Chapter 8
[republished on the same day to correct typos]
The two young wizards arrived back in the parlor to find Snape seated in one of the armchairs surrounding the coffee table. Harry immediately took in the professor's rigid posture; the man sat with his back straight, his left elbow propped on the chair arm while his right hand tapped out an impatient staccato rhythm on his knee. The older wizard did not acknowledge the two students' arrival in the room; instead, he stared down at the book, his jaw tense.
Apparently, Harry's time in the loo had done nothing to quell the man's temper.
The Gryffindor chose a seat on the couch as far from the man as possible, while Draco positioned himself in the armchair opposite his head of house.
"It is your turn, Mr. Malfoy." Snape'd voice was soft. "And we are on question 20. Ask something and be quick about it. I would like to unlock the bedrooms before we are drawing lots to see who sleeps on the hardwood."
Right. Harry thought, already predicting how that scenario would play out. Like Snape or Malfoy would ever consent to sleeping on the floor...
Draco looked from Harry to Snape and smirked in a way that made the Gryffindor's stomach drop. So much for their brief camaraderie in the restroom.
"How about this? Since we left off having such a lovely conversation about fathers . . ." He paused, his smirk deepening as the room's other two occupants scowled at him. "Let's try . . ."
20. What is your blood status?
Harry's scowl lessened slightly. He had honestly been expecting much worse, though he had no idea what that might have been. He wouldn't put it past either Slytherin, though, to come up with something surprising and cruel.
What did surprise Harry was the fact that Draco did not answer his own question immediately, and instead just looked at the raven-haired boy expectantly.
"I already know my answer, Potter." The blond said when Harry gave him a questioning look. "I'm waiting to see if you know yours, especially considering how muddy the waters became on your side of the family tree."
Harry narrowed his eyes at the Slytherin, but otherwise he did not react to the goading statement. Instead, he took a moment to ponder the question. Were there really that many options? He had never given much thought to his blood status, beyond knowing that he wasn't actually a muggle-born despite growing up with the Dursleys. Hagrid had told him on his first trip to Diagon Alley that his mother had been from a muggle family, and he was fairly certain his father came from a pureblood family.
"Half-blood." He said, though the phrase came out as more of a question than an answer. He was tempted to look at the Potions professor for confirmation, but given Snape's current mood, he thought he might have a better chance of squaring up against an Acromantula than receiving help from his callous instructor.
The book recorded his answer and flashed gold.
Draco snorted at Harry's questioning response but otherwise didn't say anything.
Snape spoke up next. "I am also a half-blood." As the page flashed gold, the man turned to the blond. "Mr. Mal--"
"Wait, hold on," Harry blurted out, unable to contain his shock. "I thought all Slytherins were purebloods."
"What an utterly asinine notion." Snape snapped acerbically, his nostrils flaring. "Though thinking had never appeared to be your strong suit, Potter, I can assure you that if you had stopped to ponder the issue for even a moment you would have realized that the Sorting Hat is not a medical device or a genealogical record." The Gryffindor scowled as the man continued bitingly. "It is a hat. It does not perform blood purity tests when sorting students."
"It should." Draco mumbled under his breath, as Harry snapped back at the Potions instructor:
"How was I supposed to know that the hat doesn't do some sort of unnoticeable magical test? I didn't grow up in the wizarding world. I don't know everything there is to know about magic."
Though, the hat did try to place YOU in Slytherin. A voice in Harry's head said. And you're not a pureblood.
"On that we can agree." The elder Slytherin said in response to the boy-who-lived's final statement, leaning forward slightly in the armchair. "And since you do not know everything about the wizarding world, perhaps you should endeavor to pay more attention in class!" The final phrase came out as a snarl.
The man's ire grating on his last nerve, Harry leapt to his feet. "Maybe I would if you weren't such a rotten instructor!" He said, copying the potion master's snarling inflection.
To his side, he heard Draco give a low whistle, but he was too focused on the elder Slytherin to pay attention to the blond.
Snape's eyes narrowed considerably, but contrary to Harry's fears, he did not leap across the space and begin strangling the teenager, nor did he begin shouting.
Harry swallowed hard, waiting for the man to speak -- or strike, whichever came first.
After a moment, though, the Slytherin's posture relaxed slightly as he leaned back in the chair. "Fifteen points from Gryffindor for your blatant disrespect, Potter," He snapped in an icy tone. "Be thankful it isn't more. Now, sit down."
Harry sat, resisting the urge to glare at the aggravated instructor for the loss of house points. Honestly, he chided himself, what had he expected with an outburst like that.
Snape watched the Gryffindor hawkishly until the boy had regained his seat on the sofa and for several long moments afterwards. The raven-haired teen could feel the potion master's eyes on him, but quickly became distracted by a sudden thought that popped into his mind.
The elder Slytherin turned to the other teenager in the room. "Mr. Malfoy, please answer the question."
"Was she a muggle-born too? You mom, I mean." Harry asked before Draco could even open his mouth. He heard a frustrated sign from his classmate at the outburst.
Snape shook back a lock of sleek black hair from his face, his eyes narrowing slightly at the abrupt question. "No, she was not. My muggle lineage is on my father's side."
"Oh, did -- did they meet at Hogwarts?"
"Mr. Potter." Snape said, exasperation clear in his voice. "This is not family share time. If you must know, my father was not a muggle-born, but a muggle. He was also an abusive drunk and I do not particularly enjoy discussing him." The man directed his attention, one again, to the blond. "Now, Mr. Malfoy, if you please." He gave a single nod toward the book on the coffee table, his intention clear.
Harry, who had felt a blush rise in his cheeks at the potion master's admonition, turned to find an unusually quiet and thoughtful Draco slouched in the armchair. The Slytherin's gaze appeared to be trained in the pattern of the chair's seat cushion, his expression pensive.
"Mr. Malfoy." Snape's tone held an impatient edge.
At the second utterance of his name, Draco's grey eyes snapped up to meet those of the potions master across from him. The boy sat up a little straighter, a haughtiness that Harry instantly recognized taking over his body. And yet, this was not the mischievous imperiousness that usually accompanied the Slytherin's bullying. There was something slightly different -- colder -- about this arrogance that radiated from Draco Malfoy.
"I'll answer the question in a moment, but first . . ." The blond teenager began. "Tell me something, Severus."
Harry's eyebrows lifted to his hairline at the informal address, and from the corner of his vision, he saw Snape's eyes flash at the use of his his given name.
Before the potions master could respond, though, the younger Slytherin continued.
"How is it that the Dark Lord allowed you -- the son of a drunken muggle -- to serve him?" Draco said, his voice like ice. "I don't see how someone with such inferior blood status could be worthy of calling themselves a Death Eater."
Death Eater? Harry thought, but before he could wonder further about the term, his eyes were drawn to Snape, who had swept from his armchair in less than two seconds and now towered over the Malfoy heir. The man leaned in, placing a hand in each armrest of Draco's chair, effectively caging the younger Slytherin in place.
The potions master glowered down at the teenager. "Take care how you speak to me, Draco. It would be a pity for you to lose your tongue."
The blond's eyes widened slightly at the thinly veiled threat. "My father --"
"Silence." Snape snarled through clenched teeth. "Your father clearly divulges too much information that you are too young to fully understand. However, if the Dark Lord ever returns I will be sure you have the opportunity to air your complaints about my blood status." The man leaned in closer to the blond, so that their noses were almost touching. ". . . though I doubt he will take kindly to them due to the fact that he is also a half-blood."
Draco had visibly paled during the elder Slytherin's tirade, and by the end he was trembling slightly under the man's wrathful gaze.
Harry, meanwhile, had a thousand thoughts running through his head. That the Malfoys had been in Voldemort's inner circle was the wizarding world's worst kept secret, but Snape? His fellow Gryffindors had been right. Snape had been a follower of Voldemort. And still was? Harry was seconds away from leaping to his feet and accosting Snape about being a dark wizard, but the thought that certain elements did not add up stopped him. Why had Snape saved Harry from Quirrell (and by extension, Voldemort) in first year? Had that just been to settle a life-debt, as Dumbledore had suggested in the Hospital Wing? If that was the case, though, then why was he so aggravated by Harry endangering himself with the basilisk?
The Gryffindor was pulled from his thoughts by the realization that Snape was still speaking. The potions instructor has straightened up, and now stood before Draco's chair with his arms crossed.
". . . clearly, Mr. Potter had influenced you in all the wrong ways. Detention, Mr. Malfoy, for this misplaced display of bravado. Perhaps writing 'I will not disrespect my head of house' 2000 times will teach you to practice a bit more Slytherin cunning."
With that, the potions master turned and swept back to his own chair, clearly ignoring the glare Harry was giving him at being partially blamed for Draco's outburst. The man sat swiftly, his eyes immediately settling on the still pale figure across from him.
"Now, Mr. Malfoy." Snape said, placing one arm on each armrest, and pronouncing each syllable slowly and deliberately, "for the third and final time: Answer the question."
Draco did, though the "pureblood" that fell from his lips was so quiet that Harry barely heard it. The book registered the term, however, and a moment later there was a flash of gold. The hallway once again resonated with the sound of falling bricks, but neither Harry nor Draco rushed to see which room had opened.
Snape stood and glided toward the room's entrance, and as he passed by Harry the Gryffindor heard distinct mumbling about being able to finally retire for the evening. The two teenagers listened as the man's footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor of the hallway. The steps slowed, and then paused. There was a brief moment of silence, followed by a string of curses.
And then there was the sound of something shattering.