Chapter Text
Severus Snape considered himself a patient man.
His whole life he’d spent lying in wait- measuring his words, schooling his expressions, making himself small- and it was to this merit he often credited his lasting endurance. Many hard years had taught him the value of composure, the advantage of silence over shouting, of a deep breath over a sharp word. He bid his time irreproachably, content to wait for the wind to eventually blow its riches in his direction. Because wisdom meant restraint. And restraint meant survival.
But no one, not a soul, could crack that composure as effectively as Harry Potter.
He didn’t know what it was with the boy; if it was some condition he’d been born with or a disease he’d acquired along the way, but his obstinacy was relentless. He’d spoken over him with the confidence of a child that’s never questioned their own opinion, too wrapped up in his own little world and in love with the sound of his own voice to consider anyone else. A boy who mistook volume for reason, and certainty for truth.
It shouldn’t bother Severus, but it did. It grated on him. Every interaction was a test of virtue, and every time he failed. Realistically, he should be pitying the child for never knowing rationality- he was about as sharp as a dull knife- but like an amateur quilter, he’d find the one thread Severus tried so hard to keep tucked in and yank.
Harry Potter made him feel childish. Like he was back to being a younger, more reactive version of himself, and he hated it. He had spent so long molding himself into something inert, something ironclad. But no matter how careful he thought he’d become, there still were some people that could drag the storm out of him. And Harry Potter, more than anyone, brought the thunder.
Not even the Dark Lord himself could test his patience that way.
The boy was ridiculous. To loudly- and incorrectly- criticize and berate a professor in the sanctuary of his own office was surely an indication of lunacy. The sheer neuroticism and lack of critical thinking required to enact such a behaviour was a derangement in itself. But whatever mental sickness plagued the boy was clearly contagious, because Severus too found himself going mad whenever the other was around.
Never in his life had he been so brutally insulted, not even by the boy’s infernal father. And this was the child’s idea of an apology? This chicken scratch, contemptuous exposition was expected to land him back in Severus’ good graces?
Merlin, help him. He’d have to accept.
Not because the boy deserved a second chance- he did not- but because he needed one. Beneath all his pride, all his exasperating stubbornness, there was a man that knew how to stand in the world. His heart had not quite hardened, and he’d yet to constrain his wildfire mouth, but Severus had to believe that somehow, somewhere, Harry Potter had also inherited some of his mother. That behind the arrogance was surety, below the righteousness was justice. That was why he stayed.
It was not about affection. It was not even about self interest. It was duty- a quiet, steady, reluctant duty. Perhaps it was a promise whispered long ago, bound with something much stronger than magic, but someone had to be there to catch the boy before he fell, and for reasons Severus couldn’t fully name, it had to be him. Even if he made him grit his teeth. Even if he never thanked him. Even if he never changed.
With a sigh, he pushed his desk away and stood, starting towards the office door. His tea had long gone cold, it was well past midnight, and he’d still hadn’t marked all the term papers. A problem that would have to wait for tomorrow. Gently, he tied his curt response to Beatrice’s leg, patting her softly as she cooed.
Harry Potter would likely never made it easy. But he was his responsibility, and Severus wasn’t the type of man to turn away from that.
8888
Being barred from playing quidditch definitely wasn’t ideal, but it did have its perks.
Early mornings, when the other Gryffindors rose for those frigid, sleepy practices, Harry would lounge around comfortably, basking in the balminess of his crimson bedding. His teammates would scurry about him getting ready, and then when they’d sluggishly depart for the pitch, he’d shoot out of bed immediately.
After all, there were matters to be taken care of.
He’d given himself the weekend to rest, to come to terms with the agreement. Voldemort had set no time frame for the clandestine meeting; he had no idea when or how or through who he’d be securing the book. It meant the altercation could come at any moment- and currently, Harry was still empty handed. It sent chills down his spine to consider what might happen if he remained that way when it came time to deliver.
It wasn’t to say Harry was panicked- bothered would be the better word for it. Already it wasn’t fair that Voldemort had changed the conditions of their agreement, but now Harry had to go out of his way to meet the demand. It twisted his gut if he put too much thought into it. It had been one thing to stop taking a potion- he could learn to excuse it on his part as relative passivity- but getting to grips with this type of endeavor felt much too similar to active engagement. Active assistance.
Even if he had no idea how this could possibly be helpful.
“I think I’m ready to revisit that deal.”
Voldemort’s cheshire grin spread impossibly wider. Harry swallowed the feeling that he was the mouse.
“Excellent,” he murmured, red eyes dancing like hot coals. “I am relieved we can be sensible and civil about this.”
“Yeah,” Harry choked, still blinking away the remnants of his despair. The altercation with Ron was still all too fresh in his mind; his heart was still racing.
Sucking in a wobbly breath, he willed his posture to harden. “Whatever,” he sniffed, “I just need to stop taking any dreamless sleep? I can do that.”
Gradually, the ground was starting to feel a bit more solid beneath him as he breathed. The rip in his stomach was still there, but the room was no longer spinning. He chanced a hesitant glance up at the man in his chair, and was met with an unreadable expression.
“Uh,” he faltered, “is there something I need to sign or anything? Do you want it in writing?”
“Oh, no,” said Voldemort slowly, as if relishing the taste of the words. The man quietly stood, now towering over him, “I don’t totally believe that’s the most reasonable deal, anymore. You see, I’m glad you’ve took the time to think, to consider your options- conscientiousness is critical, after all- but so have I. And I don’t really think the conditions of our original agreement are entirely equitable, do you? It seems to me, that I am giving much more than I am getting.”
There had been a strange sound growing, stretching long and low as the man spoke. It wasn’t until it he pressed his palms into his eyes, and it morphed into a wail, that Harry realized it was coming from him.
“You’ve got to be kidding me! That’s not fair!”
“Why ever not?” Voldemort pouted, brows knit. Languidly, he leaned back against the reverse of the armchair, one hand resting on the crest rail for support. The voice was still so foreign coming from pink lips. “We hadn’t yet agreed to anything.”
“Well, what on Earth more could you want? Why aren’t the original conditions enough for you? Why is nothing ever easy?!”
“I need a favour.”
The unfamiliarity of the statement was enough to give him pause.
“That can’t be good.”
“I want you to retrieve something for me. In the castle,” the man carried on. “I will give you the guidebook via my liaison, and you will give it in return. A trade of items.”
Confusion settled heavy on Harry’s shoulders, “Well that entirely depends on what it is.”
“I assume you are familiar with the Room of Hidden Things.”
It was more of a statement than a question, but Harry still answered, “I am.”
“Somewhere in there, there is a diadem. I deposited it there many years ago, for safekeeping, but I have not had the opportunity to recover it since. I’d like for you to find it and return it to me.”
Harry cocked his head instinctively. Either he was obtuse, or diadem was not a real word.
“Er,” he tittered, “what would something like that look like?”
The other shot him a brief glance of concern and mild disgust.
“It’s a tiara,” he said slowly. “Are you serious?”
Harry hummed solemnly, disregarding. “Okay,” he said, “but why the hell would you want a tiara? Is it expensive or something? I don’t see why else you would need it.” He paused, deep in thought, then a small smirk started to spread along his face until it reached a full-blown grin. “Unless, of course…” he met the other’s eyes joyfully, “you intend to wear it?”
Voldemort did not find it humourous; he stared at Harry blankly.
“Yes, it is valuable. Immensely so.” He drummed his hand on the back rest. “Keep in mind, Harry, that I am giving you a rare and expensive commodity of my own collection. I do believe I deserve something equally extravagant in return.”
“So you want me to stop taking the dreamless sleep and run around the castle on your business?”
“No,” said Voldemort, examining his nails. “A trade of items is sufficient. I do not care what you do with the potion, to be frank. That’s your hornet’s nest.”
Harry considered this for a moment. In all honesty, he thought he might prefer this deal. The bargaining was rather meaningless and momentary, not enduring or permanent like their first agreement had been. A simple, single task and then it could be forgotten, and he could drown himself in dreamless sleep for the rest of his life, and never see the Dark Lord again.
Yes, this arrangement was much easier.
At least, that’s what he’d thought at first, but as three fruitless days in the Room of Requirement had trickled by, he could no longer deny the burgeoning distress.
He didn’t know how magical pacts worked, to be honest. Was he bound by otherworldly forces to follow through? What would happen to him if he didn’t- couldn’t? He’d heard of unbreakable vows before: swearing on your magic; on your life. Or was it one or the other? He’d never actually witnessed one done in person. Typically, they were frowned upon by the general public. Was what he had just committed to effectively the same?
Yes, terms were exchanged, a handshake reluctantly done. It had all felt very suffocating and official in the moment. But he didn’t recall ever agreeing to die if he couldn’t find the damn tiara. So, really, he could calm down.
Already, he’d methodologically swept through what felt like millions of items in a matter of days. He couldn’t amass much uninterrupted perusing at a time, but early mornings and skipping a few classes had granted him just enough time to slip away unnoticed. He’d used it to forage through the mountains of things, clamouring and crawling through vintage art pieces and worn clothing, brass instruments and wooden boards. He’d pick through the masses of opulence and wreckage both, and his incessant burrowing had set off an avalanche of books on more than one occasion.
He’d pounced on any flash of metal he’d seen, ambushed every twinkle through the clutter. There was no sign of a tiara.
But, he thought with dismay, there was much more of the room to go. He was starting to regret the decision to agree; he had his work set out for him.
Glumly, he untied the jumper he’d left yesterday to mark his place. Time to get to work.
8888
It could’ve been hours later, or an eternity, for Harry, when he finally saw it. A sparkling something, metallic and gleaming in the low light. He was on top of it in an instant; clawed it out with rapturous intensity.
It wasn’t what he was expecting, but it had to be it. No ornate jewels or diamonds adorned the crown, no golden shine or intricate engravings. It was just a simple silver band, with a single sapphire perched modestly at its center, but the magic emanating from it was unmistakable. He’d sensed the thrum immediately.
He couldn’t detect what enchantments were spelled to it exactly, but he instantly knew them as dark. Just touching the artifact was sending waves of nausea through him and congesting his head with static-y noise. It was almost enough for him to turn around and leave it where it was, but the sheer uneasiness the object evoked had made it abundantly clear: the diadem did not want to be held. Whatever charms were applied, they were intended to ward a person away.
Fighting the urge once again to launch it across the room, Harry hurriedly dropped it in his pocket. It was perplexing; he thought. Engaging with the underground economy was not normally a part of the Dark Lord’s itinerary- at least he thought it wasn’t. Midnight dealings and back-alleyway exchanges seemed a bit too plebian for his tastes. Did the man even concern himself with finances? When was the last time he’d even needed money? He had the entire Malfoy fortune at his fingertips; an army of worshippers that would give him anything.
No, it was highly unlikely the man desired the trinket purely for its monetary value. And although the man nursed a healthy respect for historical artefacts, he wasn’t a keeper of frivolous things, either. Which only meant its true worth was something more insidious.
He was beginning to think this task may not be so harmless, after all.
8888
“Well, look who the cat dragged in!” Blaise’s face split into a wide grin as he’d glanced up from his book and laid eyes on Harry. “Harry Potter, back from the dead?”
“I feel like it,” he laughed, then mellowed into a self-deprecating smile. “Sorry I missed the party on Saturday.”
“Don’t apologize to me,” Blaise said, eyes back on the text, snatching a bread roll off the table and gesturing absently to the bench in front of Harry. He took the hint and sat down. “I think Pansy wants to rip your head off.”
“That so?”
Blaise looked up again, and the sudden weight of his gaze settled heavy on Harry’s shoulders.
“You embarrassed her. Honestly, I don’t blame you for avoiding us.”
“How did I embarrass her?” he huffed. “I didn’t do anything!”
The other boy simply sipped his tea, eyes wide and disbelieving beneath his brows. It was after noon, now, in the empty Great Hall, and the sun was shining at the perfect angle for its light to flood through the windows. As Blaise flicked a page in his book, Harry couldn’t help but watch the shadows dance and stretch along the bench.
“…also, I’m not avoiding you,” he mumbled.
“I think you’ll come to know, Harry, that Pansy can and will take everything personally.”
Harry paused.
“Should I be avoiding her?”
“I think you’re in danger either way.”
Blaise’s eyes settled on something behind Harry. “Daphne is coming,” he said quickly, then set his tea down with a light smirk.
Instantly, Harry’s back straightened and he found himself smoothing his shirt, not exactly sure why. And when he whipped around to greet the girl, he noticed her hair was tied back neatly, a few pieces loose in the front, blonde hue glowing in the sunlight. For some reason, he felt the need to clear his throat.
“Harry!” She called, eyes shining even brighter than her hair. “I’m so relieved you’re okay!”
She stopped right in front of him, and for a moment he thought she might hug him, but she didn’t; she watched him with a beaming, glittering smile, and looked as though she was expecting him to say something specific instead.
“Thanks, Daph,” he croaked, “I like your, uh- hair. Looks nice today. How have you been?”
Her eyes flashed with something unusual- surprise? disappointment?- but the expression was gone in an instant.
“Oh… I’ve been well, thanks.”
She glanced back towards the doors of the Great Hall before slipping into the seat beside him. He could feel Blaise’s eyes back on him, frowning, but he didn’t dare look.
“It must have been bad for you to land in the hospital wing like that… Are you feeling any better?”
Her face was a soft mixture of concern and interest, and entirely too close to his own. He still couldn’t shake the feeling that she was waiting on something from him.
“Oh! Yes, much better.” He assured. “Don’t worry about it.”
“That’s… good…” The girl shifted minutely. “It must have been boring, stuck in the wing like that all weekend with nothing to do…”
As she traced the grain of the wooden table absentmindedly, Harry went back to his meal.
“It wasn’t too bad,” he said, cutting a piece of chicken. “Hermione popped in to visit for a bit, and I was just tired, really.” He popped it into his mouth, watching with confusion as the girl’s expression become increasingly more dejected. “It went by pretty fast,” he added quickly, smiling reassuringly.
Daphne simply stared at him, and the silence stretched for just a measure too long. Under the table a foot came down hard against his shin. He hid the wince, twisting it into a pained smile as Blaise’s eyes burned holes in the side of his head.
“…I see.” She said quietly. He’d never seen her look so crestfallen, and he was starting to get the distinct feeling that something was wrong.
Suddenly she stood, pushing herself away from the table. “You know, I just remembered I left my potions essay in the transfiguration classroom this morning!” She laughed lightly, but the grin didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I better go and grab it before someone else takes it.”
Baffled, he opened his mouth to object, but the girl was already on the move.
“See you later, Blaise,” she called over her shoulder. “Harry, nice seeing you.”
And the moment she disappeared out the doors of the Great Hall, Blaise whipped towards him, daggers for eyes.
“Did I do something wrong?” Harry blurted, before the other could reprimand him.
“Well, I’d say,” huffed Blaise, “you know, you don’t have to reciprocate her feelings, but the least you could do was thank her.”
Harry really didn’t want to sound like a twat by asking- really, he didn’t. Daphne had done a lot for him, truthfully; but this time, he genuinely had no clue in particular what Blaise could be referring to.
“Blaise,” he said, with furrowed brows, “I mean this in the nicest way: thank her for what?”
“Harry, are you serious?” The other crossed his arms, scowling. “The gift she’d left you in the hospital wing?”
He bewilderedly continued when Harry shook his head. “The dreamcatcher?”
His heart skipped a beat.
“Uh, the what?”
“The dreamcatcher,” Blaise repeated, as if that would clear it up. Harry’s face grew hot.
“I must have missed that.”
“How is that even possible?” The boy rubbed his temples, “I know you’ve got some observation issues, but even a mole would have seen it. She left it right there on your table.” They blinked at each other. “I watched her do it!”
For the moment, Harry chose to ignore the embarrassing thought of the two of them watching him sleep.
“Blaise…” he said slowly, his confusion rapidly cooling to unease, “there was definitely nothing on that table when I’d left.”
“What the bloody hell?” the other exclaimed. “That makes no sense! Did someone take it?”
Both their meals had become completely forgotten, potatoes turning cold on their plates. Harry would normally consider that a waste, but a vice had locked around his heart, and it was tightening with each minute.
“I’ve no idea,” he whispered, deep in thought.
“She went through so much trouble to find that, too, you know,” Blaise grumbled, “Went out and bought it as soon as we found out about your nightmares.”
Harry glanced up.
“How do you guys even know about that?”
If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought they were spying on him. As it stood, he was still beginning to think the Slytherins may have eyes in the backs of their heads regardless.
Blaise shot him a look of flat disbelief.
“Hm, I wonder. What could it be that had landed you in the hospital wing with a case of acute exhaustion, just days after coming to me begging for some more dreamless sleep?” He tapped his chin. “It’s a mystery. We may never know the answer.”
Harry felt his cheeks blush but said nothing.
“That’s a pity about the dreamcatcher, though,” Blaise continued, “It’s really an impressive piece of magic.” He pondered his own words for a moment as if mulling something over. “Maybe some borderline spell work, though. To some.”
Then the boy looked up with an indulgent smile, “Perhaps it was confiscated?”
It didn’t seem likely to Harry.
No, when it involved him, it was always something more nefarious.
“Perhaps,” he quietly murmured.
8888
Charms that afternoon was the first class he’d attended all week. Far too preoccupied with locating the diadem, he’d allowed his studies to fall to the wayside, and evidently, it had not gone unnoticed. As he’d walked in the room, Flitwick glanced over the stack of papers on his desk and faltered at the sight. He’d quickly scrambled to recover, but the man’s eyes kept flickering to his person the whole lecture.
And he was not the only one watching Harry. Throughout the class, Harry became increasingly aware of the green eyes boring holes in the back of his head; the quiet, invisible, tangible fuming of one Pansy Parkinson.
“…Geminio, the duplication spell. Incredibly useful for those of us who…” Flitwick prattled on, but everything sounded underwater to Harry when there were laser beams on his back.
When they were dismissed, he practically flew out of his seat and disappeared down the hallway without a trace.
The Gryffindors were still in Transfiguration. He could hear McGonagall’s sermonizing through the door, delivering the lesson he was supposed to receive this morning with the Slytherins. A drop of guilt trickled down his neck, but he quickly swallowed it. Surviving the deal was still more important.
Anxiously, he shifted his weight from foot to foot as he awkwardly waited for them to be dismissed. What was he doing here? What would Hermione say? He didn’t want to sound accusatory, but he just couldn’t shake the idea since the conversation with Blaise. It wasn’t something he thought she would normally do; but then again, no one was really behaving as expected these days.
A ringing cacophony of chairs screeching against the floor told Harry that class was over. Nervously he straightened, adjusting his collar, and prepared himself to face his best mates.
Neville was out the door first, gifting Harry a bright smile on his way by. Then came Dean and Seamus, Parvati, Lavender, each greeting him with a polite smile or nod, and finally, Ron and Hermione.
They both stopped dead in their tracks when they saw him, astounded. But though Hermione’s expression lit up as she recognized him, Ron’s only grew progressively more horrified.
“Harry…” breathed his best mate, stunned.
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“…Hi.”
“Oh, Harry!” Hermione wrapped her arms around him tightly. “Were you waiting for us?”
He grimaced just slightly.
“Er, yes,” he began, but couldn’t form the rest of the words.
She cooed delightedly, “How nice!”, and Harry frowned in shame.
To the side, Ron stirred uncomfortably. He rocked back and forth, hesitant, and then pressed his lips to a flat line.
“I think I need to- Neville wanted- I should- yeah,” he said eloquently. Without waiting for an answer, the red headed boy zipped away down the corridor.
“Oh for Merlin’s sake,” tsked Hermione. “He’s such a child sometimes.” Her arms fell to her hips, and she tapped her foot. “When he gets like this, sometimes I wonder why I even put up with him at all.”
“I can do you one better,” Harry spat bitterly, unable to disguise his distaste.
She offered him a tolerant smile, “He doesn’t mean to be intentionally rude, though. It’s just the way he is.”
He hummed.
“I think he can be plenty intentionally rude when he wants to be.”
Hermione groaned at him and rolled her eyes, but linked their arms regardless. Gently, she started pulling them in the direction of the Gryffindor common room.
“We’ve been over this, Harry. Nobody knew you were in the astronomy tower.” Her gaze tipped up towards him. “Are you still angry with him?”
“Honestly,” Harry sighed, more weary than anything, “I’m not sure. Doesn’t really matter though, he still seems pretty heated enough for the both of us.”
“No, he’s not,” she said, and patted his arm. “Honestly, he isn’t angry... not at you.”
They slowed to a stop, Hermione’s intense scrutiny freezing him where he stood. “I think he’s ashamed,” she murmured. “He doesn’t know how to handle guilt- he’s only ever avoided it.”
She wrung her hands as if she herself was culpable for even speaking it, and as they both stared at one another, tongue-tied, Harry’s lips twisted into a bemused smile.
“Ron? Dodging accountability?” He laughed, “Nah, doesn’t sound like him.”
She scoffed and shoved his side lightly, but continued dragging him down the hall.
“Normally I would try to argue with you on that, but… well, we’ve all got to grow up at some time.” She let out a shaky breath. “Honestly… as badly as I want this silly fight to be over with…”
Their eyes met, and the fire in hers caught Harry by surprise. “Don’t apologize first, Harry. He needs to learn to take responsibility.” Her nose scrunched as she seemed to consider her own words. “Let him come to you on his own.”
“Don’t worry,” he muttered instantly, “I plan to.”
They meandered in silence for a moment more, Harry’s heartbeat steadily rising as he summoned the courage to ask what was burning on his tongue. The question, heavy and metallic, was loaded behind his teeth, but he struggled to bring his lips to cooperate.
“Hermione,” he asked slowly, and she hummed her reply. He sucked in a breath. “Did you happen to see a giftbox at all in the hospital wing on Saturday? Left on the side table by my bed?”
She gazed up at him, face a mask of confusion. For a second, he thought he’d registered some hesitation, but it was gone in a blink, leaving Harry to wonder if it was just his paranoia playing tricks. Ahead of them, Seamus slowed his pace.
“Um, no,” she pondered, “I really don’t think so, Harry. The table was definitely empty when I got there.” Another beat past as she scrunched her brows, deep in thought, like she was replaying the morning in her head. “I feel like I’d remember… I had put all your things down on it when I arrived.”
“Oh,” he quietly remarked. Hating himself for not fully believing her, he wiped a hand down his face.
“Why? Was something supposed to be there?”
“Ooooh,” crowed Seamus up ahead, evidently, and unfortunately, within earshot of the private conversation. “Does Harry have a secret admirer?” He poked Dean in the ribs, who appeared distinctly more uncomfortable, “The bad boy image may be working, after all.”
“Can it, Seamus,” Hermione snapped, grimacing.
Harry barely even registered the comment.
“No,” he answered her, resigned. “Just thought I’d ask.”
The quiet that followed was a pensive one. The longer it stretched, the farther apart the two of them felt. He was just about to say something- ask about her classes, comment on the weather, anything- when they rounded a corner and caught sight of the flare of silky green robes. They bounced in the light of the windows, sinister as the serpents they’d been inspired by.
But the girl they belonged to was still; arms folded neatly across her chest, patiently coiled in the middle of the hall for ambush. As she appeared then, Pansy was more panther than any cold-blooded reptile: ready to play with her food.
He wanted to turn around right there, but she’d already seen them- brows raised and head cocked to the side, expression wide and expectant- she had been waiting for them. Hermione dropped his arm instantly, stiffening beside him.
Instinctively, he felt himself stepping between the two girls, but Pansy did not seem to care.
“Granger,” she sneered, paying Harry no mind.
Hermione bristled.
“Parkinson,” she returned, with equal venom.
Pansy smiled sweetly at her, but there was fire in her eyes. “May I borrow Harry for a moment?”
The attention of both girls shifted to his frame. There was a heat creeping up his neck- Hermione was staring too hard at him with a look that spoke both bewilderment and worry.
There was no avoiding the Slytherin now- he had walked right into her den. Smally, reluctantly, he nodded his head to Hermione in answer to the unsaid question.
She pressed her lips to a hard line.
“I’ll… see you later, Harry,” she said, and marched past them both without so much as a glance toward the other girl.
When Hermione disappeared around the bend, Pansy dropped all pretenses of pleasantry, shoving her hands on her hips and frowning angrily.
“What the hell is your problem?” she barked. He took an impulsive step back. “I know you’re avoiding me.”
“What?” He choked a laugh, “No I’m not.”
“Please,” she rolled her eyes, “Yes you are. I’m not an idiot, I saw you scurry off after class like a scared little demiguise.”
“Aren’t demiguises supposed to be hard to catch?”
She gave him a withering stare, and he stammered, “…Blaise said you were angry with me!”
“Well, of course I am, Harry!” She threw up her hands. “You made a commitment to something and then didn’t follow through. Do you know how rude that is?” She huffed.
“I-” he was cut off.
“-I get that you’re used to doing things willy-nilly, but on our side of the world, we take that kind of thing seriously. You embarrassed me.” Pansy glowered at him, then the floor, then back to him again. “Worse, you disappointed Daphne. She was watching the door all night.”
“I was in the Hospital Wing that morning, Pansy. What did you want me to do- hobble over? Daphne seemed like she understood…” he frowned.
“No,” she smirked, “Daphne understands everything- or rather, excuses everything. As you seem so prone to doing yourself.”
The girl straightened, tucking her arms in front of herself again, “Not me though. I don’t cool off with time, I simmer. And really, I will admit that I don’t forgive that easily.”
“Good God,” he groaned despairingly, “What do you people want from me?! I swear, you all won’t be happy until I’m carrying around laminated business cards with pre-written apologies on them, with the extent you’re all hounding me for one!”
She smiled a lopsided grin, positively mischievous, and it was the first time during the conversation she’d invoked a real fear.
“I want you to make it up to me,” she simply said.
“Merlin…” Harry cried, “You can’t be serious.”
As Pansy stared back, unblinking, he realized quickly that she was. “How do you expect me to do that?”
“You’re going to come to Hogsmeade with me this weekend.”
“Like Hell I’m goin-”
“I’ve errands to run, and Draco cancelled again, so I need someone to carry my bags.” She juggled her hands in front of her, as if she was weighing invisible options. “You do this for me, and we’re even- all’s forgiven. You don’t, and Slughorn gets an anonymous tip about a missing book.”
Cold horror gripped his shoulders.
“You’re a psycho!” He shouted thoughtlessly.
“You embarrassed me,” she repeated with a shrug, “I don’t take humiliation well.”
Harry shook his head frantically, unable to hide the pleading tone in this voice.
“In no way at all is skipping a party proportional to sending me to Azkaban!”
Pansy’s lips curled into a lazy smirk, her disinterest only fueling Harry’s incredulity even more. He was far too shocked by the threat to even be angry.
“Mm, probably not,” she conceded, “but I was just starting to like you. And I’d like for us to remain on good terms, don’t you?”
“I think I preferred it when you hated me, actually,” he muttered. “now that I’m thinking about it. You don’t blackmail friends.”
“Too right, Harry,” she nodded with a smug smile, “You blackmail enemies. So, you better stay my friend.”
Speechless, he could only stare helplessly as she leaned closer to pinch his cheek. Then, turning to leave, she called happily over her shoulder, “I’m so excited for our little date on Saturday!”
Harry stood frozen when she left, dumbfounded. For what must’ve been the thousandth time that month, and for the thousandth different reason, he encountered the overwhelming desire to kill Draco Malfoy.
8888
That evening, as he was miserably preparing for bed- much too aware of the four empty potion vials piled lonely in his rubbish bin- Dobby appeared beside him with a pop.
“Mr. Harry Potter skipped dinner again?” He asked, and Harry nearly jumped out of his skin.
Recovering quickly and rinsing his toothbrush, he tiredly turned to the house elf, “Yeah, Dobby, sorry. Just haven’t been feeling up for it. I’m sure whatever you guys have been making is delicious.”
The elf gave him a dubious look.
“Dobby does not care if Harry Potter likes the food or not,” he said, and Harry tried hard to ignore the slight, “Harry Potter missed a delivery from his owl.”
His interest piqued.
“Oh?”
The house elf produced a small box barely wider than his torso. Strung carelessly to the top was a brief note:
Mr. Harry Potter,
My office, tomorrow, 7 o’clock sharp. Be prepared to work.
Professor S. Snape
When he tore the box open, far too curious and suspicious to wait, Harry was greeted by a sight that truly surprised him. Staring back at him auspiciously, tucked innocently in a bed of paper, were another four bottles of Dreamless Sleep.