely sabotage Harry's cauldron with an ingredient that would have caused a spectacular explosion and likely landed Granger and Weasley in the hospital wing right alongside his stepson.

Certainly Severus had paid no attention to the minor scuffles and taunting that passed between the two rivals (well, when it had been instigated by Malfoy, and when Potter did not respond). But had that laxity really given the blond Slytherin the impression that he could escalate things further—dangerously, and right under Severus' nose—without any consequences?

Even with blasted Gryffindors, Severus had always made it known that safety was of paramount importance, and that he would tolerate no tomfoolery under his watch. His students walked on eggshells to avoid his wrath, he knew; he'd doled out months of detention at a time for serious lapses in attention. In fact, he had two students that very evening who would be reporting to Filch for their third week of toilet scrubbing for having dared to engage in freewheeling experimentation. Nothing malicious, just incredibly foolish and dangerous.

And that begged the question of what had gone wrong that day. Was it the Malfoy scion? Was his arrogance and sense of entitlement so inflated that he felt the rules no longer applied to him? Certainly the boy took after his father. And he seemed to get a vicious sense of satisfaction out of bullying his peers, Potter above all. So perhaps it was the child who now sat, pale-faced, before him, awaiting the promised lecture.

Yet the boy did not lack cunning or subtlety, as he'd yet to hear complaints from other quarters. Certainly if this were due to the boy's inflated ego alone, Minerva would have already inundated him with reports of misconduct, not to mention scores of points deducted from Slytherin.

Oh, Malfoy bore the brunt of the blame, for certain, Severus decided, but he had enabled it. He had created an environment where the open persecution of one child by another had been the expected norm, where the persecutor had felt almost encouraged or supported in his pursuit of his target.

And wasn't that ironic? Severus mused to himself. Given his initial reasons for hating Potter, for being so very blind to the child…. Malfoy really was another James. Arrogant, self-assured, rich, popular, and well enamored of the sport of tormenting others for the sheer pleasure of it. Had Severus been less attentive that day, had he not recognized the dragon's bile by sight….

Well. The situation could have very well been life-threatening, depending on contributing factors. And then, not just for a single student, as a certain other prank had been.

Severus swallowed back his own guilt. I will do better. It had become his mantra, one he repeated to himself on a bi-hourly basis, if not more frequently. But there would be time enough later for wallowing in self-loathing.

Right now, he had a job to do.

"So kind of you to join me, Mr. Malfoy," he began softly, in his smoothest voice. "I know your evening must be very busy."

Malfoy squirmed in the visitor's seat, his pale grey eyes flashing in panic up to Severus, then back down to his lap. He knew very well what it meant when his head of house invited him to a private conference such as this. In fact, most of his Slytherins knew—or learned very quickly, either by experience or word of mouth.

"You—you wanted to discuss something, sir?" Malfoy's polished, aristocratic tones cracked just enough to ruin the façade of composure that the boy was trying to project. Beneath it all, he was a scared child who knew he'd done wrong, and knew he'd been caught.

"Why yes, I did. Your fascinating plans for experimentation, as you might recall. Dragon's bile in a base of doxy wings. One would almost think you wished to get yourself sent to the hospital wing, with such a… potent… combination. Whatever inspired you to attempt such a thing? And in my classroom, nonetheless?'

The boy's earlier pastiness was nothing compared to the bloodless pallor his face had become upon hearing that question. "I was going to put it in Potter's cauldron, sir," he protested feebly, as if those words were any excuse.

Well. At least the little idiot was not trying to outright deny it. "Do you think, Mr. Malfoy, that my class is the venue to carry out your childish pranks?"

Malfoy shrank down. "No, sir."

Severus dropped his voice to an even more deadly whisper. "Do you imagine I appreciate your disrespect for my classroom and my person?"

Malfoy's head shot up at that, a little defiance showing through once more. "It wasn't—I didn't!"

"You could have endangered your classmates and yourself with this little stunt, had I not managed to stop you in time. Have you any idea what such an incident would do to my professional image?"

Severus hated having to argue this angle. It was true, and he would happily rail at the boy about nearly making his head of house out to be an incapable fool. But more than that, he wanted to rave at the child about the permanent damage that he could have caused to Harry—Lily's boy, another child, his stepson. Not all damage was cured with a wave of a wand, and if Malfoy had waited until the wrong—or right—moment, when the doxy base was at its most potent and undiluted, the results could have been catastrophic.

"Just Potter," Malfoy muttered sullenly. "You hate Potter—"

"What I hate, Mr. Malfoy, is having a student of my own house endanger my public image and career. I would hate a scathing story in the Prophet, complete with accompanying pictures of Aurors mopping bits of Potter from my classroom floor." Severus leaned forward, so that he'd braced himself against the pockmarked wood of his office desk, so that his voluminous robes hung precariously over all carefully arranged clutter that covered its surface. "Have you any idea of how little regard you've shown me this afternoon?" he hissed, glaring down at the Malfoy scion.

"S-sir," Malfoy stammered, eyes wide with genuine horror.

Interesting. So maybe the little cretin did have a little genuine respect for Severus, something that went beyond his desire to flatter and manipulate as per his charming father's instructions.

"Ah, yes, Mr. Malfoy, it is so very apparent how little you respect my time and talents. You think a Potions Master of my caliber has nothing better to do than oversee children attempting boils cures?" These last words Severus sneered, lips curling with disgust. "My, how very boring and useless you must find me as I try to impart my hard-earned knowledge. So boring that you must find other diversions. Explosions, media scandals… perhaps I should write a letter to your father, Draco, to let him know how unstimulating you find your current educational environment. I am certain that he would be willing to make other arrangements for you." Here, Severus dropped his voice to a low, silky whisper, letting it slide out like poisonous fumes. "After all, in Durmstrang your antics would be far less likely to embarrass the family name."

The boy was scarcely breathing. Good. So Severus had managed to get through to the little imp.

"Sir, I didn't mean—I just—you never cared before—"

"I have always cared, Mr. Malfoy," Severus replied coldly, easing back into his chair. He watched the boy carefully, noting the rapid, panicked glances around the office, as if he expected Severus to have already prepared the threatened letter. "You wish to waste time squabbling with Potter? Far be it from me to stop you. But this behavior? The utter lack of grace and cunning that you have displayed? The total disregard for public image? That is where I draw the line. I will not have you making a mockery of your name and status, not so long as you are my responsibility."

Malfoy flinched. "Please don't tell my father."

"I will not. This time, at least. But as you have proven to lack the brains to distinguish between well-aimed barbs and barbarism, you will henceforth steer clear of any and all escalations involving Potter and his ilk."

Malfoy's brow furrowed. "You can't mean—you expect me to just let that little prat strut about as if he owns the place? With Weasel and that buck-toothed know-it-all Mudbl—"

"Language, Draco," Severus snapped. "Idiot boy. And yes, you are to steer clear of him, since you clearly are incapable of responding to provocation with calculated revenge. Your anger—or, in this case, your spite—run ahead of you, and one of these days I will not be there to nanny you. So you will remove yourself from temptation. And if you are incapable of that, I will happily ensure that you are removed through the assignation of numerous detentions."

"But you don't give detentions to—"

"Don't I?" Severus inquired dangerously, arching a brow in challenge.

Wisely, Malfoy did not complete his statement. Instead, he conceded petulantly, "Fine."

"Excellent. And now that that matter has been resolved…." Severus drew his wand and used it to levitate the hefty stack of parchment he'd prepared this evening. Fortunately, the punishment he had in mind was a common one doled out over the years, so all the requisite sheets were already prepared. "This, Mr. Malfoy, is a compendium of case files involving Potions Accidents, provided by St. Mungo's. You'll find that patient names and other sensitive information has been removed. However, the explicit details of each incident, and the treatment required, remain. You will copy each, by hand, and turn in your progress every week until every last patient file has been copied."

Malfoy's eyes were comically wide as he stared at the towering pile of parchment. "All—all of them?" At Severus' glare, he hastily tacked on a mumbled "sir".

"Yes, all of them. By hand. And do believe me when I say that I will know if you think to use magic or other means to cheat on this assignment."

"But that'll take ages—sir," Malfoy protested.

"Ages? Certainly not. Months, perhaps, if you work diligently. Hopefully no longer than that, as missing an entire term of Quidditch would be detrimental to your skills—"

"Missing—what's Quidditch got to do with it? You're already making me copy all this rubbish—"

"You will not participate in Quidditch until that has been completed." As Draco opened his mouth, likely to protest loudly, Severus purred, "Alternatively, I could write a letter to your father and allow him to decide how to deal with you…."

Malfoy's eyes went wide again, and frantically he began shaking his head in a silent plea.

"You may resume your place on the team once you have sufficiently proven to me that you will never again act so recklessly." Snape shook his head, preparing to rub salt into the wound. "Really, Draco, I expected better of the Malfoy heir. No concept of what is politic… perhaps the hat was mistaken."

The boy turned an intriguing shade of pink then. "I apologize, sir. It won't happen again."

"I should hope not. It occurs to me that this is only the latest in a long line of hare-brained stunts. One would think you would have learned by now." Snape slid the heavy folder forward. "You will turn in your weekly progress to me on Fridays, by no later than 7pm. I will inform Mr. Flint that you have taken a temporary leave from the team in order to better concentrate on your studies. You may tell your father the same if you do not wish for him to find out secondhand."

Malfoy hesitated before gathering up the rather unwieldy stack of parchment.

"I will not hear of any feuding with Potter," Severus stated quietly, giving the boy a meaningful look.

"I won't start anything—"

"No. I will not hear of any feuding, full stop. I do not care what Potter says or does to you. You will stay out of it. I will not have you embarrassing my House or your father's name. Now, get out."

Severus watched as the boy scrambled out of the office, trying to fight back the sense of satisfaction he felt from putting the arrogant little twit in his place for once. He hoped the boy would never push him so far as to call his bluff; Severus knew he would never actually bring Lucius Malfoy's wrath down on his son.

Unfortunately, he knew that the control he held over the boy now as his feared Head of House would only dwindle over the years. Certainly the boy had always respected him for other reasons—because Severus was a distant family friend, because he was a decorated Potions Master. But that childlike awe was bound to only last for another year at most, and then the true nightmare would begin. And if the child inherited his parents' inflated egos, well, the coming years would be hellish indeed.

Now that the boy was finally gone, Severus allowed his troubled thoughts to return to Harry. The boy still believed that Severus was not in the least sorry, that he was only interested in offering empty words to smooth things over between them.

Well. He'd taken care of Malfoy, as promised. Though Potter would doubtless see that as an empty gesture meant to buy his trust. And it wasn't as if Severus could make his new position very clear by openly protecting Harry and ceasing all hostilities with Gryffindors. There was too much at stake with the possible return of the Dark Lord. Even chastising Malfoy as much as he had was risky, in that it might end up alienating him from the boy and, in turn, Lucius. Not that he didn't have perfectly valid—or Slytherin—motives for calling the boy on the carpet.

Severus leaned back in his desk chair, feeling the makings of a headache coming on. He knew that he was not quite recovered from his colossally stupid binge that Saturday, but more than that, he was finding his stomach tied in knots about Harry. More so than Lily, even, which was startling in some ways.

Oh, Lily still haunted his every waking moment. He would still seize up in moments of cold panic when he thought about the possibility of never winning her back, of failing her again and alienating her for good. He did not know how he could continue, should that ever come to pass.

But ever since he'd viewed the memory she'd given him of Harry, he'd found himself scrambling for ways to make everything up to the boy.

There had been no trace of James in the solemn child who'd pleaded with Lily, who'd talked of forgiveness and mistakes, who'd used his own father's shortcomings as a means of arguing for another chance for his hated, abusive stepfather.

For that was what he was. There was no denying it. Certainly Severus had never laid a hand on the boy—thankfully—but he'd cut the boy down and painted him as a miscreant at every opportunity. He'd accused Potter of trying to poison Lily against him when, in reality, he'd been poisoning a mother against her son. And yet there had been enough love and mercy in the boy's heart to set all that pain and suffering aside, to give Severus a path back into their lives.

And the boy wanted nothing to do with Severus. He refused to look at him in class, during meals. Harry had even turned around in a hall once that week and started off in the opposite direction upon seeing Severus.

It would take time, a great deal of time. And Severus prided himself on being a patient man. But now, he found himself anxious to the point of restlessness. He needed to be doing something to atone. Sitting here idly and stewing in his own sense of failure and inadequacy was helping no one.

Well, there was at least one thing he could work on. Something he wished to have done by that Friday, something he would hand over to Lily as proof positive of his remorse. He summoned down the folder that he'd painstakingly assembled that Sunday evening—two years and a month's worth of Potions work. He was grateful for his own fastidiousness in keeping copies of all student work turned in.

He had other grading to do, he knew, but his students could wait. It was not as though his scathing comments would add anything to their pitiful little lives. Instead of looking over N.E.W.T. research proposals, he found himself carefully deciphering the chicken scratch of one Harry James Potter, First Year, and his thoughts on the seven most important ingredient preparation techniques in potion-making.

A/n: Thank you all for the lovely reviews and for your patience. Hopefully future chapters will come more quickly. I make no promises, but rest assured, this story, along with my other works, are not abandoned! They will eventually be completed. As always, your kind words are deeply appreciated, and inspire me to write more quickly. Cheers! ~mel