Chapter 4

Harry and Draco were both on their feet in seconds, racing toward the open doorway. They slid into the hall, and the Gryffindor immediately took inventory of the doors. All of them were still bricked up, save one – the doorway under the stairs. He turned to find that Draco had come to the same realization.

The blond took a couple of steps forward, and then paused, his wand raised. Harry wondered if the boy remembered that his magic wouldn't work inside the cube – the raised wand merely a defensive reflex. Or maybe he hoped to intimidate whatever might lay on the other side of the door under the stairs.

Seeing the hesitation on his schoolmate's face, Harry mustered his courage (he was a Gryffindor, after all!) and approached the door in question, opening it cautiously. He half-expected it to house a cupboard like the one he had slept in growing up, but instead found himself staring at a rather well-furnished and roomy lavatory. One corner housed a stand-up shower with the toilet nestled next to it. On the opposite wall, next to the door, stood the sink; above it hung an oval mirror.

Harry had taken only a couple of steps inside when he felt a presence behind him, and he turned to find Snape observing the room. Draco stood at the doorway, also taking in the new space. Snape ran a hand along the sink basin and then his eyes shifted upwards, to the mirror, where he locked eyes with the Gryffindor.

"If you are done loitering in the facilities, Mr. Potter, let us return to our absurd task." The man said with a glower.

Harry remained where he was and ground his teeth in annoyance. They had literally been in the room less than thirty seconds. "Actually, sir, if it's all the same to you, I need to – you know," He said, tilting his head toward the toilet.

Snape turned, eying the boy with disgust. "Your communication skills leave much to be desired, even for a Gryffindor." He sneered. "Just be quick about it." The man then swept out of the room, ushering Draco out and snapping the door shut behind them.

The boy-who-lived watched the door close before moving to the sink. He glanced at himself in the mirror, and then after a moment, he ran the tap and splashed some cold water on his face. The truth was that he didn't need to use the loo so much as he needed a moment's peace from the two Slytherins in the other room. The last thing he had expected to be doing today was answering questions about himself to the two people at Hogwarts who hated him the most, and the entire process had Harry slightly on edge. He doubted that Malfoy or Snape had anything quite as embarrassing in their past as growing up sleeping in a cupboard and wearing their cousin's hand-me-downs that were several sizes too big.

Harry closed his eyes and cringed at the thought of Malfoy getting hold of that information. He was sure he would be the laughingstock of the entire school if that happened.

He grasped the sink basin and breathed slowly. In. Out. In. Out.

He supposed if he thought more like a Slytherin, he would probably being trying to figure out how to use his own questions to his advantage. That said, he couldn't care less about Malfoy's life as a pampered little pureblood, and anything he wanted to know from Snape he couldn't figure out how to ask in a way that included all three of them.

Why does he hate my dad so much?

Why is he fascinated with the Dark Arts?

Why did he save me from Quirrell's broom hex during first year, if he hates me so much?

Why does he dislike Lupin?

For the last question, he was tempted to ask something along the lines of "Who is your least favorite professor currently employed at Hogwarts and why?", but then he would have to answer why Snape was his least favorite. And that just wouldn't do. He would rather face down another basilisk than explain to the potions professor to his face why he didn't like him.

Shaking his head to rid himself of those thoughts, the boy dried his hands and then flushed the toilet for good measure. If he had been back at Privet Drive, Aunt Petunia would have yelled at him for wasting water, but Harry wanted to give the impression that he had actually done what he told Snape he needed to do, just in case the bat was lingering in the hallway. Besides, he didn't think it counted as wasteful when the water was magically supplied to an artificial living space.

Upon reentering the parlor, he was surprised to find the two Slytherins waiting on him. Draco lifted his head as soon as the raven-haired boy entered, a sneer plastered on his face. "Merlin, Potter, what were you doing in there for so long? Trying to rub that ugly scar off your forehead?"

Harry ignored the taunt. It was weak by Draco's standards anyway. "Why didn't you start?"

Snape answered from his spot in his armchair as he massaged the bridge of his nose between his thumb and pointer finger. "Because the book requires everyone to be present before questions may be posed or answered." The man looked up at the blond sitting across from him. "Mr. Malfoy, please tell me that you have come up with a suitable inquiry during the time that Mr. Potter was no doubt preening in front of the lavatory mirror?"

Harry bit his tongue to keep from snapping at the man. The last thing he needed to do was lose more house points.

Draco rested one elbow on his chair's arm, the attached fist nestled right underneath his chin. "Of course. I'm starting to feel hungry, so let's go with 'What is your favorite dessert?".

11: What is your favorite dessert?

"Yes, because the most sure-fire way to rid oneself of hunger is to begin speaking about food." Snape said, and Harry raised his eyebrows at the subtle sarcasm that underlined the man's tone. It spoke volumes about the potion master's mood that he had started being snippy with Draco.

The blond, for his part, blanched slightly at Snape's remark, but there was nothing he could do about it now. The question was already written in the book. "My favorite is the English Trifle. And we make the best ones in the country at the Manor."

Snape rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "No doubt. I have always been fond of bread-and-butter pudding. Mr. Potter?"

Harry waited until the page flashed gold before answering. "Treacle tart".

Before the preteen could question whose turn it was next, the potions master reached forward and flipped the page, speaking the next question as he did so.

12: What subject or subjects do you most excel at?

Harry stared at the question. "Do you mean the classes we've made the highest marks in, or –"

He was cut off by Draco. "Of course he means that. The classes you make the highest marks in are obviously the ones you most excel at. Or do you not know what excel means, Potter?"

"I know what it means!" Harry snapped, "I just don't think it's that simple. Look, I'm pretty good at Defense Against the Dark Arts, but my grades were lower last year because most of Lockhart's test questions were about his adventures in his stupid books and not actually about defense." He turned to Snape, hoping that he didn't get his head bit off in his quest for clarification.

For the second time that day, though, Snape surprised him by not, in fact, turning him into Harry the Headless. "I was asking about the subjects that you naturally excel at, Potter, regardless of pedagogical approach."

"Oh, then Defense against the Dark arts, and flying, though we haven't had those lessons since first year." Harry said, "I'm also fairly good at transfiguration and charms."

The boy thought he saw Snape's eyebrow raise at the final subject that he mentioned, but his attention was quickly redirected to Draco, who was barreling forward with his own response.

"Potions," the blond said proudly, "and Charms. And I get great marks in Transfiguration."

Both adolescents turned to look at the potions master.

"Potions, obviously." The man said. "I am also quite adept at Charms and Defense against the Dark Arts."

It was Harry's turn again. "What's your favorite Quidditch move?" He asked. He watched the quill write out the question, but then the page flashed red and the words disappeared.

He looked up in confusion.

Snape had now begun messaging his temples with his middle fingers. "Your inquiry did not pertain to the entire group, Mr. Potter, as I do not have a favorite Quidditch maneuver. Try another question."

Harry sighed, wrinkling his forehead in concentration as he thought. "What's your favorite thing to do for fun," he asked finally, opting to broaden the original question.

13: What is your favorite thing to do for fun?

"Fly," he said, providing his answer. The page flashed gold.

Snape responded next. "I enjoy reading."

Harry's eyebrows raised in surprise. For some reason he had expected Snape to say that he liked brewing potions in his spare time or perhaps torturing hapless students he ran across in the halls. "What type of reading?"

The professor raised an eyebrow of his own. "Anything but student essays." The man growled.

The boy-who-lived was just entertaining the notion of Snape sitting down to read one of the sensuous romance novels that Aunt Petunia enjoyed when Draco spoke. "I like making fun of mudbloods." He said smugly.

"Language, Mr. Malfoy! Did you forget you were in my presence?" Snape snapped.

Harry, whose eyes had narrowed at the blond's statement, widened again at the professor's brusque response. And Draco blanched for the second time in less than ten minutes.

Luckily, though, the Slytherin's profanity was not recorded, as the book flashed red.

Draco let out a puff of air. "Fine. I enjoy playing wizard's chess."

The young Slytherin waited until the page flashed gold and then flipped it, immediately asking the next question:

14: What is the best birthday gift you have ever received?

"My Nimbus 2001." He said, looking over at Harry with a haughty expression. "The rest of the team received theirs at the start of last year, curtesy of my father, but I was given mine for my birthday several months before."

Harry would have rolled his eyes if he hadn't been inwardly groaning at the question. How was he supposed to answer this one?

Snape spoke up next. "A potions book that I received from a friend for my 13th birthday."

Both set of Slytherin eyes turned to Harry, and he felt his stomach flip over. "Um, socks." He said.

Draco's brows creased in confusion. "Socks? That's what you consider the best gift ever?"

Harry could feel Snape's narrowed eyes on him. "Yeah, they were, uh, really nice socks." He said, grateful that the book had apparently taken "socks" as his answer, so he didn't have to be truthful now about the fact that the socks in question were used, having previously belonged to Uncle Vernon.

The boy-who-lived studied the pattern on the couch, wishing that the floor would just open up and swallow him whole, or maybe just spit him back out in the Great Hall. That question had been too close for comfort. At least Draco wouldn't be going again for several turns. Exhaling, he lifted his eyes to meet those of his professor.

"I believe it is now my turn," the potions master said as he graced Harry with a sardonic smile that instantly made the boy's blood run cold.

"Question Fifteen," Snape said, never taking his eyes from the Gryffindor. "Have you ever been involved - in any way - with the theft of boomslang skin from the potion master's private store room at Hogwarts?"

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Author's comments:

And there goes Snape for the kill. [It was always going to be Snape to make the first calculated strike]

Thank you everyone for the comments and follows. I'm glad you are enjoying the story so far.