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Chapter Text

Harry Potter was three years old when the war took his parents from him, not in death, but in absence.

The year was 1983 and the decade long war against Voldemort was worsening. He was growing stronger and bolder, and Death Eaters had begun openly targeting families who defied him. After one particularly close call that left their safe house in ruins, James and Lily made the heartbreaking decision that the wizarding world was no longer safe for Harry.

Desperate and out of ideas, they turned to the only wizard who might be able to help.

Albus Dumbledore.

They begged him to take Harry. Pleaded for their son to be allowed within the safe walls of Hogwarts. After all, there was no place more secure in the wizarding world than a school run by Albus Dumbledore. However, the headmaster had declined. The war was escalating, and he could not risk the safety of the Order and an entire school. Not for one child.

Instead, in a grave and gentle tone, Dumbledore insisted on an older magic. A powerful blood protection most had long forgotten, and Petunia, despite her estrangement from Lily was still blood.

With the Potters running out of time and options, it had been the only solution.

Harry could barely remember that day. He had been young, and frightened, and he hadn’t understood why at the time. He remembered clinging to his mother’s neck, confused and scared, as she handed him to a woman with a pinched mouth and cold eyes. He remembered James kneeling down, brushing back his black fringe, and saying something soft and hurried. 

With one last kiss on his forehead they were gone, disappearing with a pop of Apparition and a swirl of wind that didn’t feel like magic at all.

Days stretched into weeks, which quickly turned into months and then years. The Dursleys made it clear that Harry was a burden—a freak. If his parents hadn’t been paying them to look after him, he wouldn’t have made it past their front door. To them, he was something shameful, something to be hidden away in a cupboard and buried beneath oversized, threadbare clothes.

Magic was unnatural, and so was Harry.

So he lived as a ghost. Existing in a purgatory between the living and dead waiting for the two times a year he would get to see his parents. When Lily and James came to visit, the Dursleys would dress him in Dudley’s too-small clothes, comb his hair roughly, and hiss warnings in his ear not to cause any trouble. If he did, they said, his parents would never come back.

He never spoke a word.

As far as his parents were concerned, everything was fine. Their visits were all tea, smiles, and carefully posed photographs. They were the only magic in Harry’s life. He lived for those visits…even if they never lasted long. Usually just an afternoon in a Muggle café or a quiet park. He clung to every second, hoarding the memories like treasure.

Sometimes, when he was cold and hungry and lying curled on the floor of his cupboard, he’d imagine them storming into Privet Drive, wands drawn, to take him away for good.

It never happened.

Until one day, it did.

He was six years old and it was a cold, dreary January day in Little Whinging. Heavy grey clouds hung low in the sky, casting a shadow over the rows of identical, cookie-cutter houses below. Snow had fallen the day before, but instead of transforming the quiet neighborhood into a winter wonderland, it had turned everything into a slushy, muddy mess.

Aunt Petunia was in a mood.

She had yanked Harry out of his cupboard earlier than usual, gripping his ear with such force he was certain she’d tear it off. In her other hand, she clutched a mop and bucket. Her precious Duddykins had tracked mud into the house the previous evening, and Harry had failed to clean it properly.

By now, he was used to her long, shrill lectures about how ungrateful and rude he was. His mind had long since learned to tune them out.

That’s when he heard it.

The distinct pop of Apparition.

Standing in the middle of the kitchen, looking tired but happy, were James and Lily Potter. Petunia had gone so pale at the sight of them he would have thought she'd seen a ghost. 

Harry on the other hand was delighted. He dropped the mop without a second thought and raced into their waiting arms, grinning from ear to ear.

They had come unexpectedly, for his mother’s birthday. He hadn’t even known it was her birthday. He apologized for not getting her a gift. A small, choked sound escaped her lips as she smoothed down his rebellious hair and gently reassured him that he was the only gift she needed.

That was when he noticed her puffy red eyes. She sniffled and told her sister she was sorry for arriving without warning, but she had to see Harry. She simply couldn’t wait any longer.

Before Petunia could say or do anything, James scooped Harry up into his strong arms, and with a twist and a pop, they were gone.

They took him to their home in Godric’s Hollow, where a party was already in full swing. The air shimmered with traces of magic, like stardust clinging to the rafters. The scent of cinnamon, burning wood, and something sweet baking in the oven lingered in the air. Colorful banners floated overhead, flickering with enchantments that spelled out Happy Birthday, Lily! in glittering cursive.

Every room was filled with people—Order members, old friends, familiar faces Harry had only seen in photographs. Laughter echoed off the walls, and warmth radiated from the hearth. It was loud and chaotic and beautiful.

For the first time in his life, Harry felt like he belonged somewhere.

The party went well into the night, and Harry listened with wide eyes and an open heart to all the stories being told. Some were funny, like the ones about his dad and the Marauders pulling pranks at Hogwarts. Others were heroic, filled with daring escapes, secret missions, and fearless defiance in the face of darkness. To Harry, everyone in the room seemed larger than life. They were brave, brilliant, and good.

However, there was one story that rose above the rest. It etched into his memory and lived in his chest, glowing quietly like a hidden flame. It made everything he had endured feel like it had a purpose.

And that was the story of Regulus Black.

Sirius had waited until the fire was low and the room had quieted. The grown-ups still laughed in the kitchen, but the living room had emptied out, leaving Harry curled up on the rug near the hearth, his head resting on Lily’s lap and his eyes fluttering with sleep.

That was when Sirius began to speak.

His story came out slowly, like it had been buried for far too long. Sirius spoke of his younger brother, Regulus, the picture-perfect heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. He had been everything Sirius was not. Where Sirius was loud and impulsive, Regulus was quiet and controlled. Where Sirius rebelled, Regulus obeyed. He embodied everything their parents valued in a son, the very ideal of pure-blood tradition. Their pride reached its peak when, at just sixteen, Regulus took the Dark Mark, swearing himself to Voldemort’s service and cause.

Sirius had been disgusted. He disowned his brother that very day, writing him off as just another dark wizard, another putrid stain on the already rotting Black family name.

However, Regulus hadn’t been a lost cause.

Over time, he began to see the cracks in the ideology he’d once embraced. He started to understand that blood status; pure-blood, half-blood, or Muggle-born meant nothing in the face of the cruelty, fear, and hatred Voldemort and his followers spread.

That was when he discovered the Horcruxes. Voldemort’s twisted answer to immortality through the fracturing of his soul.

In a moment of either madness or incredible courage, Regulus Black stole one of those vile artifacts. An unassuming locket. A simple trinket that would ultimately end up costing him his life.

Sirius’s voice had begun to shake when he spoke, and a damp wetness formed in his eyes. He took a deep breath and continued.

Regulus had discovered the location of the locket. It was hidden deep within a cave, concealed behind a stone wall protected by blood wards. How he had come across this information, Sirius would never know. But the boy had taken Kreacher, the Blacks’ ancient house-elf, and ventured into the cave. Together, they crossed a vast black lake teeming with Inferi, until they reached a pedestal that held a simple stone basin filled with a potion designed to break whoever dared to drink it.

Regulus couldn’t bring himself to make Kreacher drink the potion. So, he drank it himself. Writhing in pain and dying from the poison burning through his body, he begged Kreacher to take the locket and destroy it.

But Kreacher couldn’t do it.

Despite the powerful magic that compelled a house-elf to obey its master’s commands, he could not leave his dear Master Regulus behind. With a strength and courage not often seen in his kind, Kreacher took the locket and Regulus both, and Apparated straight into Sirius’s kitchen—clinging to a futile hope that someone could still save the boy.

That was where Sirius found them.

Kreacher was shrieking in panic and pain, desperately pouring water from the faucet down Regulus’s throat, trying anything to ease his master’s suffering. Except Sirius saw the truth the moment he stepped into the room.

It was already too late.

Sirius cradled his dying brother in his arms as Regulus, weak and trembling, told him everything. He revealed the truth about the Horcruxes and how many the Dark Lord had created. He confessed that he had replaced the locket with a fake, a decoy. Voldemort would never know what had been taken. Not until it was too late.

This was their chance. The Order now had the knowledge to stop him, and Voldemort had no idea.

From his place near the hearth, Harry had watched Sirius’s expression shift into grief, his jaw tight and his eyes glassy. He didn’t cry, but his face held the look of someone who had been too late, who had heard a brother’s final words and carried them like a scar ever since.

The trio sat in silence for a long time after that. Sirius nursed a glass of golden liquid, and stared into the flames, While Lily hummed softly as she stroked Harry’s hair. It wasn’t long before he had fallen asleep against his mother’s side, wrapped in a borrowed cloak that smelled of cinnamon and ash.

In his heart, he dared to pray it was the beginning of something. That his parents wouldn’t take him back. That maybe, just maybe, they could be a family again.

But like so many of Harry’s wishes and prayers, this one fell on deaf ears. Bright and early the next morning, his parents gathered him up and brought him back to the Dursleys.

He didn’t go quietly.

He cried. Pleaded. Screamed. Promised he would be good, do chores, never ask for anything if they would just let him stay. His father knelt down beside him, pulled him into a tight hug, and whispered that they needed him to be brave. Brave like Regulus, and when the war was finally over, when it was won, they would be together again.

That had caught Harry’s attention, so he waited.

Years passed again. Time seemed to move at a snail’s pace, and the visits from his parents seemed to grow further and further apart.

Despite this, Harry never forgot that story.

He thought about it often; especially in the quiet moments, when the world seemed to forget he existed. Lying in his cupboard in the dark, his stomach aching with hunger, he would close his eyes and picture the cave and the black lake filled with dead things. He would imagine the boy who drank poison because he believed it was the only way to help.

Regulus had been alone. Overlooked. Believed to be something he wasn’t. Yet he still had chosen to do what was right.

That mattered to Harry.

Because most days, Harry felt invisible too. At the Dursleys’, he was nothing more than an inconvenience. At school, he was the quiet one in secondhand clothes, the boy with bruises he didn’t talk about. He had no magic, no wand, no way to fight back.

But he had that story.

In his heart, he carried it like armor. It was a secret fire burning in his chest that shielded him whenever Dudley shoved him into walls, when Aunt Petunia locked him in without supper, and even when Uncle Vernon shouted about freaks and slammed the door in his face. In those moments, Harry reminded himself that Regulus had done it. Even when no one believed in him. Even when it hurt.

If Regulus could do that, then Harry could survive this.

The year was 1990. Harry had just turned ten when it all changed. The war that had stolen everything from him… ended.

The Order had destroyed the last Horcrux, the long-lost diadem of Ravenclaw, at long last. The Dark Lord had defiled it at some point and both Dumbledore and the Order had spent years searching for it. Their efforts had stretched as far as the dark forests of Albania, where rumors claimed the artifact had last been seen.

In a cruel twist of irony, the diadem had been hidden under Dumbledore’s nose the entire time, within the walls of Hogwarts itself. It had been resting in a secret room on the seventh floor of the Astronomy Tower, in a room that only appeared when someone truly needed it. A precocious fourth-year Gryffindor had stumbled upon it by chance and pocketed the diadem simply because she thought it looked pretty.

The resulting chaos shook the very foundations of the school and Wizarding World.

What followed was the final battle. Wizarding Britain ended up tearing itself apart. Brother fought brother. Sisters turned their wands on one another. Entire families were erased from the earth, their names became lost to the ground they were buried in.

Then, in one of the most awe-inspiring displays of magic the world had ever seen, Albus Dumbledore summoned a storm of Fiendfyre so powerful it felt as though the gates of hell had opened. The infernal whirlwind twisted and screamed; a roaring column of fire shaped like beasts and demons. It engulfed Voldemort, burning through his flesh and tattered soul until nothing remained but ash, and for the first time in a decade, peace returned to the wizarding world.

The danger was over. 

Harry still remembers that day fondly.

It was early morning when the front door of Number Four Privet Drive slammed open, and his parents stepped over the threshold. Their tattered and dirty forms were a stark contrast to the early pristine house. They were bloody, bruised, and covered in soot. Their robes were torn, hair matted with sweat and ash, the scent of smoke and magic still clung to them like a second skin. They looked like they'd walked straight off the battlefield. 

Lily dropped to her knees the moment she saw Harry, her arms flung wide and trembling. James followed, scooping Harry up and spinning him high into the air despite the grime on his hands and the fresh gash on his cheek. He laughed, choked with tears, and declared to the world, ignoring the Dursley outraged cries at their sudden intrusion, that the war was over. The danger had passed.

They were a family again.

For Harry, it was the greatest moment of his young life. His bravery, his patience, his longing had finally paid off. After years of waiting, of hoping he was finally going home.

Except, freedom came with expectations, and like Regulus, Harry found himself forced to play a role.

When Harry arrived at Hogwarts, the son of war heroes Lily and James Potter, the expectation became the rule.

Everyone assumed that he was just like his father. He looked like James. He sounded like James. He carried the same fierce loyalty, the same natural charisma that made James Potter a legend. Teachers adored him. Classmates admired him. The world had already decided who he was meant to be.

He tried. He really tried.

Every year brought new dangers, and Harry met them all head-on: a conniving professor and a legendary stone, a sleeping basilisk and forgotten chamber, A trusted teacher transforming into a warewolf, and the brutal spotlight of a tournament he never entered. He founded a secret Defence club, stood up to corrupt authority, and fought to keep his friends safe; even when it meant breaking rules or putting himself in harm’s way.

By the time sixth year rolled around, something shifted. A single spell Harry had learned from a dark book left Draco Malfoy bleeding and unconscious. The aftermath nearly got Harry expelled, and it forced him to confront a truth that frightened him more than any basilisk or tournament ever had.

No matter how hard he tried to live up to it. No matter how often he told himself it was a good thing to be brave, to be loud, to be admired. He was not his father, he was not James, he in fact, didn’t know who he was.

So instead, he focused on his goal.

He wanted to be an Auror. He wanted to protect people. To matter.

However, there was one thing in his way.

Severus Snape.

Hogwarts’ resident Potions Master and professor of the exclusive seventh-year Advanced DADA class. A man who despised James Potter and, by extension, Harry. And if Harry wanted to be an Auror worth his salt, he had to get into that class…No matter what.

Chapter Text

"I still don’t get why we’re doing this, it’s our last summer break we should be outside!” Ron groused, hauling a giant backpack stuffed with books up the winding staircase of Harry’s house, Potter Cottage. "You hate him, he hates you, it’s the natural order of things, you know?”

"No, I don’t know," Harry shot back, hoisting his own heavy bag. “This class is essential. Snape’s curriculum is the closest thing to real field training Hogwarts has ever offered. I need to be in that class!”

"But he hates you."

"He hates my dad. Technically, I’ve never done anything to him…aside from crushing Slytherin at Quidditch."

"Don’t forget that one thing with Draco."

"Alright, and that one thing with Draco," Harry admitted, sighing. "How was I supposed to know the spell would do that to him? I honestly didn’t mean to hurt him."

"Mate, I hate to tell you this," Ron said, holding open Harry’s bedroom door and dropping his enormous bag in front of a frazzled Hermione, who was sorting books into increasingly unstable towers, "but you found that spell in the restricted section. Which you broke into, by the way. Of course, it was going to do something messed up. I don’t see how you’re going to bounce back from that and convince Snape to let you into his little Dark Arts club."

"You’re truly lucky Professor Snape was there to save Malfoy," Hermione chimed in from behind a towering stack of books on Shield Charms. "He could have been seriously hurt and you would have definitely been expelled."

Harry’s expression fell, his stomach twisting. He had really messed up last year.

Malfoy had pushed him too far the week just before Christmas break. The prat had been hexing Harry with Jelly-Leg Jinxes in the hallways, making him fall flat on his back in front of everyone. He’d transfigured all of Harry’s Christmas chocolates into dung and led the Slytherin table in a crude carol about "Potty Potter" sucking his thumb and crying to his dad because Father Christmas had put him on the naughty list.

Harry could take childish pranks. He’d learned to ignore them.

Unfortunately, it went too far when Malfoy started spreading rumors. Ugly ones, the hallways were filled with whispers that Harry had been caught snogging a Ravenclaw boy. 

The thing was Harry thought he and Michael Corner had been so discreet. It wasn’t a full-on snog, just a quick kiss, a peck really, under one of those blasted Weasley Wizarding Mistletoes that had been appearing like garden gnomes in spring. The diabolical creation froze unsuspecting victims in place until they gave in and puckered up. It had been awkward and both boys swore not to speak of it to anyone. Michael because he was dating Ginny and Harry..well Harry had kissed a few girls and it had never felt right. While their kiss was awkward Harry didn’t hate it, and that scared him. He couldn’t let that get back to his parents especially his dad.

So, in a moment of blind rage, Harry challenged Malfoy to a duel outside the boys' bathroom.

It was stupid. So stupid.

Before Draco even had a chance to draw his wand. Harry cast a spell he found in a dark book from the restricted section. He only meant to scare him, but typical of his usual luck he almost killed him.

Harry swallowed hard as the memory returned, vivid and sickening, he could still see it, the way the corridor seemed to freeze in time, the spell escaping his lips faster than thought. Sectumora!

A glowing arc of silver energy sliced through the air and struck Draco, causing a large, deep laceration to appear as if inflicted by an invisible blade. Then came the crimson stain, blooming across Draco’s crisp green robes, soaking through the Slytherin crest. Blood had poured from the deep gash in his chest, slick and shocking, spilling onto the cold stone floor in heavy, wet drops. The air was thick with the metallic tang of it.

Draco’s grey eyes had widened with something Harry had never seen in them before. Not anger. Not contempt. But terror. Raw, unfiltered shock and fear. His mouth had opened, but no words came out only a strangled gasp.

Harry could do nothing but stare in horror, frozen, his wand trembling in his hand. The gravity of what he’d done hit him like a Bludger to the chest. He hadn’t meant, he hadn’t known. His intention had been to stop Draco’s bullying. He wanted to scare him but this, this was something else entirely. This was violence. He had gone too far.

Harry desperately screamed for someone, anyone, to help. The sound echoed off the stone walls, but it felt distant, muffled by the roaring in his ears and the crushing weight of guilt already descending upon him like a shroud.

Hermione was right.

It had been sheer, stupid luck that Snape had found them.

Snape’s pale face had somehow gone even whiter when he rounded the corner and saw the scene. He shoved Harry aside without hesitation and immediately began casting counter-curses over Draco’s body. He was sharp, precise, utterly in control, barking orders at the gathering crowd to fetch Madam Pomfrey, stabilizing Malfoy while Harry stood frozen, the world tilting under his feet and bright spots dotting his vision.

Then something unexpected happened.

Snape didn’t scream at him. He didn’t even sneer. Instead, he turned to a nearby second-year Slytherin and ordered a Calming Draught for Harry. Then he knelt beside him and pressed the vial into his hands with a firm grip on his shoulder.

He wasn’t gentle, but he stayed.

It was in that moment, something shifted in Harry. He didn’t hate Snape, not anymore. Not after seeing him work, seeing how calm and capable he was under pressure. If Harry somehow wasn’t expelled, he knew one thing. He wanted to learn Defense from Professor Snape. There was no one else like him.

But that brief moment of calm didn’t last.

Later, in the infirmary, Snape had exploded on everyone. Even Lucius Malfoy, who had every right to tear Harry and his parents apart seemed taken aback.

He stormed in, pale with fury, demanding Harry’s immediate expulsion and possibly a stint in Azkaban. He accused Dumbledore of favoritism, declared Harry a reckless bully just like his father, and at the climax of a truly impressive tirade, nearly got into a fistfight with James Potter himself. James, naturally, was more than ready to throw hands. It took the combined might of Lucius, Lily and Dumbledore to drag them apart.

So no…Harry didn’t hate Snape anymore.

But Snape? He definitely still hated Harry.

Harry’s attention was brought back to a still frazzled Hermione. Her brown hair was almost alive in its waves as she sorted the last few books into her frightening towers of knowledge. “I know I messed up.” Harry mumbled, “there’s no excuse…but I have to get in that class.”

“Hence the studying!” Hermione beamed

“Hence the studying.” Harry chuckled at his friend’s enthusiasm.

“Ughh, the both of you are nuts.” Ron leaned over and kissed the top of Hermione’s head. “Summer is almost over and I guess we’re all going to be stuck here instead of enjoying the last bits of freedom. Harry, you should just ask your dad to get you in that class if it means so much!”

“Absolutely not Ronald!” Hermione admonished, “Harry has to do this by himself. If he doesn’t Professor Snape will not respect him and that class will be beyond miserable”

“She’s right Ron, this is something I have to do by myself. I would think you would be interested in it too.”

“Me mate? Naaah man, can’t stand the greasy git. Besides I’m pants at Potions no way Snape would invite me. I still don’t know how you scored that O in your O.W.L.S. Figures you would have to be amazing at both to get in.”

“Mum helped me a lot,” Harry admitted. Lily had been a godsend. As soon as he’d mentioned how crucial his Potions score would be for his career path, she’d snapped into academic mode, dedicating hours every evening to drilling ingredients, theory, and brewing steps into him with renewed passion. Her love for the subject seemed to reignite in the process.

“Even Severus can’t criticize you now!” she’d declared triumphantly after Harry brewed a flawless Draught of Living Death over Easter break in fifth year.

And that had been… weird. Severus. Professor Snape’s first name. Harry had known, of course, James’s many rants about the “greasy, Death Eater–sympathizing git” made it clear they’d been classmates. But there’d been something about the way his mum said it, something too familiar, that gave him pause.

“Fine,” Ron sighed, clearly resigning himself to the inevitable. “But you are depriving me of seeing Hermione in a swimsuit for the rest of the summer. You’re a bad friend.”Hermione swatted his arm with an affronted huff. “Let’s get started then,” Ron said, moving purposefully toward the towering stack of books. “Tell me everything about Operation: Impress the Dungeon Bat.”

Her triumphant grin bordered on manic. “Nice name but I’m calling this Strategic Academic Rehabilitation! A full-scale, no-holds-barred campaign to prove that Harry Potter is not the impulsive disaster Professor Snape thinks he is.”

“Hey!”

“No offense,” she said sweetly, Harry noted that offense had, in fact, been taken, “but Ron’s right. It’s going to take serious work to get into that class on merit. We have to leave him no logical reason to turn you away. First step, brushing up on as much defense theory as humanly possible.”

“Oh, good call, ’Moine!” Ron jumped in. “Snape’s a total nutter for theory. Always has us writing pages and pages of that rubbish.” He began clearing a space on the floor so the three of them could sit down together.

“And since you can’t use magic until next week,” Hermione continued, rolling out a length of parchment and smoothing it with her wand, “we’ll cram as much theory into your head as possible first.”

They settled onto the floor, surrounded by an intimidating fortress of books. Hermione began sketching out a study timetable with the zeal of a battle strategist.

The plan was brutal.

Three days of twelve-hour study blocks, four hours each on shield charms, deflection spells, and detection spells, with breaks in between. After that, three more days were dedicated to attack spells, trap spells, and Occlumency. The final day would be an assessment to see what Harry had retained.

“Bloody hell,” Ron muttered, going pale. “She must have been fantasizing about this since first year. I haven’t seen her this giddy… well, ever. You owe me big time, mate.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Harry sighed. This was going to be a lot of work. He stared at the timetable, silently begging whatever cosmic force might be listening to let this actually pay off.

“What are the other stages?”

Hermione’s eyes gleamed.

“Glad you asked! Stage two begins July 31st, your birthday. You’ll be of age and allowed to perform magic. That’s when we start practical application. Ron, you’ll be helping with that.”

“Right, Harry needs someone good to duel with,” Ron nodded.

“More like on,” Hermione muttered under her breath. “Finally, stage three, you’re going to write him a letter. A sincere apology.”

Ron snorted. “Better start with, ‘Dear Professor Snape, I’m terribly sorry for nearly committing manslaughter…’”

“Actually,” Hermione said with an amused smirk at her boyfriend's antics, “Harry will be starting with something a bit more subtle.”

She pulled a fresh piece of parchment toward her and tapped it with her wand, smoothing the creases before handing it to him. 

“You’re going to write respectfully, humbly, and with a clear plan of how you’ve improved since last year. Acknowledge your mistake. Take responsibility. Then show him why you’re ready. And no jokes, Harry.” Her hand reached for his, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Take your time. Really say what you mean. We know you feel awful about what happened. We know it was a mistake. I think… Professor Snape might understand second chances more than most. If you’re sincere, he might give you one.”

“Thanks, Hermione.” Harry swallowed the rock forming in his throat and gave her hand a return squeeze before letting go. She was right. She was always right about these things. But it didn’t make it any easier.

He wasn’t good at feelings. He preferred to just do something and keep moving. Sitting with feelings meant thinking about them, and thinking meant—

“If you can give it to him in person once the term starts, do that. If not, give it to Dumbledore to pass along.”

“So much for doing it myself.”

“You are doing it yourself,” Hermione said firmly. “All of this will be your hard work. In this case, think of Dumbledore as a tool, not a person. Snape can be… a bit unfair.”

“Bit?” Ron snorted. “That’s an understatement. But I’ve got to hand it to you, Hermione. This is one heck of a plan. Even if Harry doesn’t get in, we’ll be leagues ahead of the other seventh years in Defense. He’ll be kicking himself for not taking you.”

Ron offered a grin that Harry found unexpectedly comforting.

The trio hunkered down and began the monumental task of cramming every useful word from every book in Potter Cottage into Harry’s head.

A few hours in, there was a soft knock at the dark cherry wood door.

“Can I come in?” came James Potter’s voice through the door, slightly muffled, but unmistakably casual.

Harry’s spine went rigid, and he looked at Ron and Hermione with wide eyes, silently begging them to hide as much evidence as possible. He would prefer to avoid any confrontations if he could.

Hermione was already gathering the open books into a neat stack with lightning speed, her wand subtly vanishing the parchment that had “Operation Impress the Dungeon Bat” scribbled across the top in bold, sparkly pink and blue ink, courtesy of a bored Ron.

“Yeah, sure,” Harry called, trying to sound normal, maybe even cheerful, like they hadn’t been plotting a full-scale academic redemption arc designed specifically to win over the one man James loathed.

“Merlin’s beard, this is where the library went!” James laughed as he looked around the exploded room.

“Only the Defense section,” Harry countered, getting up to hug his dad. “How was work? Catch any bad guys?” 

James was still dressed in his bright red Auror robes. His wild black hair was sticking up at odd angles accenting his thick brows and handsome but still youthful face. His mouth wore a cocky, arrogant smile that made women, especially his mother, swoon. Harry often wondered how he could smile so easily like that. James always seemed so carefree.

“No bad guys today. It was proper boring,” James said with a grin. “Which is more than I can say for you.” His hazel eyes swept over the trio with growing suspicion. “What’s all this about?”

“Well, you see, sir—” Hermione began primly, a believably logical explanation already on the tip of her tongue.

“Ah, nice try, Hermione. I asked Harry, not you. You’ve tricked me too many times,” James said, and Hermione’s ears turned bright scarlet. “Spill the beans, my boy. What is all of this?”

“We’re just brushing up on some reading to prepare for N.E.W.T.s,” Harry said, the explanation sounding weak even to his own ears.

“N.E.W.T.s?” James’s eyebrows shot into his hair. “Who are you, and what have you done with my son? You’ve never ‘prepared’ for anything in your life unless it involved a broomstick.”

“Maybe I’m turning over a new leaf?” And that, actually, was the truth. He really wanted to be better. To do better.

Look son…I’ve never pushed you about school. Not because I don’t care, but it’s because you’re bloody talented, you have magic coming out of your ears! But this? Studying like some bookworm? You’re wasting your time. Your mates are out there making memories, and you’re stuck with your nose buried in a book. Before you know it you’ll be patrolling Knockturn Alley with me wishing for summer break.”

Harry could feel frustration bubbling up at his father’s words, like all of this was so easy. He wanted to say that he didn’t just want to be patrolling side streets in Knockturn Alley. He wanted to be hunting real, dangerous dark witches and wizards. He wanted to hit the ground running. Relying on his natural gifts wasn’t good enough anymore.

“Is that a book on Occlumency?” James asked suddenly, picking up a rather old and worn volume. Its dark, frayed leather cover was delicately decorated in gold ink with an image of a brain and eyes. “Why would you need…Oh, don’t tell me this is about Snivellus! You shouldn’t have to prove anything to that greasy, Death Eater–loving, ugly, snaggle-toothed—”

“Dad!” Harry interrupted before James could spiral into one of his infamous Snape-related rants. “This isn’t about him. It’s about me. I need to prove to myself that I can do this. That I deserve a place in the Advanced Defense class.”

“You are already top of your year in Defense,” James said, frustration creeping in. “You don’t need him.”

“I do,” Harry insisted. “After what happened with Draco—”

James’s face twisted. “You’re not seriously still beating yourself up over that? It’s not like you cursed him on purpose. Kid’s a twat just like his dad, if he didn’t want to get hit, He shouldn’t have pushed you.”

Ron and Hermione looked like they wanted to vanish.

“It wasn’t just some stupid school duel,” Harry snapped, louder than he meant to. “I almost killed him, Dad. And Snape, he handled it. He saved Draco. I didn’t even know how to stop the bleeding!”

James’s frown deepened. He looked at Hermione, then Ron, who both nodded silently.

“Fine,” James sighed. “Hermione, let me see the game plan.”

“P-Plan?” she stuttered. Harry could tell she was still a bit timid after being called out earlier.

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about. Let’s see it. How can I help?”

Hermione quickly handed over the study timetables. James’s lips quirked up at Ron’s colorful title.

“This is quite impressive. How about the day after your birthday, Sirius and I will help you and Ron with dueling?”

“Yes, that would be brilliant!” Ron cheered. “Two fully trained Aurors showing us the ropes? I think even Snape would let me into that class after that!”

James ruffled Harry’s hair and headed to the door. “Then it’s settled.”

He paused just before leaving.

“Just promise me you won’t let him get in your head. Especially if it doesn’t work out. You are brilliant, no matter what he says.”

“Promise.” Harry smiled as his dad left the three to their study session.

Harry felt for the first time since he’d sent Malfoy to the infirmary like he was finally on the right path.

Chapter Text

For the next week, the trio devoured and crammed every defence, shielding, and warding book into Harry’s head until he thought it might pop.

They lived and breathed studying. Sleep was for the weak, and whenever Harry shut his eyes, all he could see were black words against white pages.

By far, Occlumency had been the hardest to wrap his head around. It didn’t help that none of them were versed in the subject, so practicing was out of the question. Rumor had it Snape was beyond proficient at it, some even said he was better than Dumbledore or the Dark Lord. Harry had a hard time believing that. He just hoped Snape wasn’t planning to use it against him anytime soon.

Overall, he felt like he grasped the theory better than he ever had before. Hermione passed out practice tests, and he found himself flying through the pages. It all just seemed to click into place. It made sense. He felt like he could hold his own if, and when, Snape tested him.

Before he knew it, it was the night before his seventeenth birthday. Harry had chosen to stay up late, his eyes glued to the old grandfather clock in the sitting room, waiting impatiently for midnight. It was his own private tradition, one he’d created for himself when he was young and living with the Dursleys.

Prior to the war ending, his birthday was met with very little fanfare. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon could hardly be bothered to remember the day, let alone make him, the freakish troublemaker they were forced to take in, feel special. There were no gifts, no kind words, no sign that the day held any meaning. If he was lucky, they would remember to pass on the birthday card his parents had sent each year. Usually late. Sometimes weeks late.

When that happened, Harry had feared the worst, that his parents had finally forgotten him, or worse, had been killed while fighting Voldemort and his Death Eaters.

So every year, Harry collected all the birthday cards his parents had sent while he lived at Privet Drive and sat alone, watching the clock tick slowly to midnight, counting another year of survival.

He wondered what this year would bring. His time with the Dursleys was long past, and every year since had been filled with chaotic adventures and danger.

Harry fanned out the enchanted birthday cards in front of him. Their dazzling array of colours shimmered and swirled together as the hand on the clock finally struck midnight. He closed his green eyes and made a silent wish.

He didn’t know exactly what he wanted to be different this year, but he knew one thing for certain.

He just wanted to get through it without dragons, basilisks, or anyone vanishing his bones.“Harry, what are you doing up?” Lily asked softly.

At some point, she must have come down for a glass of water. Her fiery red hair was tied loosely at the nape of her neck, revealing her pretty, delicate features. Sleep still lingered in her bright green eyes.

“Just waiting for my birthday,” Harry replied.

Lily glanced at the clock, then back at him, a sleepy smile forming on her lips.

“Happy birthday, my son,” she murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. “Now, off to bed. We’ve got a very busy day tomorrow.”

As she turned to go, her eyes landed on the stack of birthday cards on the coffee table. Her smile deepened, her voice lifting with warm surprise.

“You kept these?”

That small note of joy in her tone sent a rush of warmth through Harry’s chest. She picked one up carefully and opened it. With a soft pop, tiny magical fireworks burst from the card, and a cheerful voice proudly announced: “Happy seventh birthday, Harry James Potter!”

“I can’t believe you still have these after all this time,” Lily said, flipping the card over. “And they’re in such good condition, too.”

She sifted through each card, inspecting them for bent corners or fading ink.

“Too bad you didn’t keep the toys we sent you in this good of condition,” she added with a teasing smile as she handed the neatly stacked cards back to him.

Harry’s smile faltered. He took the cards without a word, a quiet frown tugging at his mouth. Toys? He didn’t remember getting any toys, not ever. Not even for his birthday. A suspicion crept into his mind, bitter and familiar. Aunt Petunia. Of course. He could picture her now, tossing the parcels straight in the bin, inventing some story later about Harry breaking them because he was careless and ungrateful.

That cold, twisting feeling began to stir in his chest again. But there was no point in correcting Lily now. It wouldn’t change the past.

“Now, off to bed,” she repeated gently.

“Yes, Mum.”

Harry turned and made his way up the stairs, the bundle of cards clutched in his hands. Tomorrow would be a busy day indeed.

*****

The next morning Harry awoke to the smell of sizzling sausages and freshly baked scones drifting up the staircase. Sunlight filtered through the pale curtains in golden streaks, warming his face and tickling his nose. 

He blinked against the brightness and stretched, smiling as he heard the unmistakable sound of Sirius's booming laugh coming from downstairs. There was a flurry of movement in the hall, and then—

BANG! Bang! BANG!

“Wake up sleepy head! You’re officially an adult now, that means no more lying in!” Lily bellowed behind his door.

Harry threw his pillow at the closed door. “Five more minutes!”

“Nope!” Another female voice, Molly Weasley, chirped out from behind the door. “Today is your special day and we have loads planned for you. Everyone is waiting, come on down!”

He chuckled to himself and dragged on a dark grey T-shirt and pair of blue jeans. Slipping on the pair of dragon hide slippers his dad gifted him last year Harry opened the door and the smell of food intensified.

The kitchen at Potter Cottage had been transformed into a festive whirlwind of reds and golds, floating candles, confetti that hovered in the air to spell out “Happy Birthday, Harry!”, and a ceiling charm that reflected the sunny blue sky.

Happy Birthday!”

A chorus of voices rang out as Harry stepped into the room.

He blinked, startled, as a mix of familiar faces came into view, his parents' longtime friends, members of the Order of the Phoenix, and his closest schoolmates. Remus Lupin, Tonks, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Hermione, Neville and Luna, Dean and Seamus, and the entire Weasley clan from Arthur to Ginny. And of course, Sirius, who was bounding over to pull him into a back-breaking hug.

“Look at you! Seventeen already! Merlin, I feel ancient,” Sirius groaned, tossing his wavy black locks dramatically, his stormy grey eyes twinkling with laughter.

“Please, you still act like a teenager.”

Harry froze at the simpering voice. No. No way.

Peter Pettigrew.

Had his parents seriously invited Peter the perv to his birthday party?

Harry barely resisted the urge to recoil. Sure, the man was one of James’s oldest friends, but Harry had never been able to stand him. He was weird. Smelled like mouse droppings. He had these beady, watery blue eyes that seem to linger for too long, and a nasty habit of getting a little too close.

“Where’s my hug, Harry?” Peter cooed, already inching forward.

Harry’s brain scrambled for an escape.

“Oi! Mate! Come here a second!” Ron’s voice called out from across the room, merciful and divine.

“Oh, sorry, Peter,” Harry said quickly, patting the rat-like man on the shoulder and expertly dodging the approaching hug. “Sounds like I’m needed for... birthday stuff. We’ll catch up later, yeah?”

“Of course, Harry. Of course.”

Harry was pretty sure the man sniffed him as he darted away toward the breakfast table, where Ron and Professor Lupin sat behind a mountainous pile of bacon and eggs.

“Thanks, I owe you one,” Harry muttered as he squeezed between the two of them and began piling food onto his plate.

“Technically,” Ron said through a mouthful of egg, “you owe me two.”

“Boys, be nice,” Remus chided, his own plate filled with bacon so rare it may have still been breathing. “Peter’s harmless. Just... a little awkward. Lonely.”

Harry scoffed. “Lonely? Please. You and Sirius are bachelors, but I don’t see you sniffing people and getting handsy.”

Remus cleared his throat. “Well, actually...” The awkward pause was immediate.

“No.” Harry stared at him, mock horror spreading across his face. “Don’t tell me you’re doing it too! I thought you were the normal one!”

“Harry—”

“What would the Prophet say?”

“Harry.”

“Scandal at Hogwarts: Respected Professor Secretly Creepy —”

“Harry!” Remus barked out a laugh, his cheeks tinged pink. “I’m talking about being a bachelor… not... that.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Tonks and I, we’re expecting. She’s pregnant.”

A beat of stunned silence.

Then Harry and Ron erupted into cheers, clapping Remus on the back with enough enthusiasm to make his fork clatter onto the table.

“Congratulations, Professor!” Harry grinned. “Hermione knew there was something going on. She’s going to be insufferable when she finds out.”

“Yeah,” Ron added, already reaching for a second helping of scrambled eggs. “So where are you two going to live? Can’t imagine Hogwarts is baby-friendly.”

Remus hesitated. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m not returning next term.”

“What?” Both Ron and Harry stopped eating.

Remus Lupin, not teaching? It didn’t make sense. He’d been the best Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher Harry had ever had.

Lupin had first taught him in third year. He had been kind, brilliant, and passionate about the subject, and he cared about his students. It had been just their luck that everything had come crashing down when Harry and his friends followed him under the Whomping Willow and discovered his secret, Remus Lupin was a werewolf. Something his father failed to mention to him.

Harry remembered how terrifying that night had been. How close they’d all come to real danger.

He also remembered that Professor Snape had been the one to save them. Again. It seemed like he saved Harry a lot.

After the incident, Lupin had resigned, too afraid he might one day hurt a student. From there, a string of disasters held the post. After Remus, there was Mad Eye who only agreed to one year of teaching so he could supervise the Tri-Wizard tournament. He was an ex-Auror, and while he knew his stuff, he was far too unpredictable and paranoid to make a good teacher. Then there was Dolores Umbridge. She was awful, Harry could still feel the scars he hid on the back of his hand burn at the thought of her, “I must not tell lies” she had made his life miserable fifth year. 

Professor Lupin had thankfully come back his sixth year. Dumbledore hadn’t been able to convince anyone else to fill the role and all but begged Lupin to come back. That year had been the best Defence class he’d ever had. No drama, no curses, no sabotage. Just proper teaching, and now he was leaving, again.

“You can’t,” Harry said quietly. “Who’s going to teach us?”

"Well, it seems Albus was able to secure a stand-in from the Ministry," Remus said, sipping his tea. "He’s supposed to be quite competent."

Harry reeled. The last Ministry-approved Defence teacher had been Umbridge, and competent was not the first thing that came to mind.

Remus noticed the look on his face and chuckled dryly. "I know what you're thinking. But don't worry, this won't be another Dolores situation. Barty Crouch Jr. may be young, but he comes from a well-respected family. He earned all twelve O.W.L.s, performed exceptionally on his N.E.W.T.s, and his father, well, you know his reputation."

"Yeah, I’ve heard of him," Ron piped up. "Dad says Barty Crouch Sr. went on a warpath after You-Know-Who fell. Threw anyone with even a whiff of Death Eater leanings into Azkaban. Didn’t always bother with trials either. If you had a Dark Mark, that was enough.”

"That’s... brutal," Harry gasped.

Remus gave Ron a pointed look before responding. "Indeed. But Professor Crouch is not his father and I assure you, he will leave the sentencing out of his classroom.”

Ron shrugged and reached for another scone. "Well, even if he is rubbish, you’ve still got Snape’s class.”

Remus’s brows pulled together in concern. "Snape? You're planning to apply for the Advanced Defence class?"

"Yes. Is that a problem?" Harry's voice turned defensive, sharper than he'd meant. He was tired of people assuming what he could or couldn’t handle.

Remus chose his next words carefully. "It's just... after last year, I thought you'd want to keep your distance from him outside of Potions. He’s brilliant, no doubt, but not exactly the most impartial judge when it comes to you."

"I know that already," Harry snapped, frustration spilling over. “I have a lot to make up for, and a long way to go to get in that class, but I really think I can do it.”

Remus leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Well, if you’re sure... let me give you a little tip about our dear Potions Master.” His tone turned conspiratorial. “He doesn’t advertise it, but he picks candidates for the class during the first week of term.”

“The first week? Why doesn’t he do it at the end of the previous year?” Harry asked.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Lupin admitted. “When I asked him the first time I taught, he said Dumbledore wasn’t exactly certain how You-Know-Who’s curse on the position worked — whether it affected all Defence posts or if it had something to do with the role itself and its duration. Something always seems to happen to the Defence teachers at the end of the year. So, they made the Advanced course one week shorter to avoid it being considered a full term.”

He gave a small shrug.

“Personally, I think Snape just has too much on his plate, teaching both Potions and Advanced Defence, and he prefers the standard Defence professor to handle all the first-week school prep.”

“So he’s lazy?” Ron snickered.

“Possibly,” Remus said with a faint smile. “Either way, if your marks are high enough, and yours are, you’re already on his radar. Now you just have to convince him.”

Harry grinned. "Oh, I’m working on it."

With that, he launched into a full explanation of Operation: Impress the Dungeon Bat, the revised essays, the independent reading, the late nights, the letter. By the end, Remus looked genuinely impressed.

"That’s brilliant, Harry.”

"Exactly!" Harry said, practically vibrating with excitement. “After today we’ll begin practical practice. Snape won’t know what hit him!”

The rest of the morning passed in a cheerful blur, laughter echoing off the kitchen walls, eggs disappearing off plates, and several painfully off-key renditions of “Happy Birthday.” Presents had begun to pile up beside Harry, forming a small mountain of magically wrapped boxes. Some belched glitter when touched, others trembled ominously, and one emitted a low growl when Sirius attempted to move it. 

Harry reached for the topmost box, but Lily’s gentle hand caught his wrist.

“Not yet,” she said with a smile. “Presents wait until everyone’s here.”

That would’ve been fine if “everyone” hadn’t been so strangely difficult to track down.

Peter, of all people, had vanished sometime after breakfast was served. At first, no one seemed especially concerned, he had a habit of drifting off unnoticed, but as the minutes stretched into nearly an hour, even Remus frowned. Sirius offered to look for him and returned ten minutes later with an awkward-looking Pettigrew in tow.

“Found him!” Sirius announced with a dramatic flourish, pushing the short, squat man forward.

“S-s-s-sorry, Harry,” Peter stammered, wiping his sweaty face with one of Lily’s decorative hand towels and brushing brown flecks off his robes. “I went back for some more cake and lost track of time.”

Harry tried not to feel impatient as the man continued to mumble apologies and excuses, but the anticipation buzzed in his fingers. The unopened presents beside him seemed to rustle knowingly.

“It’s alright, Peter,” James interrupted. “You’re here now, and Harry can finally open his gifts before he explodes.” With a glance at Lily and a quiet smile, James reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, square box wrapped in forest green velvet. He placed it gently into Harry’s hand.

“This is for you,” James said, his voice soft and sure. “It belonged to me, my father, and his father before him.”

Harry looked down and slowly unwrapped the box, revealing an old but beautifully crafted watch. The face shimmered with faint runes, and instead of numbers, it had planets that moved gently in a slow orbit. The ticking sound was steady and hypnotic.

“It’s customary,” Lily added, her soft voice catching, “for wizards to receive a watch when they come of age. It’s a symbol of time, responsibility, and all the life you have ahead of you.” Harry swallowed the lump rising in his throat.

“I… I don’t know what to say.”

James smiled, affectionately clasping Harry’s shoulder. “You don’t have to say anything. It’s yours now. You’re seventeen, you’ve got your whole life ahead of you. You’ve been strong, stronger than most kids when it mattered, and your potential is limitless.” He smiled cryptically. “This watch is special. Every Potter man who has inherited it has to figure out it’s magic on their own, but I promise it’s worth it, and if you take care of this watch it’ll take care of you.”

Harry threw his arms around them both, clutching the box tightly in his hand.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “I’ll take care of it. I promise.”

As the afternoon light spilled through the windows, the party transitioned to the back garden. Tables had been transfigured into game boards, and soft music played from a wireless perched  atop a stack of butterbeer crates. Laughter once again floated through the air.

Harry was just about to challenge Dean and Seamus to a round of exploding snap when he felt it. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

He turned, searching for the source of his unease, but everyone seemed fine. Happy.

Maybe you’re just jumpy. Still wound up from all that training, he told himself.

Still, his grip tightened on the new watch at his wrist. The planets on its face started spinning faster in orbit, as if aware of the sudden tightness in his chest.

Everything is fine.

Then a sharp crack split the air.

A jagged streak of dark green light came hurtling through the air, too fast to dodge.

“Harry, down!” someone shouted, James, maybe.

It was too late. The spell struck him square in the chest.

Everything went black.

He hit the ground hard, ears ringing, body numb.

Another spell ripped through the sky, this one intercepted by a quick flick of Tonks’s wand. A flash of blue collided midair with a red curse, exploding in a shower of sparks above the garden. Panic erupted. Guests dove for cover. Sirius and Remus had drawn their wands and were barking orders. James and Kingsley were sprinting toward the edge of the wards, wands raised and searching.

Harry gasped as his vision returned in a disorienting blur. He couldn’t move, but he could feel. His chest ached, like he had fallen from his broom from a great height. No blood. No burns. Except the blunt force trauma that had hit him had been powerful. His chest felt like it was caving in and he could only manage shallow breaths while his vision darkened.

He blinked up weakly to find Lily kneeling beside him, casting diagnostic spells with the swift efficiency of a seasoned St. Mungo’s Healer. Her expression was calm, but her eyes betrayed her fear. Harry had tried to assure his mother he was alright, though his voice sounded distant and distorted to his own ears.

“You were hit,” Lily said tersely, her wand glowing as it moved over his chest. “Some kind of cursed impact hex. Not lethal.”

“Who?” Harry rasped, sitting up despite Lily’s protests.

“We don’t know,” the red haired witch admitted worriedly her voice shaking as her composure began to crack. Her green eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “They were gone by the time Kingsley and your father reached the wards.”

Ron and Hermione were at his side within seconds. Ron helped ease him upright while Hermione assisted Lily in casting additional spells. Around them, pale faces stared in shock. The festive atmosphere had vanished, swallowed by the realization that there was someone bold enough to crash a party full of Aurors and Order members just to attack one of their children.

As his body gave out and darkness closed in again, Harry’s last thoughts were fragmented. 

Draco’s grey eyes widen in terror. 

Lily’s red hair turned into the blood staining the stone floor outside the boy’s laboratory.

 Harry could feel a large firm grip on his shoulder as a deep dark voice rumbled through a firm chest.

Then…Nothing.

Chapter Text

It had been an exceptionally pleasant day, and Severus Snape had been in an unusually good mood, so of course, it was only a matter of time before it all went to shite. Why should he expect even a moment of peace during summer break?

He’d finished his lesson plans for the upcoming year a week early and was finally enjoying the rare silence of Spinner’s End before diving into replenishing Madam Pomfrey’s stock of medicinal potions. He’d allowed himself the luxury of sleeping in, followed by a trip to his favorite local café for a strong black coffee and a toasted bagel. Upon returning, he’d settled into his worn garden chair, ready to indulge in the latest issue of Potions Weekly.

According to the front page, Master Douglas Negal claimed to have made a revolutionary discovery involving the use of Flobberworms in Wolfsbane Potion. Severus had been looking forward to tearing it apart. Negal was a dolt, a pompous academic who loved drawing grand conclusions from half-baked research. He doubted the man had even tested his so-called improvements on a real werewolf.

Severus, on the other hand, had Lupin. While the threadbare, soft-spoken charlatan was a constant reminder of past mistakes and bitter memories, Lupin was, he admitted grudgingly, a passable test subject. From what he had observed, Flobberworms did absolutely nothing, Negal was mad for suggesting otherwise and he was very much looking forward to giving him a very rude awakening.

It was just after Severus pulled out his first quill and started annotating the margins furiously when the Headmaster’s call came through the small outdoor fire pit. Albus’s face flickered in sickly green flames as he summoned him back to the castle.

On his holiday.

Because of Harry bloody Potter.

The boy was a menace, completely incapable of staying out of trouble, even on break. And after last year’s incident with Draco, Severus was beginning to believe that Potter might actually be worse than his father.

He grabbed a handful of floo powder and tossed it into his fire pit. The flames danced a sickly green and he stepped inside. He felt the familiar twirl of the network pulling him through the different channels until he emerge in the Headaster’s fireplace and he stepped into the office with practiced ease, brushing soot from his robes and taking in the all-too-familiar surroundings.

The room was alive with the soft hum of whirling chrome and crystal gadgets that cluttered nearly every surface, their steady ticking and clicking a strange kind of music. Fawkes was dozing peacefully on his perch clearly not interested in whatever drama was about to unfold.

He wasn’t surprised to see James and Lily Potter seated in the high-backed chairs in front of Dumbledore’s desk. What did surprise him, however, was Harry, sitting between them.

The very image of James, Harry’s riotous black hair was even messier than usual. His skin, usually pale, had picked up a golden tan from the summer sun, yet he seemed to shrink in on himself at the sight of the dark man. Severus’s eyes narrowed, taking in the boy’s smaller frame. He looked sore, perhaps bruised, and his famously defiant green eyes, refused to meet his.

“You called, Albus?” he drawled, making no attempt to hide the irritation in his voice.

“Ah, yes, Severus,” Dumbledore replied warmly, his blue eyes crinkling with that maddening twinkle. “Thank you for coming so quickly. I realize this is your week off, but the matter is rather urgent.” He gestured toward the Potters.

James’s face was pinched into what Severus could only describe as a look of chronic constipation. He was almost impressed that Potter was holding back whatever juvenile insult had to be dancing on the tip of his tongue.

Civility. How refreshing. The Dark Lord must have risen again.

Lily, by contrast, was as kind as ever. Her lightly freckled face looked drawn, her expression weary and strained with worry. She smiled softly at him, a gesture that nearly undid him. Her eyes, those familiar green eyes he had once adored, softened when they met his.

It was almost enough to make him forget the reason he’d been summoned.

Almost.

He was deeply, bitterly frustrated that the second real chance he’d had to speak with her since their falling-out fifth year, since his own misguided choice to join the Death Eaters and his eventual defection to protect her—was, once again, entirely centered around her son. 

He knew it spoke volumes about the loneliness of his life that he still considered her one of his closest friends, a sister, perhaps the only person who had ever loved him not for what he could give, but simply for who he was.

It felt, sometimes, as if the last six years of his life revolved around keeping hurricane Harry grounded as some unconscious, desperate attempt to earn back Lily’s favor, to make her speak to him again. He had hurt her so deeply and had gone somewhere she could not follow. Her ire and silence remained one of his life’s greatest regrets, and there were many. 

“Hello, Severus. You look well,” she greeted, awkward but sincere.

There was so much unsaid between them. Severus felt it all, every apology, every question, every confession, rising in his throat. How are you? I finally figured out what happens when you combine pixie dust and crushed rainbow scales. I’m an idiot. I miss you. I’m so sorry.

 All he managed was a quiet, “I’m well. Why am I here?”

She tensed slightly, her gaze flicking to Harry, who seemed determined to burn a hole through Dumbledore’s desk with his eyes.

“There was an incident a few days ago. At Harry’s birthday,” she began, launching into an explanation of the attack, how it had come out of nowhere, how severe the injuries were. Three cracked ribs. A collapsed lung. Not exactly minor wounds, and certainly enough to explain the boy’s battered appearance. They had just left St. Mungo’s and come straight to the Headmaster’s office to ask a favor.

Harry needed protection. Whoever had attacked him was still out there. James had initially demanded an Auror detail, but the Headmaster refused, citing the disruption it would cause to school life. Lily, meanwhile, was adamant that Harry remain at Hogwarts, especially with N.E.W.T.s looming. The compromise had been to place him in Snape’s Defence class, a decision that doubled as both a protective measure and a chance for Harry to strengthen his own defences while allowing him some freedom.

The class was his not-so-secret pride and joy. Potions, while his personal passion, was a subject he despised teaching. Most children were too clumsy and too dim-witted to appreciate the precision and delicacy required. Brewing was a discipline of subtlety and control, and instead he spent his days in constant vigilance preventing cauldron explosions and accidental poisonings.

But Defence? That was where his true teaching spirit lived. The infernal curse upon the DADA position had kept Albus from ever granting the post to him. And after the war, after his sacrifices, his spying, and his role in locating the Horcruxes, the Advanced DADA class had been a compromise. One that he had 100% total control over.

Dumbledore had never once meddled.

“He was attacked at his own birthday party,” James said probably trying to sound diplomatic but coming across condescending. “You can’t seriously expect him to attend the standard Defence course after that.”

“I expect him to be treated like any other student,” he snapped, voice cold and sharp as broken glass. He could feel his resolve dig in deeper at the disbelieving look James shot his way. “Not coddled every time the wind changes direction.”

“Severus,” Dumbledore said gently from behind his desk, steepling his fingers. “I understand your hesitation. Truly, but this is not about favoritism. It’s about safety and preparedness.”

His eyes narrowed, dark and glittering. “You expect me to believe this decision wasn’t swayed by your golden boy Gryffindor?”

“I’m sitting right here,” James said coolly, his smile razor-thin.

“I noticed,” he sneered. “Unfortunately.”

“Severus,” Lily said quietly, her voice taking in the soothing tone from years ago. “This isn’t about bending the rules. Harry’s not even asking for special treatment.”

That caught his attention.

Severus’s eyes slid to Harry. The boy hadn’t spoken once. Hadn’t protested, hadn’t pleaded, hadn’t looked up. Harry sat between his parents like a marionette with cut strings, slumped, and silent, as though whatever spark had once animated him had been stolen away. There was no fire in his eyes, no defiance in his posture, only the stillness of someone prepared to play whatever part his parents wanted.

Interesting.

Dumbledore spoke again, calm and infuriatingly patient. “I trust your instincts, Severus, as I always have. But Harry has proven more than once that he thrives under pressure. He was targeted in his own home. He needs the skill set you provide. The kind of training you offer in that classroom—”

“Is for students who earn it,” Severus cut in sharply. “Not ones who tumble through a crisis and expect an award because they didn’t kill themselves or someone else.”

Harry flinched at that. James sat forward, jaw tight. “Are you serious right now? He was attacked. If this is about last year -“

“Of course it is about last year and all the crazy years before it! My class is more then just about grades and skill I have a clear expectation of merit and Harry does not -“

Dumbledore’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. The power and finality in his voice reminding everyone in the room who was actually in charge.

“I’m afraid the decision is already made,” he said, tone final. “Harry will be joining your Advanced class.”

He turned sharply toward the Headmaster. “What?”

“Severus. This is necessity.” Dumbledore’s light blue eyes were grave now. Cold, even. “I allowed you control over the course because I trusted your judgment. I still do. But this boy’s life is in danger. Do we not have a duty to prepare him?”

The words hit harder than they should have. Perhaps because they were true. Perhaps because they were coming from Albus, or perhaps because Harry still hadn’t lifted his eyes.

Severus slowly turned his gaze back to the young man. His ribs were wrapped, no doubt. His breath shallow. Under his golden tan a faint pink blush dusted his face in embarrassment. He hadn’t said a word in his own defence.

That, more than anything, made something twist uncomfortably in his gut.

He exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Fine,” he snapped. “He can join the class. But he’ll be treated like any other student. If he falls behind, he fails. If he proves incapable, he’s out. I won’t lower my standards for him or anyone else.”

“Agreed,” Dumbledore said immediately.

“Thank you, Severus,” Lily said softly, a flicker of relief passing over her face, while James gave a begrudging nod of agreement.

He didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He needed to get out of there.

Turning sharply on his heel, he stormed out of the Headmaster’s office, intent on retreating to his lab. His week off was officially ruined. He might as well distract himself with Pomfrey’s endless list of potions. How dare Dumbledore pressure him like this? After everything, it was humiliating.

He was halfway down the spiral staircase when he heard it.

“Wait! Professor Snape, slow down!” Harry wheezed behind him, his voice strained. His newly healed lung was clearly still bothering him. What on earth was the idiot doing running after him? He was going to re-injure himself at this rate.

Severus stopped abruptly and turned with a snap of his robes.

“What is it, Potter?” he snapped, delivering his most disgusted sneer. “Here to gloat? Congratulations, you’ve once again gotten your father to hand you exactly what you wanted.”

Harry’s eyes widened in shock, his entire face flushing a deep red in embarrassment.

“No, I—uhh, well, I…” he bumbled over his words.

“Spit it out. Haven’t you wasted enough of my time already?” He barked. The boy’s awkward nervousness grated on him. Severus was not a gentle man, he never had been, and never would be. He knew how to deal with the arrogant, brash Harry Potter. But this? This quiet, ashamed version, he didn’t know what to do with.

“I know why you think that,” Harry said, eyes downcast. “I don’t blame you. I just… here.” He shoved a folded letter into Severus’s hand. “I wrote this at the hospital. Just…just know that this isn’t how I wanted things to go. I do want to be in your class. I didn’t want their help.”

The young man wiped at his sweat on his face with his sleeve. The effort of standing in the staircase clearly causing him pain and discomfort.

“Good day, Mr. Potter,” he dismissed curtly, curling his fingers tightly around the letter. “Go back to your parents. I have work to do.”

Harry nodded, relief flickering across his features at the fact that he hadn’t torn the letter in half and thrown it back in his face.

*****************

Deep in the dungeons Severus spent the rest of the day rage brewing. A line of Skelegrow simmered over low heat, and the first batch of blood-replenishing potion for Pomfrey was nearly complete. His fury had dulled into a low, simmering annoyance, but he refused to think about the meeting or the boy or the letter, until he found himself in a lull, waiting for his potions to brew.

He eyed the folded parchment resting on his worktable. He’d considered burning it more than once. Merlin knew he’d had enough of the Potters for one day. Nonetheless something had stayed his hand. Curiosity, perhaps. Maybe some masochistic urge to hear what the boy had to say.

He wondered whether James even knew about the letter. Likely not. James Potter wouldn’t tolerate his son writing anything let alone an apology to Severus Snape.

With a sigh, he picked up the parchment, noting the frayed yellow edges, evidence that it had been opened and closed, read and re-read.

He unfolded the letter and scoffed under his breath, the sound more bitter than amused.

Dear Professor Snape,

I’m not really sure how to start this. Honestly, I don’t even know if you’ll read it. But I figured this was better than saying the wrong thing out loud, especially after everything.

I want to be in your Advanced Defense class.

Not because I think I’ve earned it. I haven’t. I know I’ve been a headache in your classroom since first year. I’ve talked back, broken rules, and made more than my share of mistakes. I know that when you look at me, all you probably see is someone who doesn’t take things seriously. Someone who coasts by on luck.

But that’s not who I want to be.

After the attack… it’s clearer than ever that I’m not prepared. And I need to be. I don’t want to rely on someone else to fix things when they go wrong. I want to know how to fight. I want to know how to protect the people I care about. And I think—if I’m being honest—I could learn that in your class.

I’m not asking for favors. I don’t want special treatment. I just want a chance to prove I can do better than I have. That I can meet the expectations, follow the rules, and put in the work (all the work) if you’ll let me.

You don’t have to like me. You don’t even have to believe me. Just… let me prove it.

Whatever you decide, thank you for at least reading this.

Harry J. Potter

The parchment crinkled softly in his hand as his eyes scanned the last line again.

‘You don’t have to like me. You don’t even have to believe me. Just… let me prove it.’

Severus sat frozen, the only sound in the room the soft bubbling of his cauldrons and the faint crackle of a brewing flame. His dark eyes flicked back to the top of the letter, as if he had missed something. Was this a prank?

No, there was no joke here. Severus could find no smugness or entitlement in his words. Only remorse and… effort.

He read it again. Slower this time.

‘I know that when you look at me, all you probably see is someone who doesn’t take things seriously. Someone who coasts by on luck.’

That line struck deeper than he liked to admit. How many times had he uttered those very words under his breath, watching the boy flaunt rules and recklessly fling himself into danger with no regard for consequence? How often had he seen James’s arrogance and Lily’s penchant for impulsive bravery shine through in the boy and want nothing more than to be proven wrong?

He stared at the jagged scrawl. Still so childish. Still barely legible. Yet it bore the weight of a maturity Severus hadn’t thought Potter capable of.

He closed his eyes for a moment, pressing the heels of his hands into his brow. Ultimately this changed nothing. It didn’t undo the years of resentment. It didn’t make Harry any less his father’s son.

Slowly, he folded the letter back into thirds and tucked it into his robes, fingers brushing the parchment once before letting it go. He didn’t know yet what he would do, but he had four weeks before next term to figure it out.

Chapter Text

Harry couldn’t sit still. It felt like his entire nervous system was on fire, his thoughts darting wildly from one subject to the next.  Anxiety prickled under his skin as a dull thrum pulsed through his head. He sat crammed into the train compartment with Luna, Neville, and Ginny. Ron was off doing some prefect duty, and Hermione had vanished to handle whatever responsibilities came with being Head Girl. 

Luna was cheerfully prattling on about Wrackspurts or Wungdoodles, Harry wasn’t sure which, her dreamy voice felt far away, muffled by the rising tide of everything he was trying not to feel.

Harry had spent the last four weeks of summer under lock and key. No visitors. No outings. Just Potter Cottage, sealed tight. After the attack on his birthday, his parents had gone into a protective frenzy.

James had practically turned the house into a fortress overnight. Layer after layer of security charms had been cast until the cottage hummed with enchantments. He took to pacing the house at night like a restless sentry, wand in hand, eyes flicking to every window at the slightest creak of floorboard or rustle of wind. Sirius had half-joked that James was ready to hex the garden gnomes if they moved too quickly.

Lily, meanwhile, had taken the more subtle but no less intense route. She hovered, CONSTANTLY. She organized his medication schedule with Healer-like precision, checked his breathing in the middle of the night, and brought him tea every hour like he might dissolve without it. She cleaned his room twice a day, fluffed his pillows with unnecessary gusto, and barely let him walk from one end of the cottage to the other without checking if he needed help.

They meant well, Merlin, he knew they meant well, but Harry felt like a prisoner in his own home. 

So every chance he got, he fought them. Every curfew they set, he broke. Every rule made to keep him safe, he tested. Those four weeks were filled with tension and silence. Every conversation turned into an argument, ending with Lily’s tears and James’s silent, simmering rage, which reminded Harry far too much of Uncle Vernon.

The fight after the meeting with the Headmaster had been the worst. It had gone late into the night, ending with Harry magically shattering a window and slamming his door. No one spoke for three full days.

Harry was still furious. In trying to protect him, they had officially doomed him to what might be the most difficult academic year of his life.

He just wished they had given him a chance to prove himself first. He truly believed he could have done it. After all, Snape had taken the letter. He didn’t know whether the man had actually read it, but the fact that he hadn’t torn it to shreds and set the scraps on fire right in front of him... well, it gave him hope.

The worst part, the part that still made his stomach twist, was that on the surface, Harry understood their reasoning. They were scared. 

It was logical. Sensible, even.

Still, it didn’t feel logical to him. It was suffocating and confusing.

Why now? He thought bitterly.

Why did they suddenly seem to care so much? Where was this protective hysteria when Quirrell nearly killed him, or when he faced a basilisk alone in the Chamber of Secrets, or fought a dragon at fourteen?

Sure, his parents had visited him in the hospital wing, written worried letters, and sent Howlers to him and the administration when things got too out of hand, but they had never been like this. They had never clung so tightly. They had never truly intervened.

Maybe that was part of the problem. He wasn’t used to them.

When the war ended and his stay with the Dursley’s was over Harry had been ten years old. He barely remembered what it felt like to have proper parents before then. There had been one awkward, dazzling year together before Hogwarts started. It was a little less then twelve months of Lily, James and Harry catching up on a childhood he hadn’t had with them and learning how to be a family again. That time had been a blur of confusion. Then term began, and they were gone all over again, appearing only during breaks and summer. Even then, Harry spent most of his time with his friends or outside.

He loved them. He truly did. Except he didn’t know how to need them, not in the way they seemed to expect. When he was younger There were moments he wanted to confide in them about the cupboard and the bruises… but he never did. It was as if there was a wall inside him, ancient and immovable, built brick by brick during all the years he spent under the scornful watch of his relatives. By the time he turned seventeen, that wall had grown so high and wide that scaling it felt impossible. He was terrified that if he ever reached the top, if he opened himself up, he would fall straight into the abyss behind it and lose everything he had worked so hard to build.

“Harry, are you even listening to me?”

Ginny leaned in, her red hair and scrunched-up nose suddenly filling his vision.

“No, sorry. I’m just… not feeling great,” Harry admitted, blinking as if surfacing from deep water. He hadn’t even realized someone was speaking to him. He was too busy trying to convince himself that the walls of the cramped compartment weren’t closing in and that, somehow, this year would turn out all right. He’d pass his N.E.W.T.s, and Snape wouldn’t accidentally murder him before spring.

“Oh no, is it your lung?” Ginny asked, her expression tightening with concern. Her gaze dropped to his chest, scanning it like she might detect something wrong just by looking. “ It’s a little weird” she flushed slightly “but your mum asked me to keep an eye on it. She even taught me the spell to use if you start feeling winded.”

Of course she did. Harry thought resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

“No, I’m fine. I just… need some air,” he muttered, already pushing himself off the seat and squeezing past his friends in the cramped compartment.

“Harry!” Ginny called after him as he slid the door open and stumbled into the narrow corridor.

“I’m alright! I’ll be right back, promise,” he tossed over his shoulder.

He just needed to get out of there.

He stormed down the hall, not paying attention to where he was going or what he was doing. Thankfully it was relatively empty except for a few third years pressed against the windows watching the grey and green landscape fly by. Harry could faintly hear the metallic sound of rain on the train’s metal roof over the increasing buzz in his ears. 

He needed air, where could he get air on this blasted train?

Then he saw it, an empty compartment. 

Perfect. Just what he needed. He’d slip in, take five — maybe ten— minutes to collect himself, then head back to his friends like nothing had happened. Propelled forward by his urgent need to be alone Harry flung the compartment doors wide open and scurried inside. 

Except the compartment wasn’t empty. 

There was one occupant sitting curled up against the far end of the seat his face resting on the cool glass of the window pane. 

Draco Malfoy.

Harry felt all the blood drain from his face. He hadn’t been near Draco since the incident, and with good reason. What do you even say to someone you attacked? 

‘Sorry about almost killing you! I enjoy using unknown spells I found in the restricted section on unsuspecting victims! No hard feelings, yeah?’

No, there was nothing he could say to make it better.

Draco’s white blonde hair, which was usually perfectly quaffed, fell over his closed grey eyes. His delicate but masculine features were relax in a way Harry had never seen before. He was resting and hadn’t registered Harry’s abrupt entrance into his cabin. 

Brilliant, Harry thought, inching backward. Maybe I can sneak out before he wakes up.

A soft groan emitted from the prone form.

Harry froze.

Draco stirred, pale lashes fluttering against his cheeks before his eyes blinked open.

“Crabbe? Goyle? That you?” he mumbled groggily.

“Not exactly…” Harry said, awkwardly shifting his weight.

It took a moment, but recognition eventually dawned on Draco’s face. He bolted upright, gripping his wand. Eyes wide with alarm, he aimed the polished length of hawthorn wood directly at Harry’s chest.

“What are you doing here, Potter?” he spat, voice sharp and defensive. “Come to finish the job?”

“No!” Harry quickly raised both hands in front of him to show he was unarmed. “I didn’t know you were in here, I swear. I just needed some air.”

He hoped to Merlin Draco would believe him. The buzzing in his skull was already sharpening into the early throb of a migraine. If it fully bloomed, Harry knew he’d be useless for the rest of the train ride and Draco would be able to hex him to Hogsmeade and back. 

Draco didn’t lower his wand. Instead, a familiar sneer began to curl across his lips, and Harry could practically see the sarcasm forming behind his eyes.

“Right. Of all the empty compartments on this train, you just happen to stumble into mine. Pure coincidence, I’m sure.”

“I didn’t know it was yours!” Harry snapped. He exhaled slowly, trying to get a grip on the pain rising behind his eyes. “Look, I’ll go. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

He turned toward the door, his back now facing Malfoy, when the migraine hit him in full force. It felt like a long, hot spike was being hammered into his skull, splitting it open for the world to see. He staggered forward, bent at the waist, and clutched his head in his hands.

He couldn’t breathe.

“Potter, what are you doing?” Draco demanded, his voice laced more with confusion than malice now.

“Sorry,” Harry gasped, squeezing his eyes shut. “It’s just… my head…”

Then, to Harry’s surprise, Draco didn’t hex him. He didn’t mock him or shout for a professor. Instead, there was the sound of shifting fabric and a soft thump as Draco lowered his wand onto the seat beside him.

Harry dared to peek up through one eye. Draco stood there frozen, arms half-outstretched as though unsure whether to help or flee. His brow was furrowed, mouth set in a tight line, his expression conflicted.

“You look like hell,” Draco muttered, glancing away.

“Thanks,” Harry croaked, still hunched over. The throbbing in his skull had dulled slightly, but every beat of his heart sent a fresh spike of pain behind his eyes.

“My father told me what happened to you… Is this from the attack?” 

“Yes—no—kind of. It’s complicated,” Harry admitted, forcing himself to sit on the edge of the seat beside the Malfoy heir. “I’ve always gotten migraines if I get too stressed, tired or anxious, and as you can imagine I’ve been stressed.” He bent forward and cradled his head between his knees. Breathe in—one, two, three. Breathe out—four, five, six.

“I didn’t know you got migraines, Potter.” Harry could hear a brief rustling of luggage from the overhead compartment.

“I don’t exactly advertise it.” Another wave of nausea rolled through him. “Any chance you can keep this quiet?”

Draco scoffed. “Why not? I wouldn’t want to risk The Great Harry Potter hexing me again, would I? Don’t want your adoring fans finding out you can’t handle a little headache.”

Before Harry could even muster a retort, the compartment door slid open.

“What’s all this, then?” came a stiff, formal voice. “I heard shouting, everyone alright?”

“Yes, we’re fine,” Draco replied quickly. He shot Harry a glance, half-concerned, half-checking if that answer still held true.

The figure stepped further into the room, and Harry could finally make him out. He was older than them but still young by teacher standards. His blond hair was cropped in a severe, almost military fashion, and he had a tall lean build. His features were aristocratic, Harry would have found him handsome, if not for the wide, slightly unblinking pale eyes.

The man’s gaze settled on Harry, mouth turning down in a disapproving frown. “Potter, right?” he asked, tongue flicking out to wet his cracked lips. “Professor Barty Crouch, at your service.” He held out his hand and Harry shook it weakly.

“And who’s this?” His unblinking gaze settled on Draco next, “Malfoy, I presume? I believe our fathers are... acquainted.” He sneered and eyed him as though he were something particularly slimy clinging to his shoe.

Something in Draco’s expression closed at the mention of his father. It was an open secret that Lucius Malfoy had once served as a Death Eater, and after Voldemort’s fall, he’d used his wealth, influence, and carefully cultivated connections to escape Azkaban. If Ron was right about Professor Crouch’s father being ruthless toward Death Eaters, then Lucius had almost certainly been near the top of his target list.

Before Harry could clarify that Draco hadn’t done anything wrong, another bolt of pain shot through his skull like lightning down his spine. He lurched forward with a gasp, clutching his head as the agony flared and pulsed through every limb. He focused on his breathing, counting through the pain until it dulled again.

Somewhere in the background, he heard Professor Crouch mumble something and dismiss Draco with cool, clipped tone. A steady hand began to rub small, soothing circles on his back.

“This is quite the migraine,” Crouch observed, his voice gentler now. “I assume you’d like something for it?”

Harry nearly sobbed with relief. Merlin, yes. Anything.

“It’s not a cure,” Crouch said, producing a small glass vial filled with a colorless liquid, “but this should help. Just enough Dreamless Sleep to get you to Hogwarts. Please, take it. You clearly need it more than I do.”

Harry clutched the vial like a lifeline. He thanked the professor hoarsely. When Crouch offered to escort him back to his compartment, Harry declined with a shake of his head. Something flickered in Crouch’s eyes, understanding, maybe empathy, and he simply nodded.

They sat together in companionable silence until Harry felt stable enough to stand. Professor Crouch helped him to his feet and guided him to the door.

“Now, Harry,” Crouch said, his hand firm and reassuring on Harry’s shoulder, “don’t hesitate to come find me if you need anything else. My door will always be open to you.”

Harry managed a weak but grateful smile. “I will. Thank you.”

As he stumbled back into the corridor, a faint thought tugged at the edge of his mind…what a shame. He wouldn’t get to learn under this new Defence teacher. A bit stiff, sure, but Crouch seemed sincere, and certainly more patient than Snape was likely to be.

It took a few moments to collect himself, but Harry eventually summoned the strength to shuffle back down the narrow corridor. The overhead lights blurred his vision and made the walk more difficult than it should have been. At last, he found the right compartment.

He uncorked the vial and downed it in one gulp before quietly slipping back into the compartment.

“All right there, Harry?” Neville asked, concern etched across his face. “I was just about to go look for you.”

“Yeah, just a headache,” Harry replied, rubbing his temple. “I got something for it. I should be okay.”

“Oh good, I was getting worried,” Luna chimed in, her dreamy voice floating through the air. “I haven’t seen that many Wrackspurts around you since the Triwizard Tournament.”

“Really? I wonder why that is,” Harry muttered, shifting uncomfortably under Luna’s misty-eyed gaze. “I think I’m going to take a nap, though. Wake me when we get there.”

“Sure thing,” Neville said, his mouth curving into a relieved, crooked grin before turning back to Luna to resume whatever bizarre conversation they’d been having before Harry returned.

Harry sank into the seat beside Ginny. He slipped off his black jacket, rolled it into a makeshift pillow, and tucked it behind his head. He could feel Ginny’s fingers gently stroking his hair as the pounding in his skull began to fade. The potion was already working, and within moments, he drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

Severus had no real way to prove it but he was positive the sorting hat’s song got longer and longer every year. Of course, it was equally possible that he was simply growing more intolerant of hearing endless variations on the same self-important drivel.

He listened with indifference, barely registering the beat beneath the hat’s theatrical singing. Now comes the part about trials and tribulations... aaand here’s the bit on house unity, he thought dryly. Right on cue, the hat launched into a verse about standing together and how no house could thrive without the others.

If it weren’t for Albus’s presence a few seats over and the first-years watching with wide, nervous eyes, he would’ve rolled his own so hard he might’ve seen the back of his skull.

“House unity,” he muttered, lips barely moving. “Yes, nothing fosters lifelong harmony quite like dividing children into rival factions based on personality traits they’ve barely developed.”

McGonagall shot him a sharp look, but Sinistra’s quiet giggle at his side assured him he wouldn’t be getting a lecture about it later. After what felt like an eternity, the hat finally quieted down, and the sorting began. 

The incoming first-years lined up one by one, each having the Sorting Hat placed on their heads.

“Gryffindor!”

“Ravenclaw!”

“Hufflepuff, Hufflepuff, Hufflepuff…”

By the seventh consecutive Hufflepuff, Severus finally got his first Slytherin. He stood and clapped politely with the rest of his table, subtly gesturing for the small girl to join them.

“Oh my, there seems to be quite a lot of Hufflepuffs this year,” Professor Sprout remarked, wringing her hands and looking faintly green.

He didn’t blame her. Occasionally, a year would come in wildly unbalanced, and those were always a nightmare for the heads of house. He remembered that during the height of the war, nearly every new student had been sorted into Slytherin. Parents from other houses had been too frightened to send their children away, or in the case of Gryffindor, too many families had already been lost.

The sheer volume of students, on top of his teaching duties, Death Eater obligations, brewing and spying for the Order, had nearly killed him.

The sorting dragged on, with a handful of new Gryffindors, Slytherins, and Ravenclaws… and an overwhelming majority still Hufflepuff. Finally when the last child, a Gryffindor, sat down, disappearing behind Ron Weasley’s long and lanky form, the tables cleared, and the food appeared out of thin air.

The Potions Master proceeded to carefully portion the food onto his plate. The grilled chicken, smothered in a rich grey mushroom sauce, and the golden roasted potatoes looked particularly appetizing tonight. Severus was quite hungry, having spent most of the day ensuring everything was in order for his incoming Slytherins.

That’s when a polite clearing of a throat from his left caught his attention.

“Good evening, Severus.” 

Snape turned to find a rather handsome, rigid, wide-eyed man he didn’t recognize. He could only assume this was the new Defence Against the Dark Arts instructor, replacing Lupin. Severus gave the man a brief once-over before offering a curt nod in acknowledgment. What was his name again…Barmy Couch? Something ridiculous like that. He rarely bothered to learn the names of Defence instructors anymore. They never lasted long and, for the most part, kept out of his way.

“I’d hoped to speak with you earlier,” the man continued, “but I was held up at the ministry and couldn’t make the faculty meeting. I was also assigned train duty at the Headmaster request. He said something about all first-year teachers, like the students, having to experience the full magic of the Hogwarts Express.”

“Yes, that sounds like Albus,” Severus replied tersely, not bothering to mask his impatience. He was famished, and this intrusion into his dinner was far from welcome. “What is it you needed to speak to me about?”

“I wanted to ask about your Advanced Defence course. I was informed you’ll be taking some of my N.E.W.T.-level students starting the second week of term. Would you mind providing a list of names so I know who to expect?”

Severus studied the man again, considering the request. Normally the DADA teachers were completely unaware and unprepared for his request. Most didn’t resist since it was one less student to teach, but occasionally he had to deal with stand-ins from the ministry like Umbridge. She had been quite displeased, convinced it was an overstep in duties and protocol. When she tried to resist his request he'd not-so-politely told her where she could shove it.

Unsurprisingly, she had not liked that at all. Severus grimaced at the chaos she had unleashed that year in response.

“Certainly,” Severus acquiesced. “I’ll have a list of my expected candidates ready for you tomorrow. Though I can tell you now, Potter is already in it.” 

Crouch’s expression flickered with something unreadable.

“When was that decided?” he asked, voice tight. “Do I get no say in the selection process at all?”

“No,” Snape replied curtly, not bothering to look up. “Only the students may decide whether to accept my offer or not. As for Potter…Neither of us have a say in that matter.” He punctuated the statement by spearing a roasted potato with unnecessary force and shoving it into his mouth. As far as he was concerned, the conversation was finished.

But Crouch didn’t back down.

“Says who?” he pressed, the forced politeness in his tone vanishing entirely. “With everything going on around the boy, I hardly think you’re the best choice for his Defence instruction.”

His pale eyes flicked deliberately toward Snape’s left arm.

Severus felt the ghost of the Dark Mark prickle beneath his sleeve, though it had long since faded. The rage that ignited in his chest from the other man’s scrutiny was immediate and electric, and before he knew it, he was out of his chair, looming over the younger man.

“I am under no obligation to justify the internal structure of my curriculum to someone who, statistically speaking, won’t last the year. If you have a problem with this arrangement,” he hissed, voice low and deadly, “I suggest you take it up with the Headmaster.”

His eyes darted briefly toward the Gryffindor table. Potter was seated among his friends, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing across the room.

His shoulders were relaxed and his laugh unguarded as he nudged Weasley with an elbow and caught something Granger said with an amused half-smile. The sun-kissed skin he’d worn four weeks ago had faded to a pale glow under the golden candlelight. There was a flush still lingering on his cheeks from whatever nonsense amused him. His hair was an absolute disaster, his glasses slightly askew, and yet…

Severus’s jaw clenched. He forced his eyes back to his plate.

He wasn’t sure if it was the new professor’s implication about his intentions or competency in keeping the boy safe, but suddenly, Severus found himself far less reluctant to have Potter in his class. After all, it had been Dumbledore, and the boy’s own parents, who had entrusted Potter’s safety to him, not Bratty Crotch, and he would be damned if some Ministry sycophant thought otherwise.

He had spent years keeping Potter alive for Lily. Barely…but the boy hardly made it easy. Severus was certain this imbecile wouldn’t last a month watching over him.

His voice dropped to a dangerously calm register as he turned back to Crouch.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said silkily, “I find I’ve lost my appetite.”

Without waiting for a reply, he stood and swept away from the table, his black robes billowing behind him like shadowy wings. He heard McGonagall call after him, asking where he was going, but he was already locked onto his target. Within seconds, his long strides carried him swiftly to the Gryffindor table, where he came to a stop directly behind Potter.

"Potter. With me," he said, his voice low and commanding.

The boy’s shoulders tensed in surprise, and his friends turned wide-eyed toward Severus, clearly wondering what Harry had done wrong this time.

To Severus’s mild surprise, however, Potter rose from his seat without protest and followed him out of the Great Hall. No complaints, no backtalk just the same quiet acceptance Severus had seen in the Headmaster’s office four weeks earlier.

They moved quickly through the castle’s winding corridors, Severus’s brisk pace forcing the boy to jog slightly to keep up.

The silence between them was heavy, but Severus had no intention of breaking it. His anger still simmered low in his chest, though he could feel it gradually cooling as they descended through the familiar stone levels into the dungeon.The warm candlelight of the upper floors gave way to a dimmer, colder glow, as though the torches themselves were reluctant to burn here. The scent of mildew and decades-old dust crept up like a memory, mingling with the chill that always lingered below ground. Most would find it unpleasant. To Severus, it was home.

They passed the Potions classroom. Then the Slytherin common room. Deeper still and soon they were in territory few students, and fewer staff, ever bothered to tread.

He paused before a deliberately unremarkable door. It was plain oak, unadorned, the kind easily mistaken for a broom cupboard or storage room. Except Severus knew better. Behind it was a room he had meticulously transformed and refined. He had crafted it specifically for the study and mastery of the Dark Arts.

 He drew his wand, and carefully tapped a nearly invisible rune on the wood, and watched with satisfaction as the complex warding sequence activated. A shimmer of defensive runes flickered into view, then vanished again as the door creaked open on ancient hinges. 

Confidently, he pushed the door fully open and strode inside.

“Well, Potter, are you coming?”

The boy looked momentarily bewildered but followed him in, steps hesitant.

The door may have been unremarkable, but the room beyond was anything but. The classroom walls were paneled in dark, polished wood that gleamed under the steady, amber glow of enchanted sconces.

Tiered rows of benches lined the space, each fitted with dark-stained desks reinforced with subtle runic carvings that shimmered faintly in response to nearby magic. The seating was arranged in a semi-circle, amphitheater-style, all centered around a raised dueling stage.

Elevated a foot above the flagstone floor, the obsidian platform was wide and smooth, its surface inlaid with intricate silver filigree. Protective wards and containment circles were so finely wrought on the sides they could be mistaken for art. 

Behind the stage, the back wall bore shelves of battered tomes and forbidden texts, their cracked spines and heavy chains warning curious students not to touch. A chalkboard was mounted beside them, flanked by two locked cabinets holding everything from dark detectors to dangerous magical artifacts. 

Snape watched as Harry’s eyes widened in awe. The boy spun slowly, taking in the room with a look of unguarded wonder.

“Professor… this is amazing,” he said breathlessly, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Something tight and unfamiliar settled in Severus’s chest at the boy’s honest praise. It was… unsettling. He quickly shoved the feeling aside and fixed his gaze on the boy standing beside him.

Under the weight of that scrutiny, Potter flushed a soft shade of pink.

"Why... why did you bring me here?" he asked.

Severus hesitated. Why had he brought him here? Surely this could have waited until morning? He realized, with a flare of irritation, he had let that pompous Ministry stooge get under his skin. Not only had he caused a scene and stormed out of the Great Hall with Potter in tow, but he’d done so without even instructing Draco and Pansy on how to handle the first-years.

Brilliant.

He cleared his throat, regaining his composure. “According to your schedule, you are expected in Defence first thing tomorrow. Since certain people have decided you will be gracing my class, there is no point wasting time pretending otherwise.”

He gestured curtly at the room, his lip curling faintly. “This is where you will report instead. The rest of your classmates will join you next week, assuming they have the sense to accept my invitation. Until then, you will have the dubious honor of my undivided attention. You claimed in your letter you’ve been practicing…”

His eyes narrowed, voice dropping to a soft, cutting drawl. “I suggest you demonstrate that you are not, as usual, wasting everyone’s time.” He leveled his gaze with Potter’s bright green eyes. “I will not go easy on you. Do you understand?”

Harry blinked, his voice catching slightly. “You… you read my letter.”

He held Severus’s gaze, eyes bright with hope, like emeralds catching light on a storm-dark shore.

“I did,” Severus replied quietly, guiding him toward the door with a subtle gesture. “Against my better judgment, I’ve chosen to give you this chance, Potter. Do not waste it.”

“I promise I won’t disappoint you this time.”

Harry’s smile was small and sincere, yet it lit his entire face. A quiet ache tugged at Severus, how long had it been since someone had looked at him like that?

“See that you don’t. Now back to the feast with you.”

The boy cast one last glance back at the room before turning on his heel and heading toward the Great Hall. With any luck, he’d still manage to swipe some pudding before calling it a night.

Severus remained in the corridor, the torches flickering low in the dark, musty air. He exhaled slowly, eyes lingering on the spot where Potter had stood.

He turned from the view and made his way back toward his quarters, mind already racing through lesson plans and adjustments. He would test Potter thoroughly tomorrow. He would determine whether the boy had truly learned anything, as he claimed in that letter, or if his so-called progress was just a string of blind luck.

If he failed?

Well, then the matter would be settled, and the new DADA professor would be satisfied.

However, Severus doubted that would be the case.

The boy’s instincts were honed. Raw, yes, but undeniable. He had seen the way he dueled against other students in Lupin’s class last year. Severus’s pulse quickened at the memory of Harry easily disarming two opponents with an exceptionally powerful Expelliarmus. His magic had filled the room, golden and bright, pulsing with potential. There was a reason Potter consistently ranked at the top of his year in Defence. If not for his flagrant disregard for rules and his reckless endangerment of himself and others, he might have been at the top of Severus’s own list as well.

With a practiced flick of his wand, Severus sealed the door to his chambers behind him, the wards falling into place with a satisfying click. 

His chambers were a quiet refuge of order and control, a stark contrast to the chaos of the world above. The walls were lined with towering bookshelves, filled to the brim with potions texts, arcane theory, Dark Arts research, and decades of personal notes, all categorized with obsessive precision. Green and silver tapestries hung between the shelves, their embroidered serpents glinting faintly in the low, amber glow of enchanted sconces.

A large fireplace made of dark stone was the highlight of the room. The hearth crackled with gentle flames, casting warmth across the stone floor, where an ornate emerald-and-black rug stretched beneath a solid mahogany desk. 

A deep green armchair sat angled toward the fire, with a matching ottoman and a small side table bearing a steaming mug and a solitary candle. Just off to the side, through a narrow archway, was a compact but functional kitchenette. The counters were black marble, gleaming clean, with a row of neatly labeled jars and vials above a small cauldron burner. A charmed kettle sat waiting beside a rack of precisely stacked tea tins, and a tiny pantry was arranged with near-military efficiency.

 A single glass decanter of Firewhisky sat untouched on the mantle.

He stared at it for a long moment, then turned away.

Instead, he sat at his desk, his empty stomach finally making its displeasure known. He had never managed to finish his dinner. With a snap of his fingers, he called for a house-elf. There was a soft pop, and a small elf with enormous, tennis ball-sized eyes appeared before him.

“Mipsy has been called, sir! How can Mipsy help you?” she said, bowing so low her bat-like ears brushed the stone floor.

“I was unable to eat dinner and find myself rather famished. Could you bring me something to eat?”

“Yes, sir!” she chirped, and with another pop, Mipsy vanished. In her place, a plate bearing a neatly arranged turkey sandwich and fresh fruit appeared on the desk.

Severus took a bite of the sandwich, then summoned the parchment list of proposed students for his Advanced Defence class. Several names were already scrawled in his sharp spidery writing: Granger, Nott, Malfoy, Bones. With a scrape of his quill, he added one more at the very top.

Potter.

Merlin help him, what had he just gotten himself into?

Lily had better talk to him after this.

Chapter Text

The air was crisp, touched with that early morning chill Hogwarts seemed to bottle up and release in slow, deliberate bursts. Faint rays of sunlight filtered through a gap in the thick red curtains surrounding Harry’s four-poster bed. A pair of tired, emerald eyes followed the slow drift of light across the bedsheets.

Technically, he had been awake for hours, but the motivation to leave the warmth of his bed had been nonexistent. He remained curled beneath his sheets, listening as his dormmates gradually woke and filtered out, one by one, ready to face the day.

Unfortunately, today was the first day of classes, and his first lesson was Defence Against the Dark Arts. Instead of easing into it with a week in the standard course under Professor Crouch as he had originally anticipated, he was now expected to report directly to Snape. He would be alone, with no other students to absorb the brunt of the severe man’s attention.

Yesterday's events still felt surreal, and Harry wasn’t entirely convinced they had actually happened. The Hogwarts Express, the run-in with Draco, and the introduction of the new professor had all been normal enough. But when Snape pulled him out of the Great Hall and led him to that hidden classroom, things shifted from typical Harry Potter weirdness to something outright bizarre.

Normally, any conversation between him and Snape fell apart within minutes. He would react defensively to some cutting insult, and the man would accuse him of arrogance or recklessness. 

Except this time, none of that had happened. Snape told him he had read his letter. He hadn’t scoffed or mocked it. He had acknowledged it and even said he would give him a chance to prove himself. Granted, he was not exactly warm and certainly not overtly kind about it, but the way he spoke to Harry was civil. Almost cordial.

By the time Harry returned to the Great Hall, dessert was nearly gone, and he barely managed to grab a slice of treacle tart before the plates cleared. His friends had bombarded him with questions about what Snape wanted, but he refused to say a word. Not until they were safely tucked away in the privacy of Gryffindor Tower. Only then did he recount everything that had happened, from the cold detour through the castle to Snape’s unexpected acknowledgment of his letter.

He had been certain that his parents’ and Dumbledore’s interference had ruined any chance of reconciling with the harsh Potions Master. But maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t the case.

Clinging to that thought, he finally dragged himself out of bed and got ready with all the enthusiasm of someone dreading the day ahead. He washed his face, brushed his teeth, reapplied the glamor to hide his scars, and made a valiant attempt to tame the bird’s nest he called hair.

"Truly, I think this is your best attempt yet!" his enchanted mirror chirped encouragingly as he tried to flatten a particularly rebellious curl.

“Yeah, right,” he muttered with a sigh as the curl sprang defiantly back into place.

He wrestled with it for a few more minutes before surrendering. He knew he had stalled long enough. The task was impossible, and Snape certainly was not going to go any easier on him just because he’d brushed his hair. With a resigned breath, Harry gathered up his books and took one last look in the mirror, which reassured him that he looked positively dashing, before heading downstairs into the common room. It was time to make his way to the Great Hall for breakfast. If he had any hope of surviving whatever unfair challenge Snape had in store for him, he would need all the strength he could get.

Ron and Hermione were waiting for him on the red, overstuffed couch by the fireplace. Hermione was batting at Ron’s arm as he held a folded piece of parchment just out of her reach.

“Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, first period: Defence!” Ron trilled in a high-pitched imitation of her voice.

“Ronald, give that back! I need that!” Hermione snapped, lunging for the parchment, but Ron’s longer arms kept it well out of reach.

“Ah yes, very important indeed,” Ron said dramatically. “We mustn’t forget Transfiguration, Charms, Herbology, Potions, Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Care of Magical Creatures…blimey, Hermione, am I even going to see you this year?” 

“Doubt it,” Harry added dryly as he approached, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smirk. “We’ll just have to send an owl if we need to remember what she looks like.”

Hermione huffed and finally snatched the parchment when Ron let his guard down. “You two are impossible.”

“Impossibly charming,” Ron said, giving Hermione a roguish smile.

Harry adjusted the strap of his book bag and forced a lightness to his tone. “Quit flirting, you two, and let’s get to breakfast. I need food, and possibly a will written before I face Snape alone.”

Ron winced in sympathy. “Rather you than me, mate.”

Hermione gave him a look of concern but didn’t argue. The three of them walked together through the corridors, their footsteps echoing in the early morning hush of the castle. Despite the brisk pace, Harry could not shake the fluttering nerves in his stomach.

Ron and Hermione were still chatting about class schedules, and every time Hermione brought up double Arithmancy, Ron would groan. Harry stayed mostly quiet, nodding along. He was grateful for the familiar rhythm of their banter. It helped distract him from his own troubles, and he would occasionally chime in with his own joke or remark in the couples playful bickering.

As they entered the Great Hall, soft morning light poured through the enchanted ceiling, reflecting a bright blue, cloudless sky. The four House tables were already half full, and the comforting hum of clinking cutlery and early morning chatter filled the space.

They slid into their usual seats at the Gryffindor table. A moment later, steaming plates of eggs, gold brown toast, and perfectly seasoned sausage appeared before them. Ron wasted no time digging in, piling food onto his plate as if he were starving. Hermione shot him a disgusted look as she daintily poured herself a cup of tea.

"Tea?" she offered to them both. Ron nodded vigorously, a piece of chewed toast dropping from his mouth onto his robes.

Harry declined the offer and allowed his gaze to drift toward the staff table.

All the teachers were settled comfortably in their seats. McGonagall and Flitwick were deep in conversation with Dumbledore, who was wearing the most garish robes Harry had ever seen. They were a bright purple and yellow abomination, covered in star patterns that shimmered obnoxiously in the morning light. Professor Sinistra looked stunning in burgundy robes, and she seemed to have caught the eye of Professor Crouch, who appeared rather flushed under her attention.

Then there was Snape.

He sat near the center, his expression as unreadable as ever. A black shadow carved from sharp angles, he stood in stark contrast to the soft backdrop and kaleidoscope of colors worn by the other teachers. He wasn’t eating, only sipping from a cup, eyes half-lidded as he surveyed the room with what could only be described as thinly veiled disdain.

Even from a distance, Harry could make out the distinct silhouette of that hooked nose, proud and prominent, casting a slight shadow over his thin mouth. His hair, usually greasy from hours bent over cauldrons, was clean and fell in soft, dark waves that brushed the sharp line of his jaw. The morning light caught in it, giving it an almost silky sheen.

Forest green and black met for the briefest second before Harry quickly looked away and took a sudden interest in buttering his toast, his heart thudding in his chest.

Great. Snape had caught him staring like some kind of idiot. He needed to pull himself together.

He forced himself to focus on breakfast, trying to tune in to the hum of conversation around him. Before he knew it, the meal was halfway through and the morning post had arrived. Owls of all shapes and sizes swooped through the Great Hall, delivering copies of the Daily Prophet and various packages to eager students.

A beautiful brown long eared owl glided gracefully down and landed in front of him, her soft feathers settling neatly as she extended one leg.

Harry groaned. It was Daliah, his mother’s owl. Of course. They were going to drive him mad.

The owl gave two impatient hops, waiting expectantly for him to retrieve the letter.

“Mail from home already?” Hermione asked, watching the owl nudge Harry with her beak.

Maybe if I ignore her, she’ll go away, he thought childishly.

Daliah continued to nudge his arm, and Harry could see she was getting ready to bite him.

With a resigned sigh, he gently untied the letter from her leg and offered her a piece of bacon as an apology. She accepted the salty treat and took off, soaring out of the hall with a satisfied beat of her wings.

“Yes, it’s from my mum,” he said.

“She’s probably wondering how you’re doing,” Hermione reasoned. “That attack really shook them. I know you being in danger or in the hospital isn’t exactly unusual, but I think this is the first time they’ve seen it up close.”

Harry sighed, looking down at the crisp white parchment in his hand. When he was younger, he would have done anything to receive a letter like this one. Now all he felt was frustration and annoyance at their sudden interest. When had that changed?

“Are you going to read it?”

“I’ll read it later,” Harry said through gritted teeth, crumpling the letter and shoving it into his bag. He had too much going on right now to spend time making them feel better. “I just wish they’d give me a little more credit. It hasn’t even been a full twenty-four hours. Even I can’t get into trouble that fast.”

“That’s true!” Ginny said with a smirk, sliding into the seat next to Harry. “You like to work up to it.”

Her brown eyes sparkled mischievously as she leaned in close. “Now tell me, Mr. Quidditch Captain, when are tryouts going to be held?”

The entire Gryffindor table went eerily silent, everyone leaning in to hear Harry’s answer.

Quidditch tryouts. Great. Another thing he had not thought about.

“I don’t know, Ginny. They’ll be soon. I promise you’ll be the first to know once I’ve got it set.”

With that, Harry stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get to class.”

He gave Ron and Hermione a meaningful look before slipping out of the Great Hall. Ron called after him, loud enough for half the room to hear.

“Good luck! Don’t die—OW! Bloody hell, Hermione, did you just pinch me?”

“You deserved it,” she muttered primly. “Honestly.”

Navigating the castle’s dungeons was more challenging than he remembered. The corridors were cool and dim, each nearly identical to the last. He passed the familiar Potions classroom and the entrance to the Slytherin common room but hesitated when he reached a fork in the corridor. A flicker of frustration sparked in his chest. He was going to be late, all because he couldn’t remember which direction to take.

“You’ll want to take a left, Potter,” a silky, dark voice pierced the silence.

“Merlin!” Harry jolted, clutching his chest. “How are you always so quiet?”

Snape raised one brow in that infuriatingly imperious way of his, unimpressed by Harry’s dramatics.

“How are you always so loud?” he bit back. “Now come, Potter, let’s get this over with.”

Harry trailed after the Potions Master, memorizing every turn until they reached a plain oak door. Snape tapped the hidden wards; the protections dissolved with a faint crackle, and the door creaked open. Harry stepped past the dueling platform and set his bag down in the front row.

“Now, Potter,” Snape drawled, “as you know, the Headmaster and your parents forced me to accept you into this class, but that doesn’t mean you belong here. So I will be using this week to evaluate your eligibility in three phases: theory, spellwork, and live response. Fail one and you fail them all. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

As soon as the words left his lips, Professor Snape shot a wordless Expelliarmus at him. Harry barely had time to roll out of the way.

“Protego!”

A faint blue shield blocked the next attack, a stinging hex, just in time.

“Snape!” Harry cried, taken aback by the sudden onslaught of spells. “What are you doing?”

Snape cast a levitation spell that lifted Harry off his feet and yanked him close. Harry could see the black pits of his eyes. A light flickered in their depths, laughing at his distress.

“I told you…I would be testing you on theory, spellwork, and live response,” Snape said coolly, a smirk forming on his face. "I never said what order I would be testing you in."

And with that, he flung Harry across the stage like a rag doll.

In that moment, the world seemed to slow. His flight through the air felt like an eternity, but his instincts, honed through years of near-death experiences, kicked in. With the ease of a seasoned Seeker, Harry twisted in midair, aimed his wand at the ground, and cast a Cushioning Charm. He landed only slightly ungracefully, straightened his glasses, and fired off a quick Stupefy, which Snape sidestepped easily.

“Really? Is that all the the great Harry Potter can do?”

Harry took a deep breath, adrenaline coursing through his veins. A smile spread across his lips. Snape wanted to test his live response?

Bring it.

In quick succession, Harry fired off multiple Disarming Spells, forcing Snape to throw up a Protego. The power behind his spells pushed the professor back toward the edge of the stage, causing him to stagger.

This was the opening he needed.

Even though he had spent the last four weeks of break locked up at Potter Cottage, Harry had taken every opportunity to work on his casting. James had backed out of practice dueling with him, telling Harry that he needed to rest. At the time, Harry had been so angry with him that he didn’t care. Luckily, Sirius still came around during his “imprisonment” and had been more than happy to show Harry a few tricks.

“Glacius! Diffindo!”

The icy blue of Glacius rushed from his wand, followed closely by the sharp, red slash of the cutting hex, Diffindo. Snape’s eyes widened momentarily before he diverted the spells around him. The runes carved into the edge of the dueling platform lit up, absorbing the ice and slicing magic.

“Wherever did you learn that, Potter?” Snape huffed. It was the first sign of exertion he had shown in the entire duel. “That’s quite the deadly combination. What would you have done if that had hit me, hmm? I wouldn’t be here to clean up that mess. Not like with Draco.”

He was goading him.

Harry felt a flash of shame shoot through him. “I knew you could take it,” he snarled, dodging another curse.

It was just a flicker, but he could have sworn he saw Snape smirk.

Hit after hit, their magic clashed, waves of power erupting as years of tension and resentment burst to the surface in increasingly dangerous combinations. They were both sweating, their robes dirtied and disheveled. All Harry could hear was their heavy, ragged breathing. He could feel the room fill with their magic. With every shield and counter, it layered thicker and thicker in the air.

It was almost intoxicating.

Snape moved in uncomfortably close, so near that Harry could see his pupils dilate, the black swallowing up the already impossibly dark brown of his eyes. He was sweating too, his previously clean hair beginning to look greasy in the flickering light of the enchanted sconces.

“Ready to give up, sir?” Harry teased, breathless on adrenaline, inching back to widen the gap.

That was when a positively evil look passed across Snape’s usually stoic face, and Harry knew he was about to lose. With a precise flick of his black wand, Snape cast a glowing spell. It was the same prank students tossed around last year. Its bright light momentarily blinded Harry, concealing the powerful, wordless Expelliarmus. But Harry was too fast, his instincts razor-sharp from the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. He deflected the disarming spell with difficulty, allowing himself to be hit by the glowing spell. Its warmth washed over him, leaving a tickling sensation across his body. It was annoying but ultimately harmless. 

“Nice try, sir, but you’ll need more than that to stop me.”

“Hardly,” the dark man drawled, pointing his wand into the air and casting a spell Harry had never encountered before.

Suddenly, the room was plunged into pitch blackness, except for Harry. His glowing body stood out like a lighthouse, a beacon guiding all those lost in the dark straight to him.

He spun around quickly, desperately trying to pinpoint the older man’s location. Only the light emanating from his skin made it worse. It limited his vision, prevented his eyes from adjusting to the darkness, and turned every shadow around him into a blind spot.

Then he felt it.

A firm chest pressed against his back, and the unmistakable pressure of a wand at his throat. The distinct scent of sweat, herbs, and ink invaded his senses.

“It pays to be quiet, don’t you think, Potter?” the rich, dark voice cut through the silence, mockingly.

Harry froze.

The wand at his throat wasn’t pressing hard, but it was firm. His back was flush against Snape’s chest, heat radiating through the layers of their clothing. Every breath the man took seemed to vibrate down Harry’s spine.

“Not so bold now, are you?”

Harry swallowed hard. “I guess I failed?”

He wanted to accuse the older man of cheating, of using a dirty trick, but he knew Snape had outmaneuvered him. He had used the heat and intensity of the battle to his advantage and had caught Harry off guard.

"No..." Snape paused, carefully considering his next words. “For a student with your track record, your reflexes are…surprisingly adequate. Your instinct and intuition are sharp. So no, I would not say you failed this test.”

Snape took a step back, finally removing his wand from Harry’s throat.

“Lucem Restituere.”

The enchanted sconces flared to life, bathing the room once again in a warm, dim glow. Snape’s pale skin had taken on a slight flush, and he smoothed out his disheveled robes with brisk, practiced hands. His hair hung in a sweaty messy curtain around his face obscuring his profile from view.

“Tell me, Potter, if you were an Auror and I were your enemy, do you think you’d still be standing?”

“No,” Harry said quietly, truthfully. “But you’re not my enemy.”

The man gave Harry a puzzled look, something unreadable flickering behind his dark eyes.

“So… I really passed?”

“Yes, you passed today’s test. Why must I repeat myself?” Snape snapped, clearly displeased by Harry’s continued persistence. 

The silence that followed was thick but not tense. The air still shimmered faintly with their residual magic. It lingered in thick, invisible clouds, curling around them like smoke. Every breath Harry took was laced with it, heady and hot.

Harry finally straightened his robes, his heartbeat slowing from its frantic rhythm. His limbs ached from the impacts, and his glasses were smudged and askew, but he didn’t care. Even though he had not won, he had done it. He’d held his ground. He’d passed Snape’s first test.

Snape said nothing more. He moved to the far end of the room, his robes swishing behind him as he returned to his desk. Harry hesitated for a second, unsure if he should wait to be dismissed. When the professor didn’t so much as glance up again, he took that as his cue.

Grabbing his bag, he turned toward the door.

“Potter,” Snape’s voice called out just as Harry’s hand reached for the handle. “ Your next test will be on spellwork. I’ll see you first thing Wednesday morning.” 

“Thank you, sir.” Harry nodded once, unsure what else to say, and slipped out into the corridor.

The cool hallway air hit him like a second wind. His legs carried him toward the greenhouses, but his mind stayed behind in the dungeons. The anxiety that knotted his stomach all morning was gone, replaced by a heady, humming triumph. 

He had survived Snape. Not just survived, he’d held his own.

He pressed a hand to his chest where the glowing spell had struck. The skin did not hurt, but it still tingled faintly beneath his shirt, as if it remembered the trace of Snape’s magic. He could almost sense it even now, the way their spells had collided and tangled in the air, weaving together until it was impossible to tell what belonged to whom.

A warmth lingered in his lower belly, steady and unsettling. He didn’t know if it was adrenaline, magic, or something else entirely.

His watch chimed, Saturn spinning like a top on the face, alerting him to his next class: Herbology, which was as far from the dungeons as one could get. 

Even though he was exhausted, Harry sprinted through the corridors hoping to make his next class in time. Once he reached the greenhouses, he could already see Ron and Neville chatting near a tray of puffapods, and Hermione waving at him from the corner.

“He liiives!” Ron and Neville cheered dramatically, throwing their arms around each other in mock relief. 

Harry paused at the threshold.

He drew a breath.

Then he smiled.

Chapter Text

Harry’s first day back slipped by in a blur after that charged duel in the dungeons. Even hours later, he could still feel it humming under his skin, that sharp rush of magic and adrenaline that refused to settle. His blood felt too hot. His thoughts darted off in strange directions every time he replayed the clash of spells, the way Snape had smelled, and how his pupils had blown wide when he got close.

Harry told himself he was fine, that it was just nerves and leftover energy. However, sitting through each class felt like trying to breathe through cotton.

 Luckily, it was the first day, and each class, for the most part, turned out to be the usual syllabus slog. Teachers rattled off their N.E.W.T. expectations as if they hadn’t heard them a hundred times before.

He made it through double Herbology, elbows deep in mud, while Neville somehow managed to repot a Fanged Geranium without losing any fingers. Transfiguration tested everyone’s patience as McGonagall prowled the aisles, her sharp eyes daring anyone to slack off while she laid out exactly how demanding the year would be. 

By the time dinner rolled around, Harry almost let himself believe things were normal again.

 Almost.

The Great Hall was warm and loud, filled with the smell of roast beef and pumpkin pasties. He let the familiar hum of clinking plates and cheerful chatter settle his mind.

Ron nudged him hard enough to nearly knock over his pumpkin juice. “Oi, earth to Harry. Are you going to tell us what the greasy bat put you through or not?”

Hermione leaned in with that look she always got when she was about to dissect him like a book she hadn’t finished yet.

“It was a duel, wasn’t it?” she pressed. “You looked awful when you came to Herbology. I knew Snape could be harsh, but that’s excessive, even for him.”

Harry dragged a hand through his hair, trying not to wince when his watch caught on a knot. “Yeah, it was a duel. He’s not exactly thrilled about the situation right now, so he didn’t go easy on me.”

Ron scoffed. “Is he ever happy? He hasn’t gone easy on you or been nice to you since you first stepped through the doors, but you must have given him hell since he hasn’t shown his face at dinner.”

Harry let his eyes drift to the head table; the chair usually occupied by Snape’s dark figure sat empty. He doubted their earlier duel had affected the man that much. While tiring, Harry hadn’t landed any serious blows on the professor.

“I definitely gave as good as I got, but I doubt that’s why he’s not here. Look, Professor Crouch is missing too; maybe they’re off doing teacher things,” Harry reasoned.

“Maybe. So, are you going to tell us or not?” Ron pressed.

Harry relented, giving in to Ron’s pestering. He told them how Snape had started the duel without warning, how intense it had been, how he had used the reading and Sirius’s tips to stay on his feet longer than he should have. When he got to the part where Snape hit him with the glowing jinx and cast the room into darkness, Ron slammed his fist on the table hard enough to rattle the cutlery.

“That bloody cheater,” Ron spat through gritted teeth. “Typical Snape, can’t even fight fair with a student.”

“Ron, he didn’t cheat,” Harry said sharply. The word grated at him in a way it wouldn’t have in previous years. Sure, he’d felt that same frustration right after it happened, but that was different. If Snape had wanted him to fail, he would have. He could have ended it a dozen times worse than he did.

Ron gaped at him. “Not cheating? He hit you with some dodgy spell and trapped you in the dark. How is that not cheating?”

“It just wasn’t, okay? It was smart,” Harry shot back, the heat behind his ribs flaring hot.

Hermione’s eyes darted between them. “I have to agree with Harry,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “It was clever. He used the environment effectively and won with two basic spells. I think that is exactly what an advanced Defence class should teach you.”

Ron looked ready to argue, but Harry cut him off with a look that made his knuckles go white against the edge of the table.

“Why are you two defending him?” Ron snapped, jabbing a finger at Harry. “You’ve hated him for six bloody years! now you’re sticking up for him? What, did he hit you with a Confundus?”

“Ron, stop, you know it has nothing to do with that. Besides I am not defending Professor Snape as a person,” Hermione shot back, her tone sharp and clipped. “I am just saying he did not cheat.”

“I don’t care! Just because he helped with Draco last year doesn’t erase everything else. He’s made your life hell since first year, Harry. I don’t care how clever he was in that duel; it doesn’t change who he is.”

Harry’s chair scraped against the floor as he shifted forward, the tension in his chest spiking. “You don’t get it,” he said, trying to control the tone in his voice. “It’s not about forgiving him. He’s still a jerk half the time. It’s just, he’s the only one who will tell me when I’m not good enough, when I’ve messed up. The only one who doesn’t treat me like I’m untouchable just because I’m James Potter’s son.”

Ron snorted, his eyes narrowed. “Pretty sure Snape lives for reminding you about that. He loves it.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. He could feel the heat rising under his skin, sharper than before. “At least he says it to my face. Everyone else just whispers behind my back and expects me to be perfect because of my name.”

It was easier, somehow, when someone like Snape told him he wasn’t enough; at least then he knew where he stood.

Ron opened his mouth to snap something back, but Hermione cut in before he could. “Enough. Both of you. This isn’t helping.”

Harry let out a breath, too harsh to be a sigh. He pushed his plate away and stared at the grain of the table to keep from looking at either of them. “Drop it, all right? Just drop it.”

An awkward silence fell over their corner of the table. Hermione exchanged a look with Ron that Harry pretended not to see. Thankfully, neither of them pushed him further. They all turned their attention back to dessert instead, and the rest of dinner passed in a blur of half-hearted conversation about Quidditch tryouts and which professor would hand out the first detention of the term.

When the plates finally cleared and the Hall began to empty, the three of them slipped out together. The castle corridors were pleasantly quiet now, torches flickering low as they wandered aimlessly up one staircase and down another, enjoying an evening walk before heading back to Gryffindor Tower.

“I still think you’re mental,” Ron said, kicking at a loose stone. “But if he’s a giant prat to you, I’ll back you up.”

“Thanks, Ron,” Harry muttered, a tired grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

They were passing the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom when a voice, polite and clipped, cut through the dim corridor. “Mr. Potter. A word, if you would.”

Harry came to an abrupt stop. Professor Crouch stood in the doorway, his wide, pale eyes shifting from Harry to Ron and Hermione. He tilted his head slightly toward the classroom and gestured for them to step inside.

The three friends gave each other curious looks and followed their professor inside.

The room felt strangely cold, the familiar scent of old parchment and chalk now mixed with something damp and earthy. Harry noticed right away that Crouch hadn’t changed much since Remus had left. The desks were still arranged in neat rows, the faded paintings of magical creatures still lined the walls, and the battered trunk Remus had once used for demonstrations sat in its usual corner.

What drew Harry’s eyes, though, was the giant terrarium pressed up against the far wall. Its glass panes were clouded with thick condensation, droplets of water trailing down the inside like sweat. Vines and broad, waxy leaves pressed hard against the glass. Something inside shifted, brushing the glass with a soft scrape that made the fine hairs on Harry’s arms prickle. He couldn’t see what it was through the misted glass, only the suggestion of tangled roots and a dark shape moving behind the curtain of leaves.

Professor Crouch lingered by the door, his mouth pressed into a fine line when he caught Harry staring at the terrarium. He didn’t offer an explanation, only stepped aside and gave Ron and Hermione a look when they didn’t immediately back away.

“I am glad I was able to catch you, Mr. Potter,” the blonde man said, his tongue flicking out to wet his dry lips. “Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger, we will only be a few minutes. Feel free to wait outside or have a look around.”

Harry’s two friends made brief eye contact with him, Ron giving him a nod to let him know they’d be milling about the room until he was finished.

Professor Crouch steered Harry away toward his desk, lowering his voice so Ron and Hermione could not hear. “How is your head feeling? I noticed you were not in my class with the other N.E.W.T. students this morning.”

“Oh.” Harry’s stomach sank a little. He hadn’t really thought about how it might look from Crouch’s side. “I’m fine, sir. Sorry if that caused any trouble. I thought you knew… I mean, I figured he would have told you. I didn’t think I needed to say anything myself.”

Crouch’s eyes narrowed just slightly, though the look he gave Harry was more thoughtful than cold. “Who was supposed to tell me what, exactly?”

“Professor Snape, sir. I’ve already started the advanced course with him. Today was my first lesson.”

The moment the words left his mouth, Harry felt a flicker of worry that he’d somehow stepped on someone’s toes. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, feeling awkward under Crouch’s steady stare.

Crouch gave a thin, dry laugh. “Of course. I should have known. Professor Snape did send me a list of students he intended to consider, but I was under the impression the course would not begin until next Monday.”

He set down the parchment he’d been holding with a little more force than necessary. “I suppose he felt no need to keep me informed of his schedule.”

Harry swallowed, unsure if he should say something to defend Snape or just keep his mouth shut. He settled for nodding instead.

Crouch seemed to catch himself and exhaled slowly. “This is not your fault, Potter. I apologize if it sounded that way. I will have to speak with Professor Snape about failing to inform me of your absence from my class.”

“That’s all right, Professor. I’m a bit of a special case. There’s still a chance I won’t stay in his class.” Harry let out a small, rueful laugh. “He’s not exactly happy about this arrangement, so there’s a good chance I’ll be back in your class for the rest of the year.”

“Is that so? Well just so you know, I would love to have you.” 

A sharp yelp snapped Harry’s attention over his shoulder. “Blimey! Look at the size of that thing!” Ron’s voice cracked as he stumbled back, grabbing Hermione’s arm and pulling her a step away from the terrarium.

For the first time since Harry had met him, Professor Crouch’s lips curved into a small, oddly pleased smile. The expression softened the man’s handsome, aristocratic features, and Harry’s heart skipped a beat.

What is wrong with me? he thought, forcing down the warm rush in his chest. It was bad enough that the duel with Snape had left him feeling so rattled; the last thing he needed was to catch himself being caught off guard by the new DADA teacher. 

“I see you’ve met Nagini.”

“Nagini? It has a name?” Ron sputtered, his voice somewhere between disbelief and alarm as Hermione leaned in closer, ignoring his hand on her sleeve. “I thought it was a basilisk.”

From where Harry stood, he could see only the fogged glass and thick leaves pressing against it, but then something shifted behind the misty pane. A shape the color of old brass slid through the undergrowth. Its scales brushed the side of the tank with a faint rasp, leaving a streak of clear glass behind. Slowly, an enormous snake uncoiled from a tight knot of its own body and glided deeper into the tank, its thick tail vanishing behind a curtain of tangled vines. The faint sound of hissing sent an unpleasant chill crawling down Harry’s arms.

Crouch watched the snake with a look that seemed far too fond for Harry’s liking, and any warmth Harry had felt moments before curdled into a sharp twist of nausea.

“Nagini is harmless enough if left alone,” Crouch explained. “She prefers warmer air and privacy, which is why she stays hidden most of the day.” 

“What sort of snake is she?” Hermione asked, her voice tight with unease. Harry knew she had never been comfortable around snakes since the basilisk incident. Even now, he could see her edging back a fraction, just out of habit.

“Oh, I am not entirely sure. For a while, we thought she might be a reticulated python, but she is far too venomous and large for that.” Crouch’s voice took on a soft, almost dreamy note as he watched the shadows shifting in the tank. “Nagini is something entirely her own.”

“Venomous?” Hermione repeated, her voice tight. She leaned back from the glass, as if half expecting the snake to strike straight through it.

“Miss Granger, I understand your concern,” Crouch said, his eyes flicking to her with a glimmer of amusement. “Nagini has been my companion for many years, and I assure you I have all the proper clearances from the headmaster and the Ministry to keep her here. She is exceptionally intelligent and does not bite unless severely provoked… or instructed.”

Harry felt something cold settle in his stomach at the casual way Crouch said it. Through the swirling mist on the glass, he caught another flicker of movement. He could see a heavy coil sliding past the leaves, and for a heartbeat he thought he saw two gleaming red eyes peering out, unblinking and too aware.

Ron cleared his throat behind him. “Brilliant. Just what Hogwarts needed. Another snake.”Hermione shot Ron and Harry a quick look that made it clear she wanted to be anywhere else.

Harry kept his eyes on the terrarium a moment longer, the fine hairs at the back of his neck prickling before he forced himself to turn away.

His watch gave a sharp chime; the tiny painted Saturn lazily orbited what looked like Pluto above the delicate number eight. “Is that the time?” Harry said, glancing at Ron and Hermione and feeling almost relieved for the excuse to leave. “I’m sorry, Professor, but we need to head back to Gryffindor Tower.”

“Of course. You three have a good night,” Crouch said, waving them toward the door before pulling an old brass key from his pocket and locking the classroom behind them with a quiet click.

As Harry and his friends turned to head down the corridor, Crouch caught Harry’s arm gently, leaning in close. “If you ever need anything, whether it’s someone to talk to, help with your studies, or more dreamless sleep, don’t hesitate to come find me.”

Harry felt a small knot in his chest loosen at the sincerity in the professor’s voice. He managed a faint, grateful smile. “Thank you, Professor. Really.”

Hermione shot Harry a concerned look, and for a moment it seemed like she wanted to say something. Before she could, Harry’s watch gave another sharp chime, and whatever was on her mind slipped away. The trio hurried down the hall, hoping to avoid any more distractions along the way.

When they finally made it to Gryffindor Tower, they gave the password to the Fat Lady, who swung open with an exaggerated yawn. They stepped through the portrait hole and into the warm hush of the common room. A handful of students were still loitering near the fireplace, daring each other to eat the most revolting flavors of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans.

Hermione paused at the bottom of the girls’ staircase, her hand brushing Harry’s sleeve in silent worry. Her eyes flicked between him and Ron like she wanted to say something, but in the end she just gave Harry’s arm a quick squeeze.

“Get some sleep, both of you,” she said with a yawn before disappearing up the winding staircase.

Ron let out a tired grunt and jerked his head toward the boys’ side. “Come on, mate. I’m knackered.”

Up in their dormitory, Harry changed by the soft glow of the enchanted lanterns. Ron was already half-asleep by the time Harry crawled under his own blankets.

It took a little while, but sleep eventually found him. It dragged him under in a hot, murky haze.

In his dream, he was back on the dueling platform. The same obsidian floor gleamed ominously beneath him like black glass. Snape stood across from him, tall and slender his heavy black robes and inky black hair seemed to merge together and pool seamlessly to the floor.

The tiered seats surrounding the circular dueling platform were missing, and in their place were the massive coils of Nagini’s body. Her scales scratched roughly against one another as she let out a sharp hiss. 

Snape’s eyes pinned him first. They were dark, sharp, and impossibly steady. Harry raised his wand, breath caught somewhere in his throat. Snape mirrored him but didn’t speak. The silence stretched tight between them, a live wire under Harry’s skin.

When Snape moved, his robes billowed behind him, snuffing out the light from each sconce he passed. Spells shot from his wand in disjointed fragments the light from each hex illuminating the sharp angles of his face.

Harry’s pulse thundered as he matched him, pushing forward through the burn in his arms. No matter how hard he tried, Snape always seemed to close the distance until he was close enough that Harry could smell the musky scent of sweat clinging to him.

Suddenly, Nagini’s hiss cut through the silence like a blade. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw her massive body coil and spring forward, jaws wide. Her gleaming red eyes locked on him as her long, venomous fangs bared for the strike. Instinct made him flinch and brace for the bite, but before she could reach him, a hand shot out of the shadows. Snape’s fingers closed around Harry’s wrist, forcing his wand down. With a sharp twist of his own wand, Snape banished the serpent in a swirl of smoke that melted into the darkness. 

Harry’s breath caught as he felt the sharp press of Snape’s fingers digging into his skin, the warmth of that grip burning through the sleeve of his robes. Before he could pull back, the older man stepped in closer, close enough that Harry could feel the sweep of the man’s robes brush his legs.

He let out a gasp, the sound caught between his teeth as Snape’s other hand slid up and closed around his throat, thumb pressing lightly just under his jaw. The touch wasn’t rough, but it pinned him more completely than any spell.

The man pushed him down and Harry’s back hit the dueling platform with a muffled thud. Snape’s body pressed into his, pinning him in place, robes brushing his knees. The heat between them felt unreal. Harry’s breath hitched as Snape’s thumb traced a slow line under his ear, fingertips brushing the pulse hammering there. He didn’t understand why he didn’t fight back. Why he didn’t push the older man away. Instead, every shallow breath seemed to draw him in closer.

At last, Snape’s mouth hovered so close that Harry felt the ghost of his breath against his cheek. For one wild, reckless second, he thought he would feel it, the press of lips against his skin, the sharp scrape of teeth. Except Snape only held him there, pinning him with that dark, razor-edged stare that made Harry’s pulse hammer in his throat.

The heat of Snape’s body bled through the thin fabric of Harry’s shirt, every inch of contact sparking against his skin. Harry’s hips shifted, searching for relief he knew he shouldn’t want, a desperate friction that left him strung tight and aching when it did not come.

Then, as quickly as it came, the dream cracked apart. The platform fell away beneath him. Shadows were broken apart by shining beams of light, and he snapped awake, gasping into the cold dawn.

Harry laid in his bed, sheets tangled around his waist, chest heaving like he’d run a mile. His skin was too warm, too tight, every nerve still buzzing. It didn’t make sense. None of it. He pressed his palm over his eyes, willing the dream to dissolve. It was just stress. Just exhaustion. Just Snape worming his way into Harry’s head like he always did. 

Except a part of him wished he hadn’t woken up at all. That was the worst of it.

By the time he dragged himself out of bed and down the winding corridors, he’d forced the memory deep enough to breathe again. It was nothing. A stupid dream, nothing more. 

Outside the Charms corridor, he found Ron and Neville arguing about Quidditch lineups while Hermione waved a folded letter at him like it was a Howler about to go off.

“You missed breakfast so I grabbed this for you. It’s from your mum again,” she said, tone firm enough that he knew she knew he never responded to the first letter. Harry snatched it from her fingers with a gruff, thank you, and stuffed it into the bottom of his bag.

To Harry’s relief Charms was easy enough. Professor Flitwick squeaked through the term’s expectations while Harry sat sandwiched between Ron’s half-finished doodles and Hermione’s neat, relentless note-taking. He even managed to hover a stack of textbooks without sending them spinning into Parvati this time, which felt like the victory he needed after his troubling morning.

Care of Magical Creatures came next. The chill in the morning air had turned the grass wet and slick underfoot as the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs gathered near the paddock. Hagrid was already there, massive and beaming, with a cluster of skittish Thestrals shifting nervously behind him.

Harry felt the tension in his chest ease the moment Hagrid greeted him with a clap on the back that nearly sent him face-first into the mud.

He spent most of the lesson brushing down the side of an invisible Thestral with Neville while Ron hung back, pretending to write notes.

The hour outside helped clear Harry’s head a little, grounding him in the ordinary world of Hogwarts. 

The moment his mind drifted to the afternoon, though, his stomach gave an uncomfortable twist. Double Potions.

That dream meant nothing, Harry reassured himself. You’re just stressed…it’ll be fine.

He adjusted his bag on his shoulder, trying to shake off the cold creeping down the back of his neck. His hand lingered on the heavy wooden door for half a second before he pushed it open, holding it for Hermione, who was balancing several books and her cauldron in her arms.

Most of the class was already seated, their heads bent low as they unpacked their vials and battered textbooks.

Harry and Hermione rushed over to their seats next to Lavender and Parvati, who immediately launched into gossip about their summers. Harry felt the sharp pang of Ron’s absence. They were in almost every class together, except this one. Ron hadn’t met Snape’s strict “O” requirement to continue on to N.E.W.T.-level Potions. At the time, Harry had been disappointed. After all, they were supposed to be going into the Auror Academy together, and Potions was essential to get in. Without that, Ron would have to take supplementary courses before he could be admitted. The thought made Harry’s chest tighten, but there was no time to dwell on it.

Professor Snape stood at the front of the room. There were dark bags under his eyes, and his black robes fell around his boots like a curtain. He looked every bit like the formidable Potions Master that tormented Harry all throughout school. He was scribbling something onto the board in his sharp, spidery script.

Harry’s eyes caught on the curve of Snape’s wrist as he wrote, the slow, precise flick of his fingers oddly fascinating. 

His mouth suddenly felt dry, and he forced himself not to look away too quickly, even though his pulse jumped traitorously in his throat. 

A flash of Harry’s earlier dream flooded his mind: Snape’s body pressed into his, pinning him in place, robes brushing his knees.

Now is not the time to think about that, he scolded himself.

Snape’s dark eyes caught his and narrowed just a fraction, cold and searching, as if he could see right through Harry’s careful mask and down to every restless thought still simmering under his skin.

In the back of Harry’s mind, a panicked thought rang out like an alarm bell. What if Snape could read his mind? What if he knew? What if he had seen it all the second Harry walked in, every traitorous thought laid bare?

Harry knew the man was a Legilimens. What if he could do it without a wand? It had always seemed suspicious to Harry how Snape seemed to know exactly what he was doing or thinking. He had no idea if Legilimency was possible without a wand, but he did not want to take the chance.

Not today, not when he was so vulnerable and open, his mind buzzing with images from his dream and the feeling of Snape’s magic soaking the room.

Harry hastily tried to clear his mind, stuffing his troubling fantasy behind a flimsy paper-mâché wall.

The corner of Snape’s mouth twitched, not quite a frown and not quite a smile. He turned back to the board and continued writing as if nothing had happened.

“Quiet," Snape's voice cut through the classroom like a whip, slicing the low chatter to nothing. “Welcome to your final year of Potions,” he began pacing between the rows of cauldrons, robes whispering at his heels. “As you can see, most of your former classmates failed to meet my requirement of an O. Their absence should remind you that mediocrity has no place here.”

He stopped in front of Draco’s desk, looking down his hooked nose with an almost fond expression. “That leaves only the exceptional,” he drawled. Draco smirked at the rest of the class, his expression smug enough to make Harry clench his jaw. Taking a deep breath, Harry forced his eyes away, shoving the feeling behind the flimsy wall he’d constructed.

Snape turned sharply on his heel and continued. “I will not waste this class reciting N.E.W.T. expectations. I trust the rest of your teachers have already bored you to tears with their droning lectures. By now, you should know exactly what’s required of you.”

He paused at the front of the room, black eyes sweeping the rows. “Today we begin with the Wiggenweld Potion. A simple brew by advanced standards, yet fundamental… a testament to how easily you lot can ruin something that has existed for centuries. In the last hour of class, you will write a paper explaining why these compounds work together and what substitutions could be made without rendering the potion useless.” He turned back to the board, chalk already snapping across it in sharp lines.

Harry tried to focus—he really did—but Snape’s voice, that smooth, deliberate drawl, seemed to brush over him like smoke.

Every word seemed to sink under his skin, tugging at that raw edge he’d tried to bury that morning.

He silently thanked himself that the Snape in his dream hadn’t spoken. Harry had always found the professor’s voice too easy to get lost in. He could still remember his first day of Potions, how completely he’d been pulled under by that low, deliberate drawl. It had held him captive, right up until Snape had torn him apart in front of the whole class for not paying attention. Even now, Harry could recall every word from that lesson, each one burned into his memory in those rich, cutting tones.

“Mr. Potter, Ten points from Gryffindor for not paying attention.”

Harry felt his face burn with embarrassment as Snape’s sharp tone snapped him out of his daze. The professor stood directly in front of him, a sneer painted across his sharp features.

“As usual, Mr. Potter has decided he’s too good to answer my question.” The Slytherins snickered under their breath at their Head of House’s mocking tone. “I’ll ask one more time. What would happen if you replaced the main ingredient in Wiggenweld, Dittany, with Essence of Moly?”

For a beat, Harry’s heart stopped. His mind scrambled to process the question while he tried to control the heat crawling down his neck.

“Typical Potter. Merlin knows how you managed an O on your O.W.L. in this class. No doubt your father had to step in.”
There was a flicker of something in Snape’s eyes, disappointment perhaps, or resentment, as he began turning back to the class.

“Wait! Sorry, sir, I know this!” Harry blurted. “Moly root can be substituted for Dittany to stabilize the potion’s healing magic, though it can dull its regenerative speed.”

Snape paused mid-step, turning back slightly. For one impossible second, Harry thought he saw approval, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. Without acknowledging the answer, Snape launched back into his lecture on why the potion’s regenerative speed was affected.

Harry bristled. Would it kill him to admit that Harry got something right? Why was the man so infuriatingly stubborn? Harry’s eyes bore into the back of Snape’s head as he stalked between the desks, robes trailing behind him.

The rest of the class passed without further incident. Harry furiously scribbled out a Hermione-worthy essay on Wiggenweld substitutes, if only to prove to Snape that he had earned his O fairly, no thanks to his teaching.

As soon as Snape dismissed the class, Harry marched to the front and slammed his essay onto the desk with the others. He felt that familiar black gaze settle on him as he turned and stormed out, dragging a protesting Hermione by the sleeve and leaving his bag and books behind.

He was halfway down the corridor, Hermione now thoroughly frazzled, when he realized his mistake.
“Shoot, I forgot my bag in class,” he muttered, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “You go ahead without me.”

“Harry, what is going on with you?” Hermione huffed. “First you drag me out of class, now you’re shooing me away?”

“You’re right. Sorry. It’s just... Snape got under my skin. Wait here, I’ll be quick.”

Hermione gave him a reluctant nod, and Harry turned back toward the classroom, heart pounding in his ears.

What if Snape was still in there? He wasn’t sure he could be alone with the man. That dream was still shoved behind the flimsy wall he’d thrown up during class, barely holding.

He’d have to face Snape one-on-one in tomorrow’s Defence class, but at least that gave him time to rebuild his shield.

Professor Crouch said I could come to him for anything, Harry reminded himself as he paused just outside the Potions classroom. Maybe he knows something about Occlumency...

He pushed the door open, and his heart dropped.

Snape was still inside, and he wasn’t alone.

Standing before the professor’s desk was Draco Malfoy. His white-blond hair was immaculate as always, and in his hand was a crisp white letter trimmed in gold, sealed with deep green wax.

Both Slytherins turned to look at Harry. Draco gave a small smile and nod to Snape as their eyes met.

His stomach gave a sick twist, like the floor had just dropped out beneath him. He knew what that letter was.

Draco’s invitation to Snape’s Advanced Defence class.

Harry had known it was a possibility, that Draco might be accepted too, but somehow he hadn’t prepared for the reality of it. He hadn’t even properly apologized for last year. The thought of throwing curses at Draco again, even in a classroom, made his insides churn.

“Potter, what do you want?” Snape asked, finally acknowledging him.

“Nothing, sir. I just left my stuff behind,” Harry said, quickly gathering his bag and books.

Draco lifted the letter between two fingers with smug satisfaction. His lips curled in a smirk his glassy grey eyes flashed in triumph.

Harry’s throat tightened. Something sharp and electric shot through him and didn’t let go.

He clutched his bag a little too tightly and turned away without another word. His steps were too quick, too loud.

He really needed to get a grip before tomorrow. He wasn’t ready for this. He didn’t even know what this was.

Maybe it was time to pay Professor Crouch a visit.

Chapter Text

Severus sank into his armchair with the heavy grace of someone who had survived the day solely on spite and caffeine. 

With a flick of his wand, he summoned the decanter of firewhisky and a glass from the mantle. He poured himself a single finger and downed it in one gulp. He grimaced as the burning liquid slid down his throat, clearing his sinuses along the way.

He hadn’t slept at all the previous night, and it was finally taking its toll. With another flick of his wand, he poured two more fingers and summoned a handful of ice from the kitchenette.

Dumbledore and the other heads of houses had spent most of the previous evening strengthening the wards around the castle. 

James Potter hadn’t uncovered any leads on Harry’s assailant, but he had determined that their family’s house wards had been skillfully picked apart over a long period of time. Little by little, someone had unraveled some truly impressive family wards without being noticed.

It was concerning. Malicious, to say the least.

In response, Dumbledore had assured the Potters that the castle’s wards would be inspected and reinforced accordingly.

While Severus was irritated that the headmaster seemed so eager to indulge all of James’s ridiculous demands, he was mildly grateful to have a task to focus on. Anything to keep his mind from circling back to what had happened between him and Potter during the duel.

Severus took a small sip of the whisky.

He had, for reasons that defied logic, chosen to entertain the idea that Potter might actually be sincere in his desire to improve. 

Touching, really.

Except sincerity alone did not earn leniency. He fully intended to push him, to overwhelm him, and the moment Potter threw a fit or so much as blinked out of line, as Severus was quite certain he would, he would throw him out without a second thought.

Then when Albus inevitably came poking around for answers, Severus would point to Potter’s inability to listen or cooperate. 

Problem solved.

But then Potter had thrown him for a loop. He had met him hex for hex. He was fast, intuitive, and surprisingly powerful for a wizard his age. The adrenaline and thrill were unlike anything Severus had felt in years, and he had left the duel dazed, and achingly hard. 

Even now, he could feel the blood surging to his cock at the memory of their magic colliding and mixing together. The scent of cinnamon and fresh linen had clung to Potter; it had flooded Severus’s senses as he recalled the young man’s slightly smaller frame pressed flush against him, his back tight to Severus’s chest, his breath hitching in shared silence.

He palmed himself through his trousers. His erection gave a sharp, eager pulse at the attention.

 Merlin, how long had it been? Was it Avery? No, Yaxley… Severus grimaced, his erection softening slightly at the memory. He had never enjoyed bottoming, and the man hadn’t been gentle. The whole ordeal had been unpleasant and unsatisfying, to say the least, but at least he’d walked away with the location of the damned cup Horcrux.

The Order had the honor of stealing it away from Bellatrix, which, according to Dumbledore’s account, might have been worse than getting the information in the first place.

So yes, it had been a long time. Clearly, too long. That had been the most reasonable explanation. This was just a prolonged drought.

He took another long sip of the firewhisky, The burn barely registered as he ignored the voice in the back of his mind pointing out just how convenient that excuse was.

He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and began emptying his mind of everything. No thoughts, no feelings, no sounds, just blankness.

A flash of defiant green eyes darted through his thoughts. He could feel them boring into him like they did across the Potions classroom, searing into his back as he paced through the rows of desks.

His erection gave another throb of interest. This was ridiculous. He was thirty-seven, not seventeen. He shoved the feeling down with practiced control.

Yes, he was definitely overdue for a trip to Hogsmeade, or Knockturn Alley, if he was being honest. He would find some dimly lit corner in the Hog’s Head where he could locate a wizard desperate enough to overlook his hooked nose and not ask questions. They would both have too much to drink, get a room, and he would take what he needed, leave before dawn, and let the shame be washed away by morning.

This wasn’t about Potter.

It couldn’t be. He was a student. Severus didn’t feel that way about students, even those who were of age. That line had never blurred, not once in his entire career.

Not to mention this wasn’t just any student. Harry was James and Lily Potter’s son. If anything ever happened he would lose all hope of reconciling with Lily again.

It was decided. 

He would volunteer to accompany the students to the first Hogsmeade weekend with Minerva. Once the excursion was over, he would ask her to cover for him so he could satisfy this need once and for all.

With a final flick of his wand, he vanished the glass and stood.

The Firewhiskey had not done its job, so perhaps a walk was in order. On his desk sat five invitations arranged in a neat stack. He gathered the envelopes in one hand, the gold lettering of the names glinting in the candlelight: Nott, Granger, Thomas, Bones, and Padma Patil. Severus moved toward the door, the earlier exhaustion forgotten.

Making his way up from the dungeons, he trekked toward the owlery, his footsteps echoing softly through the stone halls.

There was something oddly comforting about Hogwarts after curfew. The castle seemed to breathe differently in the dark—quieter, slower, as if it too had finally settled into rest. The portraits slept in their frames, their soft snores and rustling parchment creating a familiar background hum.

Severus exhaled slowly, feeling the firewhisky begin to settle into his bloodstream. The sharp edges of his thoughts dulled, and the tight coil in his chest loosened by degrees. This was the peace he had been looking for.

As he approached the west tower, a laugh from a typically abandoned classroom broke the silence.

"Great. A student. Now I’ll have to take care of this too," Severus muttered to himself, stepping toward the door.

Another laugh came from behind it, and he paused. He knew that laugh. It was Potter.

Of course. Who else would it be? he thought bitterly. Still awake. Still flouting the rules. Still convinced the castle revolved around him.

He should have been in Gryffindor Tower, where the wards were strongest, where he was safe. Not skulking through corridors after curfew like nothing had happened. Not putting himself at risk. Not dragging some girl along with him, likely too foolish to realize the boy she’d latched onto had a target on his back.

His jaw tightened.

Potter let out a high-pitched squeak followed by a giggle from behind the door, and Severus heard another laugh, this one deeper, lower, and unmistakably male. A flash of red crossed his vision and before he knew it he threw the door open.

“Twenty points from Gryffindor,” he snapped, not even fully registering the room. “And detention for—”

He stopped.

The classroom was not filled with snogging teenagers. It was quiet, dimly lit, and occupied by only two figures. Potter stood at the center of the room, flushed and breathless, wand in hand and shirt slightly untucked. His stance was tense, caught somewhere between defensive and startled.

Across from him, standing just a bit too close, was Professor Crouch, arms folded and expression unreadable.

Crouch raised a brow, entirely unbothered at the intrusion. “Good evening, Severus.”

Snape’s eyes swept the room, taking in the chalked runes on the far wall, the scattered cushions, and the faint flicker of residual magical energy hanging in the air.

His gaze narrowed.

“You’re holding private sessions with a student at this hour?” His voice was cool, but there was a razor’s edge beneath it. “Without informing staff?”

“Albus is aware,” Crouch replied smoothly. “Harry asked for help, and I agreed.”

Severus’s jaw twitched. He looked to Potter, whose shoulders had tensed again under his scrutiny. The boy couldn’t seem to decide whether to speak or disappear.

“I wasn’t aware after-curfew lessons had become standard practice,” Snape muttered, his voice low and pointed.

“It was the only time I was available,” Crouch replied, glancing down at Potter with a smirk and a mock roll of his eyes. The boy laughed nervously, gaze flicking away,

Severus ignored the bait, but his eyes lingered on Potter.

Harry straightened under the scrutiny, running a hand through his unruly hair. “I asked for the extra help,” he said quickly.

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Did you?” His lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. “Now tell me, Mr. Potter, we are two days into the year. What is our esteemed Professor Crouch helping you with?”

Potter flushed at the question, the faint pink crawling up his neck and settling high in his cheeks. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again as though hoping a reasonable answer might float up from the stone floor.

“I—just some theory,” he said quickly. “Defense stuff. Practical applications, really.”

Severus said nothing. He simply stared.

The silence stretched, taut and expectant. Harry shifted under the weight of it, his fingers tightening around his wand.

Severus tilted his head, his black eyes narrowed into slits. That vague answer did not satisfy him. Nor did the way Potter refused to meet his gaze.

A part of him noted the way Harry’s chest still rose and fell too quickly, how his shirt clung to him from exertion.

Was it from training, or something else?

There was heat in his blood again, unwelcome but familiar, simmering beneath his skin. He blamed the late hour and alcohol still buzzing through his veins.

“Defence stuff,” Severus echoed flatly. “How thrilling.”

Potter shifted awkwardly at his tone, his bright green eyes darting to Professor Crouch.

As if on cue, Crouch stepped forward, not enough to challenge, but enough to insert himself squarely between them.

“Professor Snape, is this the Wizengamot Inquisition? Truly, Harry asked for help, and dare I say he was already showing improvement.” 

“Really?” Harry gasped, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Yes, we didn’t get very far, but there is potential.” Crouch stepped in closer, clasping Potter’s shoulder.

Severus felt his fingernails digging into his palm.

“If you have a complaint, I suggest you take it up with the headmaster,” Crouch said in a mocking tone, echoing Severus’s own words from the opening ceremony.

“Oh, I will,” Snape said coldly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll escort Potter back to his dormitory.”

He turned without another word, expecting Harry to follow. The boy did; Severus heard him wish Crouch a good night as he fell into step just behind. Their footsteps echoed down the corridor, sharp against the stone. Neither spoke.

Severus said nothing as they moved through the halls, his long stride carrying him swiftly through the castle. Potter walked half a step behind, his footfalls uneven, like he wasn’t sure if he should be hurrying or hesitating.

They turned a corner. Still no words. Just the silence pressing in, thick and choking.

When they were far enough from the classroom, Severus stopped abruptly.

He turned and looked Potter over.

“What were you thinking, boy?” he snapped.

Harry froze, caught off guard by the sudden outburst. His mouth opened, but Severus cut him off.

“It’s almost midnight,” he said, his voice tight. “Past curfew. Again. After everything.”

Harry’s face flushed. “It was just—”

“You were attacked four weeks ago,” Snape bit out. “The man is still at large, and you were alone with someone you hardly know. In an abandoned classroom. Do you ever think?”

“He’s a professor!” Harry shouted.  “He was just helping me. Dumbledore wouldn’t have approved it if it wasn’t safe.”

Snape stepped in fast, closing the distance. His hand wrapped around Harry’s wrist before the boy could move.

“There are bad people in this world, Potter. I don’t think I need to tell you that some of them are teachers.”

They were close now, too close. Severus could feel the boy’s breath it was warm and fast against his cheek.

“Like you?” Harry spat, shoving him back.

A shard of ice shot through Severus’s heart. For a breathless second, he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

“Yes. Like me,” Severus said softly. He had meant it as a warning, but the words tasted bitter on his tongue. Truth always did.

He could feel the faint outline of the Dark Mark beneath his sleeve.

He had been proud to receive it once. The blood on his hands and the bruises on his face had seemed, at the time, like a fair price for power.

Harry halted beside him. His eyes were wide, clearly full of regret for what he had said.

He reached out, hesitant.

Severus turned, his face unreadable.

“Save it, Potter,” he said, voice like ice.

He resumed walking without another word.

They reached the staircase outside Gryffindor Tower in silence. The Fat Lady was snoring softly in her frame, oblivious.

“Potter,” Severus said, stopping him before he could give the password. “Myself and the rest of your teachers have spent the last two nights reinforcing the castle wards at your father’s request. Try not to waste our efforts by getting yourself killed.”

Harry’s shoulders tensed.

“Professor…” he said quietly, eyes dropping. “I didn’t mean what I said earlier. I know you’re trying to protect me. If you’d wanted to hurt me… you would’ve done it a long time ago.”

He hesitated. “Even when I deserved it, you never have.”

Severus watched him.

There was something different about the boy lately. Not just the magic. Not just the recent effort.

He looked older.

Harry muttered the password.

Before the portrait could swing open, he paused and turned.

“Goodnight, sir.”

Severus didn’t respond. He gave a single, sharp nod, then turned away before the boy could say anything else.

He did not look back.

After finally dropping off the remainder of the invitations to his Advanced DADA class, Severus was relieved to be back in his dungeon quarters. Tucked into bed, the exhaustion from earlier finally pulled him under into a dark, dreamless sleep.

*******

The next morning arrived with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, which Severus deeply resented.

He sat at the staff table in the Great Hall, nursing a scalding cup of coffee as if it were a lifeline. He had gotten three or maybe four hours of sleep. All because of that brat.

Sunlight slanted in through the enchanted ceiling, and the morning chatter of students buzzed like insects in his ears. His spoon clinked against the rim of his second cup of coffee, and he made no move toward the eggs cooling on his plate.

Across the table, Dumbledore prattled on in a low, pleasant tone about something involving the Herbology greenhouses and exploding puffshrooms. Severus hummed vaguely in response, his eyes fixed beyond the row of pitchers and jam jars.

Harry Potter had just entered the Hall.

He looked... about as well as Severus felt. His hair was its usual mess, but the shadows beneath his eyes were darker than normal, and his gait slower. He rubbed the side of his neck absently as he trailed behind Granger and the Weasley girl. Severus watched him sit down without speaking, dragging his breakfast toward him as if it were a chore.

Good. The boy was tired. That made two of them.

“You should have seen Pomona’s face when it went off,” Dumbledore said with a chuckle. “She was covered in spores, poor thing, though I did warn her about the humidity.”

“Headmaster,” Severus interrupted quietly, not bothering to look up from his cup. “Did you authorize Professor Crouch to tutor Potter?”

“Why, yes. Barty approached me yesterday with the request. I saw no reason to deny it,” Albus said evenly.

Severus sighed in exasperation. Crouch hadn’t been lying after all. This would have been so much easier if he had.

“Severus, I do not see the problem,” Dumbledore said distractedly, as he upended what looked like half the sugar jar into his tea. “Harry is of age and, as such, is permitted to seek additional instruction on his own. He approached Barty for help, and Barty agreed.”

“Were you aware that the lessons were happening after curfew?” Severus inquired.

 Albus’s hand immediately stopped stirring the liquid sludge in his cup. 

“Pardon me?” The sharp blue eyes peered up at Severus through half-moon spectacles. For the first time in years, Severus felt a flicker of unease in the grand wizard’s presence. He proceeded to occlude, locking away the feelings he had suffered over the last few days and leaving only the interaction with Crouch and Harry in the classroom accessible.

“Well,” Severus cleared his throat. “Last night, I was on my way to deliver the invitations to my class when I stumbled upon the pair in an unused classroom in the west wing. Professor Crouch said he had cleared the session with you. I just wanted to verify.” 

A flicker of something passed behind Dumbledore’s eyes: surprise, then thoughtfulness

“I wasn’t aware the sessions were taking place that late,” he admitted. “Thank you for bringing it to my attention. I’ll speak with Professor Crouch.”

He sipped his tea, unhurried.

“Ah, perfect.” Dumbledore smacked his lips. “Would you like some?” he offered, trying to hand the cup to him. Severus gave him a look usually reserved for dunderheaded students and said nothing, his silence serving as his refusal.

The Headmaster shrugged and continued to sip his tea happily.

“Sometimes, Severus, new staff have difficulty adjusting to living where they work,” he added mildly. “Lines can blur. I’m sure it wasn’t intentional.”

Severus scoffed.

“Now, now, my boy. I will talk to him. However, I must give him some grace. If I remember correctly, you weren’t the best at managing that aspect of being a teacher here either.”

“That was completely different,” Severus huffed. “I was spying for the Order while still pretending to be a Death Eater spying on you.”

“Yes, yes, it was quite complicated, wasn’t it?” Albus chuckled. “However, we still cannot be too hard on Crouch. It’s not every day a student asks to be trained in Occlumency. Let’s call it overenthusiasm for more obscure academic pursuits. He did work for the Department of Mysteries, after all.”

Severus froze.

Occlumency? Potter wanted to learn Occlumency from Crouch? That was not a casual pursuit. Why had he asked that Ministry stooge and not him? It was well known that Severus taught a unit on mind magic.

Unless he had something to hide.

The Potions Master’s black gaze fell on the boy. The morning owls swooped in overhead, dropping letters and parcels onto eager students’ laps. Severus could faintly hear the excited murmuring of the selected seventh years as they received their formal invitations, but he barely registered it. He was still watching Potter. 

What are you hiding?

Hermione waved one of the gilded letters excitedly over her head, and Harry gave his friend a wide smile and a hug, congratulating her sincerely. The other boys at the table mock-bowed to the girl as if she were some kind of Gryffindor royalty. It was all noise, laughter and warmth, irritatingly wholesome.

The spectacle almost made Severus look away.

Almost.

Then Potter’s smile faltered. His hand dipped beneath the table, and for a split second, Severus caught a glint of irritation. It was something that didn’t belong in the scene.

Potter pulled a folded piece of parchment from beneath his plate and shoved it quickly into his bag. The movement was careful and meant not to draw attention. It wasn’t one of the gilded invitations. Severus knew that much. It clearly wasn’t meant to be shared.

Why hide it?

His eyes narrowed. The boy’s shoulders had stiffened just slightly, a brief flash of discomfort, before he forced a laugh and rejoined the celebration around him, pretending nothing had happened.

Except Severus had seen it. More importantly, he had seen the look on Potter’s face just before the mask slipped back into place.

That letter wasn’t part of the festivities. It was something else. Something that didn’t sit right.

Potter didn’t want anyone else to see it.

That was enough.

Severus stood abruptly, his chair scraping slightly against the stone floor. A few staff members glanced his way, but Dumbledore said nothing. He turned on his heel and swept from the Hall.

As he made his way to his Defence classroom, his mind churned over the conversation with Dumbledore about Potter’s sudden interest in Occlumency. Feelings and observations from the last few days floated through his mind like abstract puzzle pieces.

The letter after the attack, the sudden effort, the duel, his odd behavior in Potions and Occlumency.

Severus’s eyes remained fixed ahead, but his mind was anything but still. Thoughts flicked past like shuffled cards, each one sharp-edged and out of place.

“Professor.”

He didn’t respond. His jaw shifted slightly, teeth grinding as his fingers tapped once against his thigh.

What did all of those things have in common? What would Potter need to shield from him?

“Professor.”

A twitch in his temple. The boy had been jumpy and unpredictable. One moment he was eager, the next evasive. Then there was that cursed duel. It was too practiced to be pure instinct.

Potter hadn’t been the same since last Christmas.

Since Draco.

Severus’s breath hitched so slightly it barely registered. His gaze remained forward, but a bitter taste rose in his throat. The hallway. The blood. His godson crumpled like a discarded cloak.

Potter stood there, his wand still humming, his mouth trembling but silent.

There had never been an apology to Draco. Not even the pretense of one. Harry had seen Draco receive his invitation after Potions. He had visibly stiffened, lips tight, fists clenched for the briefest second.

Jealousy? Guilt?

It was not lost on Severus that Potter had a long history of reckless schemes and hidden motives. Especially when Draco Malfoy was involved.

“Professor!”

The voice finally cut through. Severus blinked. Potter stood before him now, eyes wide with something like concern.

“Are you all right?” the boy asked.

Severus stared at him for a beat too long.

His gaze dropped to Potter’s hand, fingers curled loosely around his wand.

“Yes,” Severus said at last, voice low and steady. He glanced around, as if seeing the classroom for the first time. He had no memory of reaching it, let alone sitting at his desk.

Apparently, he had.

Potter was watching him closely, his bright green eyes filled with worry.

“Last class, you said you would be testing me on spellwork,” Harry said, giving his wand a light wave.

Composing himself, Severus swept across the classroom and onto the central dueling platform. With a flick of his wand and a wordless spell, he conjured a perfect ring of chalky blue light in the center of the stage.

“Potter, step inside the ring.”

The boy moved obediently into position, his wand still raised, eyes fixed on Severus with cautious anticipation. No doubt he was bracing for whatever challenge lay ahead.

Another flick, and five will-o’-the-wisps appeared, drifting lazily through the air. Their pale-blue flames cast ghostly reflections across the obsidian floor, bobbing and weaving in unpredictable arcs.

“Your task is to neutralize each target using nonlethal spells only,” Severus instructed. “Five targets. Five different spells. No repetition. Extra points for nonverbal casting. Step outside the ring, and you fail. Understood?” 

Harry gave a short nod. Severus could already feel the boy’s magic rising, golden and coiled, thrumming faintly in the air around them.

He stepped aside, arms folded.

Harry struck first. A sharp flick—Rictusempra. The first wisp jolted and spun wildly in midair, shuddering with suppressed giggles before vanishing in a puff of smoke.

Strange choice, but effective.

Harry turned, tracking the next target. Arresto Momentum followed, cast cleanly. The second wisp froze mid-flight, locked in place.

Severus watched intently.

The boy’s control had improved. His footing adjusted smoothly with each cast, his wand steady, his magic bending with intent. It no longer lashed out the way it used to. It curved.

That was new.

Then Glacius shot from his wand. The ice spread over the third orb, cracking it with a brittle snap.

Next, Depulso flared to life, sending the fastest of the remaining orbs rocketing into the stands. It vanished with a quiet puff of smoke, extinguished before it could rebound.

Severus narrowed his eyes.

He could feel the familiar, reckless surge of Potter’s magic fill the air. He was starting to lose focus.

Finally, the last wisp veered toward the edge of the stage, darting sharply to avoid Harry’s line of sight. Wordlessly and without hesitation, Harry pivoted, his wand slicing the air in silence.

Expulso.

The spell hit like a battering ram. The wisp exploded with a thunderous crack, light and smoke rippling across the classroom like a shockwave.

“Points off for that one, Potter,” Severus said, voice low but biting. “They were supposed to be nonlethal spells.” He stalked a step closer, eyes fixed on the boy.

“You are not seasoned enough to control Expulso properly. Even full Aurors have difficulty managing the blowback.”

Harry turned within the ring to face him, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

“But I did it wordlessly!”

“True,” Severus replied coldly. “Which is why I haven’t failed you.”

The stage was charged now, the air thick with ambient magic. Severus could feel it, golden and wild, humming just beneath the surface like a storm waiting to be called down. It soaked into the stone, sharp and unrestrained.

His pulse ticked up, uninvited.

He wanted the boy to step out of the circle. He wanted an excuse. Any excuse to end this confusing madness.

The scent of cinnamon rolled through the room like perfume, intoxicating, clinging to his skin and lungs, making it hard to focus.

For a moment, Severus was back in that hallway. Draco’s blood was warm on his hands, and Harry stood nearby, frozen in shock, smelling of blood, sweat, and that damn cinnamon.

Then came the laughter.

James and Sirius were somewhere behind him, howling like jackals.

“What’cha got there, Sinvilus?”

His fingers twitched involuntarily.

He inhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself back into the present.

Then a thought itched at him, crawling down the back of his neck and refusing to be dismissed.

“Prepare yourself,” Severus said suddenly, stepping toward Potter.

Harry turned, startled. 

“Sir?”

Severus’s eyes were dark and unreadable. 

“Occlumency. Now.”

Harry’s lips parted. “I... wait, what?”

“I said prepare yourself,” Severus repeated coldly. “The circle is still there, isn’t it? This test isn’t over. Now prepare yourself.”

Harry hesitated.

That flicker again. That moment of tension, part alarm, part resistance.

It was all the confirmation Severus needed.

He raised his wand.

“Legilimens.”

The spell snapped into place like a trap closing.

The world bent, twisted, then dropped.

Severus was no longer standing in the dungeon classroom. He was sinking, sliding downward through smoke and flickering light, past snatches of memory that darted away at his approach. Harry’s mind tried to resist, not well, not instinctively, but just enough for Severus to feel the raw emotion scratching beneath the surface.

Doors.

They rose up around him, tall and narrow, stretching endlessly in both directions. Some pulsed faintly with magic. Others throbbed like wounds.

“So Crouch was teaching you the door method... how rudimentary,” Snape muttered to himself as he strolled down the corridor.

The door method had been designed for those who struggled to control their emotions. The mind would construct doors to contain the occluder's memories. Most would be left unlocked or little more than empty frames, allowing any Legilimens to wander freely. Only the memories the occluder wished to protect would be locked and, ideally, inaccessible to an intruder.

Against your average Legilimens, it was effective. The victim of the mental attack could focus all their energy on keeping their secrets hidden behind the endless doors, concentrating especially on those that were locked. There was no need to clear the mind of thoughts and feelings entirely.

However, to an advanced practitioner, this defence was flimsy. All the experienced Legilimens had to do was locate the locked doors and break the wards.

Simple enough.

Severus strolled down the blinding white corridor, his magic brushing lightly against the various colored doors as he passed.

Behind one, painted a lovely shade of orange-red, he heard Lily’s laugh echo softly. He paused mid-step, tempted to open it, to see her again, but that was not why he was here.

He needed to find the door that held Draco. He needed to know what Harry had planned for his godson.

Further and further he traveled into the boy’s mind, making quick work of eliminating the doors that held no interest. When he finally came upon the first locked door, Severus wasn’t sure what to make of it. The door was massive and made of stone, resembling the face of a cave wall more than a proper entrance. He couldn’t sense any feelings or intent behind it, no emotional signature to indicate what lay beyond.

So he forced his magic into the lock, crumbling it like dry clay.

The room beyond was not what he had expected.

A vast black lake stretched before him, its waters perfectly still. In the center sat a small island, dimly lit from an unseen source. A paddle boat had been abandoned at the shoreline, and on the island he could just make out the shape of a teenager beside a house-elf. Sirius Black’s voice drifted across the water like a whisper.

“He couldn’t bring himself to make Kreacher drink the potion. So he drank it himself. Writhing in pain and dying from the poison burning through his body, he begged Kreacher to take the locket and destroy it.”

This was the wrong room.

Severus didn’t know what he had stepped into, but it wasn’t what he had come for, and whatever emotion was attached to it disturbed him more than he cared to admit. There was something in it, a desperate loneliness, maybe, or a kind of delusional hope. His brow furrowed.

He didn’t have time to dwell on the boy’s strangeness. He needed to move on.

Potter had made a foolish mistake by clustering his locked doors too closely together. One of them had to contain what he was hiding about Draco.

Severus stepped up to the next door. Unlike the previous one, it was small, almost like a cupboard. A multitude of locks clung to the outside, which was unusual for a door meant to keep others out. He thought he heard a faint voice calling for help from behind it, weak and distant.

As with the first door, he pushed his magic into the locks. A few of them clicked open, but the door remained firmly shut.

Strange.

Suddenly, Severus felt a surge of panic from Harry, sharp and jarring. Before he could react, the sensation yanked him backward. Potter was dragging him away from the cupboard door, hurling him toward another memory with all the mental force he could muster.

He slammed into the dungeon bathroom.

The place where the duel had taken place.

How subtle.

The strange little door slipped from his mind as Severus redirected his focus. He made short work of the locks on the bathroom door, casting them aside with practiced ease.

As the final one gave way, a torrent of memory and emotion poured into him like a crashing wave.

The bathroom shimmered into view, but the memory did not begin there.

Instead, it splintered.

Memories surged forward in a disjointed flood, years of bitterness compressing into jagged flashes.

“Out of the way, four eyes,” Draco sneered, pushing Harry hard into a corridor wall. The crack of his back against stone rang in his ears.

Hermione flinched under the word “Mudblood,” her jaw tight as the students around her looked away or snickered behind their hands.

A sea of Slytherins filled the Potions classroom, all wearing enchanted badges.

Support Cedric Diggory! Potter Stinks.

The slogans rotated each time a student pressed the badge. Draco stood at the edge of the crowd, howling with laughter.

Harry raged internally at the injustice. He hadn’t even wanted to be in the tournament. He had been entered as a cruel prank by a Slytherin seventh year who was still bitter about being on the wrong side of the war.

Laughter echoed in the Great Hall as chocolates turned to dung in Harry’s hands right as he took a bite.

Year after year. Slight after slight. Petty cruelties stacked like bricks. No single moment defined the torment. It was the sum of them, the daily grind of dismissal, humiliation, and whispered ridicule. Draco was always somehow at the center.

And then, a corridor outside the library.

Harry, alone, turned a corner too quickly. A group of Hufflepuff sixth years came into view. They were huddled together, whispering in excited tones.

“Did you hear? Malfoy said he saw Potter kissing Corner.”

“No—really? Michael Corner?”

“He swore on his broom. Said it happened after Astronomy.”

“Well, that explains a lot. He’s never had a girlfriend, has he? Potter’s a poof.”

“Finally,” another boy added with a laugh, “do you think I have a shot? He looks like he would like them strong.”

“Not a chance!”

The group howled. The joke was light, stupid, thoughtless.

Harry froze.

The world tilted.

Severus couldn’t tell if the feeling was coming from him or Harry, but the blood drained from his face, then surged back with such force he thought he might be sick.

Harry and Michael Corner had been discreet. They were trapped under the mistletoe. It didn’t mean anything.

He wasn’t supposed to want that.

He could feel it. The confusion. The panic. The red-hot fury twisting around his heart like a vine of thorns.

If his dad heard…

Severus couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. The magic inside him trembled, crackled. It burned for him to get out, but he held on longer.

The memory lurched.

Suddenly, they were back in the dungeon bathroom.

Draco sneered.

Harry shouted.

A single dark spell fell from his lips.

Blood.

So much blood.

Draco fell like a puppet with its strings cut, chest torn open, water pooling beneath him, his face ashen and mouth open in a silent scream.

Harry stared, wand loose in his hand, eyes wide with horror.

Then the guilt hit.

It was not a pang. It was a flood. Drowning. Suffocating.

Crushing.

Beneath it was something even more unsettling.

A strange warmth. A flicker of relief.

Severus entered the memory then, striding forward, commanding the chaos, steady and unshaken. Harry’s eyes locked on him.

Not with hatred.

Not with fear, but with awe.

Like no one had ever stood between him and the storm before.

Like he had been waiting his whole life for someone to simply step in.

It was too much.

Severus ripped himself from the boy’s mind with a sharp gasp. The classroom rushed back in, the light too bright, the air too thin.

He staggered once, one hand braced on the desk.

Harry still stood in the center of the dueling circle, dazed, chest heaving, green eyes wide.

Severus could not speak. He could barely think.

He had gone too far. Merlin, he had gone way too far.

They were both sweating.

The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the soft pant of their breaths and the distant ticking of the classroom clock. Severus’s wand was still gripped in his hand, but his arm hung slack at his side.

Harry was kneeling on the floor, one hand braced against the stone, his hair hanging over his face. He looked like he might cry, or scream, or haul back and punch Severus across the jaw.

Frankly, Severus wouldn’t have blamed him if he chose the latter.

He had crossed a line he had no business even approaching. He had no excuse, not as a professor, not as a man who’d once prided himself on being better than the likes of those who had abused him with their power.

But all Harry said, voice shaking, barely above a whisper, was, “...You’re not going to tell my dad, are you?”

Severus blinked in surprise.

Of all the things the boy could say, should say, that was what came out?

Not “How dare you.” Not “What gives you the right?” Not “Stay out of my head, you bastard.”

Just, please don’t tell my father.

There wasn’t fear of punishment in Harry’s voice. It was something heavier. Sadder.

Something far more familiar than Severus wanted to admit.

He had assumed Potter and his father were joined at the hip. That the boy practically idolized him, was a mirror of him. That tone, that terror, didn’t come from someone worried about being grounded.

It came from someone afraid of rejection. Even though same-sex couples were common in the wizarding world, Harry had reason to believe otherwise.

A lump rose in Severus’s throat. He swallowed once.

Then, against every instinct, against decades of carefully sharpened detachment, he allowed himself a sliver of vulnerability.

“I once knew a boy,” Severus said slowly, waiting for Harry’s small, crumpled form to turn to him. “He was a half-blood.”

Harry finally looked at him, his eyes red.

“He was brilliant, isolated, and painfully different from the other children. He was ugly and poor, and every day the other students made sure he knew it.”

Severus turned away, pacing once before resting a hand on the edge of his desk. “He liked blokes more than girls. He hadn’t told anyone. Not because he was ashamed, but because he knew what it would mean.”

Harry still watched him quietly. He was no longer curled in a tight ball.

“His father was a Muggle,” Severus said, the words bitter as they left him. “A cruel one. He didn’t need a reason to be violent, but if he ever found that out, it would give him a reason. Something solid. Something to hate.”

He didn’t look at Harry as he spoke the last part.

“I will not say a word.”

More silence. For a moment, Severus thought perhaps Harry would ask more. He didn’t. He simply sat there, still breathing heavily, still damp with sweat and shame and exhaustion.

Then, very quietly, Harry asked, “Did I pass?”

The question almost stunned him.

The whites of Harry’s eyes were still pink, but it only made the green burn brighter, raw and unguarded. There was no lingering shock or anger, just the tiniest flicker of hope beneath the wreckage.

Severus nodded once.

“Yes. You passed,” he said. “Friday will be the theory portion.”

He hesitated. “You are dismissed.”

Harry stared at him for a second longer. He gave a weak, crooked smile. The kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes but still softened the bruised edges of his expression.

Severus almost reached for him.

He wanted to ask if he was all right. To offer something he didn’t know how to put into words.

Before he could move, Harry stood abruptly, collected his bag, and turned for the door. He left behind only the soft click of the door closing, and the faint scent of cinnamon and fresh linen that clung to the air like a ghost.

With a slow breath, Severus finally sat down.

Something inside him had changed.

He no longer saw James.

He no longer saw a brat.

He saw someone else.

Someone vulnerable.

Someone in desperate need of protection.

Chapter Text

Harry didn’t remember walking to Herbology. One moment he was pushing open the door to Snape’s classroom, lungs aching for air, and the next he was gripping a pair of pruning shears while Neville struggled to distract a particularly aggressive Venomous Tentacula.

What had just happened?

The ground beneath his boots felt uncertain, like it might shift at any moment. His thoughts were slow and foggy, wrapped in the same dull haze that blurred his vision. He moved automatically, trimming the writhing vines.

It seemed like every time the shears sliced through a vine, another tremor passed through his hands.

Harry wanted to fling the shears across the greenhouse, mount his broom, and vanish into the sky.

But he didn’t.

He just kept trimming, kept moving like he always did, despite the trembling in his hands and the dull thrumming building behind his eyes.

Snape had seen so much. Not everything, thank Merlin, but enough to cause Harry’s mind to race and his stomach to clench uncomfortably.

At least some of Professor Crouch’s training had worked, he thought to himself miserably. If only I had more time to practice with him the night before. If only Snape hadn’t found us and ruined everything.

Harry clenched his jaw and snipped another vine.

Harry had not known what to expect when he made his request, but Crouch had jumped at the opportunity. Within hours, he had it approved by Dumbledore and told Harry to meet him in the West Wing after curfew, once he had finished wrapping up some Ministry business.

Harry could see how the rigid man had earned twelve O.W.L.s. He had been engaging and sharp, and he broke down the Room Method into simple, clear steps. And by the time they began actual practice, Harry had already started locking away the more uncomfortable memories and emotions, tucking them into mental spaces he thought even Snape would struggle to reach.

Then Snape had stormed in like a thundercloud, and the lesson was over.

"Just my luck, my rotten, rotten luck," Harry muttered, barely loud enough to hear over the rustle of leaves.

"What was that?" Neville asked, tightening the rope looped around the Tentacula's main stalk. "I didn’t catch that."

“Nothing. Just talking to myself,” Harry replied quickly, tossing one of the trimmed vines into the growing pile beside him.

He gritted his teeth. He just needed more time. A little more instruction. Then maybe, just maybe, he could have kept Snape from walking through his mind like it was the aisle at the market, stopping to inspect whatever he pleased without permission.

At least he hadn’t seen the dreams.

Harry was certain he would have died of embarrassment if Snape had seen those dreams. It was bad enough that the man had uncovered the real reason behind last year’s disastrous duel. But the dreams were something else entirely. He didn’t think he could have handled Snape finding out that, for the past two nights, he had been appearing in Harry’s sleep.

Not as a professor, but as a tormentor.

The first dream had replayed the duel. It was charged and tense, filled with the same reckless heat that had driven Harry to seek out Professor Crouch in the first place. However, the second dream had shifted. Snape’s hands were no longer wrapped around a wand, but around Harry’s wrists, his hips, and lower still. His voice had softened into something unfamiliar, low, smooth, and coaxing, whispering Harry’s name in that sinfully dark tone that still echoed long after he woke.

In the dream, Snape had kissed him with a gentleness that caught Harry off guard, only for it to turn fierce and possessive. He had pressed Harry against a closed door, lips demanding, hands wandering as their mouths clashed in a different kind of duel.

It terrified him. Yet it left him breathless, aching, and wanting in a way he didn’t understand.

His grip tightened on the shears until the metal dug sharply into his palm. The Tentacula twitched, sensing the shift in tension. Harry swallowed hard and forced his fingers to loosen.

Merlin, God, or Fate, whatever power had been watching, had saved him from that final humiliation.

He pulled off his gloves with shaking hands and pressed his bare palms to his eyes. The pressure behind them was building fast. A wave of dread swept through his chest as he realized what was happening. The mental attack had triggered a migraine.

In the back of his mind, he could still see Snape’s face from earlier. It was far paler than Harry had ever seen it, his eyes wide, jaw slack. The sheer depth of emotion etched across the man’s features had stunned him.

Harry sucked in several shaky breaths, trying to steady himself, trying to hold back the rising nausea. He could hear Neville saying something nearby, but his voice was muffled, warped, like it was coming from underwater.

He promised.

He promised.

He promised.

The words looped in his head, over and over again like a spell he was desperate to believe.

Harry had been so sure Snape would laugh, would sneer, would spit the memory back in his face with all the venom he was known for. He had braced himself for it, convinced the man would march straight to James Potter and expose everything.

Except he didn’t.

Those black eyes had held something Harry couldn’t identify. Not pity. Not anger. Just something quiet and steady. Then the man had offered a piece of himself. A glimpse of something raw and human. A softness he had never thought him capable of, and that, maybe, no one else had ever been allowed to see.

“Potter? Are you all right, dear?” Professor Sprout’s voice sounded far away. A firm, earth-stained hand touched his shoulder, guiding him upright. “Easy now, let’s get you some air—”

Harry swayed. The ground tilted. His stomach turned violently.

Snape had done it to steady him. To show him that his secret was safe. That he was not alone.

He barely had time to gasp before he lurched forward and vomited, the contents of his stomach splattering across Professor Sprout’s robes.

He promised, he told himself again, clinging to the thought just as the migraine struck in full. It was an explosion of white-hot agony behind his eyes that drowned everything in blinding light.

Then everything went black.

****************

When Harry awoke, the first thing he felt was the pillow: soft, clean, and carrying a faint hint of lavender. Then came the smell of antiseptic and mint. When he opened his eyes, the dim light of torches filled them, making him squint against the glow. His head throbbed as if it had been split in two, the pain duller now but still pulsing behind his eyes with every heartbeat.

He turned his head carefully, hoping to avoid a fresh wave of pain. He was lying beneath crisp white sheets, surrounded by white curtains on one side.

He was in the hospital wing.

A groan slipped out before he could stop it. His mouth was dry, his tongue thick. He tried to lift his head, but the effort sent a sharp bolt through his skull that pinned him back down.

He could hear Madam Pomfrey speaking somewhere in the distance. Her voice was tense, growing sharper as whoever she was speaking to raised theirs in return.

Harry turned his head slightly and caught a glimpse of black.

It was Snape.

The older man sat on the curtainless side of the bed. Despite his crossed legs and the arm draped loosely over the back of the chair, he looked anything but relaxed. In his right hand, he held a small black book, open in the middle.

When green met black, Snape snapped the book shut.

Harry closed his eyes again, heart pounding with something that wasn’t quite fear but wasn’t anything safe either. He kept them shut, willing his breathing to steady. Maybe if he stayed still enough, Snape would leave. Maybe this was all just a twisted coincidence and Snape wasn’t really sitting there, watching him like a hawk.

The scrape of a chair leg cut through the quiet.

“Am I supposed to believe you’re sleeping?” Snape said, his voice low with a dry chuckle. “I’m well aware you’re awake.”

Harry’s face burned. Why did he think that would work? Slowly, he opened his eyes again and turned his head just enough to see the Potion Master clearly. Snape sat in a chair by the foot of the bed. His arms were now folded, and one knee was still crossed neatly over the other. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze was sharp as ever, assessing.

Harry rubbed his face. “How long have I been out?”

“Four hours. You vomited on Professor Sprout and promptly collapsed.”

A flush crept up Harry’s neck. “Right. Is she okay?”

Snape tilted his head slightly. “Consider yourself fortunate that she is more patient with dramatics than I am.”

Harry stared at the ceiling. The ache behind his eyes had lessened, but the pressure still lingered, like a storm cloud waiting to break.

“It wasn’t on purpose.”

“I gathered,” Snape said coolly. “Contrary to popular belief, Potter, I am capable of recognizing that not every humiliating display of yours is a plea for attention.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard. That almost sounded like a joke. Was Snape teasing him? Was he still hallucinating?

Snape leaned forward and poured water from a pitcher into the glass on Harry’s nightstand. “That was a rather severe migraine,” he said, offering the glass.

“Yes. I’ve never had one bad enough to make me throw up before.” Harry took the water and drank it greedily, finishing it in a few large gulps.

“Unsurprising really. Your technique is sloppy. Predictably so.”  Snape said. He reached for the glass and refilled it. “That kind of migraine is textbook mental backlash, an entirely common side effect when reckless amateurs shove their way through Occlumency without discipline.”

“I wasn’t being reckless,” Harry muttered accepting the refilled glass.

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “Meeting with Professor Crouch, someone you know nothing about as a practitioner of mind magic, after curfew, and allowing him into your head is reckless, Potter.”

Harry pushed himself up slightly, wincing at the dull throb behind his eyes. “And what about you? You had no right to break in like that.”

“No,” Snape said after a pause. “I didn’t.”

The admission hung in the air between them.

Harry looked at him then, really looked. The lines around Snape’s eyes were deeper. He looked tired.

Harry's chest tightened, and a familiar knot twisted in his stomach.

"I know you said you wouldn’t," he murmured, "but you’re really not going to tell anyone?"

"I already answered you once. Must you waste my breath?” Snape sneered impatiently.

Harry studied him, searching for a crack, a smirk, some trace of cruelty. He found none.

"Thank you," he said quietly. The knot in his stomach loosened. He offered Snape a small smile before taking another sip of water. 

A dull thrum of pain pulsed and Harry grimaced before setting his cup down.

“Potter,” Snape said coolly, the tips of his ears turning faintly pink as he looked away. “If you have something on your mind, spit it out. Sulking will not spare you.”

Harry frowned. Was Snape really offering to listen to his problems? It was clear the man regretted this morning’s intrusion, and with the way he was acting now, Harry couldn't help but hope, just a little, that Snape might be starting to see him as more than James’s clone. 

"Uhh... thanks for the offer, sir," Harry said carefully, "but I think you're all caught up on the Harry-Draco situation now." He tried to sound diplomatic. "I could use some help clearing the air between us though. I'd prefer not to have any issues in Potions or your Defence class this year."

Snape looked momentarily surprised, then frustrated.

"That is not what I meant, Potter. Earlier, there was a cave..."

Harry froze. It felt like a cold hand had wrapped around his heart. Somewhere in the carefully constructed corridors of his mind, the cupboard door gave a loud, echoing pound.

"That was nothing."

"It didn’t feel like nothing," Snape pressed, leaning over to refill his glass again.

Harry pulled the glass away with a small shake of his head. Snape paused, then sat back, arms crossing over his chest.

"Seriously, it’s nothing," Harry insisted. "The cave is just from a story Sirius told me when I was a kid. I was really fixated on it, that’s all. I haven’t thought about it in years."

He hoped that explanation, vague as it was, would be enough to make Snape let it go.

Harry hated the way those dark eyes bore into him. Hated it, because he also loved it.

Snape stood and leaned over him again. His long black hair fell like a curtain, framing the sharp lines of his face. He wasn’t conventionally attractive, not by any standard. But There was something about him that made it difficult to look away.

“Thank you, Severus,” Madam Pomfrey said as she swept into view, a small wooden tray floating behind her, carrying two stoppered vials. “For fetching the migraine potion and keeping an eye on him while I dealt with the paperwork and his parents. It seems Hogwarts never runs out of injuries to catalog.”

Snape inclined his head without a word.

"You can get back to your class now. I’m sure this year’s lot is already up to no good," she teased, already reaching for the tray.

"Of that I’m certain. Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs make for a surprisingly destructive combination. A bunch of know-it-alls and enablers. I wouldn’t be surprised if half the classroom is gone when I get back." With that, he gave a clipped nod and turned toward the exit.

Harry watched him go, his back straight, his robes whispering along the tile. He didn’t exhale until the door swung shut behind him.

"You talked to my parents?" Harry asked, exasperated. He would bet ten Galleons that whoever had been raising their voice at Pomfrey earlier was his dad.

Pomfrey set the tray down on the bedside table and immediately began fussing over his covers. "Yes. I had to give them a fire call to ask about your condition since you were asleep. Your dad seemed quite certain that you have never had a migraine before," she said briskly. "And now, since you’re awake, I would like to talk about what happened."

Harry stiffened. "You said it yourself. It was just a migraine."

Pomfrey raised one skeptical eyebrow and held up one of the vials. "Drink, and try again."

Harry obeyed. The potion was bitter on his tongue. "It was... stress, probably. Lack of sleep. Maybe dehydration."

Her lips pursed. "You’re not a second-year anymore, Mr. Potter. Don’t insult my experience by playing coy."

She handed him the second vial, and he downed it in one gulp, hoping to avoid whatever unpleasant flavor it brought with it.

"I’ve had migraines before," he said.

"Oh, you have, have you? I have no record of that, and your parents don’t seem to know either." She gave his hair a gentle pat and sighed. "That was a full neurological crash. It was triggered by something severe, and I want to know what."

Harry hesitated. His chest tightened. Telling her the truth would mean dragging Snape into it, and now that his parents were involved, he didn’t want to give them any more reason to worry.

"It’s hard to explain," he said finally. "It was just… a lot at once."

Pomfrey let out a quiet sigh through her nose. "So that’s how we’re going to play it." She placed the tray down with a controlled clatter and crossed her arms. "Then here are my terms. You are staying here until dinner. No arguments."

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but she raised a hand to stop him.

"If your vitals remain stable and there are no further episodes, I’ll release you. If I so much as see you rub your temples, you're staying overnight. Understood?"

"Yes, ma’am," Harry muttered.

"And if you ever feel one coming on again, I want you to come straight to me. Or Professor Snape. Do not wait. Do not try to tough it out. The sooner the potion is administered, the better your chances of avoiding another collapse."

Harry nodded. "I will."

"Say it properly."

"I promise," he muttered, feeling like a scolded child.

"Good." She gave a satisfied nod and turned toward her office, muttering something about pesky parents and vague children making her job harder.

The next few hours passed in a sluggish haze. After Pomfrey finally stopped hovering, Harry propped up a few pillows and retrieved the book he had been pretending to read all week. The words blurred a little at first, but soon the rhythm of the text began to steady his mind.

Around mid-afternoon, Ron and Hermione arrived.

Ron brought Chocolate Frogs and jokes about Sprout’s expression. Hermione brought fruit, class notes, and a lecture about magical exhaustion that Harry mostly tuned out. They each claimed a chair on either side of his bed and, for a while, the world outside the hospital wing faded into irrelevance.

They talked about the upcoming Hogsmeade trip, Crouch’s creepy snake that seemed to watch them, and the approaching Quidditch season. Harry had finally decided when tryouts would take place, and for once, he felt confident that Gryffindor had a real shot at winning the House Cup.

For those few precious hours, the pressure in his chest lifted. The weight of what Snape had seen, of what he had not said, and of the dreams still waiting to return dulled to a distant hum.

By the time dinner rolled around, Madam Pomfrey had grudgingly declared Harry stable enough to return to the Great Hall. She handed him another vial of potion, “just in case,” and watched him leave the hospital wing as though she expected him to drop dead in the corridor.

The walk to the Great Hall felt longer than usual. The torches cast long shadows on the stone walls, and the soft chatter of students ahead of him only made the ache behind his eyes throb more persistently.

When he slipped inside, the hall was already full.

He barely noticed the flash of black at the head table until it caught his eye. Snape looked up just as he stepped through the doorway. Their eyes met for less than a second. The Potions Master turned his attention back to the goblet in his hand, but not before something unspoken passed across his face.

Relief.

It vanished almost immediately, buried beneath his usual mask of indifference, but Harry had seen it.

He really does feel bad about earlier, Harry thought. Severus Snape has a heart, and Harry Potter is the first to see it. Who would have guessed?

He made his way to the Gryffindor table and slid into his usual seat beside Neville, who nearly knocked over the salt in his rush to greet him.

"Are you sure you’re okay?" Neville asked for what had to be the fourth time that day. "You look pale. Should you be sitting up?"

"I’m fine," he muttered, reaching for a roll he didn’t want.

"Because you dropped like a stone. Scared the hell out of me," Neville went on, lowering his voice as if that might soften the memory. "And Sprout still had, well, you know... on her from when you—"

"Please stop talking," Harry said, trying not to cringe.

Across the table, Dean and Seamus were loudly reenacting the whole scene, with Dean staggering dramatically before pretending to vomit into Seamus’s cupped hands.

"Ugh! That is disgusting," Lavender squealed, pushing her plate away.

"Stop it, I’m eating!" Parvati groaned, elbowing Seamus, who only grinned.

Hermione and Ron, for their part, were completely absorbed in their own world. She was whispering something to him behind her hand, and Ron was going red to the tips of his ears, eyes glazed and smile dopey.

No one else seemed to notice Harry picking at his food like it was one of Neville’s failed potions. He pushed the carrots around his plate, nibbled at the edge of a roll, then set it down and stood.

"Going somewhere?" Hermione asked, pushing Ron’s dreamy expression away from her with the back of her hand.

"Back to the Tower. Migraine’s not totally gone."

She looked concerned but didn’t press. "Let us know if you need anything?"

"I can bring you some rolls," Ron offered.

Harry gave a vague sound of agreement and slipped out of the Hall.

The air in the corridor was cooler than inside the packed dining room, and quieter. He didn’t rush. He just walked, head down, fingers curled around the corked potion vial still in his pocket.

He climbed the stairs to Gryffindor Tower in silence, grateful for the shadows and the solitude. Dinner had been loud. The kind of loud that grated against nerves already worn thin.

The common room was mostly empty by the time Harry returned. A few second-years were curled up in armchairs near the fire, whispering and giggling over a shared book. One of the portraits yawned as he passed, but no one paid him much attention.

Good. He didn’t want to be noticed.

He climbed the stairs to the dormitory just long enough to grab his bag, then returned to the empty corner of the common room nearest the hearth. The fire crackled low, casting flickering shadows across the floor. He sat down heavily in one of the armchairs and pulled open his bag with slow, reluctant fingers.

The letters were still there, crumpled and bent from being shoved to the bottom days ago.

He unfolded the first one carefully, the parchment creased but unbroken. It was in his mother’s handwriting.

Harry,

I know things have been tense between us lately, and I hate that. We are not trying to smother you or make you feel controlled. We are just worried. After everything that happened over the summer, and now this, it’s hard not to be. I know you’re capable and strong, but you’re still our son. Please write to me, even if it’s just a few lines. I need to know you’re alright.

Love,

Mum

Harry swallowed hard, guilt tugging at the back of his throat, but he moved on to the second letter before he could sit with it.

Harry,

I spoke with Dumbledore again this morning. There’s still no confirmed lead on who attacked you, but the investigators are convinced it was the work of a former Death Eater. No signs point to a new organization forming, and no communication has been intercepted, so it seems isolated. That said, we still don’t know why you were targeted. I’ve asked Dumbledore to reinforce the castle wards and increase security on the grounds. We’re not taking any chances.

Keep your eyes open and avoid wandering off alone.

—Dad

At least his dad was trying to keep him informed. Usually in the past, James would hide important information, citing that Harry was too young, and it usually ended badly.

I’ve asked Dumbledore to reinforce the castle wards…

The reminder sparked something. Snape had said something similar in the hallway after dropping him off the night before. Harry had assumed it was just Snape being dramatic, but now he could see it for what it was, orders from above.

He unfolded the third letter, the one from early that morning, and read it with growing disbelief.

Harry,

Since we haven’t heard back from you and you’ve chosen not to respond to either of our previous letters, your father and I have decided that you will not be attending the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend. We have already spoken with both Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall. It has been arranged.

We are sorry it had to come to this, but we can’t in good conscience allow you to put yourself at risk while you continue to shut us out. If anything were to happen and we didn’t know, we couldn’t live with it.

Please write back.

Love,

Mum and Dad

Harry stared at the page. The ink had smudged slightly where Lily had pressed too hard in her worry. He knew what he was supposed to feel: gratitude, comfort, maybe guilt, probably white-hot rage—but instead, all he felt was hollow.

Of course they were worried. Of course they wanted answers.

But how dare they restrict him like a child, as if he had no say. He was seventeen. Of age in the wizarding world.

He had faced more danger than either of them ever had when they were his age. Not to mention every bit of that danger, every threat, every attack, every near-death experience, had been because of them.

Their role in the war had painted a target on his back from the start. First year, Quirrell. Fourth year, the Triwizard Tournament. Even Umbridge, he suspected, had it out for him because of them.

This year was no different. If they hadn’t forced Snape to take him, maybe Harry could have proved himself in his own way. Maybe the man wouldn’t have tested him so harshly or seen him as some privileged brat. The duel wouldn’t have happened. The dreams wouldn’t have started. Snape never would have used Legilimency on him.

It all traced back to them.

His fingers curled around the edges of the parchment, fists tightening until the letters crackled. His heart beat a little harder, his jaw clenched, and then, without really thinking, he stood and walked to the fire.

He hesitated for only a second. Then he threw the letters in.

The flames caught immediately. The parchment curled, darkened, then vanished into ash.

Harry stood there a moment longer, watching the last embers fade. He had no intention of writing them back, and they couldn’t stop him from going to Hogsmeade.

He turned away without a word and climbed the stairs to bed.

When he closed his eyes and finally drifted to sleep, Harry had expected to dream of his parents. It only seemed fitting that their faces would haunt him. Maybe guilt would catch up to him in sleep, try to gnaw its way back into his chest.

Except when sleep came, it wasn’t James or Lily who waited for him.

It was Snape. Again.

The same low voice. The same hands. The same pressure pinning him against the stone wall of some imagined corridor. Snape’s mouth on his, coaxing and consuming, a kiss that shifted from cautious to possessive in a single breath. His hands found Harry’s skin like they had been there before, and Harry responded without thought, caught between need and fear, lost in the heat of it.

The man got on his knees, holding Harry’s hips to the wall, and pulled his zipper down.

Harry woke with a stifled gasp, his sheets tangled around his legs.

Morning light bled through the edges of the curtains, soft and pale. His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, and for a long moment, he lay perfectly still, heart pounding, throat dry.

It was the third night in a row.

Dad’s going to kill me, he thought miserably, tugging the blankets up over his head as if they could hide him from the truth now blazing so bright behind his eyes.

It was time to accept the facts, to face the truth. Harry knew he had obsessive tendencies, fixations, a tunnel vision that could consume his mind and shut the rest of the world out.

He had never really questioned that part of himself before. After all, it had kept him alive. Paired with that coil of intuition and the restless knot of worry in his chest, it let him see what others missed.

It helped him survive.

However, it also meant he overlooked the simplest, plainest truths. The ones staring him in the face every day.

Like the fact that he was gay.

And his newest obsession appeared to be his surly Potions Master.

Harry wasn’t sure when he had first started noticing this detail about himself, but one thing he knew for certain was that after the disastrous Spellwork test with Professor Snape, his subconscious was forcing him to acknowledge that the strange, restless, heated dreams—full of strong hands and long fingers pressing him down, a broad chest against his back, and a deep voice whispering dark promises—were more than just stress.

Yup.

He was definitely, painfully, undeniably gay.

How could he have been so blind? It all seemed so obvious now. The way he never cared much about girls, the way he had convinced himself he was too busy to think about romance at all.

Wanting men had never even seemed like an option. Now, they seemed like the only option.

He was a Potter, James Potter’s son, and even if same-sex relationships were hardly scandalous in the wizarding world, there were still expectations for the heir to the family name.

His throbbing cock gave a painful twitch. Harry tried desperately to will the problem away. He forced himself to think of the most mundane, disgusting things he could imagine, anything to cool the fire burning through him until he could make it to the shower after the rest of the boys left for the morning.

He pictured himself doing dishes by hand, no magic, just endless scrubbing. Then he imagined a bin of rancid garbage, full of fish bones and cracked eggshells. He tried to picture the smell of it, thick and sour, and felt his body start to calm down, the heat ebbing just enough.

It was working.

Next, he pictured cutting up slimy slugs for Potions class. He imagined Professor Snape standing behind him, arms crossed, sneering at how clumsy his slicing was. Snape would lean in close enough for Harry to catch the faint trace of herbs and old ink that clung to his robes. He would feel their magic brushing together, a whisper of warmth along his neck. The older man would bend him over the desk, press his hard cock into Harry’s backside, and in that sinfully dark voice, he would whisper, “Prepare yourself, Potter.”

A painful spark of arousal shot straight back to his crotch.

Well, so much for that.

“Hey Harry, you coming?” Neville’s voice drifted through the curtains. “We’re all heading to breakfast.”

Harry clenched his eyes shut, mentally cursing every single life choice that had led to this moment.

“No, you lot go without me. I’m skipping breakfast this morning.”

“You sure? Are you still feeling bad? How’s your head?” Neville asked, his tone concerned and insistent.

“I’m feeling much better,” he said, forcing a reassuring tone. “I just want some more sleep. I’ll see you in Care of Magical Creatures later.”

He prayed Neville and the rest of his dormmates would take the hint and go.

“Okay,” Neville replied. “We’re starting on Bowtruckles, I’ll be sure to save you a good one.”

As soon as the other boys left the room, Harry threw his covers off and shoved his pajama bottoms down below his waist. The cold morning air stung against his sensitive length. The head was flushed a deep purple with his built-up need. Harry grabbed his wand and whispered a quick lubrication charm, knowing that it would not take long.

He gripped himself gently but firmly, rubbing his thumb over the swollen tip. His pulse roared in his ears as he shifted, thrusting up into his own hand. He imagined someone else there, a man’s hand with potion-stained fingers stroking him off in the dim morning light, their cock, hot and hard, sliding heavily between his thighs. His breath came rough and shallow, his hips jerking up as the fantasy rushed through him in a flood of heat and muffled gasps. He felt his muscles convulse as white strips of come covered his exposed midriff.

When it was done, Harry lay there catching his breath, groaning at the mess. He grabbed his wand and scourgified his clothes and bedsheets.

By the time he made his way to the showers, he could already feel himself stirring again. He turned the tap to cold and hissed under his breath when the water hit him, but it did little to help.

“This is going to be a problem,” Harry muttered to himself as he braced a hand against the cold tile.

Chapter Text

“Reparo,” Harry grunted in frustration, pointing his wand at the wristwatch that lay on the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall.

A sharp crack sounded, followed by a small puff of smoke. Harry groaned.

Of course, it wasn’t going to be that easy.

It had been worth a try, but he knew better. The watch was an enchanted family heirloom, passed down from Potter to Potter. The craftsmanship and magic woven into it had been refined over centuries by some of Britain’s most powerful wizards.

And Harry had broken it.

He didn’t know when or how it had happened, only that he had, and he had done it spectacularly.

Ever since he collapsed in Herbology, the watch had been malfunctioning. Every day, it chimed at five-minute intervals before falling silent again. It had been doing that for three weeks, as if it were trying to scream at him to pay attention.

Sometimes, it went off in the corridors or the library, earning him curious or dirty looks from those passing by. 

Once, during Potions, it had heated so intensely that it burned the pattern of the metal into Harry’s skin. His sudden cry of pain startled the entire class, and Snape was at his side in an instant. Though his expression remained stern, he took Harry’s wrist, examined the burn, and summoned a jar of salve from his office with a sharp flick of his wand.

By the time Harry finished applying the ointment, his potion had been left unattended for too long. The surface had turned an unnatural shade of green, thick smoke curling off the top with a sickly-sweet stench. One whiff told Harry it would have triggered another migraine. Snape vanished the cauldron without a word, but his gaze lingered, not on Harry, but on Draco. His brow was slightly furrowed, his expression unreadable.

Mostly, though, like the timekeeper it was meant to be, it always chimed just before Advanced Defence and again after lunch and Care of Magical Creatures, as if it had something urgent to say but couldn’t quite find the words.

No matter when or where it happened, it was always annoying.

Harry stared exasperatedly at the timepiece. Several runes shimmered across its face, their meanings still mostly a mystery to him. He recognized a few from Hermione’s Ancient Runes textbook, but others were unfamiliar and pulsed faintly, like they were alive. At the three o’clock mark, there was a red-hot inverted triangle. He thought it might represent disruption or danger, though he couldn’t be sure. At twelve, the small MC rune—Midheaven, maybe?—glowed with a faint, icy blue light. That rune had shown up in Hermione’s textbooks under fate-aligned magic, though the passage had been frustratingly vague.

He watched as once again, Venus drifted lazily around the red triangle, unbothered by Mars, which was pinballing toward it with chaotic energy. Saturn sat locked at twelve, perfectly still, almost possessive of its spot, and daring the other planets to come closer.

Harry frowned. He didn’t need Hermione to explain planetary symbolism to know that Mars was supposed to mean aggression or passion, and Venus was... well, Venus. Love. Romance. Whatever.

So why did Mars keep crashing into Venus like a horny bull in a china shop?

Was it a metaphor? A magical warning? Or just the universe’s unsubtle way of saying, “Hey Potter, maybe stop dreaming about your professor”?

He narrowed his eyes at the watch. 

Rude.

Either way, with some variation depending on time and place, the message had been the same for the past three weeks. If the watch was trying to tell him something, it clearly wasn’t in a hurry to make it easy.

“Still broken?” Ron asked, leaning over to inspect the watch.

“Still broken,” Harry said with a sigh. “What am I supposed to do with it? It’s driving me mad. It’s almost seven, not three. What’s the point of a watch that doesn’t even tell time properly?”

“Well, you know what they say about a broken clock,” Ron offered unhelpfully.

“That only works if it doesn’t move,” Harry said, grabbing the watch and sliding it back onto his wrist. “This one’s all over the place. It’s mental.”

“You know who you should ask,” Hermione said as she slid into the seat beside them and leaned over to get a better look at the watch.

“No.”

“Come on, you can’t ignore them forever,” she said gently, holding up a letter. “They’re not writing every day anymore.”

“Yeah, but now they’ve started writing you and Ron, and that’s worse,” Harry huffed. “I’m not okay with it.”

“It’s called boundaries, Hermione,” Ron said wisely, flipping through the Daily Prophet that Pigwidgeon had just dropped off. “Remember how bad my mum was before? Harry’s parents just aren’t used to them. They’ve got to learn.”

Harry cringed inwardly at the comment.

Back during the Triwizard Tournament, thanks to one of Rita Skeeter’s awful articles, everyone had thought Hermione was with him. Even after both of them had denied it repeatedly, the damage had been done. So when Hermione and Ron finally got together at the end of their fifth year, their parents hadn’t taken it well.

Molly, who had always been warm and kind, had been especially cruel to Hermione, her usual affection replaced with coldness and cutting remarks.

In the end, both Harry and Ron had to put their feet down. Harry made it clear that Hermione was just a friend, more like a sister, really, and that he hadn’t been upset in the slightest. Ron had to confront his mum directly and let her know that her behavior was unacceptable and he wouldn’t tolerate it.

“Honestly, Ronald, I think this is a little more understandable than parents being upset over who’s dating whom,” Hermione said primly, attempting once more to hand the letter to Harry.

“Nope,” Ron said, snatching the letter from her fingers. “It’s not that different, trust me. I’ve seen it happen with Charlie. First it’s one letter, then one knitted sweater, and suddenly Mum’s in your tent with her robes covered in dragon dung.”

Harry smothered a laugh. He could picture it perfectly, a newly graduated Charlie returning to his tiny dragon-tamer tent, only to find Molly Weasley standing in the middle of it, covered in dung and ready to make him dinner.

Ting, ting, ting!

His watch began chiming again.

That’s it, he thought. I’m silencing the damn thing.

“Silencio.”

What followed was blessed quiet. Harry sighed in relief. It had actually worked. He looked over at Hermione, who was still trying to wrestle the letter from his parents out of Ron’s hands, and reached out to tap her shoulder.

“Leave it. We’ve got to get to Defence,” Harry said, already rising from the bench and heading toward the door.

The bushy-haired witch gave Ron a playful swat, stole the letter, pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, and hurried after Harry. When she finally caught up, she pressed the letter into his chest.

He gently pushed it back toward her without slowing his stride.

“I really think you should read it and respond,” she said, her brown eyes serious. “I don’t know what’s going on between you and your parents, but now isn’t the time to shut them out. Not until whoever hurt you has been caught.”

“Hermione, it’s been weeks. No one’s seen or heard anything,” Harry replied as they made their way down the dim corridors toward the dungeons. “Everyone’s acting like this guy is lurking behind every corner, just waiting for the perfect moment to strike.”

Hermione frowned, her brows knitting together in concern.

“The reality is, we’re at Hogwarts, probably the safest place in the wizarding world next to Gringotts. Whoever attacked me would have to be insane to try anything here, especially with Dumbledore as Headmaster,” Harry said flatly. “Honestly, I’m not going to live my life in fear. It’s not my fault my parents painted a target on my back.”

The two of them came to a stop outside the hidden classroom door.

“Even if that’s true,” she said, pausing. “I can’t help but worry. I have a feeling, I don’t know... Would you at least take the letter, read it, and respond? Just this once?”

Harry looked at her. Her brown eyes, usually sharp with intelligence, were clouded with worry.

She really was like a sister to him. She was always looking out for him, even when he was being unreasonable and stubborn. She cared deeply, and he knew that. She always had. She’d stood by him through everything, through every trial, no matter how dangerous or grim. She had even helped him study.

Without her, he was certain he would have failed Snape’s final theory exam in Defence. He’d barely scraped by as it was, but the pages of notes she’d prepared, the late-night drills, and the sheer force of her determination during the summer had gotten him over the finish line.

A quiet warmth settled in his chest.

Harry reached out and took the letter from her hands. He didn’t open it; he just looked down at the familiar handwriting for a long moment.

“Alright,” he said softly. “Just this once.”

Hermione’s expression brightened with relief. “Thank you.”

He tucked the letter into his bag without another word. They stood in silence for a moment outside the hidden classroom, the torches along the stone wall flickering gently.

Then Harry squared his shoulders and pushed the door open.

The two Gryffindors were among the first students to arrive. Nott and Malfoy had already claimed the front and center seats, heads bent close together as they whispered in low voices. As Harry entered the room, Malfoy looked up. A cold shiver ran through him as those glassy grey eyes swept over him with quiet scrutiny.

Harry and Hermione took the second row on the left, putting a safe distance between themselves and the Slytherins.

As the rest of the class filtered in, Harry could still feel Draco’s gaze on him, sharp and lingering. A faint vibration buzzed against his wrist.

“That’s it. I’m taking this thing off,” he muttered, sliding the timepiece from his wrist and tucking it into his pocket.

“What’s it doing now?” Hermione asked, straightening her desk in preparation for the day’s lesson.

“It just started vibrating, and I need to concentrate. We’re supposed to be practicing spells today, and I don’t want to be distracted.”

As the last student, Susan Bones, found her seat, Snape glided soundlessly into the room like a shadow materializing from the wall.

How does he do that? Harry thought, dazed for a moment as his eyes tracked the man’s long stride.

Hermione elbowed him sharply. “Pay attention,” she whispered under her breath.

The professor strode to the front of the classroom with purpose, not sparing a glance for the chattering students now falling quickly into silence.

He looked tired, and his hair was slightly unkempt. Harry wondered if the man had been sleeping well.

When Snape finally spoke, his voice was calm, though tinged with a slight hoarseness.

“Today’s lesson will focus on a controlled defensive engagement.”

With a flick of his wand, words appeared on the blackboard, copying his verbal instruction in his signature spidery script.

“You will need to disarm and contain your opponent. One student will act as the aggressor, using offensive spells within dueling parameters. The other must neutralize the threat using only legal constraint spells. That means no stunners, no jinxes, and no brute force. The objective is containment, not retaliation.”

Snape turned back to the class. His eyes swept over them slowly, pausing for a fraction of a second too long on Harry before moving on.

Harry sat up a little straighter in his chair at that. He’d worn his best green button-up under his robes.

Harry had hoped it would get the man to notice him.

Snape hadn’t been the same since breaking into his mind and the conversation in the hospital wing. He had pulled back, noticeably so. He no longer haunted Harry’s footsteps, trying to catch him doing something wrong. There were no points docked for imagined slights. No looming presence during Potions, no more trick questions designed to trip him up in front of the class.

He treated Harry like just another student.

At first, it was a breath of fresh air.

After everything that had happened, Harry needed space. He needed time to gather the shattered pieces of his psyche and let his nervous system settle. 

That first week of silence helped him center himself, pass Snape’s final theory exam, catch up on the homework that was already piling high, and hold Quidditch tryouts without completely losing his mind.

Most importantly, it gave him time to accept his new reality.

And Harry found that just being honest with himself, no matter how ridiculous it felt, was a relief.

However, as the distance dragged on, the fresh air grew stale. It became stifling, even.

Snape wouldn’t address him directly. He wouldn’t look at him unless Harry was injured or had a question. His acknowledgment of Harry’s presence was minimal and polite, but otherwise absent.

For some reason, that bothered Harry more than he wanted to admit.

He knew it was insane. He knew nothing would ever happen between them. The man was twenty years older, his professor, and until recently hadn’t even liked him. Only now had Snape begun treating him with something that resembled professional respect.

Still... Harry wanted to be noticed by him.

He missed Snape’s gaze, dark, unreadable, like it could peel him open. Missed the edge of their arguments, the sharpness of his mind. When it wasn’t directed at him, Harry even found the man’s dry wit surprisingly funny.

So today, Harry wore his really nice shirt.

The green one. The one Lily had said made his eyes look “unnaturally vivid.”

“You will choose partners,” Snape said, “but not the ones you usually flock to. You are to work with someone you do not regularly pair with in this class.”

A quiet ripple of discomfort moved through the room.

“I will know if you disobey this instruction,” he added, his voice cool and unwavering. “Since there is an odd number of students, there will be one group of three.”

His gaze swept over the students once more, sharp and expectant.

No one moved.

“Go on, before I assign your partners for you.”

The class grumbled as they slowly shuffled out of their seats, casting uneasy glances around the room. Harry quickly scanned the students to see who was still available. Hermione, Susan, and Padme had already grouped together, forming the trio.

That left Dean, Draco, and Theodore.

Harry made a beeline for Nott. There was no way he was getting stuck with Malfoy.

Theo Nott looked up as Harry approached, his expression unreadable but not unfriendly. He gave a single nod and stepped aside to make room.

“Potter,” he said evenly. “Didn’t expect you to come my way.”

Harry shrugged. “Didn’t really feel like playing catch with Malfoy’s wand today.”

Theo gave a soft chuckle and arched an eyebrow. “A wise choice. He’s been so moody lately. You’re doing both of us a favor.”

They took a spot near the back of the classroom, just outside the ring of students pairing off. Harry rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the strange tension clinging to the air.

“So, who’s the aggressor?” Theo asked, drawing his wand and spinning it between his fingers with surprising finesse. “Want me to come at you first, or do you want to impress me right out of the gate?”

Harry blinked at him. “That’s... not usually how people phrase that.”

Theo smiled, just a little. “I’m not most people.”

There was a faint curve to his lips that could have been a smirk or a real smile. Harry couldn’t quite tell. Objectively, Theo was kind of cute. His features were sharp but calm, his voice low and self-assured, and for a Slytherin, he wasn’t half bad. No snide comments, no glares, no swaggering superiority.

Harry tilted his head. “Fine. I’ll go first. Prepare to be impressed.”

Theo stepped back and gave an exaggerated bow. “I live in hope.”

They began circling each other, wands raised. Harry could already feel the edge of concentration creeping into his fingers. He flicked his wand and sent a mild binding spell toward Theo, who dodged smoothly and countered with a disarming charm that Harry blocked with a shield.

“Nice form,” Theo said, lunging again. “I knew you would have style, Potter.”

“Focus,” Harry muttered, deflecting the next spell.

“I am,” Theo said lightly, “just not entirely on the lesson.”

Harry felt the corner of his mouth twitch before he could stop it. Was that… flirting? 

it wasn’t exactly subtle, and Theo’s smile lingered just a second too long to be purely friendly.

Harry felt his face heat he was used to girls showing interest in him… not cute boys like Nott.

Then—

“Potter.”

The voice cracked across the room like a whip.

Snape was suddenly there, robes flaring as he stepped between them. His expression was blank, but his eyes were dark and sharp, and something in his posture bristled.

“This pairing is no longer necessary,” he said curtly. “Patil is not meshing well with her group. She will now work with Nott.”

Theo blinked. “Wait, but—”

“Now,” Snape said, cutting him off with a glare.

Harry froze, wand still raised. His thoughts hadn’t caught up.

“You,” Snape added, turning to Harry without looking directly at him, “will work with me.”

Several heads turned. Harry stared.

“With—what?”

“You heard me. I would like to observe your form up close.”

Snape’s tone was clipped, almost irritated.

Harry glanced around. Even Hermione was blinking at him in surprise.

He opened his mouth to object, but his watch gave a sudden, violent pulse in his pocket—so sharp that he instinctively slapped his hand against it.

Snape gave him a narrow look. “Is there a problem?”

Harry straightened, confused but unwilling to show it.

“No, sir.”

The two wizards positioned themselves to face each other in the cleared center of the classroom. They were surrounded by the soft murmurs and shuffling feet of the other students as they resumed their drills. 

Snape studied him for a beat longer than necessary.

“Are you the defender or the aggressor, Potter?” he asked, voice low but carrying.

Harry hesitated for only a moment.

“Aggressor.”

Snape inclined his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Very well. Try to disarm and contain me.”

Harry gave a small nod and tightened his grip on his wand.

Snape moved first by shifting his posture, almost inviting Harry to make the first move.

Harry didn’t hesitate. “Expelliarmus!”

Snape flicked his wand, blocked the spell, and sent a binding charm which Harry rolled under. A silent hex followed.

Harry deflected just in time.

“Your stance is too open,” Snape observed. “If I were using real force, you’d already be on the floor.”

Harry gritted his teeth and adjusted, circling to the side.

“Better,” Snape acknowledged, raising his wand again.

Harry launched another disarming spell, then followed it with a net conjuration. Snape sidestepped both with smooth precision.

“More variation,” Snape instructed, his tone sharper now. “You’re predictable. Try cutting off my movement first. Control, then contain.”

“I’m trying,” Harry muttered, breathless now.

“Clearly you’re not trying hard enough.”

Spells flew between them, sharp and fast. The rhythm built quickly. Harry pressed the attack, and Snape blocked or redirected every move with infuriating grace. Still, he didn’t strike back beyond the minimum necessary. 

He was testing him.

And Harry rose to the challenge.

He adjusted his angles. Changed up his timing. Conjured magical ropes instead of a net, cast a partial barrier to herd Snape to the left, then dropped low and fired off a directional knockback meant to unbalance him.

Snape stumbled a half-step, not much, but enough for Harry to move in with a containment circle.

“Good,” Snape said, raising his wand with surprising force.

He shattered the containment with a sharp flick, and Harry had to throw up a shield to keep from being thrown backwards.

They reset without speaking.

This time, Harry didn’t hold back.

They moved like chess pieces, deliberate, calculated, locked in a rhythm neither of them seemed eager to break. Snape muttered quiet corrections in between his counters.

“Too slow.”

“Don’t drop your shoulder.”

“Lead with your wand, not your feet.”

Harry absorbed every note, every movement, adjusting on the fly. He could feel sweat forming at the back of his neck, but he didn’t stop.

The classroom had gone completely still. No one else was sparring anymore.

No one dared interrupt.

Harry didn’t notice. Neither did Snape.

Their entire world had narrowed to the space between them.

To spell, counterspell, breath, and timing. To magic, mixing together.

To dark eyes locked on green, unblinking.

“Um, Professor,” the hesitant voice of Dean Thomas broke through the fog. “Class has been over for five minutes. Can we be excused?”

The spell broke instantly.

Snape blinked, as if only just returning to himself. He stepped back and cleared his throat, voice brisk and impersonal once more.

“Yes, of course. You will all write a two-foot summary on defensive posture during live spell exchanges. Due at the beginning of next class. No exceptions.”

There was a collective groan, but students were already gathering their things.

Harry stood still for a beat longer, then turned toward Hermione as she approached with raised eyebrows.

“Come on,” she said quietly, nudging him toward the door.

Harry followed her out of the classroom, still reeling, still trying to process what had just happened. He could feel Snape’s gaze on his back until they were out of sight.

Not ignoring me now, are you? Harry smirked to himself.

The air in the hallway felt colder than the classroom. The adrenaline still hummed in his fingertips, and somewhere beneath it was the echo of Snape’s voice, smooth and commanding. It lingered like static under his skin.

Behind them, the heavy shuffle of footsteps echoed louder than necessary.

Draco and Nott.

Harry didn’t turn around as he and Hermione made their way out of the dungeon and toward the greenhouses. He could hear the Slytherins discussing something in a low tone.

Once more Harry could feel his watch buzz in his pocket. He fumbled to pull it out, and the moment it hit the air, its face lit up with a blinding white flash.

Mars cracked across the face like a dropped stone, trailing fire. Saturn and Venus vanished entirely. The Midheaven rune flickered and split in half, and the glass cracked down the center, a perfect line, like a wound splitting open.

Suddenly a new symbol emerged in the center of the watch. It looked like a veiled crescent with no corresponding planet. It pulsed dark red, then black, then vanished again.

Harry’s chest tightened, and he shoved the watch back into his pocket.

He was starting to think that maybe the watch wasn’t broken after all.

“Harry!” a voice called from behind. “You did well with Snape back there.”

It was Theo Nott. The Slytherin jogged a few steps to catch up with the two Gryffindors, then slowed to walk beside them.

“He doesn’t usually let students push him like that. You actually had him working.”

Harry didn’t know how to respond. Compliments from Slytherins weren’t exactly a daily occurrence.

“What was that containment circle you used? I haven’t seen that one,” Theo added, leaning in slightly. “Would you mind teaching me?”

Before Harry could answer, a scoffing noise cut through the air.

“You have got to be kidding me. Have some self-respect, Nott,” Malfoy drawled from behind them. “You don’t need to kiss the heels of Potty Potter.”

Theo’s jaw twitched. “Just giving credit where it’s due.”

“Sure you are,” Draco sneered. “What’s next? Going to ask him to autograph your textbooks?”

Hermione turned around, her expression calm but firm. “Let it go, Malfoy.”

But Draco wasn’t finished. His pale grey eyes swept over her and narrowed in contempt.

“I see you’re still trailing after him like a loyal little Mudblood.”

The word hit like a slap.

Hermione froze. So did Harry. Even Theo looked momentarily stunned.

“Draco, what the hell?” Theo said, voice low and tense. “Didn’t you say you just wanted to get through the year? No drama, remember?”

He held up his hands slowly, trying to de-escalate.

Draco gave a cold, mocking smile as Theo stepped closer, then shoved him roughly against the corridor wall. “How touching. Did I hit a nerve?”

“Back off,” Harry warned, his grip tightening around his wand.

Malfoy stepped forward and shoved Hermione with one hand. She stumbled back, caught off guard.

That was it.

Harry’s blood roared in his ears. He moved on instinct, stepping in and shoving Draco hard. “Don’t touch her.”

“Harry!” Hermione yelled, trying to grab his arm and pull him back. “You don’t want to fight him!”

Draco’s eyes flashed with something wild and ugly. He yanked out his wand.

“Stupefy!”

The red flash of the spell lit up the corridor.

Harry ducked low, pulling Hermione down with him just in time.

“Nott, take Hermione and get a teacher,” Harry ordered as another Stupefy shot past his head.

Theo hesitated, face pale and stunned. “Come on, let’s go,” he said, reaching for Hermione’s arm.

Harry blinked in surprise. He had half expected Nott to take off and leave her behind.

“You’re mad if you think I’m leaving,” she snapped, yanking free. With a swift motion, she cast a strong Protego around the three of them. Another stunning spell hit it a moment later, fizzling across the shimmering blue surface.

“Harry, you can’t duel him. You nearly got expelled last time,” she hissed.

She was right. The duel with Draco last year had caused so many problems already. Fighting Malfoy in the middle of a corridor would only end badly. He didn’t want to hurt him, not really, even after everything.

“I’m not going to fight him,” Harry said. “We just need to contain him. Like in class. Control his movements, disarm, then bind.”

Hermione and Theo both looked at him and nodded.

At the far end of the corridor, Draco stood panting, wand raised. His expression was twisted, pained, like he was barely holding himself together.

“Draco,” Harry called, stepping forward carefully. “Are you all right? We’re not going to hurt you, but you need to calm down.”

Draco clutched his head, fingers tangled in his hair. “I don’t want—!” he bellowed, voice raw with distress.

Then, without warning, his head snapped up. His now-glassy eyes locked onto Harry with unnatural focus.

“Expelliarmus!” he shouted.

The red blast of light erupted from his wand with startling force.

“What’s wrong with him?” Theo asked, panic creeping into his voice as he countered the spell mid-air.

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted, heart pounding. Draco’s behavior wasn’t just aggressive, it was disturbing.

The Slytherin had begun alternating between wild, jerking movements and shouting “no” at no one in particular, only to go suddenly still and composed, firing off stunning spells with alarming precision.

The three teens fell into a rhythm, instinctively applying what they’d learned in class that morning. Hermione focused on cutting off Draco’s movement, herding him toward the corner and blocking possible escape routes with well-placed spells. Theo maintained the group’s defense, casting steady Protegos and intercepting curses whenever he could.

Harry took the offensive, hurling Expelliarmus after Expelliarmus, desperate to disarm the increasingly unstable Malfoy heir.

Draco began jerking again, his body twitching in sharp, erratic movements. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth in something almost animalistic.

“Hit me now!” he shouted.

As quick as a Snitch, Harry raised his wand and unleashed one final Expelliarmus. The red burst of magic struck Draco squarely in the chest. The force sent him stumbling backward into the corner Hermione had herded him toward. His wand flew from his grip, soaring through the air into Harry’s outstretched hand.

Draco looked up, his panicked, steely grey eyes meeting Harry’s.

“Potter—”

“That’s enough of that! Petrificus Totalus!”

A commanding voice cut through the tension like a blade. Draco’s body snapped rigid, seizing up mid-movement, crashing stiffly to the floor.

Harry turned to see Professor Crouch sprinting down the corridor, wand still raised. His face was pale, and his typically wide, blue eyes bulged slightly as he scanned the three students for injuries.

“Are you all right?” he asked, voice tight with urgency.

More footsteps echoed from behind them. Snape rounded the corner a moment later, his robes billowing behind him as he stormed into view.

A sharp sense of déjà vu washed over Harry, and the hallway seemed to tilt slightly beneath him. Snape rushed to Draco’s side, immediately kneeling to check on him.

It was almost exactly like last year.

Except this time, Harry hadn’t attacked out of fear or anger. He had defended himself. And for once, he had done it right, without seriously hurting anyone. Crouch’s hand firmly grasped Harry’s shoulder, breaking him a bit from the shock he was feeling at the events that had just taken place.

“I said, are you all right, Harry?” Professor Crouch asked again, leaning over slightly so he was eye level with him.

“Yes, thank you, Professor,” Harry managed, his breath shaky. The spinning in his head began to slow.

“I am certain Potter can keep himself upright, Professor Crouch,” came Snape’s voice, cold and sharp as a blade.

Crouch released him and stepped back.

“What went on here?” Snape demanded. His black eyes were narrowed to slits.

Ice slipped through Harry’s veins. This looked terrible. Snape was never going to trust him again. He would hate him all over again. Harry could feel it: the looming certainty of being kicked out of the class, maybe even out of the school. They would snap his wand. He’d never become an Auror.

He would have nothing.

No one.

Just a freak, like the Dursleys had always said he was.

“Professor Snape, there’s something wrong with Draco,” Nott said, his voice rising with urgency as he rushed to his petrified housemate’s side.

Snape’s eyes slid to Nott, who was kneeling beside Malfoy, then swept toward Crouch and the two Gryffindors.

Harry’s vision blurred. His chest tightened. Each breath came faster and shallower as Snape’s black gaze settled on him again.

Then, unexpectedly, the scent of herbs filled his senses. Snape was suddenly in front of him, close enough that Harry could see the faint lines around his eyes.

“Deep breaths, Potter,” the man instructed quietly. The calm, steady tone cut through the fog in Harry’s mind like a grounding spell. He gently removed Malfoy’s wand from his hand and Harry could feel his fingers brush over his in comfort.

Hermione placed a gentle hand on Harry’s back, tracing slow, soothing circles as he focused on breathing again.

Harry took several deep breaths in.

“Now I need someone to tell me what just happened,” Snape said, his rich baritone calm and commanding, anchoring the charged atmosphere.

“I think I can shed some light,” Crouch offered. He stepped forward, licking his cracked lips. “It appeared Malfoy was acting very erratically. He attacked Granger, Potter, and Nott without provocation.”

“It’s true. He attacked us,” Hermione added, her voice tight with stress. “But there was something very wrong with him, Professor. He wasn’t himself.”

From the walls, the portraits began to murmur their agreement.

“It’s true! These three were just passing by when that boy there came charging at them,” called a barmaid from her frame, arms crossed and indignant.

“Looked like he was after Potter. The professor there saved them all,” said a man with a bushy red mustache, nodding gravely from a portrait nearby.

“The boy wasn’t right, I tell you. Speaking in tongues! Mad as a badger! Behead him!” bellowed a decapitated crusader from his own frame.

The barmaid promptly hurled a flagon at the knight, hitting him squarely in the helmet. “Barbaric nonsense, that is! We don’t behead students!”

The witnesses’ testimony settled Harry’s racing heart, and relief flooded through his veins. He was fine. He wasn’t going to be expelled. Snape didn’t hate him.

That just left the question of Draco.

Harry looked over at the stiff form on the ground. Malfoy’s usually crisp clothes were rumpled, and his hair was as disheveled as Harry’s on a good day.

“I think I understand the situation,” Snape said, nodding toward the portraits. “Can one of you fetch Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall?”

The red-mustached man gave a sharp salute to the Potions Master and vanished into the adjacent frames, moving quickly through the portrait network.

“Professor Crouch, I’m going to lift the spell. Be ready in case Draco is still unstable.”

Crouch nodded solemnly as the two professors approached Malfoy’s prone figure. Nott rose to give them space, stepping back as Snape raised his wand. With a sharp flick, the petrification spell was released.

What happened next took Harry by surprise. There was no shouting, no barrage of curses. Draco sat bolt upright, gasping like a man pulled from deep water. His frantic gaze swept the corridor, finally landing on the professors and the three seventh-years.

“Where am I?” Draco asked in a small voice. “What happened?”

Hermione let out a quiet gasp, and a cold dread settled over Harry’s chest. An image of his wristwatch flashed unbidden into his mind, the veiled crescent with no corresponding planet, pulsing red, then black, before fading entirely.

“You attacked Potter. Do you not remember?” Snape asked, concern subtly woven into his voice. “What is the last thing you do recall?”

Draco glanced between the two professors, his brow furrowing in concentration. “I remember the Hogwarts Express. I was talking to Potter.” His eyes flicked briefly to Harry, then shifted to Professor Crouch. “Potter had a migraine. Professor Crouch helped him, I think?”

“Migraine, you say?” Snape’s eyes narrowed slightly as they moved to Harry, then over to Crouch. “How very kind of our new Defence teacher to aid a student in distress.”

Draco shifted uncomfortably on the cold stone floor. “I think I found Crabbe and Goyle after that... I definitely remember the Sorting Ceremony. There were a lot of Hufflepuffs this year.”

“Anything else?” Snape pressed, his tone firm but measured.

Harry found himself worried the man was pushing Draco too hard.

“No,” Draco said after a pause. “It just felt like I was in a daze. Like I didn’t want to do something... and then I woke up.”

“The Imperius,” Snape murmured. Everyone’s head snapped toward him.

“You don’t think—” Crouch began.

“I do,” Snape interrupted. “You and I should know the signs, Professor Crouch. We know what it looks like.”

A deep frown settled on Snape’s face, his brow knit in thought. “Draco has been strange lately, withdrawn, unfocused.” He glanced at Harry, a flicker of concern passing through his eyes before it vanished behind his usual composure. “It seems whoever is targeting Potter has once again made themselves known.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. A sick, burning knot formed in his gut, and the edges of his vision began to blur.

Quick footsteps rang through the hallway as Professor Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Madam Pomfrey came rushing down the corridor.

Malfoy, Harry, Nott, and Hermione each gave their testimonies to the two professors. As Dumbledore listened, he began to look very tired, and McGonagall appeared to grow stiffer with each new detail.

“Thank you, Severus, Barty. You handled this as well as you could have,” Dumbledore said softly. “As for you three, it seems Professor Snape’s instruction is being put to good use.” His eyes twinkled mischievously. “I will be awarding twenty points to Gryffindor for bravery in the face of uncertainty and proper application of a lesson, and fifteen points to Slytherin for inter-house cooperation and sticking by a friend in need.”

Nott’s eyes widened in surprise. “Thank you, sir.”

Dumbledore nodded and turned to Crouch. “Professor Crouch, you’ve done more than enough here. Would you mind escorting these three to their next class?”

“Of course, Headmaster.” Professor Crouch turned toward them, his expression no longer wild with alarm but softer now.

“You three all right?” he asked, scanning them carefully.

Hermione nodded, though her lips were pressed tightly together. She didn’t speak. Theo gave a jerky shrug, still pale.

Harry didn’t answer. His tongue felt thick in his mouth. He wasn’t even sure what to say.

Crouch’s hand came to rest lightly on his back.

“Potter?”

Harry blinked. The corridor returned to focus, and Hermione’s frizzy hair was haloed by torchlight, Nott shifted awkwardly beside her, and he could hear the sound of a portrait two frames down still muttering about honor and duels.

“I’m okay,” he said quietly, feeling more confident that it was true than earlier.

“Let’s walk,” Crouch said, guiding them gently forward. His hand didn’t leave Harry’s back, slowly leading him down the hallway.

Harry let himself lean into it, just slightly. A fraction of his weight. The warmth felt safe, like a buoy in cold water.

Crouch’s hand stayed steady at his back.

Snape’s voice, sharp and clipped, cut through the haze. Harry didn’t know which he’d rather follow.

“I can take them,” the man volunteered. “I’m sure Professor Crouch has his next class to get to.”

Harry turned just enough to see Snape striding toward them, black robes sweeping around his legs. His expression was hard to read, but there was something sharp in it.

Dumbledore stepped in, cutting him off. “No, Severus,” he said gently. “Professor Crouch’s class will be just fine without him for a bit. I need your help getting Mr. Malfoy to the infirmary. Madam Pomfrey will want every detail, and Lucius will no doubt have questions.”

Snape didn’t speak. His jaw ticked once.

“Professor McGonagall,” Dumbledore added, “please inform James and Lily that Harry is safe. Ask them to meet me in my office.”

Harry’s stomach twisted.

His parents.

He hadn’t even thought that far ahead. His heart stuttered. What were they going to say? What were they going to do?

Crouch’s hand flexed slightly. Harry realized his breathing had quickened again and tried to steady it.

“You’ll be brought to my office once they arrive,” Dumbledore said, his eyes now on Harry. “We’ll talk, all of us.”

Harry nodded, though the motion felt sluggish. The air seemed thicker now.

Crouch gave him a small nudge, and the three of them turned down the corridor toward the stairs. Hermione walked close beside him. Nott hovered a step behind.

Harry didn’t look back at Snape.

But he could feel him there, watching.

Chapter Text

Severus wasn’t angry. He was fine. Really.

His boots struck the stone floor a little harder than necessary as he strode ahead, his robes snapping with each step. Behind him, Madam Pomfrey called out something about slowing down, but he didn’t break stride. The shuffle of Draco’s feet, uneven and sluggish, faded into the background.

When he reached the infirmary first, he did not pause, throwing the door open with a sharp crack against the wall. The hinges creaked in protest. Inside, the room was quiet and untouched by the chaos of the corridor.

He crossed to a chair, seized it, and scraped it backward with a sharp screech before sitting down, arms folded tight, his eyes locked on the doorway as he waited for Pomfrey and Draco to catch up.

Maybe he could close his eyes and get some rest while he waited. 

He had spent the night lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, locked in a relentless internal debate over whether a Dreamless Sleep potion was worth the trouble. By the time he reached a decision, the sun was already rising, and sleep had become more of a concept than a possibility.

Instead, he contemplated the source of his recent insomnia: Potter, infuriating, persistently stubborn Potter.

Severus had given the boy everything he claimed to want: a place in his class, the respect he had miraculously earned, and the space to prove himself without interference.

That should have been enough.

But Potter wanted more.

For the last few weeks, the Gryffindor hovered constantly at the edges of his days, a quiet presence that had grown louder and louder. If it wasn’t persistent questions after class, it was some other display of reckless attentiveness. A pointed glance, a casual comment, some flimsy excuse to remain behind just a little longer.

He gave him nothing, remaining polite, professional, and distant. They were not friends, and Potter needed to remember that. Severus had agreed to train him, to strengthen him, and that was all he intended.

Except today felt different. He blamed the lack of sleep. There was no other explanation. When he entered the classroom, he found it unusually difficult to keep his gaze from lingering where it should not.

Potter looked so… good. The Gryffindor’s hair, always untamable, looked artfully windswept, like he had just stepped off a broomstick. The button-up shirt he wore was rolled at the sleeves and made the green of his eyes seem otherworldly. Glowing, even in the flat light of the dungeon.

It was absurd how it hit him. A flicker of color and movement, and suddenly Severus couldn’t breathe. He forced himself to look away, of course, and pretended not to notice. 

Potter was just exploring the boundaries of his newfound identity. It was natural, and Severus shouldn’t care.

Then he chose Theodore Nott as his partner for the day’s exercise.

That alone should have been harmless. Nott was competent enough on paper. But Potter needed more than competence. He needed challenge, resistance. He needed someone who could match his instincts in a way Nott could not. Someone who would push back, who wouldn’t be swayed by a strong jawline and wide, eager eyes.

So Severus reassigned the groups and took Potter for himself.

Looking at it now, he truly had done the Gryffindor a favor. If he hadn’t stepped in, who knew how that hallway disaster might have ended?

Probably horribly. 

Or perhaps it would have been fine, or even handled, since Barty Crouch Jr. once again inserted himself where he didn’t belong. Always there, always ready, “helping” the students whenever they were in need.

He thought of the boy’s memories, how Harry had looked at him that day outside the bathroom. He had been filled with awe, trust, and something dangerously close to reverence. The way that sense of safety had wrapped around him in Potter’s mind was unspoken but unmistakable.

Did Crouch make him feel that way too?

He could picture it too easily — Professor Crouch arriving calm and slithering, offering comfort in that charming way of his. Harry tilting his head, listening, drawn in, trusting him, turning toward him instead of…

His jaw tensed, teeth grinding before he caught himself and forced it to ease, reminding himself he wasn’t angry.

Because he was fine.

Perfectly fine.

The heavy doors creaked open behind him at last. Madam Pomfrey bustled in first, out of breath, tugging at the front of her robes to smooth them down. Draco stumbled in after her, clutching his side and looking decidedly worse for wear. His face had taken on a sickly green hue, and he looked one wrong step away from vomiting across the tiled floor.

He didn’t rise. He sat still in the chair he had dragged into place moments earlier, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

Pomfrey braced a hand on the edge of the nearest bed and gave Severus a pointed look. “What on earth was the hurry?” she asked, fanning herself with the front of her robes.

Severus arched an eyebrow. “I was under the impression we were responding to an emergency,” he said coolly. “Forgive me if I mistook it for something requiring urgency.”

Draco made a soft noise behind her, halfway between a groan and a gag, then dropped heavily onto the nearest mattress.

Pomfrey turned to him with a sigh. “Merlin’s sake, lie still before you faint.” She turned back to Severus with narrowed eyes. “Next time, try not to march ahead like that. Some of us don’t have your stride, nor your flair for the dramatic.”

He chose to ignore the rebuke, though he knew she was right.

“I’ll need to use your fireplace. The Malfoys must be notified and let through immediately.”

“Of course. The password is the same as last time.”

He rose from the chair with deliberate calm, smoothing the front of his robes as he turned away. His steps echoed softly across the stone floor as he crossed to the far end of the ward. At the office door, he pressed his palm flat against the wood, his fingers splayed as he leaned in.

“Episkey,” he murmured.

There was a muted click followed by the faint shimmer of the wards lifting. The door creaked open just enough to admit him. He slipped inside without pause, guiding the door closed behind him with a quiet snick, and leaving the soft shuffle of the hospital wing behind.

The air was sterile, tinged with the faint bite of antiseptic and the scent of dried calendula. Shelves lined the walls in symmetrical order, each bottle and jar labeled with meticulous clarity. Her desk sat to the right, spotless, with a single quill laid parallel to a stack of parchment.

At the center of the far wall stood the fireplace. It was modest but functional, its grate looked as though it had been recently swept clean, the ashes cooled and neatly contained.

Just outside the office, Severus heard Madam Pomfrey fussing over Draco in clipped, irritated tones.

He moved to the mantel, gathered a small handful of Floo powder from the jar, and lit the fire with a flick of his wand. The flames flared to life, and without hesitation, he tossed the powder into the hearth.

“Malfoy Manor,” he said clearly.

His stomach gave a slight lurch. This would not be pleasant.

The green-tinged image of Malfoy Manor’s parlor swam into view. It was elegant, cold, and immaculately kept.

“Hello?” he called.

With a loud pop, a skinny house-elf appeared, his knobby knees knocking together, ears twitching. Its eyes were enormous and anxious.

“Dobby, at your service. Master and Mistress are out at the moment. May I take a message?” The elf bowed low, eyes fixed on the floor.

“Yes. Tell Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy that Professor Snape has called and that they are needed at Hogwarts immediately. Their son is in the infirmary, and the Headmaster has opened the Floo network to allow direct access.”

The elf’s eyes widened to the size of saucers.

“Oh no! The young master! Of course, sir, right away!” With a loud crack, Dobby vanished, leaving Severus staring into the empty parlor.

He pulled his head from the flames and brushed the soot from his robes. With news of their son’s condition, it would not take long for Lucius and Narcissa to arrive. He took a moment to compose himself, mentally rehearsing what he would say to his two old friends…

If they could still be called that.

Lucius hadn’t taken the whole “spying on the Dark Lord” revelation particularly well. At least Narcissa had shown some sense, helping him understand that Voldemort would have dragged Draco into his ranks without hesitation, putting their only child in mortal danger.

Things weren’t quite where they had been before the war, but they were improving — slowly.

“Professor Snape, are you done in there? I need you now, Mr. Malfoy is feeling well enough to be questioned!” Pomfrey called from beyond the door.

“Yes, I’ll be right there,” Severus replied. He left the office and stepped into the bright white infirmary, making his way to Draco’s bedside. The boy looked significantly better. Some color had returned to his cheeks, and he no longer appeared to be on the verge of vomiting.

He retrieved the chair he had used earlier and pulled it up beside the bed. “Your parents should be on their way. A house-elf has gone to fetch them.”

“Which one?” Draco asked, his voice muffled.

“I believe his name is Dobby.”

“Then I suggest we make ourselves comfortable. Dobby is hardly known for his efficiency,” the boy muttered, groaning as he shoved his face deeper into the pillow.

He scooted the chair closer and leaned in, lowering his voice to ensure Draco heard and fully understood his next few questions.

“You said you couldn’t remember anything beyond the Hogwarts Express and part of the Sorting Ceremony. Can you describe anything else?”

Draco looked down, clutching the bedsheets. His brow furrowed in concentration, and after a long pause he finally spoke.

“Like I said, Potter was in my train compartment. He was in a lot of pain, and then Professor Crouch came to check on us. I remember a bit more now. Just useless things, like Potions class and the Great Hall, but it all felt distant. Like I was floating.”

He fell quiet again, shifting uncomfortably under Severus’s intense gaze.

“I’m probably crazy,” he muttered, “but it felt... wonderful, like every worry I’d ever had just disappeared.”

“No, you’re not crazy,” Severus said, his voice low and steady. “You were under someone’s influence. I believe you may have been placed under the Imperius Curse.”

“That’s what you said in the hall. Do you really think that?” Draco asked, his voice rising an octave and tightening with uncertainty. 

“I do,” Severus confirmed gravely. “Draco, what I’m about to ask may make you uncomfortable, and you have every right to refuse.”

He paused, waiting until he was certain Draco was listening.

“I would like to perform Legilimency. I would only look through the last month of your memories to see if I can identify who may have used an Unforgivable on you. If you prefer, we can wait for your parents to arrive. However, as an of-age wizard, their presence is not required.”

Draco looked surprised at the offer, then momentarily thoughtful. “Does it hurt?” he asked.

“I can’t promise it won’t,” Severus replied. “The experience varies for everyone.”

Like Harry…

He’d hurt him, broken his flimsy locks on his mental doors, and cracked open something raw and exposed. He had passed out not long after, overwhelmed by the force of it.

How Potter had found it in himself to forgive him, or at least move on, he would never know. If the same thing had happened to him, he didn’t think he would have been capable of it.

He was either shockingly forgiving or dangerously naive.

“Okay.” Draco sat up straighter, his earlier vulnerability sliding behind the practiced mask of a Malfoy. “I’ll do it. My father will expect answers when he gets here, and so do I.”

He turned to Madam Pomfrey and gave her a small nod.

“I have Mr. Malfoy’s consent. Would you mind staying with us to ensure his condition remains stable?”

The mediwitch gave a firm nod in return.

Severus turned back to Draco, raising his ebony wand and holding it just above the boy’s temple.

“Legilimens.”

The air thinned. The ground dropped out from beneath him.

Severus plunged forward into a rush of light and shadow, smoke curling at the edges of his vision. Cold water. A boy’s laughter echoed—Crabbe, maybe Goyle—then the flash of sunlight reflecting off an clear lake.

Another shift. A towering pine tree strung with silver ornaments. Narcissa’s gloved hand reached to adjust a crooked ribbon.

Memory after memory hurtled past him, blurring at the edges. 

Unlike Potter’s mind, Draco’s thoughts offered no resistance at first. No barriers. No doors slamming shut. No locks, no echoes, no endless hallway filled with an infinite number of doors. There was no cave, no bathroom stall, no strange little cupboard tucked in the far corner of the mind that refused to open.

But still… something shifted.

A push. A pull.

The stream of images hesitated, then redirected. The warm buzz of a summer garden snapped into the sharp click of glass bottles in a Potions classroom. A different memory. A cleaner one. It happened again and again.

His focus sharpened. The boy didn’t have formal training, but he had talent. A subtle current of control. Draco wasn’t hiding anything, not really, but he was guiding.

Severus drifted with him through the clutter until a long corridor came into focus. Red carpeting. Narrow compartments. The faint chug of wheels beneath their feet.

They were on the Hogwarts Express.

“Is this cabin better?” Draco sneered at Goyle, who was inspecting the seats and the overhead compartment.

“Yes. No rats,” the thick-muscled boy said slowly.

“I still can’t believe you saw a rat. Disgusting. What is this, a Muggle train?” his godson complained, chest filled with outrage. “Father is right, Dumbledore is really letting the place go to ruin. Good thing it’s our last year.”

Draco’s two stooges grunted in agreement.

“I don’t like rats,” Goyle muttered. “Beady eyes and little paws. They give me the creeps.”

“Filthy animals.” Draco spat the words as he tossed his bag onto the seat by the window and made himself comfortable. Crabbe and Goyle worked together to lift all their trunks into the overhead compartments.

Severus moved forward through the memory, uninterested in watching the boys lounge around. He pushed past the idle chatter until the compartment door slid open again. He lingered on the moment, intent on seeing who entered.

“Draco, there you are,” greeted Nott as he and Zabini stepped into the now overcrowded compartment. “How was your summer?”

“Splendid. I went to Paris with Mother.” Draco smirked in satisfaction. “It was quite the experience.”

Zabini snorted. “What, did you sample the whores? I didn’t take you for that sort.”

Nott sputtered, choking back a laugh at Draco’s indignant expression. Embarrassment flared in Draco’s thoughts, sharp and defensive at Zabini’s accusation.

Draco’s lip curled into a smirk. “Unlike you, Blaise, I don’t have to slip someone a pouch of Galleons to be noticed.”

Blaise’s eyes narrowed, though his smirk never faltered. “Touchy, Malfoy I must have struck a nerve.”

“No, Draco wouldn’t lower himself like that, Blaise,” Nott added quickly as Crabbe and Goyle exchanged a look and shifted as if to remove the intruders. “He’s still hung up on that Greengrass girl, what was her name? Astoria?”

The scent of honey and lavender washed over him as a brief flash of a younger, chestnut-haired witch with round sea-blue eyes swept over the scene. Her frail wrist looked as delicate as glass as she lifted a white teacup to her red lips, pausing as if savoring the moment before she drank.

Through Draco’s mind, she was loveliness itself: poised, untouchable, and impossibly refined.

Severus felt a flicker of surprise. He had always assumed his godson’s tastes leaned toward Pansy Parkinson, not this fragile little Greengrass girl.

The scene tilted back to the cabin as Theo’s smirking face came into view.

“I knew it, ha! You owe me a Galleon,” Nott crowed. Blaise grumbled but tossed the coin over without protest.

Severus was already losing interest in the scene, preparing to push forward. He was eager to reach the moment when Potter and Crouch would appear, when a single word caught his attention.

“Potter,” Nott said, his voice dropping to something low and conspiratorial. “So, is it true, Draco? That you saw Potter kissing Corner? That he likes boys?”

A sharp wave of anxiety rippled through Draco’s mind, so strong that Severus felt it echo in his own chest where the cutting hex had torn the boy open the year prior.

Hyperfocused on the exchange, Severus watched, curious to hear what Draco would reveal to his housemate.

“Leave it, Nott. Some of us are actually trying to survive the year without drowning in Gryffindor theatrics,” the Malfoy heir said coolly. “Besides, you wouldn’t be able to handle him. He’d crush you.”

A sharp spark of electricity shot through Severus at the sight of Nott’s heated gaze.

“I don’t know about that,” Nott murmured, a slow, knowing smile tugging at his mouth. “Sometimes it’s the stubborn, wild ones who like taking it best.”

Another image surged to the forefront, a fantasy conjured from the corners of Draco’s mind.

Harry sat nude atop Nott, moving in long, deliberate strides as Nott’s cock slid in and out enthusiastically. The Slytherin shifted and began to thrust up roughly, gripping Harry’s backside for more leverage. 

A low sound slipped from Potter’s throat, half-moan, half-challenge, and his head tipped back like he’d give himself over completely.

His green eyes burned, darker than emerald, lit from within by something molten.

Severus felt heat crawl up the back of his neck, his hands tightening until the tendons ached. He could almost feel the phantom press of Potter’s weight in his lap, the warm, sharp exhale against his ear.

NO!

The fantasy clung like smoke while an inferno roared through Severus’s mind, hot and consuming. He drove himself forward, tearing past the scene with brutal force until he slammed into a wall of impenetrable blackness.

His breath came fast and shallow. The taste of bile sat thick at the back of his throat, and his stomach coiled tight, unwilling to loosen.

He was fine.

Everything was fine.

Viewing the impenetrable darkness in front of him, Severus collected himself and began sorting his way back to the cabin. His magic and mind made quick work of finding the memory.

To his relief, it didn’t take long to locate the moment when Crabbe and Goyle left with the other two Slytherins, their heavy steps fading down the corridor.

A flash of satisfaction brushed against Severus, light and sharp as the snap of a closing clasp. For a heartbeat, it was as if he had been the one left in peace.

Then the feeling ebbed, replaced by a sudden heaviness that dragged through Draco’s mind like waterlogged cloth. He slouched back in his seat, reached into his bag, and pulled out a small, clear vial of Dreamless Sleep. Uncorking it, he took a measured sip before settling into his chair.

The memory dulled around the edges as his eyes slowly drifted shut and the scene dissolved into darkness.

A moment later, the sound of the compartment door sliding open cut through the black, followed by the quick, uneven rhythm of someone breathing.

Is this it? Severus’s pulse quickened. Would he finally see the one who had cursed Malfoy?

The world began to take shape again, though not with its usual sharp lines. Everything was blurred, colors bleeding into one another, movements dragging as though the scene were unfolding underwater.

Brilliant.

Draco’s memories were compromised. Dreamless Sleep often had this effect, especially when the dose had not fully worn off.

“Not exactly…”

There was a pause, then a sudden spike of panic tore through Draco’s mind. He sat bolt upright, clutching his wand and leveling it at Potter.

Severus could barely make out the words the two boys exchanged. His attention was fixed instead on the wild-haired Gryffindor before him. Even blurred by the effects of Dreamless Sleep, it was clear Potter was in pain, the tension behind his glasses unmistakable.

Without thinking, he reached out, his fingers brushing only air as his hand passed through Harry’s hair. He drew back sharply, shaking his head.

Focus. He needed to get to the bottom of this, not waste time on impossibilities.

Turning his attention back to the scene, he caught fragments of the conversation. He could feel how Draco’s drug-addled mind wavered between offering Potter help and throwing him out entirely.

“My Father told me what happened to you..” Malfoy paused “is this from the attack?”

“Yes—no—Kind of. It’s complicated” 

Aaaand there it is, he thought with a frown, one of Potter’s non-answers. Yet to his surprise, the boy went on.

“I’ve always gotten migraines if I get too stressed, tired or anxious, and as you can imagine I’ve been stressed.” He bent forward, cradled his head between his knees, and began breathing heavily.

Whatever tension Draco had felt at Potter’s appearance seemed to fade as he reached up to rummage through his luggage in the overhead compartment.

“I didn’t know you got migraines, Potter.” He pulled out a smaller vial of Dreamless Sleep.

Severus made a mental note to speak with him later about the dangers of misusing it.

“I don’t exactly advertise it. Any chance you can keep this quiet?”

Draco scoffed, holding out the vial for Potter to take. “Why not? I wouldn’t want to risk the Great Harry Potter hexing me again, would I? Don’t want your adoring fans finding out you can’t handle a little headache.”

Potter’s head remained bowed between his knees. He made no move to take the potion, nor did he muster a retort.

Then the compartment door slid open.

Finally. Severus narrowed his eyes. This was the moment he had been waiting for.

Barty Crouch Jr. swam into view.

“What’s all this, then?” came a stiff, formal voice. “I heard shouting. Everyone all right?”

“Yes, we’re fine,” Draco replied quickly, his outstretched hand falling to his side.

The figure stepped farther into the room, and through Draco’s eyes, the man was a haze of blond, blue, and black, vaguely human-shaped, but otherwise unremarkable.

He watched the scene unfold, straining to make sense of the muddled images and muffled voices.

Potter lurched forward again, a small cry escaping his lips as he clutched his head.

Crouch moved toward Draco and gently took the potion from his hand. “I think you should leave. I’ll take it from here.”

Severus could feel the ripple of indecision in Draco’s mind as the professor guided him toward the door.

“Maybe find your friends. Keep them from coming back for a bit.”

Draco nodded numbly. The door closed behind him with a muted thud, and he cast one last glance through the compartment window before turning away.

Severus leaned in as he tried to force the blurred shapes into focus. Two figures sat close, the larger one bent slightly toward the smaller. A faint shift, a flicker of movement, and light caught on something in the larger figure’s hand, glass, slender-necked, unmistakable in shape.

The potion, the one Crouch had taken from Draco moments earlier.

His gaze tracked it as it passed between them, vanishing into the smaller shadow’s grasp. Heat prickled along the back of his neck, though the air in the corridor was still. 

The curve of that vial was etched too clearly into his mind for comfort.

Despite wanting to stay in that moment — in that scene — despite the urge to fling open the compartment door, snatch the vial from Potter’s hands, and hex the other professor into next year, Severus was wrenched away, pulled down the train’s corridor, following Draco’s path toward his friends.

Draco made his way down the train’s hallway, pausing now and then to peer through the glass windows of various compartments. Every cabin seemed full, yet none contained his friends.

As they moved away from the cabins and into the secluded space where the next block of train cars began, Severus felt it, the sudden, unmistakable surge of magic wrapping around Malfoy.

It was foul. Something oily and clinging, steeped in a darkness that made his skin crawl. Panic burst inside Draco’s mind, sharp and disorienting, as his feet rooted to the spot. The boy began to thrash, mouth open in a soundless scream.

Severus turned sharply, black eyes sweeping over everything, anything, searching for any detail Draco’s subconscious might have caught. Except nothing was clear. The boy was still too far under the influence of the potion, and his panic blurred everything further; colors and shapes bled together.

He could not see it, could not see who held him. His view was shackled to Draco’s perception of events. But he could feel it…the stench of mildew thick in the air, and the sharp, unnatural press of a wand digging into the back of Malfoy’s skull.

“I know you,” a male voice said, nasally and uncertain. A ghost of familiarity rippled through Severus at the sound, not a name, not a face, but a trace of cadence that made the fine hairs at the nape of his neck stand on end. There was something in the way the vowels curled, a smug lilt that belonged to somewhere he would rather not remember. “I’ve heard all about you.” A squeak of a laugh followed. “You’re so much prettier in person. I hope you don’t take this too personally, it wasn’t my idea, but we need you, and your father owes us.”

The world seemed to swing upside down from Draco’s terror, and Severus braced himself in the memory to avoid being thrown out.

“Imperius.”

A wave of fog rolled in, so thick it crashed over the scene like a breaking tide. Darkness swallowed everything; not even the faint outline of train walls or windows remained. A saccharine warmth seeped into the boy’s mind, cloying and seductive, and Severus knew the assailant had taken full control.

The commanding voice drifted through the boy’s mind, no longer weak or mild but sweet, almost divine in its flavor and texture, as it wrapped its way deeper into Draco’s thoughts.

“I will come to you when I require something done. Until then, keep your place. Go to school. Sit with your friends, and keep Harry in your sight.”

Something cold uncoiled in Severus’s gut. The sound of it crawled over his skin, seeping into the spaces between each breath. It was not meant for him, yet the cadence sank hooks into his mind all the same, leaving behind a film of unease he could not shake.

Whoever owned that voice knew what they were doing, and they had found their way into Hogwarts, even if inadvertently.

He needed to inform Dumbledore at once.

Severus began to pull himself from Malfoy’s mind. The resistance was faint but present, like pushing upward through heavy water. The swirling fog thinned, and the earlier shadows broke apart until the sterile white of the hospital wing bled through.

When his vision fully cleared, he was still seated across from Draco, who sat hunched forward, a bead of sweat tracing a slow path down his temple. Steely grey met black as Severus searched the boy’s face for any sign of pain or lingering damage.

“That wasn’t too bad,” Draco panted, a sarcastic smirk tugging at his lips. “I suppose that confirms it then?”

Severus shot him a serious look, tension rising in his shoulders.

“Yes, it is as I feared.” 

“What is it that you feared, Severus?” Lucius Malfoy stepped into view, tall and immaculate in pale grey, his gloved hands folded loosely behind his back. Narcissa followed, her beauty sharpened by concern, her eyes locked not on Severus but on the pale figure of her son.

Severus rose. “Lucius. Narcissa.”

Narcissa moved first, gliding past him as if he were an afterthought.

Once she reached Draco’s bedside, she crouched beside him and brushed back a damp lock of hair from his forehead.

“Draco,” she said softly, “Madam Pomfrey told us that Professor Snape entered your mind.”

Lucius’s gaze never left Severus. “Without our presence?”

Draco’s mouth pulled into a thin line. “I agreed to it,” he said, his voice rough from strain. “I wanted him to.”

Narcissa’s brows pinched, though her gaze never wavered. “Why?” The single word was cool and precise, not an invitation but a demand, carrying the same unyielding authority she used to quell a room full of pureblooded matrons.

Draco glanced at his father, then back to her. “I trust him, and I needed to know.”

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Narcissa’s grip on her son’s hand tightened almost imperceptibly. Lucius’s gaze flicked from Draco to Severus, his pale eyes narrowing in silent calculation. The air between them felt fragile, stretched thin enough that any word might shatter it.

Lucius turned back to Severus. “What did you find in my son’s mind?”

Severus’s tone was flat. “Draco was attacked. Someone used the Imperius Curse on him on the Hogwarts Express.”

Narcissa inhaled sharply. “Who would dare? Why would they do such a thing?”

“I cannot yet say. The culprit remained hidden, but we believe it is connected to the attack on Potter this summer.”

There was much more he wanted to tell them, but he knew he couldn’t. He had to speak to Dumbledore first, or to the D.M.L.E., and he couldn’t risk it.

Lucius’s jaw tightened. “Potter,” he said, spitting the name like something foul. “That boy has been nothing but trouble. He should have been expelled long ago.”

A flicker of heat coiled in Severus’s chest, unpleasantly close to anger. Lucius’s disdain was expected, but the casual ease with which he wrote Potter off bothered him; probably more than it should have.

“No,” Severus cut in. His voice was quiet, but it carried. “As gratifying as it might be to lay every misfortune at Potter’s feet, this one is beyond even his talent for chaos.”

Lucius stared, clearly caught off guard. Narcissa tilted her head slightly, studying Severus as if gauging what it had cost him to say it.

“Severus, this is Potter we are talking about. Are you all right?” she asked a slight note of concern in her voice.

“Yes, I’m fine.” Severus cleared his throat unable, to meet her eyes. 

Perfectly fine.

“Madam Pomfrey, I must speak with the Headmaster about my findings. I trust you can look after the Malfoys?”

“I can, Professor Snape. If I need you I will send my Patronus.” The mediwitch confirmed.

 He gave Draco one last searching look before sweeping toward the door, his robes trailing behind him.

Severus had never crossed the castle so quickly without breaking into a run. His feet carried him forward, though he doubted they ever truly touched the stone floor. He needed to speak to Dumbledore, and he needed to do it now.

Potter was in danger, more danger than they had originally believed.

James had suspected this was the work of a Death Eater, and that whimpering, nasal voice had all but confirmed it.

Your father owes us. 

Lucius had a bad habit of making enemies with the wrong people. For every high-profile connection he cultivated, he seemed to earn a place on at least two equally influential enemies’ hit lists. The Death Eaters had been livid when he escaped Azkaban, and many still believed he owed them a debt.

Now there was a Death Eater on the train, and possibly within Hogwarts itself. If the intruder could not breach the castle wards, he could still be close—too close. There was no telling how many others might already be under his influence.

And, for whatever reason, they wanted Potter.

Severus’s breath came quicker, his heartbeat loud enough to drown the faint echo of his own footsteps. Stone blurred beneath his feet as the corridor opened to reveal the looming gargoyle, its wings hunched tight at its sides.

“Rock candy.”

The word snapped from his mouth like a curse. The creature sprang aside with a scrape of stone on stone. He mounted the spiral, taking the steps two at a time, the walls spinning past until the door filled his vision. His hand closed over the brass handle, and he threw it wide.

What greeted him was complete chaos.

A chair hurtled past his head, close enough for the rush of air to sting his cheek, before it shattered against the wall in a thousand splinters. The crash rang through the office, sharp enough to make him flinch and raise an arm in reflex.

The room looked as though a storm had torn through it. Parchment littered the floor in scattered drifts, and the glass on Albus’s display cases had fractured into spiderweb patterns that obscured the artifacts within.

Harry stood in the center, chest heaving, eyes wide and wild, his face flushed deep crimson. Severus could feel the boy’s magic whipping around him in waves and crackling in the air.

Across from him, James matched his son’s color, his jaw clenched tight. On the floor between them, Lily crouched on her hands and knees, hurriedly gathering loose parchment, her hair falling forward to shield her face.

Severus took in the scene at a glance.

Accidental magic.

“Severus.” Dumbledore’s voice cut through the charged air, calm but carrying. “How fortuitous. I was just about to call for you.”

Harry spun around, eyes wide, lips parting in surprise. “Professor Snape, I’m sorry. Did that almost hit you?” He began to babble, his embarrassment clear.

“Lucky for me, you have bad aim,” Severus replied dryly, running his fingers through his now tangled hair.

A flicker of a smile tugged at Potter’s mouth before vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.

“Oh, ease off, will you!” James snapped. “This is none of your business. What are you doing here?”

“I need to speak to the Headmaster,” Severus said evenly. “About what happened with Mr. Malfoy and your son.” His eyes stayed on James, weighing him carefully. Whatever had been said before Severus entered, the argument was far from finished.

“Yes,” Dumbledore said, clearing his throat. “James, Lily, Harry—if you could step aside.”

When the Potters moved back, he flicked his wand, and the office began to right itself. Parchment lifted from the floor and even from Lily’s hands, stacking itself neatly on his desk. The fractured glass in the display cases smoothed over as though time had reversed. The chair that had exploded into splinters reassembled in midair, each piece snapping into place before settling once more in front of the Headmaster’s desk.

“Now, why don’t we all take a seat and try again,” Albus said with a smile, folding his hands together. His blue eyes twinkled as though the last few minutes had been nothing more than a minor interruption.

As everyone moved toward the desk, black eyes met green. Potter’s lips curved into a quick, secretive grin, and, hidden from James’s view, he gave Severus a cheeky little wave with his fingers before tucking his hands behind his back.

Harry then took a step forward a bit too casually, and his heel caught on the edge of the rug.

“Careful, honey,” Lily reached out to grab his arm.

Potter laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck, the faintest flush in his cheeks.

The movement was so unguarded, so charming, it pulled at the edges of that fantasy from Draco’s mind. For an instant, molten green eyes and flushed skin replaced the boy standing before him, and heat crawled unwanted up the back of his neck.

Severus’s heart clenched.

Everything was fine.

Perfectly fine, really.

Chapter Text

The office was too quiet. Every creak of the high-backed chair and every pop from the fire seemed to echo in the silence. Harry sat stiff as a board, shoulders hunched and knuckles white as he gripped the armrests.

On the walls, the painted headmasters leaned forward in their frames, eyes following him like hawks circling prey. A few shifted, muttering under their breath.

Across the desk, Dumbledore beamed, the genial curve of his mouth framed by the sweep of his half-moon spectacles. The old wizard’s eyes gleamed as if he knew a secret he didn’t.

Harry shifted again, and the chair groaned beneath him. The silence stretched on, and his stomach twisted nervously.

“I’m sure they’ll be here any moment,” Dumbledore said.

He groaned; any moment in Lily-speak meant half an hour if he was lucky. He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Sorry for the wait, Professor. Mum has a hard time getting away from St. Mungo’s.”

“That’s quite all right, Harry.” Dumbledore folded his hands, his eyes still twinkling. “They will be here when they are meant to.”

The words settled into the silence like dust. He nodded, muttered an awkward “Okay, sir,” and leaned back again.

Another beat passed, long enough that the ticking of the silver instruments on the shelves grew loud in his ears.

Dumbledore tilted his head and peered over his spectacles with sudden gravity.

Harry’s breath hitched.

“Lemon drop?” Dumbledore asked, lifting a delicate candy dish etched with filigree.

A ripple passed through the portraits. Several leaned forward. One old witch whispered to her neighbor, who clucked her tongue disapprovingly.

Harry’s stomach rolled at the thought of eating anything, let alone something sour and sticky.

“No, thank you.”

Dumbledore’s smile faltered slightly. He set the dish down with a faint clink, his fingers lingering on the lid a moment too long before letting go. He sighed and leaned back in his chair, almost deflated by the rejection.

Harry stared, unsure if he should laugh or apologize. Sometimes, it was impossible to reconcile the man, sitting there pouting over sweets, with the fact that the wizarding world called him its greatest champion.

After what felt like an eternity, though probably only five minutes, the giant fireplace in Dumbledore’s office flared to life. Emerald flames licked the grate, and James and Lily Potter stepped through.

James immediately set about dusting soot from their robes with exaggerated flourishes as if the ash had personally offended him. His red Auror robes came clean with little effort, but Lily’s lime-green healer’s robes clung to the grime and turned a dull grey in the firelight. With a soft huff and a precise swish of her wand, she muttered “Scourgify,” and the fabric brightened back to its crisp, spotless state.

“I hope we didn’t keep you waiting too long,” the red-haired witch said, bending to hug Harry awkwardly. Her sharp green eyes swept over him, cataloging every detail, searching for the faintest bruise—real or imagined.

“Not at all,” Dumbledore replied at the exact moment Harry muttered, “Yes.”

Lily’s brows drew together. James, either oblivious or pretending to be, grinned. “Well, better late than never, as I always say.”

He gave Harry’s shoulder a jostle that was meant to be playful, though it landed more like the opening move of a wrestling match.

“Now that everyone is here, please take a seat. We have much to discuss.” Dumbledore gestured toward the empty chairs.

James pulled out the chair directly beside Harry for Lily, its legs scraping against the floor. The two exchanged a quick, curious look as she sat down. 

Harry sat still, resisting the urge to vanish entirely into his seat.

Did the Headmaster even tell them why they needed to come? He wondered. He’d half expected them to come tearing into the office as if Voldemort had secretly survived and Death Eaters were already flooding the streets.

Instead, they were oddly calm.

“What is this about, Albus? Why is Harry here?” Lily asked, her eyes moving over him again. “He doesn’t appear to be hurt.”

So he hadn’t told them. 

Brilliant. Just brilliant. 

Harry sank a little lower in his chair, groaning inwardly. Sure, they would start calm, but the second they heard the truth, they would explode.

“Ah, yes.” Dumbledore cleared his throat as if he were preparing for a grand performance. “Harry is fine. He is not physically harmed. However, there was a… minor incident earlier this morning.”

He eyed the ancient professor sitting calmly behind his desk. Minor incident? Sure, no one got hurt, not even Draco, but he wasn’t sure he would call it minor. 

“What has he done this time?” James asked, exasperation sharpening his voice.

The words stung. Harry’s fists curled tight in his lap as he stared at the floor, wishing it would swallow him whole. He told himself he had no right to be angry—it wasn’t unfair.

His parents had been dragged to the Headmaster’s office more times than he could count because of him.

He had earned their doubt a hundred times over. But knowing that didn’t make it hurt less. 

It only carved the truth deeper: he was the problem.

“James,” Lily said quickly, her hand brushing Harry’s arm as though she could shield him. But Harry caught it in her eyes, fleeting and unspoken.

What did you do?

And that hurt worst of all.

“You’ll be happy to hear it wasn’t my fault,” Harry growled, shrugging Lily’s hand off his shoulder. He didn’t want her touch. He didn’t even want to be here.

“Oh, heavens, no!” Dumbledore lifted a hand in a calming gesture. “In fact, Harry performed quite admirably.” A faint chuckle slipped from his lips. “He has taken to Professor Snape’s Advanced Defence class much more than I anticipated.”

Lily’s expression softened, and her eyes shifted back to Harry with an apologetic look. James, however, crossed his arms, his jaw tight. “Then why are we here? Surely not to hear that he’s excelling in Defence. I could tell you that much, he’s my son, after all.”

“To put it simply,” Dumbledore said evenly, “this morning after Defence class, Harry, Miss Granger, and a Slytherin student were attacked by another classmate.”

Lily’s and James’s reactions were immediate. Both went rigid in their seats. James leaned forward, brow furrowed, his voice low and sharp. “And you didn’t tell us immediately because…?”

“Because I wanted you to see Harry whole and well before I told you,” Dumbledore replied, his tone measured. “Harry and his friends applied their lessons from Professor Snape effectively, subduing the other student without anyone suffering harm.”

“Who was it?” Lily’s voice rose a notch, tight with strain. Harry could feel the tension rolling off her like heat. “It was that Malfoy boy, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” Dumbledore admitted, “but not of his own will.”

Harry’s stomach sank. He could already see it in their faces: the disbelief, the fury. Any second now, they would start shouting. There was no doubt in his mind that his parents thought Draco had done it deliberately, that this was just another Malfoy scheme to settle a score.

Dumbledore rose to his feet. Whatever argument Harry’s parents had been preparing died on their lips as he crossed the office to where Fawkes was preening himself on his golden perch. As wrinkled fingers stroked the fiery red feathers, the phoenix leaned into the touch.

“As I was saying,” the old wizard continued, his voice calm but carrying, “Harry and his friends prevented the situation from escalating. Fortunately, Professors Crouch and Snape intervened before further harm was done.” He paused, withdrawing his hand from the phoenix. 

He turned back to them, his blue eyes were sharp and stripped of their usual twinkle. “We believe Mr. Malfoy was compelled to attack Harry. Professor Snape suspects the Imperius Curse and is investigating the matter now.”

“Oh, is that what Snivellus says?” James spat. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s covering for that Malfoy boy. He’s been gunning for Harry since first year, and that miserable excuse for a teacher has done nothing but protect him!”

Harry flinched. He had never liked the nickname, but when Snape had been critical, cruel, and overbearing, he had never bothered to stop it. It was easier to let it roll off, laugh along, or stay silent.

But hearing it now, in the warm light of the Headmaster’s office, was different. It wasn’t a student’s insult muttered in passing. It was his father’s voice, heavy with old hate, aimed squarely at the man who had promised to keep Harry’s secret safe.

The man who had been training him, strengthening him. Whose brooding stare made his blood rush, and whose dark voice ensnared him.

It felt wrong. So wrong. Unfair in a way that burned deep in Harry’s chest, leaving him shaking with a hurt he couldn’t swallow.

“James! Enough!” Lily’s hand shot out, her fingers digging into his sleeve.

But James was already moving. He freed his arm from Lily’s grasp and pushed the chair legs back until they screeched against the stone. Fury poured off him in intense, restless strides toward the door.

Harry’s legs pushed him upright before he could stop himself, his chair rocking precariously before clattering back on the floor. “Where are you going? We aren’t done here!”

James spun at the threshold. “Where am I going? I’m going to drag Snivellus up here by that great hooked nose of his, and we’ll get to the bottom of this!”

The words hit Harry like a slap. His fists clenched before his voice did. “Don’t talk about him like that!” The shout tore free from his throat.

The room went still. Even the portraits seemed to hold their breath.

Slowly, his glare snapped to Harry, eyes wide with disbelief, his mouth twisting as though he’d misheard. “Are you seriously defending that man? After all these years of him taking his pathetic life out on you?”

“Yes,” Harry shot back, his voice steady. “I am. He’s strict, yeah, and not exactly nice most of the time, but he’s been there. He’s looked out for me, even before this year. I didn’t want to admit it before…”

His heart thundered in his chest. He had never stood up to his dad like this. Usually, he let James and Lily draw their own conclusions, no matter how wrong they were, because it was easier than fighting. But not this time. Not anymore. He wanted something to change, anything, so he could finally breathe without feeling the suffocating weight pressing down on him every time they were near.

James’s tone dropped an octave as he approached Harry in the center of the room. “What is with this attitude? You’ve been out of control, making snide remarks to your mother, not answering our letters, and now this? We’re worried, Harry. If I hadn’t asked Professor Crouch to keep an eye on you before he came to Hogwarts, we wouldn’t have any idea how you’re doing.”

What?

Harry stood stock-still, ice rushing through his veins as a dull buzzing filled his ears.

“You what?” he asked quietly, praying he had misheard.

James frowned as though he couldn’t understand why this mattered. “I trust his father immensely. He was my boss for years at the D.M.L.E., an extraordinary man, and his son is just as competent. I just wanted to make sure someone was—”

“James! You did not!” Lily shot to her feet, her fiery hair whipping over her shoulder. The two of them began to argue, their voices spiking in the background, but all Harry could hear was the relentless buzzing in his skull.

So it was all a lie.

A bitter taste filled his mouth. Even though Crouch hadn’t been his main Defence professor, Harry had genuinely enjoyed learning Occlumency from him. Once he relaxed, Crouch was fun, even easy to talk to. His comfort felt warm, different, so unlike Snape’s authoritative presence.

It meant so much to think there was someone who cared about him, not because he was a Potter or tied to some shared history, but because he was simply… him.

Except that wasn’t it, was it? Professor Crouch hadn’t been interested in him at all…not as a student or a person. He had only been doing a favor—a favor for James and his own father.

Harry’s fist clenched. He could feel his blood running hot through his veins. How much had Crouch told his dad? Did he know about the migraine on the train? Had the vial of Dreamless Sleep only been a ruse, a trick to win his trust so he could watch him more closely on James’s behalf?

“So he wasn’t actually helping me because he wanted to,” he said, the floor tilting under him. “He was doing it because you told him to?”

James’s voice hardened. “Don’t twist this. It’s about keeping you safe.”

“Safe,” Harry echoed, the word tasting like ash. The watch, which had been silent until now, began a faint, irregular vibration in his pocket. “Or under control?”

Lily stepped forward, her palms out in a placating gesture. “Harry, please. I didn’t know about this.” She gave James a nasty look. “And I agree it’s an invasion of your privacy, but you must be reasonable. Your father and I are just worried, and with you pulling away so much, we thought we were going to lose you…”

Harry’s laugh was edged and humorless. “Where was this concern before? You didn’t give a damn any other year. Suddenly, I’m too weak to handle myself?”

“That’s not fair,” Lily said, her tone tightening.

“You’re being ungrateful,” James snapped.

Harry’s pulse spiked. “Ungrateful? For being spied on like a child?”

The air grew heavy, pressing against Harry’s skin until every breath felt like dragging cloth through water. Heat crawled up the back of his neck. The watch seared against him in his pocket, the faint hum building into a violent, relentless pulse that beat with his own racing heart.

“We’re your parents,” James shot back, his voice rising to meet the storm. “We’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. We always have, whether you like it or not.”

The words snapped something inside him.

A piercing crack shattered the silence. One of Dumbledore’s glass cases split straight down the middle, the jagged line spreading like a lightning bolt. Inside, chrome gadgets clattered against their shelves, the rattle rising to a frantic clamor as more cracks spidered outward in every direction.

Harry’s throat closed. The room tilted, spinning as though the very floor had slipped out beneath his feet. His voice ripped free, raw and unstoppable. “You don’t get to act like parents now just because it’s convenient for you!”

The surge hit him like a thunderclap. Magic roared outward, blistering and wild, and the office reeled.

Dumbledore’s desk skidded across the floor, its carved legs almost snapping off on the stone. Papers spun into the air, a storm of parchment catching in the currents, before an inkwell burst on the ground, splattering black across the rug. Lily’s scream cut through the din as glass exploded, shards raining down in glittering sheets while the artifacts inside tumbled free, clanging against the ground.

The magic pressed down, crushing the air from the room and forcing the others to their knees. James strained against it, his face mottled red as he shouted over the invisible weight. 

“Harry! Get yourself under control, now!”

But Harry couldn’t. The magic was a flood, a beast tearing loose, and he was only clinging to its back as it raged.

Only moments before, the chair he had been sitting in snapped free with a screech and was wrenched violently from the floor. It spun once in midair before hurling across the room and smashing into the wall with an ear-splitting crack, the wood splintering into a thousand jagged shards.

James struggled upright against the invisible weight, his face flushed with fury and strain. Lily sobbed softly. She dropped to her knees, her hands trembling as she gathered the scattered parchment, the black ink staining her fingers. The portraits on the walls muttered nervously, some retreating deeper into their frames.

For a long, choking moment, no one spoke. The silence pressed down heavier than the magic had, as though the whole office was holding its breath, waiting for the next blow.

Harry’s chest heaved, the aftershocks of wild magic still buzzing through his fingertips. He swallowed hard. His throat was raw and tasted like ash in the back of his mouth.

“Severus.” 

Dumbledore’s voice cut through the charged air, calm but carrying. “How fortuitous. I was just about to call for you.”

Harry spun around, eyes wide, lips parting in shock. The debris from the shattered chair lay scattered across the floor, pushed aside by the Professor’s quick reflexes. Snape stood slightly crouched, ready for another object to come flying at him.

“Professor Snape, I’m sorry,” Harry blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush. How could he have lost control like that? What if someone had been hurt? “Did that almost hit you?”

Black eyes locked on his, giving nothing away. “Lucky for me, you have bad aim,” Snape replied dryly.

Harry’s lips twitched despite himself, the heat in his chest easing for the briefest moment. The corner of his mouth lifted helplessly, as though Snape had handed him a lifeline he hadn’t expected. His gaze caught on the slow sweep of those long fingers combing through dark, silken hair, and for a heartbeat, the chaos around them blurred to nothing at all.

“Oh, ease off, will you!” James snapped, his voice cutting through the moment. “This is none of your business. What are you doing here?”

Not his business, my arse. Harry bit back a scoff. Wasn’t he the one who had stormed off to drag Snape up here by his hooked nose?

“I need to speak to the Headmaster,” Snape said evenly. “About what happened with Mr. Malfoy and your son.” His gaze remained fixed on James, steady and unflinching, as if braced for a curse to come flying his way.

“Yes,” Dumbledore said, clearing his throat. “James, Lily, Harry—if you would step aside.”

He felt magic roll through the room, steady and immense. It wasn’t wild or overpowering, but contained and precise. Even in something so simple, Albus Dumbledore made magic look extraordinary.

With a flick of his wrist, the office began to repair itself. Papers lifted from the floor and spun gracefully through the air as though they were dancing, before stacking neatly on the desk. Cracks in the glass sealed over, smooth and flawless, erasing every sign of Harry’s outburst. Even the chair, reduced to thousands of splintered pieces, gathered itself from the corners of the room and reassembled as though it had never shattered.

When the last leg settled into place, Dumbledore turned back to them. He folded his hands together, his blue eyes calm. “Now,” he said gently, “why don’t we all take a seat and try again?”

Shame burned in Harry’s chest. Dumbledore’s calm ease only reminded him of how violently he had lost control, how shamefully all the Potters had just acted. He wished he could take it all back. The Headmaster didn’t need to be dragged into their family drama, and Snape certainly didn’t deserve James’s abuse.

As everyone moved toward the desk, black eyes met green. Snape’s brow arched, a silent question written in its tapered line. Harry could almost hear the words: What happened?

Harry wanted him to know, wanted him to see that he thought his dad was being ridiculous, that he wasn’t on his side, and that everything would be fine. His lips curved into a quick, secretive grin, and, hidden from James’s view, he gave Snape a wiggle of his fingers in a wave.

Then he strode forward a bit too casually, heat rushed into his face the instant he realized how bold he’d been, and of course, that was the moment his heel caught on the edge of the rug, sending him pitching forward.

Lily’s hand shot out just in time, steadying him before he could make a complete fool of himself. Harry laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck, his ears burning pink.

“Careful,” she murmured.

He felt the weight of Snape’s gaze on him, heavy and unrelenting. It made his skin prickle, and the flush in his face spread as he slid into his chair.

“Now, that’s better, isn’t it?” Dumbledore asked, his light blue eyes sweeping over the group. “Since you are here, Severus, I'm assuming that you have found something?”

“Yes.” Snape inclined his head, shifting slightly in his heavy robes as all three Potters focused on him.

“I was able to determine that Draco was, in fact, placed under the Imperius Curse and that his target was Mr. Potter.”

Harry’s chest tightened. He had seen it in Draco’s twitchy behavior, felt it in the undercurrent of the duel, and caught it in Snape’s words in the corridor. But hearing it confirmed was different. The words seemed to suck the warmth from the room. Harry’s skin prickled, the back of his neck crawling as though unseen fingers lingered there. 

“Severus, how do you know this for certain?” Lily asked. Her voice was even, but her fingers curled tightly against her knees, knuckles blanching. “The Imperius is undetectable.”

“Undetectable by diagnostic charms, perhaps,” Snape answered, his tone clipped and deliberate. “But traces can remain in the mind. Sometimes even the moment itself.”

Harry’s lungs stuttered. The realization struck hard, cold as ice in his veins.

Legilimency.

He had performed Legilimency on a student and had just admitted it in front of his dad, an Auror who was waiting for any excuse to drag him through the mud.

“Legilimency?” James barked. “Have you lost your mind?” He surged forward in his chair, eyes blazing. “No, don’t answer that. Look who I’m talking to. I ought to have you dragged down to the Ministry this instant.”

“I had the boy’s consent, you nitwit. Ask Madam Pomfrey if you must,” Snape drawled, his words slick with disdain. His eyes narrowed, catching the light with a dangerous glint. “You don’t imagine I would admit to a crime in front of you, do you?”

James stiffened, his jaw locked tight. Lily’s lips pressed into a thin line, but neither spoke.

Across the room, Harry released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The tight coil in his chest loosened, and his shoulders sank. Of course, Snape wouldn’t let himself be cornered. He was too clever, too careful.

“Now, if I can continue,” Snape sneered, “when I entered Mr. Malfoy’s mind, it became clear that we might be dealing with a very unhappy Death Eater. Perhaps even more than one.”

James and Lily snapped their attention toward him, their anger momentarily eclipsed by keen interest. Harry’s own spine straightened, his pulse pounding in his ears. His father had hinted at suspicions before, but this sounded like proof.

“Death Eaters?” Dumbledore leaned forward, the twinkle in his eyes gone. His face was set, serious now, and his voice was steady yet taut. “Are you certain, Severus? From my understanding, the Aurors caught the last of them years ago.”

The fire popped in the hearth, loud in the heavy silence that followed.

“Ministry propaganda,” James cut in, his arms crossed over his broad chest as he leaned back, thoughtful now rather than furious. “You-Know-Who never allowed his followers to know everyone in his circle. It was a form of insurance. For every Death Eater we caught, they might know only one or two others—names that no one else had. Each prisoner gave us a different piece of the puzzle, but never the whole picture.”

He paused, his eyes narrowing as he gave Snape a meaningful look. “We really have no idea how many Death Eaters are still out there, do we?”

“No.” The man’s tone was low and final. “All I know is that I did not see the man, but I recognized the way the attacker talked to Mr. Malfoy. Everything about it reeked of Death Eaters, and I am concerned that he may not be the only one under the curse. Whoever it was has found their way in here, even if they aren’t here physically.

The pause that followed was filled with the hum of the repaired glass cases and the faint rustling of Fawkes shifting on his perch. Then Dumbledore tilted his head, his gaze steady on Snape.

“And did you find it, Severus?” he asked quietly. “The reason they wanted Harry?”

For the first time, Snape hesitated. His mouth pressed into a thin line, and he gave the slightest shake of his head.

“I did not.”

Dumbledore’s expression shifted, not to surprise but to a contemplative silence that made Harry’s stomach twist. The old wizard knew something. Harry could feel it in the weight of his gaze and how his long fingers tapped lightly against the desk before stilling again.

At last, he spoke, his voice firm. “Then we must act as though there may be another attempt. Until we have answers, in addition to being unable to visit Hogsmeade, Harry is not to walk the corridors alone. He will be escorted to each class by a teacher. That way, we minimize the chance of him crossing paths with another student under the Imperius.”

Harry’s heart sank at Dumbledore’s words. He could practically hear the door to his cage locking.

Lily’s face twisted in disbelief. “Absolutely not!” she declared, surging to her feet and pulling Harry’s arm with her. 

For the briefest moment, he thought she had seen reason, had seen what this meant to him, what it was doing to him.

“He is coming home immediately! I will not have him here, surrounded by Imperiused children, while some Death Eater stalks him…” She flung a hand out as if swatting away a row of invisible attackers. “The only reason I agreed to let him come this year in the first place was because I was assured he would be safe and could complete his NEWTs in peace. Well, that was clearly a lie!”

Dumbledore leaned back with a sigh, his voice soft and almost weary. “If that is truly what you wish, Lily, then perhaps you should explain to Harry why he will forfeit his NEWTs and remain under house arrest while his peers continue their education.”

Lily tugged on his hand again, but he didn’t budge. He wanted to stay at Hogwarts, complete his NEWTs, and finish his last year with his friends. He didn’t want Dumbledore assigning him a teacher to shadow his every step, and he certainly didn’t want Snape seeing him dragged off like a child.

He could feel those black eyes on him, steady and watchful, and heat bloomed in his chest.

“Mum! Stop. I am not going with you or Dad,” he bit out fiercely. “I’m not a child; you don’t get to decide this for me. I’m of age now, and I choose to stay here. Whoever this is, they want me. I won’t be safer at home than I am here. I might even be worse off.”

Lily froze. Standing in front of him, she looked suddenly small, her green eyes wet with unshed tears.

“Why are you being like this, Harry?” Her voice cracked, raw and pleading. His heart clenched at the sound, guilt gnawing at him even as anger still burned in his chest. “Please come home with us. We’ll figure out NEWTs later, just until he’s caught.”

Snape made a sharp choking sound at Lily’s declaration.

“Do you have something to say, Severus?” she snapped. Her glare fixed on him, and for a moment, Harry thought Snape might shrink beneath it, as though her fury were physically pressing down on him.

The silence stretched. Then Snape turned his head, his eyes falling on Harry as though he were seeing him for the first time. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and edged. “This is hardly my concern, but it seems Potter has made himself clear. And, Merlin help me, I find myself in agreement. He is right, Lily, and you know it.”

The two locked eyes, something heavy bristling in the air between them. For a long moment, neither moved. Lily’s jaw clenched, her chin lifting as if she meant to argue, but the words never came. Her lips pressed into a thin line, trembling at the edges.

At last, she looked away, shoulders sagging under its weight. “You’re right…” The words came low, almost strangled, as though dragged out of her. She turned back to Harry, her face pale and eyes shining. “Harry, will you at least allow the teachers to walk you to your classes?”

Dumbstruck, Harry nodded. His gaze darted immediately to Snape. The man sat rigid in his chair, his expression unreadable, his eyes still fixed on Lily until, at last, they slid toward him.

His breath caught. Had he really just stood up for him? Admitted, in front of his parents no less, that he was right?

A swell of something rose in his chest—appreciation, piercing and hot, crashing against the remnants of shame. 

This was real.

He could feel it. 

Nothing was staged, no false promises or pretty words to get on his good side. Just Snape, as he always was, unapologetic and raw.

Heat flared again in his chest, curling deep in his stomach. His breath hitched, his lips parting before he snapped them shut again. His fingers clamped around the edge of his chair, his knuckles whitening as though the wood might tether him.

He fixed his gaze on the grain of the desk, anywhere but the man across from him, his tongue flicking nervously across his lips as the flush in his cheeks deepened.

He wanted to kiss him. Right there in front of everyone, to close the distance and press his gratitude against that hard, unreadable mouth.

He felt Snape’s gaze on him again as if he were peeling back every flimsy defence he tried to put up.

Harry shifted in his seat, throat dry. He didn’t dare look up. Not when it felt like the older man already knew.

A chair scraped against the stone. James cleared his throat, sharp and impatient.

 “So, what’s next then?” he asked, his tone clipped, arms folded across his chest. “You’ve said yourself there are still Death Eaters out there. If my son is being targeted, I expect the Headmaster to have more of a plan. I think we should revisit assigning him an Auror detail.”

Harry did not want an Auror detail.

Lily perched back on the edge of her chair, her shoulders tight, her green eyes darting toward Harry with an unreadable mixture of fear and frustration before settling on Dumbledore. “Yes. He needs more than teachers walking him to class; that isn’t enough.”

Dumbledore steepled his fingers, his calm expression belying the gravity in his eyes. “It is a start,” he said firmly. “We cannot move too quickly without alarming the rest of the student body, and I will not have an Auror detail present, disrupting day-to-day life for the rest of the student body. I assure you additional protections will be considered. However, for now, vigilance from the staff will suffice.”

Snape inclined his head, voice smooth but cool. “I will continue my inquiry into Mr. Malfoy’s condition. Whoever cast the curse may have left traces.”

James snorted under his breath but said nothing more, his jaw set tightly.

Harry glanced at his parents; their shared looks pressed on him heavier than the Headmaster’s words. He knew the fight wasn’t over. Not even close. He had blown up so monumentally, so violently, that he knew they wouldn’t let it go. They would drag it out later, behind closed doors, where no one could interrupt.

For now, though, they were all forced into the same uneasy truce, the air between them charged with the weight of everything left unsaid.

Dumbledore’s gaze moved from Lily’s drawn face to James’s clenched jaw before finally settling on Harry. The weight of it made him shift in his chair, wishing the fire would crack loudly enough to break the stillness.

At last, the Headmaster sighed, his shoulders bowing under an invisible weight. For the first time, Harry noticed how frail he looked and how unwell he seemed in the firelight.

“That will do for today, Dumbledore said quietly. “James, Lily, I will have the staff organized by morning. Harry will be escorted to every class until we have more clarity. You may return home. Your son will be cared for here.”

Lily opened her mouth, but James’s hand caught her wrist; his eyes were soft but insistent. After a long pause, she gave a curt nod.

Without another word, James pulled a pinch of Floo powder from the dish and stepped into the fire. Lily lingered only a moment longer, giving him one last quick hug and whispering to be careful.

As she stepped into the fireplace, the flames swallowed her, leaving only the smell of smoke and the heavy hush of the office.

Harry’s stomach knotted, guilt and relief tangled together. His parents were finally gone, but the fight they’d left behind still pressed against his chest like a stone.

“Severus, Harry… you may return to classes,” Dumbledore said, sounding every bit his age. He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes as if only silence could soothe him now.

Harry rose stiffly, grateful for the excuse to leave, and followed the professor towards the spiral staircase. 

The torchlight danced across the wall as they descended. He watched the older man’s back ahead of him and traced his broad shoulders to the narrow curve of his waist.

“Why did you do it?”

Snape didn’t look at him, his long strides steady and unhurried.

“You didn’t have to defend me in there,” Harry pressed, hurrying to keep up. “You’ve been avoiding me ever since the Spellwork test, since you… And now you’re on my side?”

The sound of their footsteps filled the stairwell, Harry’s quick and uneven, against Snape’s steady pace. He felt the question claw at his chest, hot and demanding. 

He needed an answer.

The man finally looked down at him, his face half hidden in the torchlight. The shadows carved deep lines across his features, accentuating every angle from the severe curve of his nose to the precise bow of his thin, unyielding mouth. 

And Harry couldn’t look away.

“Do not flatter yourself, Potter. I did not ‘defend’ you. I merely kept your parents from dragging you out of this castle in a fit of self-righteous hysteria.”

His jaw clenched. He opened his mouth, but Snape’s words stopped him.

“Your theatrics in there were embarrassing enough. The last thing this school needs is James Potter stomping through the halls, convinced he knows better than the rest of us. If you stay here, under staff supervision, at least there is a chance you will survive long enough to pass a single exam.”

His tone was cold and impersonal. Yet when Harry dared glance up, Snape’s face betrayed him; he could see the strain at the edges of his mouth, the tension tight across his jaw, the shadow in his eyes that looked too much like worry.

“I do not intend to spend my days scraping you off hospital wing sheets, Potter,” he finished, his voice low and irritated. “So yes, I will walk you to class if that is what it takes, and you may interpret that however you wish.”

Snape shifted his gaze away, back to the stairwell ahead, his shoulders stiff as though the words had hurt him to say.

Harry’s heart hammered, frantic and unsteady, in his chest. For all the man’s venom, he had his answer.

But he wanted him to say it.

Harry’s feet slapped harder against the stone steps as he kept pace, anger surging sharper. 

“Interpret it however I wish? You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to stand up for me in there, look at me like that, and pretend it means nothing!”

Snape stopped so abruptly that his robes swung around him. He turned, his tone cut like a knife in the dim torchlight. “Do not delude yourself, Potter. You are a responsibility, nothing more. I will not—”

“Liar.” He stepped into the older man’s space, refusing to give ground. “I’m not just some responsibility to you, am I? No one’s making you do this, not my dad, not Dumbledore. You’re not like Professor Crouch, who’s only been hanging around because my father asked him to keep tabs on me.”

That landed.

Snape’s mouth twitched, the faintest curve, as if the admission fed something selfish in him. His gaze lingered on him, steady and burning, betraying far more than silence could have.

“There!” Harry’s breath came fast, his pulse racing as he pressed forward, backing Snape up until his shoulders brushed the cold stone wall. “That’s what I’m talking about.” His hand hit the wall beside the robes, caging him in. “You care. You wouldn’t look at me like that if you didn’t.”

The man stood rigid, every line of him screaming denial.

Something bold and reckless surged through him as he closed the remaining distance and grabbed a fistful of Snape’s heavy robes. He yanked down as hard as he could and felt his lips crash against Snape’s before reason clawed its way back in.

And for one blinding second, the world went silent. The man’s body stiffened, his hands twitching to shove him away.

But he didn’t.

Instead, a low sound escaped him, half strangled, half filled with ecstasy, and his mouth moved against Harry’s with startling urgency. The kiss was fierce and bruising, a clash of heat and restraint breaking loose. Harry felt his knees nearly buckle at its force as Snape’s arm wrapped loosely around his waist to hold him up.

Just as suddenly as it began, it ended.

Hands shoved hard at his shoulders, sending him stumbling against the cold stone wall. Snape’s face was pale, his eyes wide with a fear Harry had never seen.

The man didn’t move at once. He drew in a ragged breath, his gaze locked on Harry as if trying to tear the moment out of existence. His hand twitched at his side, caught between reaching for his wand and clutching the rail, and for a heartbeat, Harry thought he might even speak.

Then, as if breaking free from some invisible bind, Snape spun and bolted down the stairs, the black folds of his robes billowing behind him.

Harry pressed back against the cold wall, his chest heaving and lips tingling from the contact. The echo of footsteps faded into the darkness, leaving him alone with the wild hammering of his heart.

Snape had kissed him back. He had wanted it, wanted him, even if only for a moment.

The rejection didn’t matter, not really. It was fear, shame, or whatever demons the man carried, not the truth of what had just passed between them. Harry had felt it. That raw honesty, stripped bare in the press of lips and the scrape of breath.

He dragged a hand through his hair, dizzy with it all. The fight with his parents, the magic surging out of him: none of it could touch this. He knew now. He needed more.

Harry took a deep breath, felt another vibration buzz against his pocket, and pulled out the little wristwatch. A shimmering gold rune shaped like a door glowed through the cracked glass at the three o’clock mark. A silver thread snapped taut across the dial while the triangle on Mars lit with inner heat. Venus spun in tight braided loops, whirling about as if in celebration.

Harry barked out a laugh as he slid the watch back onto his wrist and continued his way down the spiral staircase. He might not know exactly what it was trying to say to him, but he had a good idea.

His fingers pressed softly against his lips, desperate to hold on to the lingering heat. He could still feel the rough scrape of stubble and the unforgiving press of that mouth against his. The taste of it lingered. It was raw and demanding, and Harry knew that whatever it took, however long it took, he wouldn’t let this be the end.

Chapter Text

The day was dreary, the kind of grey and wet that sent most students huddling inside the castle with a book and a steaming cup of pumpkin juice. For Harry, though, it was the perfect weather to drill the Gryffindor team on the Quidditch pitch.

“Ginny! Duck!” Ron bellowed from somewhere in left field.

Harry shot forward on his Firebolt just as a Bludger screamed through the sky behind him. Ginny’s eyes narrowed and she dropped sharply, skimming under him at the last second.

“Nice try, Harry! You’ll have to do better than that to get me!”

Harry laughed, twisting in mid-air to an abrupt stop as the Bludger whistled past. The persistent little menace quickly redirected its course and roared back after him. It had been dogging him for a while now, and he wasn’t about to shake it off. Peakes and Coote had failed to intercept it, their vision hampered by the thin drizzle clinging to the pitch, and Harry had decided to turn their failure into a lesson.

If his Beaters couldn’t catch it, then everyone would pay the price. He let the furious ball chase him while he dove at random teammates, forcing them to scatter or risk being knocked from their brooms.

He gripped the neck of his broom and leaned forward, urging it faster. The adrenaline and thrill of the chase hummed through his veins as he shot directly over the stands, where a dark-cloaked figure sat with an umbrella in one hand and a book in the other.

Higher and higher he climbed, vanishing into the heavy grey clouds. His uniform clung, drenched with condensation, while cold droplets traced his skin. Beneath the rush of wind, he could still hear the Bludger’s whistle as it pursued him relentlessly into the sky.

He had only a few minutes, and now was his chance.

Tilting his broom downward, he dived. The pitch blurred beneath him as he rocketed towards the earth. The stands rose into focus and the black figure came sharply into view. At the last instant, he yanked his broom up by the neck, halting in a near-vertical stop just above the ground directly in front of a damp and very likely miserable Severus Snape.

Harry felt a small thrill shoot through him as the man’s dark eyes fixed on him, one eyebrow arching in question.

It had been two weeks since it was revealed that Harry was being targeted by Death Eaters, two weeks since he had exploded at his parents, and two weeks since he had kissed Snape in the stairwell. 

He hadn’t been surprised when Snape once again retreated behind a wall of cool professionalism, as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t kissed him back or defended him.

After all, he had done the same after the hospital visit.

But if Snape thought he could erase the kiss, he was wrong. Harry had no intention of dropping it, not when he had finally got past the man’s walls and liked what he found.

So Harry decided that if Snape wouldn’t come to him, then he’d go to him.

And now was his best opportunity, because this weekend was Snape’s assigned turn to watch him.

“How’s the book, Professor?” Harry asked, his abs straining as he held himself perfectly upright on his broom.

The man gave him a withering look from beneath the umbrella.

“What? I’m just asking.” Harry smiled innocently, shoving his prescription Quidditch goggles up onto his forehead. “You haven’t turned a page in a while.” His grin edged into mischievous as he leaned forward, trying to catch a better look at the older man. “Someone might think you’re actually watching.”

He knew exactly the picture he made—robes soaked and clinging to his muscles, dark hair plastered to his face in a way that made his eyes stand out.

“It seems to me, Mr. Potter,” Snape drawled, deliberately emphasizing the slow turn of a page, “that you are the one who should be watching your team.”

“Oh, but I am!” Harry declared with exaggerated seriousness. “As captain, it’s my job to make sure there aren’t any spies carrying our secrets back to Slytherin.”

Snape sneered, crossing his long legs as he leaned back. “You mean Bludger-dodging? I suspect they’ve already cracked the code for that particular tactic.”

Harry’s eyes flicked upward. Through the mist, he could just make out a small black blur plummeting back to earth. “Speaking of Bludgers…” he muttered, and without hesitation, he spun his broom, the tail cracking hard against the falling iron ball. It shot off at a vicious angle toward left field, judging by the high-pitched shriek, straight at Ron.

Steadying his broom, Harry slid his goggles back into place just in time to catch the flash of Snape’s startled expression.

“Don’t worry, sir,” Harry called, his grin sharp. “Just some standard Bludger-dodging.”

The intensity of Snape’s glare seared straight through him. If looks could kill, Harry would have been nothing but ash in the wind. He knew he was pushing his luck, but what choice had Snape left him?

“We’ll be wrapping up soon,” he called, voice pitched just loud enough for the team overhead to hear, before lowering his voice once more with a self-satisfied grin. “You can walk me back to Gryffindor Tower, unless, of course, you’d rather join me in the locker room?”

Snape made a choked sound. His composure cracked just enough for his lips to part in a sharp intake of breath before he snapped, “Potter!” in a voice far more indignant than dangerous.

Harry’s grin widened smugly. With a flick of his broom, he shot skyward again, the wind tearing past him. He didn’t need to look back to know those black eyes were still following him.

He had barely cleared the stands when a Bludger whistled past his ear.

“Get him!” Ginny hollered, and the team swarmed.

Three Bludgers and a barrage of Quaffle passes later, Harry twisted and dived in frantic circles, laughter tearing from his throat.

“All right, I yield!” he called as Ginny landed a clean shot against his shoulder.

The team whooped in triumph as they descended. Ron clapped him hard on the back. “That’s for siccing the Bludger on me.”

“Worth it,” Harry shot back, grinning as they funneled into the locker room.

At the door, he waved them off. “Go on, I’ve got an escort.”

Ron lingered as the rest of the team clattered into the locker room, his soaked fringe plastered to his freckled face. “Is Snape escorting you the rest of the day too?” he asked, eyes flicking to the dark figure waiting at the edge of the pitch.

“He’s supposed to. It’s his turn this weekend.” Harry slipped into a poor imitation of Dumbledore’s voice. “‘Apparently, the alternating weekend schedule is the fairest use of staff’s limited time.’”

“Completely mental,” Ron muttered with a low whistle. “Well, at least Snape doesn’t look keen on joining. McGonagall was a nightmare last week. Couldn’t do anything but study.”

“Yeah.” Harry grimaced. He respected his Head of House, but she had taken her “Harry-duty” too seriously. Every non-academic choice had been met with sharp looks and clucks of disapproval. He’d been trapped in Gryffindor Tower all weekend, and any chance of crossing paths with the Potions Master had been ruined.

“Well, I should head out. If I keep him waiting any longer, he’ll probably start docking points,” Harry said.

“Why bother? Your existence loses us points with him—owch! Why’d you punch me?” Ron whined, clutching his arm.

“Rude.” Harry pointed a finger at him as he backed away. “Don’t wait up for me today, yeah? I have some things to take care of. I’ll see you at dinner.”

“Sure, whatever, mate,” Ron muttered sulkily, waving him off before trudging into the locker room.

Harry turned toward the edge of the pitch, where the familiar sweep of black robes stood unmoving. Snape looked no less miserable than when Harry had left him, his umbrella held stiffly overhead and book in hand.

An old Muggle saying from the Dursleys’ house crept into Harry’s thoughts. When life gives you lemons…

Harry swung his broom casually over his shoulder. “See? No casualties,” he said brightly, falling into step beside Snape as they started towards the castle.

Snape’s gaze slid to the damp Quaffle mark stamped across his shoulder, then back up with a thin curl of sarcasm. “Truly a miracle.”

Harry only grinned wider, bumping his broom lightly against Snape’s side. “Admit it, sir. You were watching.”

“Insufferable,” Snape muttered, his voice lacking its usual bite.

The two made their way through the drizzle toward the castle. Harry chatted happily the whole way, unfazed by Snape’s silence or the occasional grunt of disinterest. By the time they crossed into the courtyard, Snape’s patience had snapped.

Before Harry could react, a hand seized the front of his robes and shoved him into a shadowed alcove.

“What do you think you are doing, Mr. Potter?” The words were a snarl, but his grip trembled as he forced them deeper into the recess, his taller form looming over the Gryffindor.

Harry’s heart hammered, his breath catching as the sharp scent of herbs and potions wrapped around him. Snape was so close that even through his damp robes Harry could feel the heat rolling off him.

“You’re taking me back to Gryffindor Tower, sir?” Harry managed, his voice unsteady and caught off guard by the sudden proximity.

“Don’t be coy with me,” Snape snapped, low and dangerous. “This game you are playing, this… whatever it is, ends now,” he snarled, his breath hot against Harry’s face.

Harry lifted his chin, refusing to be cowed. “Game? You think I’m joking?”

Snape’s expression twisted, his fingers tightening on Harry’s robes. “What else am I to believe? I know boys like you. I’ve seen them a hundred times, all of them bright, favored, brimming with possibility. As for me? I am nothing but a wasted life, Potter, ugly of face with an even uglier history.”

Harry’s throat constricted. For a moment, the sarcastic retort on his tongue withered. He saw the deep lines bracketing Snape’s mouth, the dark purple bags under his eyes, and the raw conviction in every hateful word. 

He wasn’t fishing for pity.

He meant it. 

“That’s not what I see,” Harry said, his voice breaking through before he could stop himself.

Snape froze, eyes narrowing. “You’re deluded,” he hissed.

“You kissed me because you were carried away by some adolescent rush—gratitude, rebellion, arrogance, take your pick. It was nothing, a mistake, and I will not allow you to pretend otherwise.”

Harry’s chest tightened. He thought of the stairwell, of the sharp taste of adrenaline, and of Snape’s mouth crushing back against his. The way the man’s arm had loosely wrapped around his waist, as if he were afraid he might hurt him. That hadn’t felt like a mistake. It was real, realer than  anything he had felt in a long time.

“I know what I felt,” he said quietly, his pulse hammering in his ears. “And I don’t regret it.”

The silence that followed was unbearable. Snape’s face hovered inches from his.

For a second, he thought that Snape might actually close the distance. That he might feel the firm press of the man’s lips once more. Harry’s gaze shifted to the curve of Snape’s mouth and he could feel the fine tremor in his grip where it fisted his robes.

Then the older man released him as though burned. He stepped back and took several deep breaths until all Harry could only see was the empty black pits of his eyes where his emotions had been swirling so violently before.

“Come Potter, you’re still soaking wet.”

Harry stayed pressed to the wall, chest heaving and lips parted. His skin still tingled where Snape’s hand had clutched him.

“Yes, sir,” he whispered.

He followed Snape out of the alcove and into the castle. Neither spoke as they wound their way through the echoing corridors towards Gryffindor Tower. By the time they reached the Fat Lady’s portrait, Harry’s nerves were buzzing.

“I need to go to the library,” he said quickly. “I won’t be long. Will you wait here while I change?”

“I don’t have much choice, do I?” Snape replied, his voice flat.

Harry hated whatever it was the man was doing now. The blankness behind his eyes unsettled him and made him feel as if there was nothing there.

“Whose fault is that?” he pressed, unwilling to let it go. “If I remember right, you’re the one who said you didn’t plan to spend your days scraping me off the hospital-wing sheets.”

The Fat Lady swung open as a second-year hurried past, throwing a nervous glance at the tense scene.

“Potter. Tone.” Snape’s voice cut like a lash, though his eyes remained hollow. “You seem to forget that I am your teacher.”

“Severus.” Harry lingered on the name, savoring the weight of it on his tongue. It felt so good, so forbidden. “I think we’re well past that.”

He slipped through the portrait hole, and just before it closed he caught a fleeting glimpse of Snape’s expression , wide-eyed, flabbergasted, followed by a sputtered, affronted: “Ten points from Gryffindor!”

Harry hummed under his breath as he climbed the stairs to his dormitory, already tugging off his soaked Quidditch robes. Snape… Severus was going to kill him when he came back down, no doubt.

But Merlin, it had been worth it to shatter that careful, empty mask.

Harry quickly cast a freshening and drying charm, the dampness vanishing from his skin and hair. He paused, running a hand over the raised outline of the basilisk scar before pulling on his favorite oversized jumper. Then he reached into his trunk, where the watch lay hidden within the folds of his Invisibility Cloak.

Carefully, he lifted it out, his thumb brushing over the cracked glass. The watch had been mostly silent these past two weeks, its last prediction still etched steadily across the dial.

Harry’s gaze followed Venus as it spun in its braided orbit. Originally, he had planned to spend the day doing something Snape might tolerate: potions work, ingredient collecting, maybe even tormenting a few unfortunate first-years, anything that could chip away at the man’s defences. After Snape’s harsh words in the alcove, Harry could see that it was going to be harder than he thought to get Severus to admit to anything, let alone spend quality time with him.

“I am nothing but a wasted life.”

Harry frowned, his chest tightening. How could Snape think that of himself? He was brilliant, sharp in ways no one else could match, and beneath the cold exterior he was, surprisingly passionate. Harry could still feel it on his lips from that stolen kiss, and he saw it in the way Snape poured himself wholly into Potions and into understanding the Dark Arts. His honesty, though harsh at times, was everything Harry had ever wanted.

But he supposed he could understand that feeling of worthlessness. He still heard the slam of the cupboard door sometimes and still felt the cling of cobwebs in his hair. Even at Hogwarts, nothing had come easily, Ron’s wary glance in the train compartment, Hermione’s sharp tongue before trust had been earned. Friends weren’t given. He had clawed for every one.

Harry sucked in a deep breath as his eyes burned and, just as Professor Crouch had taught him, he locked the memory away layer by layer. When the familiar weight of calm settled, he opened his eyes and looked down at the mysterious birthday gift resting in his hand.

The heirloom clearly knew something about the danger involving Draco. If Harry could figure it out, he might stay one step ahead of whoever was still after him. And, he thought with a grin, a quiet afternoon in the library might even soften Snape enough to lower his guard.

Sliding the watch onto his wrist, Harry bounded down the stairs. Seamus and Dean were hunched over a game of Exploding Snap by the entrance, and he gave them a quick wave before slipping out through the portrait hole.

Snape was waiting, arms crossed and a scowl etched deep into his face. He looked thoroughly disgruntled but not empty.

“See? That didn’t take long, did it, Professor?” Harry said lightly.

Those black eyes cut to him, simmering with restrained heat. Without a word, Snape pushed away from the wall and fell into step beside him, following in taut silence as Harry led the way.

The library was hushed and warm compared to the drizzle outside. Dust motes swirled lazily in the candlelight as Harry made his way to the most secluded table at the very back. It was one of his favorite spots, hidden from view, free of nosy portraits, and perfect for the kind of questionable research that had saved their skins more than once. He slid into the chair with a faint smile at the memory.

Snape followed close behind, robes whispering against the stone, and seated himself across from him, dark and imposing in one of the familiar places where Harry felt safest.

The man snapped his long, elegant fingers, and a house-elf appeared with a sharp crack.

“Winky is here to serve you, Master Snape,” the little elf squeaked, bowing.

“On my desk, there is a stack of essays and a bottle of red ink. Bring them here,” he ordered.

With another sharp crack, she was gone.

Harry chuckled under his breath as he rose and set off into the endless aisles. Of course, he had only asked for the red ink. Merlin help whatever year’s essays had the misfortune of crossing him in this mood.

Twenty minutes later, Harry reappeared with an armful of books: thick tomes on ancient runes, astrological alignments, and a pair of Divination scrolls so old they looked ready to crumble. He dropped them onto the table with a satisfying thud and pulled the watch from his sleeve, setting it on the open page in front of him. The cracked glass caught the candlelight, Venus still glimmering faintly in its braided orbit.

Harry frowned down at a passage on planetary conjunctions and their influence on fated encounters. His eyes moved to a runic chart and then back to the faintly glowing dial of the watch. None of it was making sense, but he knew the thing meant something.

From across the table, Severus’s quill scratched steadily across the parchment, red ink spreading like blood over the white pages. The quill faltered when the man’s brow creased as his eyes snagged on something Harry couldn’t see.

Harry smirked faintly without looking up.

“Curious,” Snape drawled at last, his voice slicing neatly through the hush. “Divination, Potter? Of all asinine pursuits. I would remind you that your Defence essay is due Monday, though clearly you have no concern for your marks.”

“I finished it last night,” Harry replied lightly, pretending to puzzle over the astrological chart.

“Really? And why don’t I believe you?” Snape’s eyebrow arched in perfect disdain, his black eyes glittering under the dim torchlight.

“I don’t know,” Harry said with a mock yawn, his eyes skimming the rune etched like a doorway. Partnership, romance, contracts… it was vague but intriguing. His gaze slid back across the table. The man had plucked one of the ancient rune books from Harry’s pile and inspected the cracked spine with mild, feigned interest.

“You never seem to believe me,” Harry added, lips quirking, “even though I’ve never lied to you.”

The snort that came from Snape was almost comical. “Please, Potter, spare me. We both know that isn’t true.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “No, it is—honest.” The skeptical look Snape leveled at him was almost insulting. “Seriously, ask me anything. You can even dose me with Veritaserum. It’ll all line up, promise.”

A dangerous glint flickered in those black eyes as Snape leaned forward, his face close enough that Harry could feel the weight of it. “Tempting, but that would be illegal, Potter.” The man looked back down at the essay he had been reading, quill poised to continue grading, then paused as if something had occurred to him. “But since you’re offering… have you ever broken into my Potions storeroom?”

Harry smirked. “No.”

The instant disbelief on Snape’s face made Harry grin wider. “Seriously, I’ve never broken in.”

“Fourth year. Gillyweed?” Snape pressed.

“Not me.”

“Who?”

“Neville,” Harry admitted, offering up a quick, silent apology to his friend. He felt as if he was finally breaking through.

“Longbottom?” Snape repeated, incredulous. His scoff cracked midway, and he covered it with a sharper sneer. “You truly expect me to believe that? The boy’s a dunce. I would have caught him if he had tried.”

But something in Harry’s expression must have given him pause. Snape’s eyes narrowed, suspicion warring with reluctant belief.

“Madness,” he muttered. “How did he manage it?”

“Honestly, I’ve got no idea. He was terrified I was going to die in the second task. I couldn’t figure out how to breathe underwater, and he’d just got One Thousand and One Aquatic Plants from Professor Hooch and learned about gillyweed.” Harry chuckled softly, shaking his head. “He was probably right. I would have died without his help.”

Severus’s eyes lingered on him across the table, a small crease forming between his brows. “That entire tournament…” His voice dropped, quieter, almost thoughtful, before hardening again. “An utter disaster. They should have tried harder to release you from the magical contract. James no doubt adored the idea of you as school champion. I’m surprised Lily didn’t object more.”

Harry’s pulse quickened and the burn behind his eyes returned. James had been excited; he’d bragged to anyone who would listen. Mum had been upset, yes, but not enough to fight it. She had listened to the judges’ explanations, soothed by James’s and Dumbledore’s quiet reassurances.

“Well, that’s Mum and Dad for you.”

Snape frowned at the flatness of the reply. A silence stretched between them, heavy and brittle. Harry shifted, disappointed that their game seemed to have ended, then turned back to his stack of books. He could feel Snape’s gaze dissecting him with every page he turned.

“Since you’re being so honest,” Snape said at last, his voice low and quiet, “and supposedly you’ve never lied to me… tell me about the cave. Or that door, the small one with all the locks.”

Harry’s stomach twisted, and he forced his tone light. “I told you, the cave came from a story I was obsessed with as a kid.”

“That is not the complete truth, Potter.”

“But it is true.”

“And the door?”

Harry’s hand tightened on the book. “Is a door that should remain closed.” He slammed the book shut, the sound echoing through the library.

“The Door Method is not meant to be used long-term,” Snape said coldly. His hands clasped on the table, too tightly. “Closed doors have a way of festering, Potter. What you lock away rots, until it poisons everything around it.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “It’s none of your business, and you had no right to do what you did. We moved past it, so drop it.”

Snape leaned back, folding his arms as if the gesture could disguise the intensity in his gaze. His voice dropped, quiet yet carrying. “Very well. Keep it locked, if you must. But know this…” His eyes flicked away, just for a heartbeat, before he forced them back to Harry’s. “Shame and secrets have a way of manifesting in witches and wizards. Through accidental magic, through Obscurials, or through a darkness that eats the heart and taints the magic.”

His eyes flicked up and caught Harry’s with piercing intensity. “It will find its way out eventually. Remember that before it does and before you let it poison everything good in your life.” 

Harry’s breath stilled and his heart fluttered wildly in his chest. The words weren’t just a warning; Harry could see them for what they were, an offer. Whatever Severus thought Harry was hiding, he wanted to protect him from it. He wouldn’t say it outright, trapped in his own denial and self-loathing, but the man seemed to know more than he was saying.

“You know you’re really unfair,” Harry said. “Here I am proving how truthful I am, and you don’t even have the decency to do the same.” 

Snape’s gaze flicked up, quizzical and guarded.

Harry licked his lips, nerves sparking as he leaned forward. This was either going to be brilliant, or it was going to get him hexed. His voice dropped to little more than a whisper. “You keep denying it, but you care. You hate it, but you can’t help yourself. And from the way you kissed me, I know you want it. So lie all you like, Severus, because I’ll keep us both honest.”

He leaned in close, his breath mingling with Snape’s, lips hovering a whisper away. The air between them crackled, thick with tension. Harry could see it: the faint tremor in Snape’s mouth, the war raging beneath his skin, every muscle pulled taut as if one wrong move would shatter his control. The temptation was maddening, the promise of heat, resistance, and surrender all tangled together, and Harry’s pulse thundered with the certainty that Severus wanted this just as desperately as he did.

“You’re a student,” Severus said the words coming out hoarse and ragged. His pupils had blown wide, and his hands curled into fists on the table, nails digging into his palms.

“I’m of age,” Harry countered, heat pooling into his stomach and groin. His breath mingled with the older man’s, hot in the cool air of the library. “It’s only a kiss, Severus. No one has to know.”

A sharp crack split the moment, echoing through the silence. Both wizards jerked apart as if scalded, the fragile tension between them snapping like a live wire as Winky appeared before them.

Harry sat back quickly, his pulse hammering in his ears. Snape’s mask slammed back into place so quickly it was almost violent. While a faint flush crept across the tops of his ears.

“My apologies, Master Snape,” Winky said, wringing her hands. “But Mistress Pomfrey requests your assistance. There has been an incident, a student has been poisoned with a love potion.”

A low, frustrated growl tore from Snape’s throat. He shot a desperate glance across the table at Harry, eyes blazing with all the things he could not say. “Of course there has. I’ll be right there. Winky, inform Madam Pince she is to keep watch over Potter until I return.”

“Yes, sir.” With a sharp crack, the elf vanished.

Snape began gathering his things with brisk, angry precision.

“Are you really leaving? Just like that?” Harry demanded, his chest tight.

“Yes. Love potion poisoning is no joke. Time is critical.” Snape screwed the lid back onto his ink with a hard twist. “Madam Pince will return you to your dormitory when you finish here.”

“But we’re not done,” Harry pressed. The air still carried him, sharp with Snape’s breath, hot where it had brushed his lips. His mouth tingled with the ghost of it, and when the man pulled away the absence left him raw, like a torn stitch.

Snape’s gaze flicked back to him, hard and final. “Yes, we are, Potter.”

He turned on his heel, his robes snapping behind him as he swept out of the library.

Harry slumped against the table, scowling at the stack of books. If this turned out to be Romilda Vane again, he would hex her into next week.

Harry picked his book back up, barely skimming the words. He made a few halfhearted notes on parchment, comparing the shifting planets and runes on his watch to the guides spread across the table. Before he realized it, the library windows had dimmed to evening grey. His stomach gave a loud, angry protest, and he decided he’d done enough for one day.

At least one rune text, Symbols of the Past, Present and Beyond, had given him a little clarity on the fate symbols etched into the watch. He tucked it aside, intending to check it out for further study.

When he looked up again, he nearly jumped out of his chair.

Sitting directly across from him was a handsome blond man with wide, earnest blue eyes.

Professor Crouch.

“Professor, you scared me,” Harry said, clutching his chest.

Crouch laughed almost sheepishly. “Truly sorry, Harry. You were so focused I did not want to disturb you. I was not here long; I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

His gaze drifted to one of the Divination scrolls on the table. He raised a curious brow. “Fate and Divination, one of the Department of Mysteries’ specialties, yes, but I never understood much of it myself. I always preferred the more… complicated magical artifacts.”

Harry quickly snatched the scrolls and books together before Crouch could read more. “That’s nice,” he muttered, shoving one of the parchment rolls back into its drawer with unnecessary force.

Crouch’s expression turned concerned. “Harry? Is everything all right?”

Ignoring the question, Harry stood and gathered the rest of the books into his arms. Without another word, he slipped past the Professor and disappeared into the aisles, shelving the tomes with sharp, deliberate motions.

“Don’t bother pretending. I know my dad asked you to watch me. That’s why you’ve been so bloody helpful.” His voice rose in accusation. “Anything for James Potter.”

Crouch’s expression faltered. He hesitated, then sighed and followed closely behind Harry. “Is that why you have been avoiding me? Why you told the Headmaster that you did not want me as one of your escorts?”

“Yes. I would rather not be spied on at school,” Harry snapped, shoving a book onto the shelf with more force than necessary.

For a brief second, Crouch’s composure cracked into something dark and frustrated, but he steadied himself and fixed Harry with a serious look. “Yes. James asked me. Then I started talking to you. I got to know you better. And you… you remind me of myself when I was your age. The way you are with your father… it feels familiar.” His mouth twisted, a flicker of something pained in his expression. “More than I would like to admit.”

The fight in Harry’s chest faltered. His anger still burned, but the bitterness in Crouch’s tone tugged at him.

“Yet you’re all right with spying on me?” Harry bit back, his voice low and sharp. He turned on Crouch, green eyes blazing. “Well, relay this message to him for me, will you? Tell him that if he really cared, he’d ask me what I want instead of deciding for me.”

Crouch flinched, and for a moment Harry thought he might argue. Instead, the professor only inclined his head, as though he had been the one scolded.

“That is fair,” he said softly. “Harry, I want you to know I truly did not tell him anything. Not about the migraine on the train, not about the Occlumency lessons. I only told him you were doing well, that you were safe.”

Harry narrowed his eyes, trying to gauge his sincerity. “Really?”

“Really.” Crouch frowned and tugged at the corner of his sleeves. “When I was your age, my father was extremely controlling.”

Harry frowned. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I am telling you this because I want you to believe me. To understand why I did not tell your father more.”

His hand settled lightly on Harry’s shoulder, steady but a little too familiar. Harry moved out of reach not wanting to be touched.

“My father had teachers reporting back to him on everything, who I spoke to, what I ate, what I studied.” He dragged a hand over his face, the weariness plain in his voice. “He had his reasons, I suppose. Some truly dark wizards came out of my time at Hogwarts, especially from Slytherin.”

Harry’s anger cooled as he listened, the sharp edges of it softening into something uncertain. The way Crouch spoke, the bitterness in his tone, it all sounded uncomfortably familiar.

“My dad’s the same,” Harry admitted at last, his voice low. “Not quite like your father, but… he means well. He just can’t seem to stop deciding things for me. I feel like he doesn’t know me.”

Crouch’s expression softened, blue eyes intent on him. “Yes,” he said quietly.

Harry studied him a moment longer, curiosity stirring. “What dark wizards were you talking about? From your time?”

Crouch leaned back, ticking names off with the precision of someone who had carried the list in his mind for years. “Evan Rosier. Mulciber. Travers. They were clever, dangerous, all pulled into You-Know-Who’s circle before we had even left school.”

Harry’s stomach twisted at the familiar surnames.

Crouch hesitated, his gaze flickering toward the rows of books behind Harry before returning to his face. “The older years were worse. There was Bellatrix Lestrange, Lucius Malfoy, Professor Snape.”

He broke off with a strained little cough, clearly embarrassed, as if he had said too much. “Apologies. That one is merely speculation. Headmaster Dumbledore has vouched for him, vehemently.”

Harry’s heart lurched, a cold weight sinking into his chest. His mind flashed back to James’s sneering hatred of Snape, the way he spat his name like a curse. And then Snape’s own voice, low and raw, admitting he was a bad man the night he dragged Harry back to Gryffindor Tower after catching him with Crouch past curfew.

“Ugly in face with an even uglier history,”  he had said just that day. 

Snape had been trying to tell him all along, trying to warn him away.

Harry shut his eyes, fighting to still the storm rising inside him. The watch felt suddenly heavy on his wrist, Venus glimmering faintly beneath the cracked glass.

“How about we head to dinner,” Crouch offered gently. “I will walk you so Madam Pince can close up.”

“Sure,” Harry muttered, the word hollow. He felt strangely numb, as though the ground beneath him had shifted.

Harry barely heard Crouch’s footsteps beside him as they made their way through the quiet corridors. His thoughts churned, heavy and disordered.

His chest tightened as uncertainty rolled through him. Did this change how he felt? His heart still ached at the memory of Snape’s hand gripping his robes in the alcove, still burned with the taste of that kiss, still longed for the fierce protectiveness that slipped through when Severus forgot himself.

If anything, the revelation made him think of Regulus.

Regulus Black had chosen wrong, but he had turned, and he had been the reason they won. Without Regulus, the Horcruxes might never have been found.

Who was to say Snape hadn’t done the same?

Harry’s thoughts tangled as they descended the staircase toward the Great Hall. 

Did someone’s past, one choice, even a thousand wrong ones, truly define them forever? Or could they be more than the worst thing they had done?

He glanced at Crouch walking beside him, posture straight, his expression neutral. He thought of the way Crouch’s voice had hardened when he spoke of his own father, how his bitterness still lingered decades later. People carried their pasts like weights. Some let themselves be crushed. Others changed.

Harry clenched his fists at his sides. Whatever Snape had been, whatever he had done, did it erase who he was now? Did it erase the man who had defended him and taught him?

The doors to the Great Hall swung wide, and Harry’s gaze locked instantly with a pair of black eyes waiting at the head table.

Severus’s scowl deepened the moment Crouch’s hand brushed lightly against Harry’s back, steering him toward the Gryffindor table. 

Oh, he really did not like that.

Harry looked away quickly, unable to meet the older man’s eyes, even though something stirred within him, heady and hot, settling low in his belly. The weight of that stare pressed into his skin, prickling along his neck, sliding over his shoulders, searing down his spine as if it alone could pin him in place.

Harry cast one last look at the fuming man, his murderous glare now fixed on Crouch, who sat obliviously buttering a roll. Heat stirred low in Harry’s stomach at the possessive edge in those dark eyes. 

No, Severus Snape did not like that at all.

Chapter Text

"O, beware, my lord, of jealousy;

It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock

The meat it feeds on."

Severus’s grip tightened on his goblet as he took a measured sip of pumpkin juice, his dark eyes fixed on Crouch, who was speaking far too cheerfully with Professor Flitwick.

His own meat had long since rotted, and the green-eyed monster was now haunting his every waking and unwaking hour.

An image bled across his vision: a Muggle, bound and pleading, spread helplessly on a table. Brown eyes turned blue, hair blonde.

A dark offering to an even darker Lord. 

He cut into his steak, red juices spilling from the untarnished meat.

The boy was relentless, a menace who crashed through all walls and boundaries with little care for the damage he caused or the darkness he chased.

And yet…

He could scarcely admit it to himself, but he craved it with a hunger that hollowed him out: those damned green eyes, that reckless grin, the faint scent of cinnamon and linen, their magic twining until he couldn’t breathe.

“I’m of age,” he had whispered, taunting, lips parting as he leaned in only a breath away. “It’s only a kiss, Severus. No one has to know.”

The words had nearly undone him. He had been on the brink, trembling with the urge to seize Potter, and to crush their mouths together until reason shattered. If the elf hadn’t appeared, he would have done it. He would have taken, devoured, ruined and claimed something that had no business belonging to a man like him.

If he couldn’t stop, he would drag the boy down into shadow and crush a life that had scarcely begun.

Blood roared in Severus’s ears, a vicious drumbeat that would not be silenced. His gaze dragged back to the Gryffindor table, to Potter shifting uneasily in his seat, shoulders tense, deliberately not looking at him. It was torment. Agony. Still, Severus could not stop himself.

After all, Harry had opened this door. He had begged for it… had tempted him.

“Severus, are you all right?” McGonagall asked, concern lacing her words. “You have been oddly silent all night.”

Was he that obvious? Merlin, how did Potter manage to break his control this easily? “I am well, Minerva. It has just been a long day,” he responded, briefly glancing at the matronly witch before subtly resuming his watch on Crouch.

“Ah, yes, that’s right, it’s your weekend to watch Potter, and I heard about the incident with the love potion. I will be having a long talk with both Creevey’s about their foolishness. They were lucky they weren’t hurt.”

“Indeed,” he sneered, venom coloring his frustration. “I will never understand the idiocy of students. Half of them can scarcely manage a burn salve without setting themselves on fire, yet they presume to bottle love—as if affection could be sprinkled like cinnamon on pumpkin juice.” 

The whole incident had been a debacle. The Creevey brothers had bungled a lesser love potion, which had spared them anything worse than stomach convulsions. However, unluckily for Severus, the two idiots refused to tell him which potion they had botched. They had even had the audacity to deny brewing the potion despite the evidence. He’d spent hours in bitter trial and error, dosing them with antidotes until he struck the right one.

Hours he should have spent with Potter. Alone. In the most secluded part of the library. 

“Still, Severus, thank you for getting to them so quickly,” McGonagall said.

He grunted in acknowledgment. From the corner of his eye, Crouch rose from his seat with that effortless, polished grace Severus despised, leaning close to murmur something to Flitwick. The Charms Master’s high-pitched laugh rang out, and Crouch rewarded it with a smile far too smooth. The Professor casually plucked another roll from the platter before striding toward the doors of the Great Hall.

Halfway to the doors, Crouch faltered, his pale eyes snagging on Potter mid-laugh, his smile wide and unguarded. Severus’s jaw locked as the man’s step hitched, one foot angling toward the Gryffindor table as if pulled by a thread. Then, with a twitch of his lips, Crouch turned away and toward the door.

A bitter image flared across Severus’s mind, Potter running after the other Professor, lips curved in a smile, hand slipping trustingly into the man’s grasp as he let himself be led from the hall.

His knife screeched loudly against his plate. He stilled his hand, but the hammering at his throat betrayed him.

There was nothing to worry about. Potter had said it himself. The man was a fraud, a spy keeping tabs on him for James. That revelation should have been the end of it.

But Harry is kind. Too kind. Severus saw it now, more Lily than James in that regard. Always trying to see the best in others, even when they had shown him their worst. That kind of softness was a weakness, one that a man like Crouch could smell a mile away.

He chewed thoughtfully, red liquid from his fork and knife dripping onto the plate. No one else would step in. He knew that. Technically, Crouch had done nothing wrong. But he had seen it in the glances, in the easy way Crouch’s hand brushed a shoulder, in the spark of familiarity that lingered too long in his eye. A spark he recognized, because it burned in himself.

“So… are you going to do it?” Minerva’s voice cut into his thoughts.

“Excuse me?”

Her brows arched. “Hogsmeade, Severus. Next weekend. You asked to accompany me, remember? You said you had a favor to ask.”

His eyes hadn’t left the doors. His hand flexed against the table, tendons loosening after their punishing grip.

“Yes. I recall.” His voice was clipped. Mind already down the hall. “If dinner ends before I return, will you see Potter safely to Gryffindor Tower?” His chair shrieked against the stone as he rose. Without a backward glance, he swept toward the doors, strides driven by the furious rhythm of his pulse.

It was time he and the new professor talked.

Severus stalked the corridors, his robes snapping at his heels in fury. His mind buzzed with a blur of images—the black outline of Crouch pressing Draco’s Dreamless Sleep into Potter’s hand on the train, the glint in the man’s eye when Severus caught him tutoring Harry after curfew, Dumbledore’s maddening dismissal each time Severus voiced his concern.

But most of all, he thought of Harry. The way his lips felt pressed against his for that one glorious moment in the stairwell, the way that strong, lean body had fit against him when Severus’s arms closed around his narrow waist.

The memory seared through him. It burned.

The halls yawned empty, Crouch nowhere in sight, the silence broken only by the sharp echo of his hunting footsteps. A flicker of movement caught his eye—a Ravenclaw boy rounding the corner, arms straining under a precarious stack of books.

“You,” Severus snarled, voice cutting like a lash. “Where is Professor Crouch?”

The boy flinched, nearly spilling his burden.

“I—I think he went toward the Defence classroom, sir—”

“Think?” He snarled, his eyes narrowing to slits.

“Yes! Defence—sir, I swear—”

Severus swept past him in a storm of black, leaving the boy gasping in relief.

As he neared the Defence classroom, Severus’s fingers tightened around the wand concealed beneath his cloak. He shoved the door open with unnecessary force. The heavy oak groaned on its hinges before slamming back against the stone wall.

At the far end of the room, Professor Crouch stood before an enormous terrarium, its glass panes streaked with condensation, broad-leaved plants pressing insistently against the misted surface. Smaller cages were stacked haphazardly atop one another, their bars rattling faintly with restless movement inside.

Crouch turned quickly, startled at the sound. A large rat dangled from his hand, squealing, its body thrashing uselessly in the air.

“Severus,” Crouch said, surprised at the sudden intrusion. He released the rodent, letting it drop into the dense green. A wet thud followed, a shrill squeak, then silence. “What do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“Cut the act, Crouch,” Severus growled, voice low and dangerous. “Why were you with Potter? I left him in Madam Pince’s charge, not yours.” 

“Potter?” Crouch echoed smoothly. “I happened upon him in the library. Thought I’d spare Madam Pince the trouble.” 

“You are not on the list of approved escorts, Madam Pince is. You had no business offering or being near him at all.”

Crouch tilted his head, pale eyes faintly amused, as though Severus’s fury were nothing more than a petty outburst.

“Really, Severus, you make it sound far more scandalous than it was,” he said with a frown. “He was in the library, buried in Divination of all things. I offered to walk him, and he did not refuse. If anything, he welcomed it.”

He opened up the latch of one of the small cages, removed a white rabbit, and gently stroked its trembling fur.

“If you take politeness for invitation, Crouch, you are a fool.” Severus’s voice was low, silken, but sharp as a blade. “You broke protocol. You endangered the boy’s safety. If something had happened, we could not have helped him. You can be sure that Dumbledore will hear of this.” A pause, deliberate, heavy. “And you will keep your distance from him. Do I make myself clear?”

“I find it fascinating that you are so interested in the boy’s safety.” Crouch looked pointedly at Severus’s left arm. “Considering who his parents are, and who you are. This sudden change of heart some might find… unusual.”

“What are you insinuating, Crouch?” Severus hissed, heart pounding, his eyes narrowed into deadly slits. 

“Oh, nothing that you don’t already know. Nothing that Harry does not now know either.” With one fluid movement, Crouch dangled the rabbit above the open lid of the terrarium. Something shifted in the misted glass, and a hiss whispered through the room.

Ice gripped his heart. Potter’s somber expression on entering the Hall, how he had looked away, refused to meet his eyes. “What have yo—“

Before he could finish, a massive serpent reared from the dense mist of the terrarium. Red eyes flared, and dagger-like fangs sank deep into white fur, staining it crimson. The rabbit’s scream tangled with the serpent’s hiss as the creature unhinged its jaw, swallowing its prey whole.

Severus’s breath caught. The sound dragged him back, back to other nights and another master, to rooms where crimson eyes had burned with the same hypnotic gleam.

“I merely told him the truth, Severus.” Crouch’s tone was mild as he wiped blood from his fingers with a dirty rag. “You and Dumbledore have done such a fine job hiding your past—your alleged role in the war—but Potter deserves to know, don’t you think?” He slipped a hand into the tank with the ease of a man far too sure of himself. “From where I stand, it looks like you’re the one he needs guarding against. A leopard doesn’t change its spots… nor does a Death Eater.” 

The serpent slid up his arm, winding higher, coiling tighter, claiming him. He stroked her head with gentle fingers, lips curving as if they shared some private understanding.

“Isn’t she impressive?” He said fondly. “Nagini devours whatever I give her. These rabbits are hardly enough anymore.” Nagini hissed again, her body constricting around him as her eyes fixed on Severus, bright with hunger.

Severus edged back a step, shoulders tense. His wand rose instinctively, angled just so, ready to strike should the serpent twitch in his direction.

“Once, on assignment, she mistook a stag for prey. Foolish, really.” He laughed lightly, as though describing a child’s mischief. “It was too much. Wouldn’t fit.” His voice dropped, soft and pleased. “So I found her a fawn instead. Small. Unspoiled. Perfect. She was full for weeks.”

Severus’s lip curled, though his voice came out low and even, a serpent’s hiss of his own.

“That’s depraved.” He stepped closer, wand hand twitching beneath his sleeve. “If you so much as breathe in Potter’s direction again, I will show you precisely what I am capable of.”

Crouch leveled Severus with a hard look. “Do not presume to threaten me, Professor Snape.” He lowered his arm back into the tank, letting Nagini slide off with one final, sibilant hiss. “I am not some simpering Ministry clerk. I may be here at my father's and Dumbledore's whim, but I am still an Unspeakable. I’ve seen and done magic that far surpasses the ordinary wizard.” His brow furrowed as his fingers tightened on his wand.

The words hung thick and heavy in the cool air. Severus moved closer, leaning in, his slight height advantage pressing Crouch back step by step until they were only inches apart.

His voice was disturbingly calm, low, and almost intimate. “You may be an Unspeakable, Crouch, but it will not be enough. Not against me. There was a reason I stood among the Dark Lord’s most trusted.” His black eyes glittered. “Go near him again. I dare you. No one will know. You’ll simply be another Defence Professor struck down by the cursed post.”

For a moment, only breathing filled the room, Crouch’s harsh and uneven. His usually composed blue eyes shifted from the terrarium back to Severus, before he gave the slightest, grudging nod.

Severus straightened at once, robes falling back into place. “It seems you are not entirely a fool,” he said softly, stepping away, dark satisfaction curling in his chest at the flicker of fear in the other man’s eyes.

He did not fully turn his back, his wand still ready as he crossed toward the door.

Behind him, Crouch let out a bitter laugh. “Dumbledore may keep you close, but you’re still what you’ve always been.” That smooth, infuriating smile returned to his face. “Harry sees that now. That’s enough.”

He glanced back, black eyes narrowing. With a subtle flick of his wrist, he cast a silent Silencio. Crouch’s smug words cut off mid-breath. He clutched at his throat in shock, a soundless tirade spilling from his lips.

Severus studied him for a long, cold moment before allowing the faintest curl of a smirk to touch his lips. “Good. If Potter has any sense, he will stay away from us both.” His chest tightened, the words burning even as he forced them out. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Professor Crouch—I am needed elsewhere.”

With a sweep of his robes, he strode from the Defence classroom. Perhaps if he were quick enough, he might reach the Great Hall before they left. Dessert had just ended, and Potter and his friends had a habit of lingering.

As he walked the halls, Crouch’s final words echoed through him, leaving a dread as cold as the stone corridor seeping into his bones.

He knows what I am.

The towering doors of the Great Hall loomed ahead. Severus slipped inside, the sharp aggression of moments ago curdling into a heavy shame that sat low in his stomach.

The Hall was nearly empty, and most students and staff had already gone for the night. At the far end, he caught sight of a familiar shock of raven hair, flanked by a red head and a bushy mane of brown. Off to the side, Minerva nursed a drink, her eyes sharp even in repose.

Relief clawed at him even as dread hollowed his chest. Potter was still here.

He moved toward the seventh-years quietly, as if drawn against his own better judgment. They were laughing at something Weasley had said. When Harry’s brilliant green eyes finally found his, a lump rose in Severus’s throat as the other looked away too quickly, his smile fading.

It’s better this way.

“Severus!” Minerva called, rising from her chair beside Hermione. “It seems you did make it in time after all. I trust you took care of whatever was so pressing?”

He regarded her for a beat, the memory of Crouch’s indignation, still fresh.

“Yes,” he said at last, a slight smug satisfaction creeping in. “I did. Thank you for stepping in for me.”

“Good!” she exclaimed, briskly straightening her robes. “Poppy, Pomona, and I have a standing girls’ night. I refuse to be late again—my purse can’t endure another round of Pomona’s drinking.”

Ron and Harry both snorted while Hermione tried to smother a giggle.

Severus inclined his head. “Then go quickly. She managed to swindle me once, and I’ve not forgiven the theft.”

 McGonagall chuckled, her eyes glinting with mischief, before giving him a quick wave and sweeping from the hall. Her departure left him facing the Golden Trio, all three staring at him as though uncertain what to make of the exchange.

Weasley nudged Potter with an elbow, muttering something under his breath. He gave a thin smile, but his fingers drummed restlessly against the table his leg shaking as though wanting to escape.

Severus cleared his throat, the sound harsher than intended. “It grows late, I suggest we make our way back to Gryffindor Tower. I have already wasted most of my day chasing Potter around the castle.” 

The three friends exchanged a glance before rising to their feet.

“Yes, sir,” Hermione answered obediently.

The walk back to their common room was awkward and strained. Ron kept cracking jokes, but Harry barely managed a thin smile. Once, he began a story but choked it off, shoving his hands in his pockets, his slower pace forcing Severus to match.

Harry never once turned to look at him or ever acknowledged his presence. By the time they reached the Fat Lady’s portrait, the sickening weight of shame had engulfed Severus.

“Thank you for escorting us, Professor Snape,” Hermione said politely as Ron supplied the password and disappeared through the portrait hole.

He gave a curt nod, his eyes lingering one last time on Potter. He turned just before stepping inside, meeting his gaze with unreadable eyes.

“Will you be here at the same time tomorrow?” Harry asked in a low whisper, his hand braced against the portrait frame as he leaned slightly closer. “Quidditch practice is in the afternoon, but I want to go to the library beforehand.”

Severus’s pulse raced at the torment of escorting him for yet another day.

“Yes. I will meet you outside the portrait,” he managed.

Potter gave him a weak smile. “Alright then. Have a good night.” Then, in a soft voice added “Severus.”

Then he slipped behind the portrait, leaving the echo of Severus’s name poisoning his ears.

The Fat Lady arched one thin brow, studying him. “What, you’re not going to dock points for that?”

“The boy is incorrigible,” he sneered, eyes narrowing at her painted face. “It would only encourage him.”

“Fair enough.” She yawned, drawing her white pashmina tightly around her shoulders, her eyelids drooping. “Have a good night, Professor.”

“Unlikely,” he muttered, turning away. The dungeon’s siren call beckoned him back to the only place he might feel safe, where he could try to forget the day’s events. Forget the way Potter could hardly look at him.

This is how it should be.

The shadows of the corridor closed in around him, torchlight flickering weaker with each step deeper into the castle. By the time he reached his quarters and sealed the door and wards with a practiced flick of his wand, weeks of insomnia and exhaustion crashed over him like a tidal wave.

Severus dragged a weary hand down his face and stumbled into the bathroom to relieve himself. But before he could reach the toilet, a flicker of motion in the mirror caught his attention.

He froze. His own reflection stared back.

The sight made his stomach twist. The purple hollows beneath his eyes made his skin appear bruised and sickly. The once-fine lines on his face seemed deeper, as if etched. His black eyes stared back at him, flat and joyless, set above the crooked nose that split his face like a jagged scar. 

His father’s drunken slur rang through his ears. “It's Remarkable, something so ugly shouldn’t even be possible… You would think you would have gotten something good from me or that woman. No wonder she can’t even look at you.”

If he had been handsome like James or Crouch, would he have been worthy then?

The mirror shattered beneath his fist. Glass rained into the sink as blood welled from his knuckles, bright against the porcelain.

“Bloody hell.” He snatched up a towel, pressing it hard against the wound as he wandered his quarters in search of a bandage. Once his hand was wrapped, he flicked his wand and vanished the shards, leaving only the raw ache behind.

The sting in his hand remained, but he paid it little mind as he completed his nightly rituals. The anger had already burned out, leaving only the familiar heaviness that pressed against his chest. 

Moving with the slow precision of habit, he set a warded alarm at his bedside and pulled a small vial from the drawer. The bitter tang of Dreamless Sleep coated his tongue as he swallowed it.

He lay back on the mattress and forced his mind into stillness. The last thought that flickered through him before the potion dragged him under was the quiet rhythm of walking beside Harry in the rain, their steps falling into unthinking harmony as Potter chattered away happily.

**********

The next morning brought no renewal and no spark of hope, despite what so many books claimed. It was only another weight to shoulder for Severus, a cruel continuation of the previous day.

He woke sluggish and heavy from the Dreamless Sleep. His mirror was still shattered, his hand still bound. The potion had dulled his thoughts but not the ache in his body or the hollowness that lingered with each breath. Everything felt dim, like he was moving through life behind a pane of filthy glass, the world smeared and distorted on the other side.

He trudged through the corridors until he reached the Gryffindor dormitory. Potter was already waiting, book bag slung over one shoulder. Severus felt his gaze linger on his hand, so he drew his sleeve lower with practiced ease and turned on his heel, brushing off the unspoken question.

They stopped in the Great Hall for a brief breakfast. The noise of the room pressed against Severus, muffled and indistinct, like sound heard underwater. Potter seemed livelier here, speaking in a steady stream as he laid out the day’s plans, pausing now and again to glance at Severus as though his opinion mattered even when he gave none.

When they left the hall, the Gryffindor’s energy only seemed to grow. By the time they reached the library, he was moving ahead with arms full of texts on astrological charts, runes, and the half-mad ramblings of divination. Unlike the day before, he chose a broad communal table in the center of the room, settling quickly into his work with quiet determination.

Severus lingered at the edges, a book of his own open yet forgotten as eyes strayed repeatedly to the Gryffindor hunched over his notes and to what appeared to be his wristwatch.

A dreamy voice cut through the silence.

“Oh, hello, Harry. Professor Snape.”

A slight, wispy girl stood before them, her silvery-blonde hair tied loosely at the nape of her neck. Two radishes dangled from her ears on a fishing line, swaying gently as she shifted. In one hand, she carried a book; in the other, an odd object resembling a magnifying glass without the glass.

“Good morning, Luna,” Potter said, smiling as he shifted his pile of books aside to make room for the eccentric Ravenclaw. Severus had noticed them speaking together on occasion, but he had not realized their acquaintance ran so close.

The girl settled in beside him, her silver eyes drifting dreamily over the mountain of texts.

“It is indeed morning,” she said serenely, “though I’m not sure whether it is good or not.” She lifted the empty frame of the magnifying glass to her eye and peered straight at Severus. “I cannot get my Revealer to work properly. There is a secret text in this book that only it can reveal, but nothing I’ve tried has helped.” She blinked owlishly at him, then turned to Harry, lowering the frame. “Do you think Professor Snape could help?”

Severus arched a brow, his gaze flicking to Potter, who glanced back, almost apologetically. Lovegood had always been peculiar; her essays were an unholy mixture of gibberish and dangerously misguided concoctions, and her classroom answers veered from bizarre to outright deranged.

“No,” Potter said after an awkward pause, his tone careful. “Professor Snape is busy with his own reading. Maybe I can help you?”

Luna turned to Severus instead, as if Harry’s words had not reached her. She drew a pair of colorful, oversized glasses from her robes and placed them on her nose. Her wide silver eyes fixed on him, unwavering, but oddly above his head, as if she were watching something just out of sight.

With a curt nod, as if confirming Harry’s words, she removed the glasses and tucked them back into place before returning to Potter.

“Yes, you’re right. He can’t help… I haven’t seen so many Wrackspurts before.” Her gaze shifted back to Severus, a faint crease of worry in her eyes. “You really ought to think more positively, Professor. Wrackspurts are no joke. They’ll only muddle things further if you let them.”

A strangled cough escaped Potter at her declaration. Severus shot him a withering glare as he hastily redirected Lovegood’s attention.

“Luna, you’re good at Divination, right? Would you mind helping me with this?”

He lifted the cracked watch again, and for the first time, Severus caught a glimpse of what appeared to be planets and symbols crawling faintly across its fractured face.

“Of course, Harry,” she said softly, taking the watch from his hands. She studied it for a long moment, brushing a thumb over the split glass before smiling as though it had whispered a secret. “What a lovely prediction.” She sighed dreamily.

Severus leaned forward despite himself, curiosity momentarily piercing through the haze of numbness.

Potter all but bounced in his chair, his glasses sliding down his nose in his excitement. “You can read it?”

Lovegood nodded eagerly, her pale hair swaying as she shifted closer, practically bouncing in her seat. She leaned in and murmured something low into Harry’s ear.

“Yes,” Potter said quickly, his grin widening, “that’s mostly what I got too.” He shot Severus a sidelong glance, his smile still tugging at his mouth, before turning back to Luna. “But your reading was clearer. Do you have a book I can use? There’s still so much I don’t know, and it hasn’t really worked right since it cracked.”

Luna tilted her head, thoughtfully, her eyes drifting over the spines of the volumes scattered across the table.

“No, I don’t have a book,” she said at last, “but I know someone who can help you. Have you heard of Sybill’s Symbols in Hogsmeade?”

Harry shook his head. Severus, however, stiffened. He knew it well, and he knew the owner for what she was. A charlatan, a drunken fraud who traded on her distant blood connection to Cassandra Trelawney as if she made the prophecies herself.

“Well,” the girl continued with her ill-advised advice, “Madam Trelawney is a very talented Seer. If anyone can tell you something about that watch, it would be her. She might even have a book you could use.”

His jaw tightened at the look flashing across Potter’s face. He knew that look all too well, and it spelled nothing but trouble.

“That would be inadvisable, Miss Lovegood, Mr. Potter.” His words cracked out sharp as a whip, though their venom was aimed less at her and more at Harry. “Potter is prohibited from going to Hogsmeade for his own safety. He will not be skulking into that fraud’s shop to have his horoscope read.”

Severus turned fully then, pinning him with his gaze. Those green eyes met his, steady, bright with challenge.

“Do I make myself clear?” he asked, his tone dangerously close to a demand.

“Crystal,” Potter murmured, his gaze never leaving Severus’s.

Lovegood gently pat Harry on the back, drawing his attention away.

“It’s all right, Harry. Even if the professor’s head is full of Wrackspurts, I think he is right about this. We can go together once it’s safe. Okay?”

Irritation surged through him at her words. He did not need her help to win this battle.

“Are you quite finished, Miss Lovegood? Some of us are attempting to read, though your incessant drivel makes that nearly impossible.”

The sharpness of his tone made the girl flinch. Severus felt Potter’s furious glare burn into him, hotter than any curse. Lovegood hesitated, casting him a wary look before turning to Harry as though seeking reassurance. She began to rise, but Harry’s hand shot out, fingers curling around her wrist to tug her gently back down.

“Don’t mind him. He’s been like this all morning.”

The dismissal stung, but Severus only lowered his gaze, letting the words settle where they would. It was a reminder, nothing more. He had no place here except as guardian, no claim but duty.

“Let me see your Revealer,” Potter added quickly, softening his voice for her. “I said I’d take a look.”

Lovegood’s brightened, and she placed the broken magnifying glass into his waiting hands. Severus turned back to his book, his eyes fixed on the page, though he absorbed nothing. The world blurred around him, but he forced stillness into his body, telling himself this was as it should be. He would protect him. That was all.

The hours crawled.

The library stretched long and airless, the sound of pages turning and quills scratching in the distance. Severus sat with his book open before him, the words blurring together unread while Potter and Lovegood bent over their peculiar projects. He did not notice when she drifted away at last, leaving only the Gryffindor and his endless piles of notes.

By midday, they had returned to the castle for lunch. He ate little, his thoughts dulled, as he watched the Hall in disinterest. Potter spoke in fits and starts, shifting his books and adjusting his bag, restless in a way Severus marked only as youthful impatience.

Afterward came Quidditch. Severus stood on the sidelines, his eyes trained on the edges of the pitch, where danger would come if it came at all. The Gryffindor team shouted, laughed, collided in midair, but for him, it was nothing but muffled noise.

Once practice ended, Potter fell into step beside him. He had taken the time to shower, his damp hair clinging to his face as his broom rested casually over his shoulder. Harry smiled softly at him, but Severus paid it no mind, each step heavier than the last as he followed his charge in silence.

He expected the library again, or perhaps the common room, but Potter led them out across the vast open fields, the air cool and damp with the scent of the lake. Severus said nothing, though unease prickled at the edge of his thoughts. Harry walked with the unhurried confidence of one who had already decided the path, and Severus, weary to the bone, followed.

The castle dwindled behind them. The path narrowed, the trees leaning close. The lake lay ahead, its surface dark and restless. Potter slowed only once to glance back, not with question but with certainty, before veering off the path into a cluster of trees. Severus, caught in the current of his own resignation, could only follow.

They trudged through the undergrowth, twigs and dry branches snapping beneath their shoes, until Potter stopped beneath a great maple tree, its leaves a crisp, burning red against the grey autumn sky. He leaned his broom against the trunk and pressed a palm flat to the bark, dragging his hand slowly down its length.

“I wanted to collect ingredients with you this weekend,” he said at last, voice catching. “Or maybe play some chess. Anything other than… whatever this is.”

Severus froze at the admission. The boy’s pained frustration burned in his eyes, and against his better judgment, Severus took a step forward.

“Potter—”

“No!” Harry shouted, the word sharp as a whipcrack. Fury replaced the pain, green eyes sparking as though lit from within. “Don’t call me that!”

The force of it made Severus falter, as if the ground itself had shifted.

“I thought I got you to understand yesterday that this isn’t a game to me,” Harry pressed on, running a hand through his wild hair in exasperation. “But here you are today, acting the same… no.” He stopped, jaw tightening. “Worse. You’re acting like I’m not here at all. Like I’m just some object you’re forced to follow around and protect.”

Severus froze, his breath catching. Harry’s eyes blazed with a green fury that struck through him, splintering the glass wall he had built inside.

“Pott—Harry,” he corrected, his voice low, carefully controlled, though a betraying tremor edged each syllable. “You do not know what you are asking for.”

“I do.” Harry’s reply was firm, steady. “Crouch told me some things about you last night. Not outright, but enough. I’m not stupid… I pieced it together.” His voice faltered, softer but no less resolute. “You were once one of Voldemort’s Death Eaters.”

Severus flinched at the name, at the truth laid bare on Potter’s tongue. A phantom ache pulsed beneath his sleeve where the Mark lay dormant. His eyes darted around the small clearing, trees hemming them in on all sides, his chest tightening with rising panic.

“Quiet, boy,” he hissed, the words edged with desperation. “That is precisely why you have no idea what you are asking for.”

“You’re right.” Harry pressed on, stepping closer before wrapping his arms around himself as if bracing against the weight of what he was about to say. “Maybe, I don’t fully know what that means. You see, I never actually grew up with my parents.” His voice, which had rung loudly with anger a moment ago, dropped to something quieter, more fragile. “Their Fidelius Charm had been broken, and it was too dangerous to keep me. So I never grew up with the war, with Death Eaters, because they sent me away to live with my mum’s Muggle sister. Did you know that?”

Severus frowned. He had not known. In his bitterness, he had always assumed Potter had grown up spoiled, coddled by Lily and James both. But to think matters had been dire enough to send him to Petunia of all people…

“Your parents’ questionable decisions aside,” Severus said at last, drawing in a measured breath, “you presume to know me. But you will find no warmth here. No coddling. No sweetness.” The wound in his hand throbbed in time with his heartbeat, sharp and unrelenting. “You must leave this foolish infatuation here. Find another boy your age, someone you can stand beside with pride.”

“You’re not listening. I don’t want that.” Harry snapped, his voice cracking with frustration. “You asked me about the cave, so I’ll tell you. Then maybe you’ll finally get it.”

Severus’s eyes locked on him, sharp and unblinking.

“The cave was the story of how Regulus Black told the Order about the Horcruxes. Do you know it?”

Severus gave a curt nod, uncertain where this was leading.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I was obsessed with it,” Harry went on. “At the time, I was so alone, I thought I would shatter… it was unbearable. I needed something, someone, to believe in. Regulus became that for me.”

His voice cracked as his words tumbled out faster. “I told myself he was proof it was possible. Proof that you could turn around even when you’d walked too far into the dark. That you could be brave enough to face it, even if you had to do it alone. He must have been so terrified in that cave, knowing what waited for him. But he still went.”

Harry’s voice faltered, barely audible. “I held onto that. Onto him. Because if he could walk into that cave and come back and change the war, then maybe—just maybe—I could too.”

He had moved closer without Severus noticing, close enough that his lashes cast shadows against his cheeks, his head tilted to meet Severus’s gaze.

“He wasn’t the only one who turned, was he?” Harry murmured, and the heat of his nearness sent something hungry and selfish clawing its way up through Severus’s chest.

“For whatever reason, you did too. And nobody knows. Nobody sees it. You are so brave, so strong despite everything.” Harry’s voice caught, the words trembling as if torn from him. “But I see that. I see you.”

And just like that, the glass shattered.

Severus moved before thought could catch him, the dam inside broken wide and merciless. He surged forward, hands closing around Harry with a desperation he could no longer disguise. His grip was fierce, almost punishing, as he pulled him close, drawn by a hunger he had starved too long.

Potter gasped at the sudden force, but did not pull away. The heat of him, the thrum of life in his veins. Severus felt himself drowning in it, every wall he had built crumbling into ruin.

Harry’s breath hitched, and then their mouth’s met once more, fevered, crushing, a collision of everything he had denied himself.

The kiss was desperate and raw.

Severus’s fingers dug into his shoulders and slid upward into his hair, fisting in the unruly strands as though he might drown without the anchor. Potter tilted up against him, and he deepened the kiss, teeth grazing, his lips parting to claim more.

A low sound tore from Severus’s throat, half-groan, half-confession. Harry answered with a soft gasp, the sound so unguarded it set every nerve alight. 

Their bodies locked together, breath mingling hot and uneven, Severus’s palm slid down his back to draw him in tighter.

There was no room for thought, only heat, only need.

He drove Harry back against the maple trunk, the rough bark biting through robes, anchoring them in the fierce collision. His mouth claimed him again, harder, hungrier, each kiss deepening until breath itself became an afterthought.

Potter clutched at him with wild insistence, fingers knotting in his robes as if to drag him closer.

Severus’s hands moved with purpose, down his chest to clamp hard at his hip, pinning him to the tree.

He groaned in ecstasy, as his mouth trailed from Harry’s lips to his jaw, his cock hardening beneath his robes. He pressed against him, the heat between them unbearable, every shred of denial burned away under the delirious passion.

Harry gasped at the roughness, arching against him instead of pulling back. His pulse thudded wildly beneath Severus’s mouth, a frantic beat that matched his own.

The world beyond the tree ceased to exist.

Their bodies locked, every line pressed together, heat building in a frenzied surge between their hard cocks and friction of cloth that neither seemed willing to slow.

Potter met every rough grind with wild urgency, the sound of his breath ragged in Severus’s ear between kisses, the air sharp with the scent of autumn leaves and the tang of sweat.

Severus’s thrusts quickened as he plowed Harry harder into the tree.

A strangled cry of release rang out from Harry’s throat, and after a few more thrusts, Severus followed, the sharp rush of his orgasm tearing through him as he pinned the younger man to the tree.

For a moment there was only the pounding of their hearts, the hush of the clearing holding them as though the world itself had stilled.

Severus lifted a trembling hand, fingers brushing over Harry’s cheek. He cupped his face and drew him into a gentler kiss.

When he pulled back, his voice was scarcely more than a whisper against Harry’s mouth.

“I believe you.”

Chapter Text

Harry shifted uncomfortably between Hagrid and Severus in the hall outside the Potions classroom, caught between second-hand embarrassment and simmering annoyance. He felt bad watching the half-giant rock anxiously from foot to foot as he stumbled through his explanation to an increasingly, visibly irritated Potions Master—but sympathy only went so far. It was Hagrid’s lack of foresight that had left Harry tearing through the paddock in a panic and showing up late to Potions. Again. For the second time since Dumbledore had instituted the escort system between classes.

“So, tell me if I have this straight,” Snape hissed, his voice low, a scowl etched deep across his face. “You managed to procure a Demiguise for class.”

He wondered what it said about him that he found it kind of hot when Severus got all serious and angry.

“That’s right, Y’ought to see her, right beaut, that one,” Hagrid said cheerfully, faltering as Severus lifted a hand in cold command.

“And what do Demiguises do when spooked?” Snape asked, arms crossed, voice like a blade.

“They turn invisi—”

“Exactly. Invisible. And you brought one into class with no plan, no precautions, and no hope of catching it once it vanished.” His tone dropped to that deadly smooth register that made Harry’s stomach flip.

Hagrid wrung his giant handkerchief, muttering, “Er—yes.”

Snape flicked back his sleeve and consulted his watch with elegant disdain. “And instead of escorting Potter, you blundered about the grounds with him. You are now half an hour late, disrupting my lesson and further handicapping his already lamentable grasp of the subject.”

His black eyes narrowed, pinning the half-giant like an insect beneath glass. “Does that sound correct?”

“It does, sir—er, Professor Snape.”

Only then did Snape’s gaze slide to him, sharp and assessing. The weight of it caused a dizzy lightness to sweep through him.

“What are you waiting for, boy? Inside.”

The door swept open, and Harry slipped past. His pulse quickened at the brush of dark fabric against his arm, and the faint scent of spice and parchment lingered as he crossed the threshold into the classroom.

With a bang, the door slammed shut behind him, causing him to jump. The entire class swiveled towards him as one, and he had the distinct urge to melt into the flagstones.

“Sorry, you know how joint custody is. Drop-offs are complicated.”

A ripple of laughter broke across the Gryffindor side of the room almost immediately, and even Hermione hid a smile behind her hand. 

The Slytherins, however, looked scandalised or smug, depending on who caught the joke. Malfoy rolled his eyes with exaggerated disdain, muttering something under his breath that made Nott and Blaise smirk.

He could still faintly hear the two professors arguing beyond the heavy door as he adjusted his bookbag on his shoulder and slipped into his seat beside Hermione.

“Harry, are you okay?” she asked, shifting her things to make room for him.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, opening his textbook and flipping to page 245, Vitriol Draught, just as written on the chalkboard. “Though I’m not sure Hagrid’s going to make it out of there unscathed. We should check on him later.”

She hummed her agreement, already bent over her mortar as she ground the moonstone into a fine, glittering powder. Harry skimmed the page to see what ingredients he needed, then pushed back from the desk and crossed the classroom to the storeroom.

He found himself alone in the cold and dim room, the air hung thick with the mingled scents of dried herbs and sharp chemicals. Shelves lined with glass jars and stoppered vials stretched overhead, shadows pooling in the corners where the torchlight didn’t quite reach. 

He had just grabbed the dragon bile when Snape’s low voice came from right behind him, and Harry’s fingers jerked so badly he almost dropped it.

“Mr. Potter.”

The man glided further into the storeroom.

“That ingredient is expensive, and contrary to what you may believe, my stores are not endless.”

Heat surged inside him at their proximity, the memory of Severus’s body still fresh.

“Sorry, Professor. I didn’t hear you.” Harry apologized, before catching the faintest hint of smugness cross the man’s stoic face.

“You did that on purpose,” he accused, voice dropping to a whisper so low no one outside the storeroom could hear.

“I’ve not the faintest idea what nonsense you’re prattling on about,” Severus drawled. “Not all of us require an entrance loud enough to rouse the dead. Some of us can manage without an audience.” 

His expression remained impassive as he plucked a bottle of bat’s blood from the shelf and examined it with clinical disinterest.

Harry huffed. “Fine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get started on my potion if I have any chance of finishing before class ends.”

“I’m afraid, Mr. Potter, that will be quite impossible,” Snape said smoothly, pointing the vial of bat’s blood at him. “You required the entire class period for the first stage alone. I shall have to fail you for today’s efforts.”

A spike of anger shot through him at the harshness. It wasn’t his fault that he was late. If he’d left without Hagrid, Severus would have been just as furious; only then the ire would have landed squarely on him instead.

Fuming, Harry leaned in close, reaching past the older man for the moonstone, only to feel long, deft fingers slide deliberately up his wrist. His gaze snapped upward, catching the quick flash of a smirk, and the brief glimmer of amusement in Severus’s black eyes, before his face smoothed back to stone.

His mouth curved despite his irritation, his words hissing with heat. “You’re such a liar.”

“Oh, I assure you, Potter, I am quite serious.” The dark gaze was pointed and unwavering. “You will earn nothing higher than a D on this potion if you cannot complete the first stage today. However, since catastrophe seems to trail after you, I will permit you to remain after class and attempt to salvage your grade.”

Harry’s breath hitched. After class. Alone. With Severus. A nervous thrill raced down his spine, the words dragging him back to the weekend—the scrape of bark against his back, Severus’s lips at his ear, the tremor in the man’s hands as he pulled him close. They had stayed there until dusk set the maple leaves ablaze, their words sparse, their silences filled with the cautious trail of lips down the curve of his neck.

He knew keeping this secret would be hard. He wasn’t even sure if there was a them, not really. They hadn’t talked about it, not properly. 

But he was content with discretion, for now.

Professor Snape’s job and reputation were on the line, and frankly, he was more than happy to delay his parents finding out. The longer he could keep Lily and James in the dark, the better.

After all, it was so new, so fragile. Something major like that would destroy whatever progress he had made with the man.

He inspected his ashwinder eggs with mock-thoughtful care. “I don’t know. I’ll miss Quidditch practice.”

The amusement vanished from the man’s eyes, replaced with a sneer.

Harry sighed and gave Snape’s leg a light tap with his foot. “Relax. Of course I’ll stay. I wouldn’t want to risk getting a D, now would I?” He arched a brow in challenge. “Wouldn’t look very good on my transcript when I apply to be an Auror.”

The tiniest smirk curled Severus’s lips. “No, it would not.” Then, abruptly louder, “Enough dawdling. Back to your cauldron, Potter, unless you’d prefer I start subtracting house points faster than you can ruin ingredients.”

Harry grabbed his basket and rolled his eyes as he slipped past him into the classroom. So dramatic.

“I saw that, Potter. Five points from Gryffindor,” Snape drawled, striding towards the front of the class, bat’s blood in one hand and what appeared to be fang shavings in the other.

Hermione shot Harry an annoyed look as he laid out his ingredients. “Do you have to bait him every chance you get?” She hissed as she slowly stirred her cauldron. “Honestly, Harry, some of us actually care about points, and you wonder why he watches you like a hawk.”

He gave her an apologetic grin. “At least it was only five points, yeah?”

The girl huffed, switching her stirring from clockwise to counter-clockwise with exaggerated precision.

He bent over his cauldron quickly, getting to work. He diced, sliced, and ground his ingredients in silence. Severus hadn’t been exaggerating; Vitriol Draught was no joke. Harry had just scraped the powdered Moonstone from his mortar into his simmering cauldron when Snape rose at the front of the room and announced that class was dismissed, assigning an essay on the uses and dangerous properties of the Draught for next time.

Hermione glanced at Harry’s unfinished potion, anxiety written across her face. “Oh, Harry, I’m sorry. I should’ve helped you get started.” She gathered her books. “Hopefully Snape won’t be too hard on you.”

He offered a weak smile. “Don’t worry about it. He’s letting me stay behind to finish the first stage.”

“That’s great!” she said, perking up immediately. “I’ll stay and work on some homework. I still need clarification on those Defence questions Professor Snape gave us yesterday.”

Harry could feel Severus watching their exchange, his gaze heavy and hot.

“Actually, Hermione, I’ll be fine. You should head on without me; I’m going to be here a while. Do you mind telling the team I won’t make it to practice tonight? Ginny knows the drills.”

“If you’re sure…” she said slowly, drawing out the words and slinging her bag over her shoulder.

He stirred the moonstone in carefully, twelve turns clockwise, six counterclockwise. From the corner of his eye, he saw Hermione hesitate before approaching Snape’s desk. 

“One question, Professor—”

Snape replied curtly, pointed her to additional reading, and dismissed her.

She nodded and hurried out, the heavy door closing behind her.

Silence settled.

Harry bent over his cauldron, pretending to concentrate, but every nerve in his body sharpened with awareness. He could hear the faint rustle of robes, the soft scrape of boots on stone.

Severus glided like a shadow, each step deliberate, closing the distance with slow inevitability.

He didn’t look up, but felt it all the same, the prickle at the back of his neck, the press of dark attention coiling around him, making the air feel too close. By the time Severus’s presence loomed at his side, his hand had gone still on the stirring rod. The potion bubbled softly, forgotten.

The older man leaned back against the workstation in front of Harry, his long legs stretched out before him. “Keep stirring. You have six more turns to go… unless you truly want to fail.”

Harry snatched up his stirring rod, fumbling slightly as he fought to keep the Draught from boiling over. He lowered the flame, and the brew settled into a simmer, shimmering with a silvery blue sheen.

“Now we wait ten minutes until the potion turns a deep navy blue,” he declared, his eyes straying to the man across from him. Severus looked better than he had in weeks. The shadows beneath his eyes had lightened, and the sickly pallor of his skin had given way to something healthier. His sharp features were framed by hair that gleamed darkly in the torchlight.

Harry smirked and pushed himself away from his workstation. Dark eyes tracked his movement with a guarded look, narrowing as he crossed the stone floor. He paused, scanning the room. 

The classroom was far from ideal, but when would he next have the man alone? With a wave of his wand, he set a ward to warn them of any intrusion.

Every nerve in Harry thrummed. He stepped boldly between Severus’s knees, his hip bumping loudly against the table's edge. He smiled hesitantly in embarrassment.

The older man’s eyes widened the smallest degree, his long fingers twitching before sliding up his waist and pulling him in.

Harry felt the faint tremor in them, delicate yet commanding, and heat spiked low in his belly.

He smiled, playful and hungry, and closed the last inch between them. He met Severus’s firm, unexpectedly soft, and yielding lips, and after the briefest hesitation, the kiss was returned with a fervor that left his knees weak. The pull of the man’s mouth was urgent, consuming, and utterly impossible to resist.

The faint crackle of his cauldron’s fire filled the air. Harry wanted more, but his mind still rattled with unspoken questions, and he reluctantly pulled back. “I think we need to talk.” He panted, licking his now dry lips.

Snape’s eyes tracked his tongue. “Yes, we do,” he said in a low, measured tone.

Harry stepped back, the hand at his waist falling as he perched on the edge of his table.

“How is this going to work?” he asked, watching Severus, whose arms were now folded tightly across his chest. “I know we have to keep this a secret, at least until I’ve graduated, maybe a year longer for good measure.”

“That is, if you haven’t lost interest by then,” Severus stated. Harry shot him an irate glare. “Harry, you are young, with no shortage of interested suitors. It is inevitable.”

“Who? Nott? He’s all right, but he’s boring.”

One dark brow arched in skepticism.

“He is! Wait…” Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “Is that why he failed his last essay? We only dueled, and that was under your instruction.

“There was a comment on the train.”

“A comment on the train?” he frowned, trying to untangle the cryptic remark. Then it clicked. “You mean from when you went into Malfoy’s memories?”

Snape’s eyes locked onto Harry’s, but he did not answer.

“Severus, you cannot be the thought police. This is why we need to figure this out. You’re the one who made me promise to keep it from Ron and Hermione. I’ve almost slipped up five times since Sunday, and it’s only Tuesday!”

Severus dragged a hand through his hair. “This was a mistake,” he muttered.

“A mistake?” A lump rose in Harry’s throat. For one dizzy heartbeat, he saw it all crumbling—every kiss, every stolen glance, reduced to nothing more than an error in judgment. His voice cracked. “So you regret it? Everything that happened?”

Snape’s gaze snapped back to him, hard and unwavering. “I did not say that. Do not put words in my mouth, Potter.” He growled. “This is ill-advised in every conceivable way and must not be repeated while you remain my student.” His eyes narrowed. “But, I cannot say I regret it.”

The words hung between them.

Harry could not understand why being his student was still such an issue. Severus had already kissed him, had kept kissing him, and after bringing them both to climax, what was the point of clinging to decorum now?

But he had the watch’s prediction, which Luna had all but confirmed for him. If he could only get it repaired and find someone to help interpret it, then perhaps he could show Snape that this, whatever it was between them, was inevitable. Even if the older man held little respect for Divination, the watch itself would be undeniable.

The coil of fear in Harry’s chest loosened, replaced with a fragile spark of warmth he could not quite hide. Not regret. That was something. That was everything, for now. He let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, his shoulders loosening as he leaned back on the table. “Okay, but… this can’t just be random. If we keep winging it, one of us is going to slip, and it’ll all blow up.”

Severus tilted his head slightly in agreement, one finger tapping against his arm in thought.

“It doesn’t help that I’m surrounded by teachers all the time now, too.”

“That does complicate matters. I haven’t assigned you detention yet this year; I suppose you are due.”

A wicked thought crossed Harry’s mind. “Detention could work. Very believable, though still risky unless you take me to the Forbidden Forest to collect ingredients.”

He shifted restlessly on the desk, his legs spreading without thinking, only realising what he’d done when Severus’s eyes shifted down. His face went hot, but instead of shutting his knees, he forced himself to lean in further, heart hammering. “I’ve got a better idea. We could—uh—what if I just, you know, snuck down to your chambers? No portraits, no students, just… us. I mean, not that it wouldn’t still be risky, but I can sneak down with my Invisibility Cloak.”

The man’s face flushed, a faint pink rising to the tips of his ears as he cleared his throat. “Absolutely not, Potter.” Harry shot him a look, but he pressed on. “Have you forgotten a Death Eater is still hunting you, or has self-preservation always been beyond your grasp? That cloak should have been confiscated the moment you arrived, though expecting sense from your father was clearly optimistic.”

“Oh, he did, but it’s mine,” Harry said, pouting at the rejection. It was a good idea. Better than detention, when anyone could just walk in on them.

“Please. You couldn’t track me at all in fifth year, and I was out every night running the DA and winding Umbridge up.” He laughed a little too loudly, rubbing the back of his neck.

Severus lurched up from where he was leaning, his face twisted as he seized Harry’s shoulders. “I knew it! Dumbledore wouldn’t listen, but it was you all along.”

The Griffyndor threw up his hands, grinning. “Alright, guilty, mostly. But the swamp wasn’t me; that was all Fred and George. I don’t have that kind of genius. I just caused the other eighty percent of the chaos.”

“You are intolerable, Potter.” Snape’s eyes flicked skyward just as urgent twittering filled the room, and Harry felt his ward snap.

With a wave of his wand, Harry silenced the alarm, and in the blink of an eye, Severus had moved away toward his desk, his strides quick as he pulled out the bat’s blood and fang shavings from earlier.

Harry’s skin prickled with leftover adrenaline as he scrambled back to the far side of his station. The solid oak door opened with a groan, and Draco sauntered into the classroom. Malfoy gave them a confused look, his eyes flicking between Harry and Snape.

Harry could still feel the heat burning in his cheeks. He leaned over his cauldron to hide the color, the rising steam striking his face as the navy-blue mixture bubbled tauntingly.

 Damn. What was the next step?

“Professor Snape,” the Slytherin said as he crossed the room to the desk. His tone was far too polite, and his grey eyes lingered on Harry for a beat too long, as though measuring him against something unspoken.

Harry kept his gaze pinned to his cauldron, careful with the Dragon’s Bile as he added it in.

Snape did not look up from arranging his ingredients. “What is it, Mr. Malfoy?” His voice was calm, controlled, but Harry heard the faint tone of irritation beneath it.

“I… had a question about the Defence assignment,” Draco said slowly. His gaze cut back to Harry, narrowing, before he forced it to Snape again. “Specifically, the counter-hex for possession. The text isn’t clear.”

“Then perhaps read it again with more attention,” Severus replied, each word clipped. He gestured to the chair nearest his desk. “Sit.”

Draco obeyed, though his posture was stiff and his shoulders drawn tight. From his place at his cauldron, Harry felt the boy’s unease settle over the room, his usual sneer absent.

When Snape began his explanation, Draco’s quill scratched dutifully, but his eyes wandered—to Harry, hunched over his potion, cheeks still too hot. To the Potion’s Master, who stood tall at his desk, movements a shade too controlled. Back again. His brow furrowed.

At last, Draco closed his notebook with deliberate care and stood, but he didn’t leave. Not right away. His gaze lingered, a slight frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Thank you, Professor,” he said coolly. Then, after the smallest pause, he inclined his head toward Harry. “Potter.”

The syllable hung in the air, not mocking or friendly, just sharp enough to leave Harry’s stomach twisting.

The door shut behind him with a sharp crack, echoing in the silence he had left behind.

Severus’s brows furrowed, a look of concentration passing over his face as he stirred with deliberate care.

“Detention may present certain challenges.” He paused, pouring in the bat’s blood. Red fumes rose in staggered puffs as a noxious smell drifted across the room.

“You think he knows? Merlin, are we that obvious?” Harry asked with a shaky breath. “That’s why we need somewhere private.”

Severus cut him a glare sharp enough to wither most students. “Drop it, Potter. Malfoy suspects nothing. And you will not wander the corridors at night.”

Harry slumped back with a sigh, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Fine. But what in Magic’s name are you brewing? It smells like something died in there.”

“I am nearly out of red ink,” the man replied, his tone flat but his mouth twitching, almost imperceptibly.

He blinked, then laughed. “Your red ink has bat’s blood in it? That’s vile.”

“Vile?” he added the crushed fangs with smooth precision, and the fumes began to clear. “Coming from someone whose Draught is about to curdle,”

Harry muttered a curse under his breath but tapped his wand over the cauldron, casting a stasis charm just in time. Heat was still crawling up the back of his neck.

**********************************

The next two days blurred together in a maddening practice of patience and restraint.

Every class, every corridor, every meal was shadowed by the escort system, a line of professors trading him off like he was contraband. It should have been laughable, Sprout bustling at his side with her muddy boots, or Flitwick trotting to keep pace, but it only made stolen moments rarer.

Somehow Harry and Severus managed: a brush of fingers when an essay or test was handed back, a glance that lingered too long across the Great Hall. Nothing that could be called proof, but everything that left Harry simmering.

What made it worse was Defence. Severus only ever wanted to pair him with Hermione. To Harry, it was obvious that the man did not trust himself to place him with anyone else. But watching those black eyes narrow every time he tried sparring with someone else was enough to set his teeth on edge.

It was possessive and irrational, and Merlin help him, it made him want him. Not because he enjoyed being ordered about, but because, for once, it felt like someone wanted him enough to bother keeping him close. After years with the Dursleys and later at Hogwarts, being shoved aside and branded a nuisance or a troublemaker, the smallest hint of protectiveness felt like a prize.

Even if Severus’s brand of caring came out rough around the edges, Harry reckoned he could live with it. He knew the man did not trust easily. Why would he? With a past steeped in pain and shadows that had never fully healed, trust would not come quickly. But he could be patient. Trust could be earned.

Still, when that same lesson ended and Snape had to parade him to Herbology with Hermione in tow, Harry thought he might explode.

By Thursday night, he had reached his limit.

The stolen touches were no longer enough. The glares, smirks, and fleeting brushes of fabric only wound him tighter, stretching him thinner. More than once, he had caught himself staring at the clock in the Gryffindor common room, leg shaking as he waited for curfew.

Maybe the older man could be content with secret glances and fleeting contact, but Harry could not. He needed something steady, something he could hold onto. All he had were scraps—half-hidden smiles, the brush of a sleeve—and he could feel the old voices creeping back in, whispering that he was easy to set aside, easy to leave behind.

It had become unbearable.

So, when the tower grew quiet and the halls hushed, he pulled his cloak around his shoulders and slipped through the portrait when the last Gryffindor entered for the night. He wasn’t going to wait for Severus to come to him. Not anymore. He would follow him, straight to his rooms.

Harry crept silently down the hallway. The castle was peacefully quiet. There were no whispering portraits, no restless shifting of suits of armor, only the echo of his own heartbeat beneath the cloak as he made his way down staircases and along torchlit halls, searching.

He found the man on the third floor, his cloak flaring as he rounded corners with his usual swiftness, his wand drawn for the slightest disturbance. Harry kept well back, his footsteps measured, every nerve stretched taut. The thrill of it was dizzying, shadowing Snape of all people, the man none the wiser.

They turned a corner and nearly collided with Professor Crouch. The Defence Professor gave Snape a smile that didn’t touch his eyes.

“Severus,” Crouch said.

“Crouch,” Severus drawled almost in a bored tone.

For a moment, the corridor seemed to shrink around them. Something unspoken pressed between the two men. Harry couldn’t name it, but he felt the pull of hostility, the tension crackling like a curse about to be cast.

Then Crouch inclined his head with stiff formality and swept past them. 

Harry trailed after Snape, his cloak brushing stone as he matched the man’s stride. 

Once patrol was finished, and they reached the familiar stretch past the Slytherin common room that ended at the man’s chambers, Snape drew his wand, tapped it once to unravel the ward, and stepped inside. Harry followed, sliding through the doorway a second before it closed.

He took in the space with a mixture of surprise and curiosity. Everything was neat, almost obsessively so—shelves crammed with books and jars, tapestries gleaming faintly in the firelight, even the tiny kitchen tucked away, which looked military in its precision. The warmth from the dark stone fireplace softened the severity of it all, drawing his eyes at last to the deep green armchair angled toward the flames.

Snape moved to the kitchenette first, shrugging off his outer robes and setting a glass on the counter. He poured himself something dark, shoulders loosening fractionally now that he was alone.

Or so he thought.

Harry slid the cloak from his shoulders, draping it across the arm of the chair. He sank into the seat, waiting, the fire in the hearth warming him in the cool dungeon room.

The rustle of fabric made Snape glance up. His black eyes locked on Harry, and a sudden stillness overtook him as he froze.

For a second, he simply stared, as though the firelight had conjured a hallucination. Then his lips thinned, and the glass landed on the counter with a sharp clink.

“Get. Out. Of. My. Chair.” His voice was low and dangerous, and Harry felt its weight in his bones. 

But he didn’t move. He lounged deeper into the seat, draping one arm along the armrest with a grin that was far too cocky, even though he felt like he was going to puke. “You’ve only got one, sir. You can’t expect me to stand the whole time.”

Severus marched forward, fury sharpening every line of his face. “Do not play games with me, Potter. You have crossed every conceivable boundary, and this—” he gestured sharply to the green-upholstered armchair, “—is. My. Chair.”

Harry tilted his head, nerves thrumming through his body as sparks of temper snapped between them. “Then maybe you should sit with me?”

Snape’s wand hand twitched and a sharp hiss of breath slipped between his teeth.

Harry’s lungs seized. “No, you’re right. This is stupid. I’ll go.” The words tumbled out as he scrambled up, heat flooding his cheeks. His head swam, every step clumsy, desperate to put distance between himself and the chair.

He didn’t get far before fingers closed like iron around his wrist, yanking him to a halt. The grip bit into his skin as black eyes bore into him, Severus’s jaw tight enough to crack.

A string of words tore out, each one bitten off and barely audible over the fire’s crackle: “Idiotic. Reckless. Foolish.”

Harry flinched as he was dragged back. The older man dropped into the chair with a heavy thud that left no room for argument. “Sit.” The command cracked across the room.

Harry froze, glancing from the sliver of the green-upholstered seat to the flagstones at his feet. His mouth went dry.

“What are you waiting for? I said sit!” The hiss that followed was sharper than the snap of flame, his temper coiling tight.

Harry’s breath came quickly and shallow. With no space left to choose, he dropped onto the only place left—squarely into Severus’s lap. The weight forced a grunt from deep in the man’s chest.

“Potter.” The name rumbled out low, a sound that seemed to vibrate straight through him, and he knew he was in danger.

He prepared for the man to throw him off. 

Instead, Severus gripped his hips, fingers digging hard enough to bruise. “You push, you pry, you force yourself into places you do not belong,” he spat, every syllable meant to scorch.

Harry shrank back, his heart hammering, but he didn’t move.

The fire popped in the silence that followed. Snape’s chest heaved once, twice, and then stilled. His knuckles whitened on Harry’s waist before the pressure loosened, the harsh lines of his face softening by a degree.

“You cannot help yourself, can you?” he said quietly, anger still edging his tone. Then, with a shudder of breath, he settled back against the chair. His hands were no longer fists.

The words hung threateningly between them. With deliberate calm, Severus summoned the glass he had abandoned on the counter. The clink of ice against crystal echoed in the room, the amber liquid catching firelight before he brought it to his lips.

He took a measured sip and leaned back into the chair, setting the glass on the side table.

The air in the chamber finally seemed to ease, though it still crackled with the remnants of his anger.

Harry shifted on his lap, the hard edge of bone beneath him pressing uncomfortably.

“I’m… sorry,” he muttered, staring at the fire instead of Snape’s face. “For sneaking out. For coming here. For—” he gestured weakly at the chair, “—this. I know it’s against your rules. I just… wanted to be near you.”

The older man set the glass down on the side table, his black eyes unreadable as he quietly observed him.

“Apologies, Potter, are worthless when made after the fact,” he drawled, but the bite in his tone had dulled. His hand, resting at Harry’s waist, did not push him away.

Harry squirmed, shifting again as though the chair were suddenly the most awkward place in the castle. His cheeks flamed hotter. “I really am sorry,” he mumbled, trying to find a position that didn’t leave his thighs aching.

The movement dragged him closer, and Severus’s breath caught, sharp and unbidden. He went very still, glass frozen in his grip, as though sheer force of will might conceal the treacherous stir beneath the restless shifting.

Oblivious, Harry twisted again. “I’ll behave, I promise. No more sneaking around.

Snape groaned, shutting his eyes as though in pain.

The fire popped, sending sparks upward, and Harry finally dared glance at him, confused by the sudden silence stretching thin between them.

“Severus?” He whispered, turning fully in Snape’s lap to face him.

A low moan escaped the man’s throat, and Harry felt it, the hard outline of his cock straining against his trousers. Heat raced through him in answer, and a shaky chuckle slipped out as he ground down, meeting the rocking thrust from beneath.

So, he wasn’t the only one who needed it.

“See?” He panted, his lips curving in a grin. “So much better than sitting there watching me scrub cauldrons.”

Severus gave a low, derisive sound and thrust upward, his confined length grinding hard against the outline of his member. 

Harry’s gasp broke into a laugh, caught between shock and delight.

“Come on, admit it, this beats detention.”

Fingers curled roughly in his hair, yanking him down. “Detention has its merits,” Severus bit out, his voice rough. “Chief among them is your silence.”

He grinned against Snape’s mouth. “You love my talking.”

Their lips collided, teeth clashing, heat and hunger swallowing the rest of their words.

The older man’s lips trailed lower, biting sharply at the tender skin along his collarbone. Harry moaned, the sound breaking free before he could stifle it. Severus pulled him in tighter, thrusting up until he jolted upward in his lap.

“Wait,” Harry gasped, breath ragged. “Let me—please.”

With fumbling fingers, he tugged at his trousers, freeing his cock with a desperate urgency. It sprang into the cool air, flushed and eager. 

Severus’s pupils dilated, and his long fingers ghosted over the length before curling firmly around it, giving a tug that made Harry’s head fall back in a shuddering cry.

The older man freed himself next, dragging his cock from his own trousers. Harry stared, entranced — exactly as he had imagined it: long, thick, the perfect curve that made his throat go dry.

“You like that, don’t you?” Snape rasped, his dark voice ragged with need.

He could only gasp at the sinful voice, causing his cock to jump in interest. He grasped them both in his hand and stroked them faster, each pull dragging them closer to the edge. 

Severus’s hands slid lower, his rough fingertips brushing the bare skin beneath Harry’s waistband. They lingered, explored, until one nudged teasingly at his entrance. He shuddered violently, his hand faltering on the stroke. The finger slipped inside. Stretching him until the white-hot shock split through him at the intrusion, his gasp stuttered into a broken moan only silenced by Severus’s mouth over his own. The rhythm between them fell into something feverish as the older man’s hips thrust up and his finger curled deeper inside him.

Each press of that digit and each sharp thrust of their cocks between his palms, tore sounds from him he couldn’t hold back. The heat rose between them before it finally exploded in a blinding rush, his body clenching tightly as his climax ripped free.

Severus followed with a feral snarl, his release spilling hotly over his trembling hand.

Harry slumped back against the man, his chest rising quickly as the last of his nerves ebbed into something warmer. The firelight painted the dungeon in shifting shadows, the air thick with the scent of smoke and whiskey.

Harry slipped his holly wand from his sleeve, murmured a quick Scourgify, and gave a sheepish grin as he tucked them both back into place.

“I suppose,” Severus said at last, his voice low and measured, “if you must… You may infest my chambers.”

“What about waiting until I’m no longer your student?” Harry asked, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Snape's expression stilled, as though weighing the remark in some private debate. “Clearly, I overestimated your capacity for self-control. But under no circumstances will you remain overnight.”

Harry shifted in his lap just enough to make the chair creak. “Fine. But if you’re going to let me visit, you need a bigger chair. This one barely fits you.”

Severus’s eyes narrowed, the corner of his mouth twitching. “If you dislike it so much, there’s always the floor. I assure you, it suits you.”

He laughed, the sound muffled against Snape’s shoulder. For a moment, he just basked in the stillness, wrapped up in the other man’s presence. Then, casually, “So… what are you doing this weekend?”

Severus gave him a sidelong look. “I promised McGonagall I would help supervise the first Hogsmeade trip of the year.“

Harry groaned. “That’s so unfair. I’m stuck with Hagrid, helping with the beasts and the grounds, while everyone else gets to run wild in the village. I wanted to—” He cut himself off. “I wanted to be anywhere but knee-deep in hippogriff muck.”

He dropped his gaze. He still planned to slip into Hogsmeade; Trelawney’s shop might reveal something about the watch, and he couldn’t let it go. Not when he was sure it could help him predict the movements of whoever was after him.

Still… if Severus hadn’t been going, he might have stayed. An afternoon here sounded just as tempting.

Severus was unmoved. “If you expect life to bend to your whims, Potter, you will be disappointed.”

Harry scowled, though there was no heat behind it. He reached for the glass Severus had abandoned on the side table, curiosity winning out. The whiskey burned bitter on his tongue, and he coughed, grimacing. “Butterbeer’s better.”

Severus plucked the glass back with a look of disdain. “You and Albus, addicts to sugar, the both of you.”

He grinned. “At least mine doesn’t taste like burnt socks.”

The man scoffed, but his hand on Harry’s waist didn’t move. They stayed like that a little longer, the silence between them less strained now, almost companionable.

Eventually, Severus set his glass aside with a faint clink. “Enough. You need to return to your dormitory before someone notices your absence.”

Reluctance prickled at him, but Harry tugged his cloak around his shoulders. Snape walked him as far as the third floor, their steps echoing softly against the stone. Just before the turn toward Gryffindor Tower, Harry felt the discreet brush of a hand on his back.

“Try not to get caught, Potter. Peeves has been favoring this hallway lately,” Severus murmured, his voice once again unreadable.

Harry’s grin spread unseen beneath the cloak as he slipped away, the warmth of the fire and Severus’s presence lingering long after he had gone.

Chapter Text

“No, this is a terrible plan.”

“Hhhmmm… hmm-HMM… hmmm.”

“Come on, Hermione, it’s not that bad of a plan.”

“No, Ron. I said a terrible plan, not a bad plan,” Hermione corrected. “This is worse than a bad plan. When a bad plan goes wrong it lands us in detention. If this plan goes wrong, Harry ends up kidnapped or dead by some lunatic.”

“HMMM… mmmm… hmmmm.”

“Or,” Harry cut in, “I skip dung duty, learn what the watch means, and BAM— we solve the lunatic problem before he’s within five feet of me.”

“Here’s an idea,” Hermione said, eyes narrowing. “Ask your dad about the watch.”

“Hhhmmm… mhmm-hmm.”

Harry stared at her as she raised one brow in challenge.

“It’s like you weren’t even there. James said every Potter man has to figure out the magic of the watch on his own.”

“Oh, Harry, stop being so stubborn!” she fumed, slamming her hands on the Gryffindor common room table.

The humming stopped.

“Well, I think it’s a great plan, very creative. Though I did say I would go with you when it was safe,” Luna said, cuddling into the red overstuffed couch, her eyes bouncing around the room in delight. “Your common room is a lot cozier than Ravenclaw’s.”

“What is she doing here again?” Ron asked. “How did you even get her in without anyone noticing?”

“A very strong Disillusionment Charm. And I told you, she’s part of the plan. Luna knows Trelawney and is the only one who knows where Sybill’s Symbols is.”

Ron gave a slow, blank nod. “Yeah, mate, but why sneak her in here?”

“I told Harry about the shop, and Professor Snape was there. He was very angry; he accused me of giving him ideas.” She paused. “I suppose he was right.”

“Don’t feel bad, Luna. He would have gone with or without a reason.” Ron gently patted Luna on the back.

Harry rolled his eyes.

“Why don’t you just give us your watch, and we can take it there for you?” Luna asked, and Hermione immediately perked up.

“Yes, that is a brilliant idea, Luna! Harry, give us your watch.” Her grubby fingers shot out to take it from his wrist.

“Ah, I don’t think so. From the little research I could find, this thing is magically attuned to me. I have to be the one who goes.”

“See, Luna, any excuse—ow! Harry, why are you always hitting me? Didn’t your parents ever teach you that hitting is bad?”

“No.”

“Oh, right, the Muggles.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean, Ronald?”

“Nothing, just… hitting isn’t very wizardlike—ow! Don’t pinch me! That right there is barbaric. Not very witchlike.”

“Oh, I’ll show you witchlike.”

“Harry was raised by Muggles?” Luna asked, turning to inspect Harry as if he might have a hidden second head while Ron and Hermione devolved into bickering beside her.

“Yes, but it was just during the war.” Harry pulled his arm from Luna’s curious grasp and clapped his hands between the couple. “Focus!”

The pair continued to argue. Harry grabbed his wand and, with a quick flick, a loud crack broke through their bickering.

“That’s better,” he said, slipping his wand back into his sleeve. “Now we have only a couple of hours before we need to move. Are we all clear on what we need to do?”

“I haven’t agreed to anything.” Hermione crossed her arms over her chest and leveled her gaze with Harry’s.

“Then, if the Death Eaters catch me and I die, that will be on you.”

“Harry!”

“Hermione!”

“Fine.” She huffed, throwing her hand up in exasperation.

Luna’s dreamy voice broke the tension. “What am I doing again? I was too busy looking at your common room.”

Harry groaned and re-explained the plan to sneak him out of the castle. If they were going to do this, they had to do it right. The teachers, especially Snape, were no doubt on high alert this weekend, and after the stunt Harry had pulled by sneaking into Severus’s chambers the other night, he doubted the man would let him off easily if he were caught.

Harry shuddered. Snape had been furious, beyond furious. Harry had barely managed to cool that temper in a way that pleased them both that night, but the next day Severus was spitting venom and refusing to speak to him. Defence class had been the worst. He had used Harry as a live target for a Spasm Jinx and its counter-curse. The spell left him aching, sore, and plotting revenge.

If there was an upside, it was that Malfoy’s loud laughter at Harry’s yelps of pain likely erased any lingering suspicion about the two of them.

Perhaps he could get away with jinxing Snape’s shower so it turned cold when he used it.

“Seriously,” Ron said, folding the Hogsmeade map on the table, “I still don’t know how you managed to get your cloak confiscated. How did Snape even know you still had it?”

Harry shifted, the cushion suddenly too small beneath him. “Who knows? He’s always been paranoid, hasn’t he?”

“I guess…”

That had been a miscalculation on Harry’s part. Severus had lured him to his chambers, and, like a fool, Harry had walked straight into the trap. The moment he knocked, Severus yanked him inside, and Harry had been so intent on gauging whether the man was still angry that he missed the thin smile curling across Snape’s face as he slid the cloak from Harry’s shoulders and folded it neatly over one arm.

A deep, unhurried kiss left Harry thoroughly distracted. Then, with infuriating calm, Severus opened the door and unceremoniously pushed him back into the corridor with the promise to return the cloak “first thing Monday morning.”

Harry wasn’t convinced the man wasn’t reading his mind. But mind reading or not losing the cloak had been a huge loss.

“Okay, so I’ll meet you and Luna in Honeydukes, give you the Kaleido-Capsules, and we’ll head north from there?” Ron clarified, tapping the Honeydukes mark on the map and tracing a straight line upward.

“You got it. Everyone clear now?” Harry scanned his friends’ faces for any sign of confusion. “Good, let’s go.”

He quickly renewed the Disillusionment Charm on Luna, and the group filtered out of the Gryffindor common room.

Halfway through the castle, Ron peeled away, giving Harry a quick nod before disappearing into the crowd of students streaming toward the front gates to go to Hogsmeade.

A pleasant tingling crept into Harry’s hands as his pulse quickened. This might actually work.

With Hermione and Luna in tow, they moved swiftly through the halls and down into the courtyard, the muddy expanse of the castle grounds stretching out beyond.

Hermione glanced around and, with a whisper, cast “Homenum Revelio,” checking that the courtyard was clear of students and staff. She gave a quick nod. Luna followed next, offering a nervous smile and a small wave before slipping away, the Disillusionment Charm cloaking her as she melted into the shadows.

“Maybe this plan isn’t completely terrible,” Hermione muttered, eyes fixed straight ahead as she adjusted the strap on her bag.

Harry flashed her a grin. “Better than following Professor Lupin under the Whomping Willow?”

“Loads better!” she laughed, her shoulders loosening.

In the distance, Harry spotted Hagrid’s tall silhouette near his hut, the massive pumpkin patch alive with magic as the first jack-o’-lanterns carved themselves for the next day’s Halloween feast.

“’Arry, Hermione!” the half-giant waved jovially. “Right on time. Hermione, thanks for helping out; we’ve got a lot to do today. Can’t believe it’s already Halloween, yeh know?”

Hagrid gave his pink umbrella a twirl, and the pumpkins that had already been carved floated cheerfully into a towering pile on a wheelbarrow, while the next set lined up to have their insides scooped out by magic.

“Right this way,” Hagrid directed as Harry and Hermione followed him down the narrow dirt path toward the first paddock, where the Hippogriffs waited.

“Now, you’ll want to be careful of Silverwing there,” Hagrid gestured to a large Hippogriff in the back corner. “She’s nesting and is quite territorial.”

Silverwing fluffed her grey feathers menacingly, golden eyes never leaving the two Gryffindors.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry caught a flash of pale gold as Luna slipped into the Care of Magical Creatures hut.

“Harry, did you catch that?”

“Uh, yeah, muck the stalls first, then feed.”

“That’s right. If you need me, I’ll be just over there helping get everything ready.”

Harry nodded, leaning slightly to the left to see past Hagrid’s massive form as the half-giant happily rambled on about preparations for the feast.

Where was Luna with their distraction?

“The pumpkins are fantastic this year— have you seen ’em?”

Beside him, Hermione tensed almost imperceptibly. Harry glanced back toward the hut. At first nothing stood out, but then he spotted it: a small white-and-grey, ape-like creature stepping tentatively into view. It tilted its head, gaze fixed on something unseen.

Luna had found the Demiguise.

“Truly, though, a shame the apples aren’t as good this year. The house-elves’ cider is my favorite.”

Harry and Hermione exchanged a quick look of triumph, only for Harry’s stomach to twist when the Demiguise failed to follow their plan. Instead, it seemed far more interested in what had to be Luna.

Hagrid leaned against the Hippogriffs’ fence, the wood groaning under his weight. “Now, a few years ago, before your time, we had a blight that wiped out both,” he said gravely. “Saddest feast in years.”

Harry and Hermione watched in horror as the Disillusionment Spell shimmered like static around Luna and the Demiguise launched itself at the Ravenclaw, wrapping its long arms around her waist in glee.

To her credit, Luna made no sound. The creature chittered happily, tugging her arm down as though to hold her shimmering hand while she tried to shoo it away.

A sharp crack split the air.

The world froze; Hagrid shifted his weight, then the fence gave a long, splintering groan before collapsing inward, and the half-giant pitched backward with it, a flailing mass of coat and beard. The ground shook as he landed in the churned mud of the paddock.

Silverwing reared high, wings snapping open in a flash of grey. The Hippogriff’s screech sliced through the autumn air, sending startled crows spiraling from the pumpkin patch. Her golden eyes blazed as she stamped and lashed her talons, the air vibrating with the beat of her wings.

The Demiguise startled at the scene, its pale-grey and white fur flaring with an opalescent shimmer as it bounded away from Luna in a blur of long limbs and rippling invisibility. Luna staggered back against the spray of mud, the Disillusionment Charm around her flickering like heat haze.

“Merlin’s beard—MING!” Hagrid bellowed, scrambling upright. His boots skidded in the slick earth, and he went down again on one knee with a splash, hands clawing for purchase. “How did yeh get out o’ there?”

The creature darted toward the open field, a ghostly silhouette that seemed to fold the light around itself.

Harry caught a flash of moon-pale eyes just before it winked from view entirely, vanishing so completely it might have been a trick of the morning sun.

“Ming!” Hagrid roared again, his voice cracking across the grounds. “Stop, yeh menace!”

The only answer was the rustle of disturbed leaves and the scratch of talons as Silverwing circled warily, feathers bristling, her warning screeches carrying all the way to the castle walls.

“Ming!” Hagrid bellowed again, finally hauling himself upright. Mud dripped from the hem of his coat and spattered the churned earth as he planted his enormous boots for balance. He brushed a wild tangle of hair from his eyes and threw a glance over the wreckage.

“You two take care of—” He waved helplessly at the broken fence and the mess around them. “Make sure the rest of ’em don’t get out.”

 His breath steamed in the chill air as he straightened to his full height, scanning the tree line for any sign of movement.

“This might take me a while…” He tightened his grip on the pink umbrella, jaw set with determination. Then he looked back, his voice almost sheepish. “An’ Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Best not tell Professor Snape about this, eh?” he said with a hopeful glance, a glob of mud running down his face and catching in his now-matted beard. 

Harry looked away as a hot flush crept up his neck. “Of course.”

Without another glance back, the half-giant lumbered after the Demiguise, hollering and chittering until he disappeared into the distance.

“That could have gone better,” Hermione said, exhaling as if she’d been holding her breath.

“You think?” Harry’s heart thudded against his ribs. He turned to the fence and, with a sweeping motion of his wand, cast Reparo. The wooden pieces lifted from the muck and snapped neatly back into place with a satisfying clack.

Hermione set her bag down, gave the fence a testing shove, and nodded. “That should hold. We need to move; Luna’s probably on her way to the Honeydukes’ tunnel entrance.”

She lifted her wand toward Harry. “So, I haven’t actually tried this on a person. It might feel… odd. At least that’s what the text suggested; it was ancient and half in Latin.” Her eyes widened at Harry’s skeptical look. “But it worked on Trevor and Crookshanks! You’ll be fine. Probably. Yes… fine.”

“Hermione, just get on with it,” Harry said, squeezing his eyes shut. Watching was now out of the question.

With an intricate counterclockwise spiral and a sharp jab, she called out, “Duplivus!”

At first Harry felt nothing. Then a warm surge of magic slid over his skin, followed by a strange, dragging pull, like something invisible was peeling him apart. The pressure built until it snapped free with a wet, unsettling shlump.

Overly smooth hands clamped onto his shoulders. From the space between his shoulder blades, another body, his own, oozed forward, dragging itself into the open. The figure stood upright with an awkward lurch.

Its skin gleamed like damp clay, features blurred into soft hollows where eyes and mouth should be. Its hair lay in a jagged curve, more suggestion than strand. Even its clothes were a hazy impression, the color of fog. It breathed in a shallow, soundless mimicry, its head tilting toward him with no expression at all.

Hermione looked ill, her pale face taking on a sickly green hue. “That was…” 

“Gross. So gross.” Harry shuddered, taking a reflexive step back from the faceless almost-Harry that swayed gently in the breeze.

“Where did you even find this spell?” he asked, eyeing the duplicate.

“I was doing some extra reading for Transfiguration when I came across it,” Hermione replied.

“From what I read, it was popular in the fifteenth century among lower-class wizards, back when house-elves were harder to come by.”

“It should work as long as you don’t let Hagrid get too close.” Harry waved a hand in front of the double to see if it would react. “It’s… so creepy.”

“Well, that’s one of the reasons it fell out of use, along with the fact that you can’t get very far from it and it takes a lot out of the caster.” The exertion already showing, Hermione wiped her brow, bent down to her bag, pulled out a small vial of stamina potion, and downed it in one swallow.

“Have I ever told you you’re brilliant?” Harry asked, still awed by her skill.

“Yes, but not nearly enough,” Hermione said primly, pulling a thick, battered tome from her bag. “You need to get moving before Hagrid notices there are two of you.” She nodded toward the clone, which was now lumbering toward the paddock to the clear distress of the Hippogriffs. “This thing will handle the chores, and I’ve got some light reading to do.”

She settled onto the newly repaired fence and opened the book to the middle.

With that, Harry took off running, the scent of wet leaves and earth filling his senses as his feet pounded across the grounds. His heart thundered as the castle came into view. All he needed now was to meet Luna on the third floor by the statue of the humpbacked witch, and they would be off to Hogsmeade.

Harry slipped into the alcove where Severus had tried to warn him away and pressed his palm to the cool stone.

This was completely mad. What if he ended up hurt? What about his parents? They would be furious. Everyone who cared about him only wanted to keep him safe, and here he was sneaking out.

Harry swallowed, his throat constricting painfully. He wasn’t making it easy for any of them.

His fingers brushed the watch at his wrist. Venus and Mars still circled in their endless orbit, the braided loop and tiny golden door on the face gleaming faintly with promise.

Could it truly foretell the future? The thought sent a shiver down his spine. And if it did, if every symbol carried meaning, did that strange convergence point to Severus? To them?

His resolve hardened, and he murmured the incantation and the Disillusionment Charm slid cool across his skin as he scurried through the castle’s shadows.

He had to know. Whatever the risk, the answers waited in Hogsmeade, and the watch ticked softly against his wrist like a heartbeat urging him forward.

The trip through the castle was uneventful. With most students in town and the remaining staff busy preparing for the upcoming holiday, Harry reached the third-floor corridor without being seen. As he rounded the corner, he spotted Luna waiting by the statue of the humpbacked witch, her arms folded loosely behind her back.

Still hidden beneath the Disillusionment Charm, Harry slipped up beside her and gave her sleeve a gentle tug. Luna glanced over her shoulder, then edged closer to the witch’s hump. In a soft, low whisper, she spoke the password, Dissendium, and the hump opened, revealing a dark chute and slide that led to the secret tunnel.

With a quick laugh and a short running start, Luna slid into the opening. Harry followed close behind.

He shot down the slide, Luna’s giggles echoing around him until he emerged at the bottom.

“Let’s do that again,” the Ravenclaw declared, bouncing on her heels.

“Some other time, yeah?” He offered an apologetic smile. As he removed his Disillusionment charm. “Ron’s waiting, and it takes about an hour to walk there.”

Luna sighed with theatrical flair, casting a long, wistful glance back at the dark chute as if it might disappear before she could return. “All right, next time then,” she said at last, her voice tinged with reluctance.

She fell into step beside Harry, and together they started the slow, echoing trek through the cool, earthy tunnel toward the Honeydukes cellar, their footsteps muffled by the damp stone floor and the faint scent of chocolate growing stronger with every step.

“Harry? Luna? That you?” Ron’s voice echoed through the dim tunnel.

“Yeah, it’s us!” Harry called back, running the last few feet to where Ron waited just inside the passage to the Honeydukes cellar. “Do you have them?”

“Got ’em right here.” Ron held up a small, colorful purple-and-red package stamped with the giant Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes logo. Beneath it, a tagline flashed in a riot of fonts and colors: Kaleido-Capsule: Why settle for one look when you can try them all before tea?

“Brilliant!” Harry grabbed the box and plucked out a rainbow, mirror-shaped capsule. “Anything we should watch out for with these?”

“Well, they’re new and last about an hour before wearing off. Fred and George are pretty proud of them, so you know there are probably some wacky looks in there. I think George said one of his testers turned into a boil.”

“What do you mean, a boil?” Luna asked quietly, eyeing the colorful box warily.

“Like, no arms, no legs, just a giant, throbbing boil until it wore off.”

“Ron, stop scaring her,” Harry scolded as he popped the rainbow capsule into his mouth. It began to fizz immediately, crackling up his tongue and into his nose.

Fortunately, the process was nothing like taking Polyjuice. Instead of the painful melting, a pleasant tickling sensation ran up his spine. His hair spilled over his shoulders in silky waves, shifting from black to deep green. His face prickled as an equally green beard curled to meet the length of his hair. The fizzing surged through his hands as they grew larger and hairier, his shoulders broadening until his jumper strained at the seams. Finally, he felt his nose flatten.

“Blimey!” Ron howled with laughter. “You look like a mini green Hagrid!”

“Me next!” Luna cheered, popping her Kaleido-Capsule into her mouth.

Harry watched in fascination as she transformed before his eyes. Her long, silvery-blonde hair shortened into a sharp crew cut patterned with dark stars against the light peach fuzz. Her round face grew chiseled and angular, her silvery eyes deepening to violet. Even her eyebrows mirrored the starry pattern on her scalp.

“How do I look?” she asked, giving them a quick spin.

“Like a completely different person. Ron, these are genius! You’re next!”

Ron excitedly took his capsule.

For a heartbeat nothing happened, then a faint shimmer flickered over him and faded. His freckles dulled, his hair settled into a lifeless brown, and even his robes seemed to lose its color. If beige were a person, it would look exactly like Ron.

Harry blinked. “That’s… it?”

Ron glanced down at himself, crestfallen. “Brilliant,” he muttered. “I’ve turned into wallpaper.”

“Nonsense, you look very… neutral. Wallpaper is much more colorful,” Luna offered, her tone naively helpful.

Ron shot Harry a disgruntled look, but Harry could only laugh at the innocent remark.

“All right, we’ve got one hour before we need another capsule. Hopefully this doesn’t take too long.” Harry pushed his glasses back up onto his newly flattened nose.

“I’ve got you, mate.” Ron tapped the frame of Harry’s glasses, adjusting them to fit the altered bridge and squaring them out. “Can’t have anyone recognizing you because you’re wearing those dorky glasses, now can we?”

The three slipped out of the cellar and past the shop clerk. Just as the front door came into view, Ron snagged Harry by the beard and tugged him down the licorice aisle while Luna disappeared through the door.

“What gives?” Harry hissed, rubbing his chin where Ron had yanked out a few hairs. “That hurt.”

Ron pressed a finger to his lips and peered over the top of the aisle shelf. Curious, Harry followed his gaze, and his heart nearly stopped.

Three very familiar men were browsing the fudge display.

“Do you really think Harry is going to sneak into Hogsmeade?” Pettigrew asked, sniffing wetly.

“Hard to say. Hopefully he has enough sense not to come,” Remus answered with a small frown as he shifted stacks of fudge. “I can’t find the raspberry. Sirius, do you see it? Dora’s been talking about it for days.”

“Hmm, can’t disappoint the pregnant lady, she might be even scarier than you, Moony, when she’s hungry.” Sirius began helping Remus sort through the rows of sweets. “As for Harry, if I know my godson, and I do, he’s definitely coming. That’s why James has us watching the shop while he and Lily stake out the front gate.”

This was not good. Avoiding Snape, who seemed almost magnetically drawn to him, was already difficult enough, and now his parents and the rest of the Marauders were on the lookout too.

“You’re so lucky, Remus,” Peter said, his tone tinged with jealousy as his eyes lingered on Lavender, who had just come in with the Patil twins. “You have such a beautiful young witch and a child on the way.”

“Er…” Lupin shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting toward the group of girls. “I’m sure there’s someone out there for you. And—well—I don’t know about young. That was… that was a bit of an issue for us at first.”

An awkward pause settled between the men.

“Anyway, how’s your mysterious new consulting job going?” Sirius asked, breaking the silence.

“Not well,” Pettigrew sniffled again, and Harry cringed in disgust. “I bungled getting the asset out of the facility. Luckily my employer is willing to give me a second chance.”

“That’s good…”

As quickly and quietly as they could, Harry and Ron slipped through the licorice aisle and out the front door into the crisp air.

Hogsmeade gleamed like a lantern-lit jewel beneath the dark October sky. Jack-o’-lanterns floated over shop doorways, their carved faces grinning through curls of mist that drifted in from the Highlands. 

Clusters of Hogwarts students hurried between stalls and storefronts, their breaths puffing white in the chill as they laughed and jostled one another. Bursts of color flashed everywhere as students sported peacock feathers for hair or enormous feet and hands, the telltale sparkle of Kaleido-Capsules setting off shrieks of delight.

“I may have handed out a few samples on the way here,” Ron said with a grin as a fifth-year Hufflepuff morphed into something resembling a goblin.

Outside the shop, Luna paced, twisting the end of her robe sleeve.

“There you are!” she exclaimed, scurrying over. “What happened? I turned around and you were gone.”

“We ran into my dad’s friends,” Harry grumbled. “Seems like my reputation with them has backfired a bit.”

Ron snorted.

“Come on, follow me.” Luna beckoned the Gryffindors along.

The trio threaded their way through the bustling Hogsmeade streets, heading north up the main road. Between the swirl of transformed students and the village’s festive glow, Harry’s shoulders loosened, and he began to relax.

They passed Madam Puddifoot’s, the little patio tables crowded with happy couples gossiping over tea beside an outdoor fire. Harry slowed, watching a wizard reach across the table to clasp his partner’s hand in a firm, loving squeeze.

Ron stopped beside him, a faint frown coloring his otherwise beige face. “I wish Hermione were here.”

Harry’s chest tightened. Would he and Severus ever have that? Would they ever sit openly together and talk like any other pair? A lump settled in his throat. No, he couldn’t picture the man being so publicly tender.

You will find no warmth here. No coddling. No sweetness.

He could almost hear that deep voice now.

“Mr. Fawley, what did you just take? Why on earth do you look like that?”

The phantom brush of Severus’s thumb seemed to circle his hip, and a low fire flickered to life in his stomach. It wasn’t obvious sweetness, but it was there.

“Explain.” The commanding, cold word sliced through Harry’s reverie, and he jumped at the jolt of recognition.

Severus stood across the alley, a shopping bag in one hand and the collar of a Kaleido-Capsuled Ravenclaw in the other. The boy’s skin was pin-stripped and his hair blazed bright pink as he gestured wildly, trying to explain himself.

Snape froze. His eyes widened as he released the boy and turned in a full circle, finally registering the parade of multicolored students. His gaze skimmed over Harry, Ron, and Luna, scorching them in passing before settling on a group of teenagers nearby.

“You there! Stop right where you are!” he barked, sweeping across the street, black robes billowing. He seized the face of the most Harry-like boy in the group and inspected it sharply, then released him with a curt shake of the head.

Ron tugged him after Luna, and the three of them quickened their pace to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the irate professor.

“Bloody hell!” Ron panted when they finally stopped before their destination, Sybill’s Symbols. “What is his deal? Is he completely obsessed with you?”

Possibly.

Harry just shrugged helplessly. “Who knows? Let’s get inside.”

The bell above the door gave a soft, tinkling chime as Harry, Luna, and Ron stepped inside the shop. Warm, fragrant air wrapped around them, heavy with sandalwood and something faintly metallic. Shelves curved along the walls, crowded with crystal spheres, skulls, rune-etched candles, and jars of shimmering powders that glowed in the dim lavender light. Silk drapes muffled the sounds of Hogsmeade outside while strings of tiny bronze charms swayed gently in the draft from the door. 

Luna moved first, her still-violet eyes alight as if she’d wandered into a dream. Ron hesitated, eyeing a set of self-shuffling tarot cards while Harry felt the quiet hum of magic settle over his skin as though the shop itself were watching.

“Welcome. I have been waiting for you.” An ethereal voice that could rival Luna’s wrapped around Harry, beckoning him farther inside.

“You have?” Harry asked, excitement tightening his grip as he stepped toward the oversized, spectacled witch. Her dirty-blonde hair fanned around her face in a wild, frizzed halo. She was draped in flowing red-and-green robes. Crystals and tiny bones dangled from her ears and throat, chiming softly as she moved.

“Yes, I foresaw it in my tea this morning. Come closer. what can I do for you?”

Trelawney sat on a stack of opulent cushions at the front of the shop behind a low round table, a neat row of delicate china teacups at her elbow, and a steaming silver teapot sending curls of scented vapor into the air. The soft clink of porcelain carried across the room as she lifted one slender hand and beckoned them closer.

“Hello, Sybil,” Luna said happily, gliding forward. “These are my friends, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. We came because we have some questions about Harry’s watch that we are hoping you can answer.”

“Luna Lovegood,” she breathed, her misty eyes brightening as she recognized the girl’s voice behind the star-patterned hair and newly chiseled features. “My luminous moon child, you look positively astrological.”

Trelawney’s gaze shifted to Harry. “And which one of you is Harry, the green mountain man or the sack of flour?” she asked, her eyes sharpening with sudden interest. 

Harry lifted his hand, slow and uncertain. Heat crawled up his neck and across his cheeks as he grew increasingly aware of his goofy appearance. 

She gestured gracefully to the empty chairs around the table. “Sit, all of you. Tea will open the inner eye.”

She poured with a practiced flourish, the fragrant brew filling the cups in a swirl of steam.

“Drink first, then questions” she urged, pressing the warm porcelain into their hands. 

Harry, Ron, and Luna sipped the bitter tea in silence. Each time Harry tried to ask about the watch, Trelawney simply raised a hand and told him to drink.

He glanced at Luna for help, but she only smiled back, eyes bright with excitement.

Frustrated by the delay, Harry tipped the cup and swallowed the hot liquid in one go, the tea burning down his throat. “There! I’m done.” He thrust the cup toward her.

“Very good. Now, give it here.” Trelawney’s bangles rattled as she lifted the cup to the dim light.

“Ohhh… remarkable.” Her voice sank to a hush. “Here—a great arch, tall as a gateway, and winding through it… a serpent.” She traced the pattern with a jeweled finger. “Or perhaps a skull.” Handing the cup back, she added softly, “It speaks of passage beyond the mortal veil. The Grim itself, hidden in another form.”

A cold prickle crept up the back of Harry’s neck, but he said nothing.

With a rustle of scarves, Trelawney seized Ron’s cup next. “And for you, young Weasley…” She peered inside and gasped with delight. “How singular. A great wing beneath a waxing moon,” she whispered. “The sky will favor you, if you dare.”

Ron blinked. “Er… what’s that supposed to mean?”

But the seer was already drifting toward Luna, who merely shook her head and held up her still–half-full teacup. Trelawney sighed in mild disappointment and settled back onto her cushion.

“Now tell me, Mr. Potter, what is so intriguing about this timepiece that you have to seek out a seer and not a watchmaker?”

Harry hesitated, then explained that the watch had been a coming-of-age gift, passed down through his family for generations. At first it behaved like an ordinary watch, keeping the hour and chiming to remind him when he was running late, but as it attuned itself to his magic, it began to change. Random symbols and planets would shimmer across the glass, appearing and vanishing. Then, about a month ago, it abruptly fell silent, the glass face cracking soon after it foretold an attack on him.

“Fascinating,” Trelawney murmured, eyes glittering behind her oversized spectacles. “May I?”

Harry unfastened the watch and placed it on her outstretched palm. She tilted it toward the lamplight, the runes on its face catching the glow. After a moment she leaned closer. “Is this the last prediction before you were attacked?” She asked confusion in her tone.

“Uh, no,” he said, blushing. “That prediction happened a little later. It hasn’t changed since.”

Ron leaned forward to try to capture a glimpse, but Trelawney pulled it just out of sight.

“Very fascinating,” she murmured. “I have heard of watches like this. Very few are real, but you are a Potter, I suppose.” She trailed off. “Do you know what this prediction means?”

“I think so.” He looked away, the heat in his face growing hotter by the second. “I was hoping you could confirm it and help me fix the watch. It’s an heirloom, and I think it could, you know, help me avoid whoever is after me.”

The seer gave Harry a long, serious look, then turned toward the curtain behind her and whispered something he couldn’t quite catch.

The fabric rustled, and a short, balding man with small brown eyes emerged, wiping his greasy hands on a rag.

“Darling, we need your assistance with this,” Trelawney said. “It doesn’t appear to be tuned to the boy properly.”

The man grunted, took the watch, and examined it before glancing at Harry with raised brows. “Doesn’t look like a boy to me,” he muttered.

“Oh, they’re just playing around,” Trelawney replied smoothly. “He’s a Hogwarts student, one of Luna’s friends.”

The man’s eyebrows climbed even higher as he took in Luna’s appearance. “Fifteen galleons.”

“Fifteen galleons? That’s robbery!” Ron burst out, eyes wide.

The balding man jumped at the sound. “Merlin, there’s another one,” he said, his beady gaze settling on Harry. “Fifteen galleons for this, Sybill’s help, and the book she asked me to fetch. I should charge more for the book, but you’re Luna’s friend.”

Harry blinked, uncertain, until Luna leaned close and whispered, “It’s fine. That’s Gregory Higglebottom, Trelawney’s ex-husband. Or current husband. Or maybe her boyfriend, something like that.”

Gregory smiled faintly, unbothered by the introduction. “You can call me Greg, or Mr. Higglebottom— it would be nice if someone did.” He shot Trelawney a look, earning an exasperated roll of her eyes.

Reassured by Luna’s calm, Harry reached into his robes and drew out his coin purse. “Fifteen galleons, and not a sickle more,” he said, dropping the gold coins into the man’s outstretched hand, to a pained squeak from Ron.

“Very good.” The man drew a long cedar wand, its polished surface catching the lamplight, and held Harry’s watch beneath it. “Now place your hand over mine.”

Harry hesitated, then laid his palm across Higglebottom’s and the cool metal of the watch. The man began a low, steady incantation, circling his wand over their joined hands.

A golden light seeped between Harry’s fingers as the watch warmed, heat building until the metal almost burned. Just as Harry was about to pull away, Higglebottom ceased his chant and stepped back.

Harry blinked down at the timepiece in his palm, its glass face smooth and whole once more, and the crack completely gone.

“You fixed it.” He gasped. “It looks as good as new!”

Higglebottom preened under the praise. “Well, of course. My Sybill may be the face and Sight of this operation, but I’m the one who gets things done.”

“Yes, yes, very impressive, darling. Now, why don’t you and these two go fetch the book? I need to speak with Harry alone.”

Trelawney flicked her wand in a sharp little nudge toward Ron, shooing him and Luna toward the back.

Once they were out of sight, her expression shifted; it was no longer dreamy but intent.

“Now, Harry dear.” She took his hands in hers, cupping the watch. Her voice dropped to a low, steady murmur. “This watch is very, very special. I suspect the Potters have used it for generations to find fame, fortune, and love, and, in a sense, yes, it can predict the future.”

A faint shiver ran down Harry’s spine as her tone grew more serious.

“But the future is never so simple. A piece like this maps the turns of a life but never the whole road. Too many forks. Only prophecy woven by fate itself is set in stone.” She paused, letting the words sink in. “And this—” she tapped the glass “—is as close to a true prophecy as I have ever seen.”

She guided his gaze to a rune shaped like a door. “Your heart already knows them, my dear. They stand half in shadow, guarding the threshold as if they were the door itself. Their gaze is the storm that always finds you, and, somehow, the harbor after.”

Her finger slid to Mars, where a triangular rune burned a deep red. “This is no gentle drift. It is a fire that startles and burns with words too sharp and silences that ache, but it is also the hand that will never let you fall.”

One by one, she traced the numbers on the watch face. “Twice you will part and call it wisdom. On the third return, you will both speak plainly and choose. From that moment, the blaze burns brighter. They are rival and refuge, wound and remedy, and you are the only one they allow into their darkness.”

Her hands trembled as she pressed the watch back into his palm. “This is not a passing flare. This… is the star you will steer by.”

Harry accepted it with fingers that refused to stay steady. The repaired glass caught the lamplight as he slid the band over his wrist, the metal almost too warm against his skin. A pulse hammered at the base of his throat, his breath catching with the urge to run, and the pull toward Severus was so strong he could almost feel the man’s mouth against his. The thought left him dizzy, as though the room itself tilted.

“Found it!” Higglebottom called, striding from the back with Luna and Ron in tow, a thick purple tome raised in triumph. “The Codax of the Universe, this should help you decipher that tricky little thing.”

Harry thanked him and tucked the book under one arm. The trio turned to leave, eager to reach Honeydukes before Hagrid finally noticed his absence.

“Harry, before you go,” Trelawney called, lifting his teacup in a flutter of bangles. “The Grim hangs over your head.”

Her words were swallowed by the bright chime of the door as they stepped outside, the warning already forgotten in the cold afternoon air.

“Sheesh, what a loony. Can you believe what she was spouting? And fifteen galleons for that?” Ron laughed, earning a sharp glare from Luna. “At least the watch is fixed, eh?”

“Yeah—oh!” A surge of magic rippled through Harry as his green beard and hair shrank back into him. “The hour’s up! Ron, give me another—”

“I don’t think so, Potter.”

Chapter Text

Severus stood alone in the shop, a dark silhouette against the cool October light. His hand hovered over the elf-made wines, drifting from bottle to bottle in quiet indecision.

Too dry.
Too sweet.
Bad year.

In his thirty-seven years, he had endured death, war, and the brutal slog of everyday irrelevance once his usefulness had ended.

His hand stilled over a dark-green bottle. He plucked it from the shelf and examined it with a critical eye.

“Did you find everything you were looking for?” the clerk asked, taking the offered bottle. “We’ve got a sale on pumpkin cider, or perhaps some chocolate to go with that wine? It pairs well with anything dark.”

But those long, solitary years of pain had never prepared him for this.

“What do you recommend?” Severus drew out his purse, his long fingers combing through it to chase the coins within.

Because clearly, he had lost his mind.

“Well, that depends. Is this for you or someone else?” The clerk pulled several boxes of chocolates from behind the counter. “You don’t strike me as a sweets person.”

He grimaced at the neat rows of truffles and fudge.

Complete madness was the only explanation.

 Why should he care whether Harry preferred bitter or sweet, or that he looked so disappointed when Severus kissed him, only to steal his cloak before sending him out?

“I prefer dark,” he said at last, “but I’ll be sharing with someone who has a sweeter tooth.”

“Ah, thought so.” The clerk whisked the box of white chocolate off the counter and tucked it beneath. “Well, what do they like?”

Severus paused. What did he like? He sifted through memories of the Great Hall, hundreds of meals and desserts, until one rose to the surface.

“Treacle tarts.”

“I’ve got just the thing.” With a swish of his wand, the clerk sent the remaining boxes floating back under the counter until only a single box of dark salted caramel remained. “Best of both worlds,” he said, setting the chocolate beside the wine. “Bitter and sweet. Pairs perfectly with the wine.”

Severus inclined his head in thanks, gripping the bag as he turned for the door. He needed to return before the students realized he was gone.

“Good luck!” the clerk called after him. “I’m sure your partner will love it. Mystic Wine and Spirits hopes to see you again!”

He decided, quite firmly, that he would not be revisiting Mystic Wine and Spirits.

Partner? How presumptuous.

He stepped out onto the street, the hush of the shop already dissolving beneath the clamor of students.

A cluster of fourth-year Ravenclaws cut in front of him, slowing his return to the main square. The kids howled with laughter as they passed a handful of sweets back and forth.

He scowled when the group stopped abruptly, blocking his path. He was about to sweep them aside when their appearances began to change.

The two girls’ hair grew rapidly, spilling over their shoulders and down their backs. One sprouted horns and a sparse mustache. The third and nearest boy, Douglas Fawley, developed a sharp pin-striped pattern across his skin while his hair shifted to a noxious shade of pink.

“Mr. Fawley, what did you just take?” His free hand shot out, gripping the boy’s collar before he could take off with the others. “Why on earth do you look like that?”

Fawley stiffened in his grasp, staring up through a pair of unsettling horizontal pupils.

“Explain,” Severus ordered, a chill settling over him. 

This had the Weasley twins written all over it.

Worse still, it reeked of Potter.

The boy squirmed. “Uh—it’s just a laugh, sir…” He jerked against the hold, eyes darting. “They’re, um, Kaleido-Capsules—everybody’s got one!”

Severus’s grip tightened on the boy’s collar, his voice dipping dangerously. “Well, not everyone, seeing as how I don’t have one.”

“Ow! Hey—that hurts! Let go!” Fawley twisted in his grip once more. “Weasley gave them out on the way here. He said they were new!”

Fawley froze at the look in his eyes.

Weasley? Kaleido-Capsules? A hundred or more transformed students?

Severus released him and turned in a circle, horror dawning as he finally took in the parade of multicolored youths.

Suddenly, a familiar trace of magic brushed his senses—a thin golden pulse that slipped through the throng before disappearing.

His gaze snapped across the crowded street, raking over the line of unrecognizable students as he tried to track the source. The motley blur of colors and shapes ran together as his eyes struggled to fix on a single target.

At last, he focused on a group of teenagers loitering before Madam Puddifoots.

“You there! Stop right where you are!” he barked, sweeping across the street, black robes billowing. He seized the chin of the most Harry-like boy in the group and tilted it left, then right, before releasing him with a curt shake of his head.

“Professor Snape?” Draco Malfoy’s voice spilled from the not Harry's lips.

He frowned when he caught sight of the Slytherin robe Draco wore, then let his eyes sweep over the rest of the group.

Slytherin. Slytherin. Slytherin.

He reached out with his own magic, searching for that fleeting thread of gold.

Damn.

“Mr. Malfoy, you look ridiculous.”

“Really?” a ghoulish-looking boy with Nott’s voice drawled. “He’s the most normal-looking one of us. He almost looks like Potter.”

Severus’s grip tightened as a faint frown creased Draco’s face.

“Please don’t tell me I’ve got his dreadful hair.” 

Nott smirked, a hint of pleasure sparking in his oddly tinted eyes. “Oh, come on, his hair isn’t that dreadful.”

Severus’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking painfully. He would deal with him later. Right now, he had more pressing concerns. Harry was around here somewhere. He could feel it.

With one last glance, he swept past the group.

A hard knot of fury, fed by panic, coiled beneath his ribs as he strode toward the main square, his boots pounding against the cobblestone.

He was going to kill him. How dare he? How dare that reckless, infuriating Gryffindor ignore him and treat Death Eaters like they weren’t a threat, like they wouldn’t gladly finish what the Dark Lord began.

It was as if Severus’s words meant nothing to him.

Blood pounded in his ears as he pressed on, his eyes raking the crowd. A Hufflepuff girl with a pair of curling horns earned a sharp, “Name.”

“Abbot, sir?”

“Move along.”

He had been a fool to leave Potter alone, to think of him as anything other than young, brash, and selfish.

An image struck him, a motionless body sprawled in a pool of blood, dull green eyes staring sightlessly through cracked glasses.

A rising thrum of alarm coursed through his veins as the street around him writhed, every student masked in a nightmarish haze. He shoved past a cluster of laughing teenagers, demanding names, house, purpose. But no Potter. No sign of that fleeting golden thread he had sensed before.

When he found him, and he would, Severus would see to it that the boy never slipped away again. He would lock him in his chambers, chain him to his side if he had to. Merlin, listen to yourself, he chastised inwardly, even as panic clawed at his ribs.

He continued on until the press of bodies thinned and the riot of color and sound faded to a distant hum. Laughter gave way to the clatter of shop signs in the breeze. Severus drew a sharp breath, forcing the storm behind his mask as he marched into the town square, crushing crisp orange-brown leaves with every step.

“Severus?” a familiar voice cut cleanly through the din.

“That is you!”

Like a vision, Lily Potter appeared by the great tree at the square’s heart, her braid flashing copper in the autumn light. Shopping bags swung at her side as she hurried over.

“Lily?” his heart gave a jolt of panic. What in Merlin’s name was she doing here?

He scanned the crowd, half-expecting to see James.

“Relax,” she said. “James is still at the gate, keeping lookout for Harry. I slipped out to shop.”

His grip on his bag slackened and he shifted the heavy wine to his other hand. “Small mercies.”

She gave an awkward little laugh, and an uneasy silence settled between them.

“It’s certainly lively today,” Lily remarked as a rainbow-colored Gryffindor darted past.

“An abysmal new Weasley contraption,” he said dryly. “You can imagine how it’s consumed my day.”

A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Oh, I can only imagine. The hardships of a professor.”

Another silence fell between the two.

He didn't have time for this; he needed to find Potter, especially now that his parents were here. If they caught him, then James just might get that Auror detail.

He couldn't allow that.

“Well, I should be getting back,” Severus said when an all-pink Hufflepuff barreled into him, sending his bag and its contents skidding across the square.

“Ms. Davis,” he snarled, scrambling after the wine. “Detention! Monday evening. Prepare to scrub cauldrons.” He inspected the bottle, relieved to find it whole.

“Chocolates and wine?”

He froze. Lily held the box of dark, salted caramel chocolates, her green eyes sparking in interest. “Hot date?”

His mind flashed to identical eyes and to the memory of Harry’s weight in his lap as his hand wandered beneath his waistband.

Severus’s stomach gave a painful twist and he raised his Occlumency barriers so fast and so fiercely that he knew she must have seen it.

“You do!” she gasped, clutching Harry’s chocolates to her chest. “Who is it? Do I know her? How did you meet?” She fired off questions in quick succession.

 “Really, it can’t be easy, being trapped in Hogwarts most of the year. I’ve always wondered.”

“He.” Severus’s voice cut through her rambling.

For a split second, Lily only stared at him, the square’s noise fading to a hush.

Then her jaw dropped. “He? As in… man? Male?”

“Yes.” He had no idea why he’d given her that much. It would have been safer to let her believe he was wining and dining some faceless witch.

Maybe it was because it was Lily. 

And despite everything, she was still the girl who once knelt with him beside the riverbank in Cokesworth, the first to show him that the world could be more than fists and shouting.

“I…I had no idea. I always thought…” she trailed off, her eyes downcast. 

“I never told you or anyone while I was at Hogwarts.” His voice faded. “With my father… well, you understand.”

Lily’s gaze softened, the playful spark dimming. “I remember how you used to come to my house just to escape,” she said quietly. “Mum would send us out to the garden and we’d stay until the streetlamps came on. You never wanted to go home.”

She shifted her shopping bags, a rueful smile flickering. “You know, I keep wondering if Harry feels that way too, like he needs an escape.” she paused before continuing. “But he’s always come back. No matter what mess he found, that’s what matters, right?”

Severus stilled, a dry bitterness rising in his throat. Did she honestly believe that? That each narrow escape left no mark? Or was it that she just didn’t bother to trace them?

“He’s so strong, just like James, but he never wants to talk.”

Severus carefully took the box of chocolates from her hand. “Maybe no one asked in the right way,” he said, voice low.

Her head snapped up. “How am I supposed to know when he won’t tell us?” A flash of frustration crossed her face. “Honestly, he’s just like you. He keeps everything bottled up until he explodes.”

He arched a brow but said nothing.

She caught herself, color rising in her cheeks. “Sorry. That was inappropriate... It’s just… I keep waiting for him to come to us when he’s ready, but he never does. And then he shouts that we only want to be parents when it’s convenient.” She shook her head, exasperated.

“He loves you,” Severus said at last. He had felt it inside Potter’s mind: the fear of rejection, the aching need for approval that only grows from love.

Her shoulders softened. “I hope so.” She gave a small, pained smile. Look at me. I came over here because I wanted to apologize for the way we all acted in Dumbledore's office.” She sniffled. And now I’m crying in the middle of the square, forcing you to listen to me complain.”

“It certainly wasn't the Potter's finest hour.”

“No,” she said, choking back a laugh. “It wasn’t. But thank you. You’ve clearly made a real impact on him. It’s a relief knowing you’re watching over him.”

He shifted, uncomfortable. If she only knew the truth about him and Harry, she would never be thanking him.

“Hopefully, he’s figured out the watch so you can return to your life. I wish James weren’t so set on this ridiculous rite of passage that ‘all Potter men must take to earn its respect.’ It would make things so much easier.”

“The watch?”

THE WATCH!

How could he have missed it? Severus knew exactly where Potter had wandered.

“Harry hasn’t told you? I swear, their stubbornness will drive me mad. That thing’s predictions saved us during the war more times than I can count. It’s brilliant—you should ask him to—”

“Lily.” He cut her off, impatience finally winning out. “As thrilling as it has been to speak with you without James hovering, I must go. The students have been left unattended for too long.”

The fleeting warmth of their conversation collapsed beneath the weight of urgency. “I’m sure you understand.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Sorry for keeping you.”

He inclined his head in the barest of farewells and turned on his heel as he strode away.

“Severus?” she called after him, the girl from Cokeworth shining through. “I hope we can talk more soon!”

But Severus was already halfway across the square, beelining through the chaos. The golden thread stirred again at the edge of his senses, pulling stronger with every step as he closed in on his destination, Sybill’s Symbols.

The whimsical chime of the store bell rang through the air as three multicolored students exited the shop.

“Sheesh, what a loony. Can you believe what she was spouting? And fifteen galleons for that?” An exceedingly dull-looking boy remarked in Ron’s voice.

A sharp-featured girl, patterned in stars with a close-cropped haircut, shot him a glare. Hermione?

“At least the watch is fixed, eh?”

At last, a broad green man emerged from the shop, his mane of hair and beard merging into one, his broad shoulders stretching his jumper tight across his chest.

“Yeah—oh!” Potter’s voice spilled out as the beard shrank. “The hour’s up! Ron, give me another—”

“I don’t think so, Potter.” 

Severus’s boots pounded the cobblestones as he bore down on them, eyes burning with a fury that froze the troublemakers in place.

“You three,” he hissed, “have precisely three seconds to explain yourselves before I decide whether expulsion or a month, no, a year of detentions will suffice.”

He stopped, his sharp gaze fixed on Harry when the Gryffindor shifted as if to run. “Move. Not. An. Inch.”

Harry looked up at him with wide eyes as the ridiculous green leached from his hair. “Professor Snape, I can explain.”

“Oh, can you? Please—regale me with whatever asinine excuse you’ve concocted in that chronically empty head of yours,” Severus spat, closing the distance until he loomed over Potter, forcing the boy to step back.

“I know I’m not supposed to be here, but I have a good reason.” Harry’s flat nose reshaped itself as he pushed his glasses back into place.

With that, the distant laughter drained away until only his own harsh breathing remained. Severus’s eyes narrowed as he locked on to Potter.

“A good reason,” he repeated, voice softened enough that the three stooges had to lean in to hear it. “Do enlighten me.”

He took a single, deliberate step forward. Harry stayed silent, gaze fixed on the ground, shoulders dipping.

“No answer, hmm?” He stepped forward again, driving Potter back another step. “It's because there is no good reason for you to be here!” Severus roared, the flash of Harry’s crumpled body seared his mind as his hand shot out to seize the boy’s wrist and yank him forward.

Harry’s glasses flew from his face and shattered on the cobblestones.

“Oi! Let him go!” Weasley bellowed, surging forward to wedge himself between them. “Let him explain! There is a good reason!” he pushed until they were nearly nose to nose.

Severus tilted his head just enough to sneer up at the redhead. “I will get to you next, Mr. Weasley. This is between Potter and me.”

Weasley faltered, taking a hesitant step back as the girl Severus now recognized as Miss Lovegood knelt beside Harry, helping him repair his glasses.

“Luna, Ron, please.” Potter gasped, his hand trembling as he pushed his glasses back onto his face. “Give us a minute.”

Severus frowned, a finger twitching at his side while the echo of his harsh, almost unhinged voice rang in his ears.

…What am I doing… Complete madness.

“I am not leaving you here with—”

“I said, give us a minute!” Harry shouted back at Ron as he shot to his feet, still shaking. “He’s right. This doesn’t concern you. Take Luna and go over by those trees or something!”

Weasley looked stricken before an equal flush of red climbed his freckled face. “Fine! Come on, Luna.” He gripped the girl by the arm and dragged her past the shop to a cluster of trees just out of earshot, crossing his arms and fixing his blue eyes on the pair.

“Severus.”

“Don’t ‘Severus’ me,” he raged. “Tell me, do you court death, or are you simply dim-witted?”

“I know, I’m sorry. Please, just listen,” Harry begged, closing the distance between them.

“Why should I?” Severus snapped, taking a step back. “You don’t listen to me.” His words tumbled out faster and sharper, venom lacing every syllable until Potter flinched at each one. “You do what you want whenever you want. You want to meet in my chambers, and I say no, too bad, that’s not what Harry Potter wants. You want to go to Hogsmeade despite being the target of extremely dangerous men, to hell with the consequences, you do it anyway.”

Sweat beaded on his brow as he panted for breath. “It’s as if everything is beneath your notice. As if I’m beneath your notice.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Neither of them spoke— Harry’s eyes were wet, his skin pale, and he trembled like a leaf.

Potter raked a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “Damn it, that’s not true. None of that is true. Just let me talk, let me explain.”

A numbness crept over Severus, Harry’s words muffled beneath the ringing in his ears. He could still feel Weasley’s gaze from the grove, watching, waiting for him to lash out again.

“Fine. You have one chance. Convince me.” His head swam, bile burning at the back of his throat as the scent of chocolate and caramel drifted up from his bag. “Tell me why I shouldn’t end this right now.” 

Harry lurched forward before Severus could step back, both hands clutching his sleeve like a lifeline.

“Please, don’t leave,” he said, voice breaking. “I don’t think you’re beneath me. You’re all I think about anymore.”

His breath came fast, his words wet with desperation. “The watch… It’s why I came. It was broken, and I had to know what it meant. I needed to fix it so I could be sure. I thought maybe it was about us. I hoped it was. I couldn’t rest until I proved it.”

That damn watch again, the one that supposedly saved the Potters during the war? What had Lily said? That he had to earn its respect or some such drivel to use it? 

Potter swallowed, his green eyes shining with fear. “I’ve been pig-headed, selfish, unbelievably stupid. I’m not worth the dirt on your boots, I know that. But even if you end this, whatever this is, I won’t stop. I can’t. Not when I know the truth now. Not when it’s you.”

Severus’s heart pounded as Harry’s fingers tightened on his sleeve, tugging with quiet urgency. “You can send me away. You can hate me for coming here. But I’ll keep finding my way back.”

He could almost feel the frantic beat of Harry’s heart, the faint scent of cinnamon stirring memories of the maple tree and of how right Harry’s body felt pressed against his own. The desire to pull him nearer, to lose himself in that warmth until nothing remained but a single shared breath, threatened to overwhelm him.

A cool breeze swept through the square, carrying dead leaves and Severus’s hair with it.

“Harry.” 

“Severus, I’m so sorry.” Potter’s voice cracked, the apology hanging between them.

Severus studied him in the hush that followed. There was no polish to the confession, only clumsy words, as if Potter had torn them straight from his chest before he could think.

“I think this is far too public a place to continue this discussion,” he muttered, pulling Harry slightly closer. “Perhaps this is better suited to my chambers?”

Harry froze, head snapping up, a spark of hope flickering beneath his wide eyes. “Yes—let’s go. There’s so much… we just need to talk.” He glanced back at a still-suspicious Weasley and a decidedly bored Lovegood. “What are we going to do about them?”

“Leave that to me, Potter.” A smug smirk tugged at the corners of Severus’s mouth. “You two!” he barked. “Over here. Now!”

Weasley and Lovegood scrambled from their positions, hurrying over as fast as their feet would carry them. Severus looked the three of them over critically until even Harry shifted uneasily.

“All three of you are returning to the castle with me immediately. A hundred points will be taken from each of you for this stunt. Hogsmeade privileges are revoked for all four—”

Weasley opened his mouth to protest.

“Yes, I mean Granger too,” Severus cut in smoothly. “I’m sure she had a hand in this. These Kaleido-Capsules will be destroyed, and the Headmaster will assign a fitting detention for as long as he sees fit.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “I hope it was worth it.”

“I’m not sure anymore,” Lovegood said, her dreamy voice trailing off when she realized he hadn’t actually asked her a question.

He drew a deep breath, raised his wand, and closed his eyes. A single memory came to him, one he had visited a hundred times before. 

Lily sat in the spring-green grass by the river, sunlight gilding her hair. She looked up, and then she was gone. The scene shifted to a gray, dreary day. Harry stood before him instead, green eyes bright, voice trembling and low. ‘You are so brave, so strong despite everything… I see you.’ 

He opened his eyes and cast, “Expecto Patronum!” A silver fox burst forth, circling the group and lingering near Harry with a pulse of delight before returning to Severus.

“Minerva, there has been a breach of Hogsmeade protocol. I have caught Potter, Weasley, and Lovegood and am escorting them back to the castle for disciplinary action from Dumbledore.”

With a flourish, the Patronus leapt away in a trail of luminous brilliance, carrying his message to Professor McGonagall.

Turning back to the group, he fixed Weasley with a hard stare. “You have your Apparition license?”

Weasley straightened, startled. “Y-yes, sir.”

“Good.” Severus shrank his bag and tucked it in his pocket.

The front gates would be crawling with visitors—specifically the Potters—and Severus had no intention of causing a scene.

“I’d rather the rest of the student body not see you three as martyrs. We’ll Apparate just outside the boundaries.” Severus turned to Harry and Lovegood. “Neither of you is licensed, I won’t risk a splinching, so you’ll come with me.”

The pair exchanged an uneasy glance before he stepped forward and gripped them both securely.

Severus beckoned Weasley to come closer and lowered his voice to a precise command. “You know the boundaries. “Meet me just outside the anti-Apparition line at the north stone gate, twenty paces east of the main path. I’ll arrive as soon as I cast.”

Ron gave a quick, nervous nod.

“Now,” Severus said.

The four of them vanished with a simultaneous crack, the echo of displaced air snapping against the quiet lane.

They reappeared with a pop just beyond the anti-Apparition line, the damp grass of the northern path springy beneath their feet. Severus set off at once, the others hurrying to match his stride. Harry’s nearness tugged at him like a current, and with every step, he was weighing the most discreet route to his chambers and the questions he would pry from him one by one.

The castle rose ahead, late afternoon light glinting off the windows. As they neared the front gate, a tall figure of Dumbledore came into focus. His hands were clasped, and his expression grave. 

A cold spike of dread cut through Severus’s thoughts. He had sent no warning to the Headmaster about their arrival.

He lengthened his stride, closing the distance in seconds. “Albus,” he said sharply. “What’s happened?”

“Professor Snape. Children,” Dumbledore greeted them gravely. “Walk with me, please.”

They fell in beside him, the castle looming closer with every step. His voice was intense and meant only for Severus. “I was about to summon you when word reached me that you were already on your way.” With a gentle sweep of his hand, the great doors opened, and they entered the cool hush of the corridor.

“There has been another attack,” he said, the calm in his voice edged with sorrow. “It was intended for Harry, though his presence here tells me it did not succeed.” His gaze settled gravely on Harry and then on Weasley. “Miss Granger, however, has been gravely injured.”

Severus stopped as if struck. The corridor instantly narrowed to a pin of sound and light—another attack, when Potter was meant to be safe within the castle walls. A cold shock knifed through the lingering anger that had carried him from Hogsmeade.

He clenched his fist, his nails digging into his palm. It would have happened if not for what? Sheer chance?

Severus forced himself to move, but his legs felt leaden. He fell a half-step behind Weasley’s now hurried pace.

“Hagrid saw it from a distance,” Dumbledore went on. “He thought the pair were assisting him with the menagerie when a yellow light struck and pulled Harry from the grounds into the forest. Before he could reach them, Miss Granger had collapsed.”

By the time they reached the hospital wing doors, Ron’s face was ashen, Luna pale and wide-eyed, Harry visibly trembling.

“She is unconscious,” Dumbledore said softly. “Her magical core has endured considerable strain, though Madam Pomfrey assures me she will recover in a matter of days. You may go in and see her now.” His eyes lingered on him. “Severus, if you would remain. There are matters we must discuss.”

The three entered the ward, Weasley hurrying to Granger’s side at once. Potter wavered behind Lovegood, his eyes catching Severus’s, fear and guilt warring within them, before following the others.

Severus remained in the corridor with Dumbledore, his voice sharp as he outlined the chaos at Hogsmeade, the capsules, and the breach of protocol.

Dumbledore frowned. “If Harry had not disobeyed, who knows what might have happened to him?”

Conflicted, Severus inclined his head.

“However, I find your punishment appropriate,” Dumbledore said quietly. “House points will be forfeited, the offending capsules destroyed, privileges withdrawn, and all four will serve detentions for the coming month.”

“And the Death Eaters?” He asked quietly.

Dumbledore’s eyes clouded. “What they intend, I cannot yet say—”

A sudden shout from within the hospital wing cut him off. Severus’s head snapped to the side, his robes already sweeping as he pushed the doors open.

He swept into the room, the tension palpable against the stinging antiseptic scent. Weasley and Potter stood facing each other across the space while Luna sat in the chair nearest Granger.

“This is your fault!” Ron shouted, his face as red as his hair. “She didn’t even want to help. You pressured her, just like you pressure the rest of us!”

“You offered to help!” Harry shot back, fists clenched at his sides. “You thought it would be fun, remember?”

“But she didn’t want to! She should have been with me at Madam Puddifoot’s, sipping tea, not slogging through the muck with some half-baked spell to cover your arse.” Weasley snorted, “All for what? A stupid watch and some crackpot wannabe?”

Severus frowned as Harry winced under the accusations and rubbed at his temples. The day’s chaos, every shred of stress, was clearly triggering a migraine. Yet he said nothing as Weasley pressed on.

“It’s bad enough you dragged her into that Imperius fiasco in the hall. If you’d stayed put and not distracted Hagrid, none of this would have happened.”

With how inattentive the half-giant could be, Severus doubted that.

“Mr. Weasley, get yourself under control,” he ordered, his voice cold. “This is a hospital wing, or are you planning to wake Miss Granger?”

“Like you’re one to talk,” Weasley snapped. “You practically assaulted us.”

The room plunged into an icy silence. Severus understood the boy’s panic—he had been consumed by it most of the day—but he would not let the disrespect pass. “Careful, Weasley. Continue, and Quidditch might be the next thing you lose.”

Ron’s mouth shut with a click, blue eyes scorching Severus with barely contained rage. After a long pause, he finally spoke, voice tight. “You stay away from us, Harry. You understand? Stay. Away.”

With that, Weasley dragged a chair to the far side of Granger’s bed and sat, shoulders rigid.

Concern flickered in Dumbledore’s pale eyes as he entered the room. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” Severus muttered. He noted the pallor of Harry’s face, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow as he fought the rising pain. With a wave of his wand and a crisp Accio, Severus summoned a migraine potion. It whizzed through the air and into his hand. 

“Potter, take this.” He stepped closer, offering the vial with surprising gentleness. “No use in having two bedridden Gryffindors.” 

Harry grimaced as he uncorked the potion and swallowed it in one gulp. “Thank you, Professor,” he said, his voice quiet and strained. “May I be excused now?”

Severus glanced toward Albus. “It has been a long day. I can escort him back, and we can continue our discussion later tonight.” After this fiasco, they would have to find a way to deal with the rightfully panicked Grangers and Potters.

Dumbledore nodded. “Very well. I think rest would benefit us all.”

With a brief incline of his head, Severus motioned for Harry to follow. 

The corridors were hushed with only the soft echo of their footsteps breaking the stillness.

Severus’s brow furrowed. The silence that followed Weasley’s statement was not the sulky huff he knew too well; it was heavy, inward. Too quiet.

They turned a corner and started down the stairwell that sank toward the dungeons. Harry slowed, an almost imperceptible falter in his stride.

“Relax, Potter,” Severus said dryly without looking back. “If you think you can wriggle out of this, think again.”

A faint flush touched Harry’s cheeks. He glanced away, mumbling something that might have been an agreement.

When they reached the cool stone of the Potions corridor, Severus stopped and slipped a folded shimmer of fabric from his pocket. “I brought this with me,” he said, holding out the invisibility cloak, “in case you had the insane idea to break into my chambers and steal it.”

Harry blinked, then huffed a quiet laugh. “Merlin, you’re so paranoid.”

“Tell me I’m wrong?” Severus replied, lips curling faintly.

“It may have crossed my mind.” Harry flushed a shade redder.

They waited a beat, listening for any sign of approaching footsteps. Satisfied the hallway was empty, Harry swung the cloak around his shoulders, vanishing into its folds.

Together they moved through the final stretch of the corridor, Potter’s steps a faint whisper. At his door, Severus pressed his palm to the carved wood, releasing the wards before ushering them in.

As soon as the click of the door echoed through the quiet room, Severus shrugged off his heavy outer cloak and hung it on the hook. Behind him, Harry let his own cloak slide from his shoulders to the floor and all but collapsed into Severus’s lone chair.

His only chair.

“My head,” Harry groaned, pressing his palms to his eyes and curling forward. Severus frowned, a reluctant sigh escaping him.

“Get up.”

Harry eyed him warily but moved aside. With a deft flick and a tight spiral of his wand, Severus widened the cushion until the seat stretched enough for two.

The corners of Harry’s mouth tugged upward as he flopped across the newly extended chair, claiming its full length.

Severus rolled his eyes. “Don’t get too comfortable. It will return to its original size the moment you leave.” He nudged Harry over and sat down.

“I don’t want to leave,” Harry whispered, letting his head fall back into Severus’s lap. “You heard Ron. I did that—I got them all in serious trouble, and I hurt her. What if she’d died? All because I was selfish.”

He winced, and Severus began massaging his temples.

“Interesting,” Severus scoffed, his voice deceptively calm. “I was under the impression you were off gallivanting in Hogsmeade. When did you learn to be in two places at once?”

Harry’s silence stretched, his warm breath ghosting over Severus’s lap before he finally spoke.

“You don’t understand. It was me. In the shop, Trelawney read our tea leaves. She said death hung over me… the Grim in another form.” He sat up, the warmth vanishing. “Nothing but disaster follows me. I’m cursed. She saw it. No one is safe. I’ve already hurt you. What if next time—”

“Harry.” Severus reached out, framing his head in his hands. “No curse harmed me. Your secrecy did. Your refusal to trust me—or anyone—led us here.”

He brushed a tangle of black hair from Harry’s eyes and leaned in until their lips met, warm and unhurried. When Severus drew back, he searched those deep green eyes.

A tremor of fear cut through the heat rising in his chest—fear that this would end as all things in his life had ended. With loss.

“If there is to be anything between us, you must tell me what’s happening. You will show me this watch, explain how it works, and you will stop trying to handle this alone. Do you understand?”

Potter pressed closer, his breath hot against the base of Severus’s neck. “But the tea leaves—”

“Forget the damned tea leaves,” he said firmly. “I know Sybill Trelawney. I was at Hogwarts with her, and not a day passed when she wasn’t vaguely predicting or foretelling someone’s death.”

In a hesitant voice, Harry asked, “But… didn’t most of you die in the war?”

“Yes, many did,” Severus replied, “but many more she claimed would perish are very much alive. Forget the leaves. They are parlor tricks, not prophecy.”

Harry slid forward, lips grazing the curve of Severus’s neck until his warm, trembling breath tickled the older man’s ear. “Okay. I’ll leave it, and no more secrets. I don’t want to do this alone anymore.”

Severus captured Harry’s mouth in a fierce, consuming kiss. Their lips pressed and parted in a heated contest until the Gryffindor gasped, startled, as Severus shifted and rolled them, pinning him beneath his weight.

“Tell me to stop, and I will,” Severus rumbled, his voice low and rough, a pulse of heat sparking in his groin.

He was getting so hard.

Harry’s eyes darkened to a molten green at the outline of Severu’s erection. He reached out tentatively, cupping his package and squeezing it. “I want you to fuck me.” 

And that was all it took.

Severus shoved Harry into the cushions, spreading him out like a feast. “Look at you.”

He raked his hands through those disastrous locks before yanking his head back sharply to bare his throat. “So eager for my cock, Potter?”

“Yes,” Harry gasped desperately, thrusting up to meet Severus’s own need.

He leaned down, dragging his teeth along the tender skin until he reached the base of the neck and nipped just hard enough to mark. Harry wirthed beneath him a slight moan escaping his lips. 

Severus growled in response, thrusting harder until the heat and friction finally became unbearable.

He wanted this. He needed this.

He grabbed the hem of Potter’s jumper and forced it over his head. Severus ran one hand possessively down Harry’s chest and over his ribs, savoring the way he shivered under every touch. He brushed his calloused fingertips over a nipple, then pinched sharply.

Harry cried out, arching beautifully off the cushions.

“Good,” Severus praised as he kissed his way down until he reached the hard outline of Harry’s confined cock. His fingertips curled around the waistband as he shoved the pants down, freeing the flushed and leaking member.

Harry moaned helplessly, and he wrapped a shaking hand around himself and began to stroke, hips jerking helplessly.

Severus watched, nostrils flaring as his gaze deepened to an obsidian hunger.

Complete and utter madness.

His own cock strained painfully against his trousers.

Harry whimpered again, his free hand clenching uselessly at Severus’s robes.

“Enough.” 

The Gryffindor stilled, his chest heaving with need. “Severus?”

“I’m not going to fuck you on this chair.”  He reached over and scooped Potter into his arms with a single, powerful motion.

Harry gave a startled squawk, arms flying around Severus’s neck for balance.

“Wait—where are we going?”

With a push of silent magic, Severus swung the bedroom door wide and deposited Harry on his bed, the younger man landing in a tumble across the cool sheets.

He slipped out of his outer robe and pants, the fabric pooling at his feet, until only a white shirt clung to his frame.

His erection stood at attention, heat coursing through him as he slowly climbed up the bed, kissing Potter’s leg until he reached his entrance.

“Hold on.” Harry inhaled, eyes wide and wild as Severus' breath hit his hole. “I have never…”

“Oh, I know,” he roguishly grinned as he gripped the other's cock and licked from his hole to the tip before engulfing it.

Once again, he wandlessly cast, and Harry gasped when the cold feeling of lube filled his channel as Severus pushed two fingers in, scissoring between every thrust.

The sob that followed was music. Severus bobbed his head up and down, his fingers setting a brutal pace. Faster and faster, he took more of Harry with each pass until his hooked nose was firmly planted in his hair, and all he could smell was the tang of musk and salt.

“Severus…ahh, I'm close. So close.” Potter’s fingers wound themselves in his hair and yanked up.

Harry's cock popped out of his mouth with a wet slurp. He gave one last lick, savoring the cry of frustration.

“I said fuck me.”

Severus straightened on his knees and gave his member a firm tug, slicking it up with his now-wet fingers. 

“Prepare yourself, Potter.”

He flipped Harry over and tilted his hips up and pressed down, his member meeting resistance until finally it gave way.

The tightness and heat was overwhelming. Severus groaned as his head swam.

This was his. This was all his.

“That's it, Harry. Breathe in, relax. " He started with shallow thrusts until the body below him no longer resisted. 

Then he began a more punishing pace. Potter cried out as Severus gripped his hips, pulling and pushing into him, and he reveled in the tight walls clenching around him. 

Faster and faster, he pounded into him as Harry thrashed under him in response. His hand slowly crept down between the younger man's legs and grabbed his member, pumping in time with his thrusts.

Harry wailed, his back bowing under Severus’s hand, his body spasming in ecstasy as he ejaculated all over the sheets.

“Say it!” Severus demanded, the tight heat driving him faster to his peak.

Harry mumbled something into the pillow, boneless and limp as Severus’s pace became more erratic and his vision blurred. 

“What was that? Speak up!”

“I’m yours!” Harry cried, barely lifting his head from the pillow. “I’m yours.” 

And Severus was gone. White flooded his vision as he released his load into the perfect body beneath him.

He collapsed atop Harry, covering his face with gentle, breathless kisses.

Harry trembled, adrenaline still coursing through him, and Severus gathered him close.

They stayed that way for what felt like hours before Harry spoke, his voice small and hopeful. “Can I stay here tonight?”

“I wish,” Severus murmured, tightening his hold, reluctant to let him go.

Chapter Text

“This feels dangerous.”

“It is. Now pick one and drink,” Severus commanded, arranging several vials on the small kitchen table.

“What if I actually get poisoned and die?”

“Then we’ll know it’s a fake, and I can return to living in peace.”

Harry squirmed in his chair, hating that this was how they had chosen to test the watch.

Potions and poison.

Severus was probably thrilled.

He looked across the table at the man carefully arranging the five covered vials before him.

An excited spark danced in his black eyes as he picked up one vial, uncorked it, inhaled its scent, and slid it into the middle of the row.

He gulped hard.

It had been a month since the disastrous trip to Hogsmeade, since he’d shown Severus the watch and the book, and the older man had plunged into full investigation mode.

“Potter, how does it work?” “Potter, what triggers it?” “Potter, what’s its accuracy?” “Potter, hold still; I want to see if it responds to your pain.”

He was officially over it.

They had tried everything—from daily journaling to align the symbols with real events to wildly unsafe duels meant to force a prediction. Severus had even worn the watch for a couple of days to see whether it was truly attuned only to Harry.

Their conclusion: verifying a device that predicts the future is really, really hard.

So here they are: five covered vials, one of which is poisoned, and he has no clue which.

Harry eyed the neat row of bottles, silently praying the watch would save him so he didn't end up spending the night violently ill.

“To make things more interesting,” Snape said flatly, his eyes still glittering, “I want you to know that I’ve added something of my own creation into the mix.”

He stilled.

“That wasn’t what we agreed on.”

“No, but the more random the better. Now go on, pick one. It’s getting late, and you need to head back soon.”

He shot the man a glare and snatched the center vial. “Fine, but if I get sick, you’re cleaning it.” 

Severus only smirked at him as he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You're stalling.”

Harry popped the cork off, closed his eyes, and raised the vial to his lips…

Ting. Ting. Ting.

Oh, thank Merlin and magic itself.

He pulled back his sleeve, revealing the timepiece. A vial glittered across the surface between five and six as Venus turned a soft rose hue. Mars gave a low hum, heat crawling up his wrist before fading.

He flipped through the codex pages, linking each symbol with its counterpart.

He frowned.

“A love potion, really?”

“An aphrodisiac. Pick another.”

He looked skeptically at Severus as he plucked another vial, raising it more confidently to his lip.

“Bottoms up.”

Ting. Ting. Ting. Ting.

He lowered the vial from his lips. The watch lay ice-cold against his wrist. Flipping through the book again—Pluto, eighth house—he froze.

“Poison!” he whooped, snatching another vial. But before he could drink, the watch turned cold again. He frowned and glanced back at the eighth house entry.

He tried the next vial. Same chill. Then the next. Still the same.

“You poisoned them all.”

“The danger had to be real.”

“You. Poisoned. Them. All!”

“I directed you to the aphrodisiac first.” Severus plucked the middle vial from its place. “If that failed, you wouldn’t have reached the next vials.”

Harry snorted. “So kind of you. You know you don’t need an aphrodisiac to get me into bed. I’m pretty much ready all the time.”

Severus looked back at him, a darker heat smoldering in his eyes. “Of that, I’m well aware.”

He flushed, his skin prickling under the gaze.

Ever since that line had been crossed, the older man had been relentless. He had even gone so far as to down a stamina potion after a particularly intense duel, just so he could bend Harry over the Advanced DADA classroom’s obsidian dueling platform.

It’s not that he was complaining.

It just made him wonder how long Severus had gone without being touched.

He rose from his chair and stretched his arms overhead. A slow warmth coiled in his belly as the older man’s hungry gaze followed the movement.

He tapped the watch. ‘So… I guess that confirms it’s real?’ he said, shrinking the codex into his pocket.

Severus stood with deliberate ease, each measured step sending a thrill up Harry’s spine. “At the very least, it’s a useful tool until all of this is over.”

He shot the man a sheepish grin. “I really should get back…” he said, slipping into his best Professor Snape voice to drawl, “It’s getting late.”

But Severus only tilted his chin up, brushed a soft kiss across his mouth, and drew him in with a possessive arm around his waist.“The lions can wait a bit longer,” he murmured, brushing his lips along Harry’s jaw. “This snake isn’t finished with you yet.”

Snape guided him back until the edge of the table pressed hard against the back of his thighs. 

Before he could speak, strong hands gripped his hips and, with a low grunt, the man lifted him onto the tabletop, setting him down with a thud that rattled the vials on the other side.

“You’re heavy.”

Harry gave an offended huff when Severus’s mouth found his. The kiss started slow, a warm brush of lips and the scrape of stubble that drew a brief, wandering thought that he should replace the broken bathroom mirror; Snape’s shaving had suffered without it.

The older man nipped at him just hard enough to draw him back. “Where’s your mind at?” 

Harry made a soft, involuntary sound into the kiss and gripped the front of his robes, pulling him closer to deepen it.

Snape’s tongue traced the seam of his lips until they yielded, then claimed him fully, the pressure firm and insistent.

He tasted of firewhisky and late nights: smoke, spice, and a warmth that set Harry’s pulse racing.

When they finally broke apart, the Gryffindor’s chest rose and fell in heavy breaths.

He slid his hands beneath Severus’s outer robe, fingers gliding over the warm fabric of his shirt until they met the endless row of buttons.

He fumbled at them helplessly, impatience sharpening his need as he tried to work them loose one by one.

“Why do you insist on dressing like a parish priest?”

“Hmm.” Snape hummed as he pressed him back against the table until he was lying flat, legs falling open. “Really, only one of these buttons matters,” he drawled, popping the top of Harry’s trousers with a deft twist of his fingers.

The man smirked as he stripped off the remaining clothes, letting them fall in a careless heap on the floor. And not for the first time, he was thankful he’d remembered to apply his glamour beforehand.

“You’re so unfair,” Harry panted, breath hitching under the possessive touch. “Take off your—ah!” 

He jolted as Severus pressed the tip of his wand to the sensitive curve of his backside, murmuring a lubrication charm under his breath.

Harry’s hands scrambled for purchase against the table. The polished wood was smooth and slick under his fingers, his body already coiled so tightly with anticipation that it was nearly unbearable.

“You’re always so eager for it,” Snape said, voice dark and edged with hunger. He tossed his wand aside without looking, letting it clatter somewhere out of reach.

“Should I give it to you?” he mused. “Or should I take my time?” His hands returned to Harry’s thighs, parting them wider before slipping two long fingers into his entrance. 

“Severus—” he gasped, pushing back and clenching against the now familiar stretch inside of him.

In and out, Snape fucked into him smooth and unhurried.

A knot of warmth wound tighter in his stomach, just beyond reach. The man curled his fingers, sending another jolt of liquid fire through his veins.

“Come on…Faster!” Harry’s voice broke with desperation.

Driven by need, his hand drifted down, only for his wrists to be caught in a sudden, unyielding grip. Severus pinned them above his head, leaning close until a curtain of black hair fell forward.

Then Harry felt it.

A long, deliberate lick from the base of his throat to his jaw. He shivered beneath it, the filthy sensation shooting straight to the pit of his stomach.

He loved it when the older man lost control. He was always so composed, so precise, but in moments like this, the mask slipped, and Harry caught a glimpse of the man beneath.

Severus’s other hand continued to thrust in and out of him, harder and harder, until finally, it hit the bundle of nerves inside that shot fire through his veins and made him see white.

He moaned, helpless under the intensity. His legs wrapped tight around Snape’s waist, trying to find leverage despite the table's smooth surface.

Suddenly, wrists were released, and the fingers were gone, leaving an emptiness inside. He barely had time to cry out in protest before the man’s mouth was on his again.

Something hard and hot pressed up against his hole, and he held his breath in anticipation.

“Breathe, Harry, or I won't be able to get my whole cock in.”

The stretch made him tremble, every muscle going taut beneath the older man’s weight. But Severus stilled once fully seated, breath coming hot and shallow against his throat.

Then he began to move.

Measured at first. Deep, deliberate thrusts that left Harry breathless and biting his lip to keep from crying out too loudly. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, obscene and intimate and so real it made his head spin.

The table creaked beneath them as he was slammed into in earnest. One of the vials rolled off the table, shattering on the stone floor.

His back arched as heat and friction bloomed through him, sparking every nerve ending.

Severus’s hips snapped forward roughly, harder as they began to lose tempo, and he knew the older man was close. 

They were both so close.

“Harry.” The raw need in Snape’s voice as he urgently thrust into him was enough to push him over the edge.

Harry grabbed his member and, with several long strokes, he came undone, crying out as the pleasure tore through him.

Severus followed, buried deep, a hoarse groan ripped from his chest as he collapsed onto him, his breath ragged.

The two stayed like that for a moment, Snape pinning him beneath his weight on the table.

“If anyone here is heavy, it’s you.” he pushed against the firm chest. “Get off—I can’t breathe.”

Severus lifted himself with a slight tremor and pushed his long hair back from his face, exposing the sharp angles and hooked nose.

Harry’s gaze drifted over those features, finally settling on the man’s collar and robes—still perfectly in place, only a few buttons undone.

He frowned, wishing he could see the man completely.

“Did you see where my wand went?” Snape asked, patting his sleeves and pockets.

“No. I think you threw it on the ground.”

He muttered a curse and scanned the floor until he spotted it. Snatching it up, he gave a sharp flick and cast Scourgify on them both, before vanishing the glass and poison on the ground.

Harry groaned as he eased himself upright. “That was…”

Severus only hummed in agreement and moved to the kitchenette, returning with a glass of water.

“Drink.”

Harry accepted it with a grateful nod. “Thanks.” A slight twinge of soreness caught him as he slid off the table.

Dark eyes regarded him with a cool, unreadable stare. “Do you require an escort back to your tower?”

“No, I’ll manage. I know you have loads of grading to catch up on.” He pulled his robes over his head. “I really do need to get back, though. I don’t want to push the Fat Lady too much—she’s only let me get away with this so far because she feels sorry for me.”

“Patience, Potter,” he advised, handing him the Invisibility Cloak. “Weasley’s simply wallowing in his own guilt and flinging it in your direction. He’ll see it soon enough.” 

“He’s right, though.” Harry paused. Seeing Hermione lying beneath the hospital sheets as white as a curtain had been awful. “It’s my fault her magical core was injured like that. She would have been fine if that creepy duplicate hadn’t been ripped away.”

Severus shot him a look. 

“But it isn’t just him,” He went on, his chest tightening. “It’s the whole house. I lost us more points than we could ever earn back. None of them want anything to do with me.”

Snape was quiet for a long moment, breaking the silence only when he seemed to reach a decision.

“Now that we have some confidence in the watch, come to my quarters before dinner. I have…something prepared.”

“Something prepared?” He drew the cloak around his shoulders, his body disappearing beneath the shimmering folds. “Like a present?”

His stomach gave a small, uneasy twist. A gift? He wasn’t sure he deserved anything of the sort.

What had he actually done besides hurt Hermione, nearly kill Draco last Christmas, and disappoint every friend and family member who still tried to care for him?

Even now, he was lying to all of them by sneaking around.

“You reckless, useless, ungrateful freak!” The shrill echo in his head made his breath hitch.

His fingers clenched the cloak’s edge, drawing it tighter around his shoulders. He needed another lock on that door.

“Not quite.” Severus’s voice broke through his thoughts as he ushered him into the hall. “You’ll find out what it is tomorrow.”

With a quick goodnight and a soft click of the chamber door, Harry set out for Gryffindor Tower.

The castle’s chill and eerie quiet trailed him as he turned left, then right, winding slowly through its shadowed corridors.

It stung that Severus wouldn’t let him stay. He understood the reasons—of course he did. They couldn’t risk being discovered, and he hadn’t asked again, not once. It was the sensible boundary.

But the thought that no one in the tower would even care if he failed to return made the sting even sharper. He pressed a palm to his chest and kept walking.

He was keeping close to the walls as he turned the next corner towards the grand staircase when a sharp sound shattered the silence.

CRACK!

Harry dove behind the nearest suit of armor, praying the noise hadn’t awakened it.

“Winky! Must you be so loud?” a man hissed, voice low and strained.

“Winky is sorry, Master. She will be quieter,” came the quivering reply of a house-elf.

Winky? The name tugged at his memory. He leaned forward just enough to glimpse a tall figure with short blond hair and a rigid posture—Professor Crouch? But it wasn’t his night for patrol.

The DADA Professor spoke in a harsh whisper to the anxious elf, who wrung her hands and cast nervous glances up the staircase.

Keeping to the wall, Harry crept closer and slipped behind a large ornate pot, straining to catch their words.

“Again?” Professor Crouch grumbled.

“Not there. I checked.” Winky shook her head, her bat-like ears flapping.

“That’s the fifth night this week.” The man paced, shoes scraping the stone. “I’ll keep searching the halls. Tell our friend in Hogsmeade we’ll need his help for the next part.”

The elf bobbed her head vigorously. “Yes, of course, sir. Winky will be right back.”

“No, don’t come to me,” the man admonished, his tone you’d use with a stubborn child. “Head back to the kitchen.”

“Yes, master, right away.” With a sharp crack, Winky vanished.

Crouch cursed under his breath, running a hand through his short hair.

Harry shrank deeper into the shadows as the professor passed, his face set in a grim line of determination.

The watch gave a faint buzz against his wrist. His heart leapt into his throat and he slapped a hand over it, willing it to stay silent.

Professor Crouch halted mid-stride, eyes sweeping the corridor and passing straight over the spot where he hid beneath his cloak.

Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimed one o’clock.

The man stood stock still, every line of his body taut as he scanned the room for anything out of place. Then, before Harry could draw another breath, Crouch spun on his heel and strode down the nearest passage.

When the last echo of footsteps died away, Harry scooted from behind the suit of armor, breath sharp in his throat. His pulse thudded so hard it seemed to shake the metal at his back.

He dashed for the staircase and climbed the steps two at a time, each footfall muffled on the cold stone. Shadows pooled and lengthened across the walls, twisting into long fingers that reached for him.

He didn’t slow until the portrait of the Fat Lady loomed into view. She startled, eyes widening. “Cutting it awfully close, don't you think?”

“I’m sorry, I had to hide for a bit,” Harry said quickly, forcing his breath into something close to steady.

She raised a sharp brow, skeptical,  “Alright, Password?”

“Moonwort,” he muttered, and ducked inside as soon as she swung open.

The common room lay dark and silent. He crept across the carpet and up the boys’ staircase. When he reached his dormitory, his bed curtains were drawn, and the coverlet neatly smooth.

Harry crawled between the hangings, sliding under the tidy sheets. He lay stiff and awake, the faint buzz of the watch still tingling against his wrist, until the quiet swallowed him whole.

********************************

The next morning, Harry sat alone at the end of the table in the great hall, nibbling on a piece of toast. The bench around him might as well have been roped off. Platters of eggs and toast sat untouched beside him, steam curling upward. 

He tried not to let it bother him as he compared last night’s events with the watch’s shifting symbols, jotting observations into his journal. A new rune—narrow and slit like a cat’s eye—had appeared just below the three-o’clock mark, with Neptune spinning tight circles around it.

As far as he could tell, the Eye signaled the risk of discovery. But what unsettled him was Neptune’s orbit. It marked the presence of something unknown.

Across the table, Ron’s sudden burst of laughter made Harry look up. He thought the redhead might join him for a fleeting moment, but their eyes met, and the laughter vanished. A hard scowl settled on Ron’s face. He turned deliberately away, shoulders angling toward the knot of seventh-years beside him.

Further down, Hermione met his eyes. Her face was pale from the lingering aftershock of her magical injury. She offered a half-apologetic smile but didn’t move closer.

Harry’s stomach tightened as he pushed his half-finished toast away. He was no longer that hungry.

His mother’s long-eared owl swooped overhead and settled beside him, wings stirring the untouched dishes. He stroked her soft feathers and offered a strip of bacon.

“At least someone wants to talk to me,” he murmured, untying the small envelope from her leg.

He tore the letter open a bit too roughly, ripping the edges of the parchment inside.

He had hoped Dumbledore wouldn’t tell his parents about his little excursion to Hogsmeade. Technically, he’d been safe the whole time, but the Headmaster was obligated to report the attack to the DMLE and James.

When his parents arrived at the front gates, the whole thing had turned into a spectacle—a family reunion of sorts, since they’d brought Sirius, Remus and Peter along. Harry’s face heated at the memory of the shouting and the tears.

He had a lot of explaining and apologizing to do—and somehow, he managed it. He laid out everything: the planning, the watch, the demiguise, the Kaleido-capsules, start to finish. By the end of it, Sirius and his dad looked faintly impressed, while his mum, Remus, and, oddly enough, Peter were furious.

Lily had exploded at James, shouting that once again, his “Potter pride” had put Harry in danger. Somehow, as far as he could tell, the argument shifted from whether to pull him out of school to how dare James fill his head with Marauder nonsense. That suited him just fine. 

After all, He couldn’t leave—not before finishing his N.E.W.T.s, and not while Severus was here.

He shifted on the bench with a wince as a dull ache reminded him of the previous night, then he glanced toward the head table hoping to catch a glimpse of the man, but his seat was empty.

With a sigh, he smoothed the parchment before him, lining up its torn edges and reading over the note.

Harry,

I hope you’re doing well. It’s amazing how quickly the days are passing—before you know it, you’ll be home with us for the Christmas holiday.

Mrs. Weasley stopped by for tea and promised to bake your favorite biscuits next time she visits.

Your father says hello. He thinks he’s closing in on whoever is behind these attacks and has heard rumblings of Death Eater activity just outside London. Please be careful, and remember to trust your watch.

Tell Professor Snape I said hello, and that if he’s free, I’d love to have tea with him.

Love,

Mum

P.S. - (What do you want this year? Don’t just say you don’t know, or you’re getting socks.)

Harry stared at the last line, his jaw slack. He read it twice, unable to believe what it said. He needed to find Severus, now.

The Gryffindor grabbed his bag and gripped the letter before leaping from his chair and striding up to the Head Table.

“Professor McGonagall, I forgot Professor Snape wanted to see me before class.” The lie slipped almost too easily from his lips. “Would you mind escorting me there?”

His Head of House gave him a stern look. “All right, Mr. Potter, but do remember these things earlier next time.”

Harry fell into step beside her, matching her clipped stride as they crossed the castle and descended into the cool hush of the dungeons. 

The plain oak door of Snape’s classroom stood propped open when they arrived. Severus sat at his desk, quill in hand, red ink pooling in sharp strokes as he marked a stack of tests.

McGonagall leaned in as he slipped inside. “Professor Snape, I’m handing off Potter early as requested.”

“Very good,” he said with a brief nod, never pausing in his grading. “I trust it wasn’t too much trouble.”

“No, not at all,” she replied, a hint of dry amusement in her voice, “though I would have preferred to finish my tea uninterrupted. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to return before I miss the rest of my breakfast.”

With a crisp swirl of robes, she vanished down the corridor, leaving the room quiet but for the scratch of Severus’s quill.

“Potter,” Snape said without looking up. “Class doesn’t start for another thirty minutes.”

Harry crossed the room and set the letter on the desk, sliding it toward him. “Why is my mum asking you to tea?

The quill paused mid-line, the steady scratching breaking before resuming its furious path. “I see you're writing your parents again.”

“Yeah, well, after everything, it’s the least I can do,” he mumbled, shifting uncomfortably. “Now, why is she asking you to tea?”

“I told you—I ran into her in Hogsmeade.” Severus drew a bold red D across the page.

“She probably ran into McGonagall, too, and didn’t invite her to tea,” he pressed, hopping onto the edge of the desk. “You’re being weird.”

“Potter, get off.” Snape’s black eyes snapped up in a piercing glare. Harry could practically hear the unspoken scolding—the door is open, what if McGonagall comes back?

With a roll of his eyes, he hopped off the desk and leaned against it instead. “Spill the beans.”

After several seconds of sharp scratching, Severus paused and set his quill aside. “You probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you I don’t know.”

He shook his head, a smug smile tugging at his mouth.

“Very well—we’ll speak tonight. Now stand back, Potter, before your lack of subtlety becomes even more obvious,” he snapped.

Pleased with the answer, Harry drifted to his seat in the front center of the amphitheater. He set down his things, pulled out a blank sheet of parchment, and began sketching a reply to Lily.

He froze when he reached the line about what he wanted for Christmas. The truth was, he didn’t know.

His mind drifted, maybe a new broom-cleaning kit? Perhaps an owl of his own?

But then he wondered what Severus had planned for him tonight. He glanced over at the older man, still methodically working through his mountain of grading, and a quiet warmth tingled in his chest.

“Good morning, Professor Snape,” Draco said as he strolled through the door, Nott close on his heels.

Severus merely grunted and reached for the next test in the pile.

Malfoy shot Harry a look as he settled into a chair on the far left. “Why are you here, Potter? Early detention?”

“Not hungry,” he replied, sounding bored. “Didn’t know coming to class early was a crime, Malfoy.”

Instead of joining Draco, Nott beelined for Harry and slid into the empty seat beside him. “Oh, ignore him—he’s just not a morning person.”

He glanced over and offered a small, grateful smile. No one had sat near him in weeks; he appreciated the company even if it was Theo.

“So, I was wondering,” Nott began hesitantly, “if you’re not busy tonight, would you help me—”

“Mr. Nott!” Severus barked, the sudden snap of his voice making all three boys jump. “Silence your incessant yammering and return to your seat.”

“Uh… yes, sir,” Nott stammered. “It’s just… The seats aren’t assigned, and I would like—”

“Now.” Snape’s tone left no room for argument, and Theo rose from his seat beside Harry. The space he left behind seemed to cool instantly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the brief crease of worry on Malfoy’s otherwise impassive face. A muscle tightened along Harry’s jaw, the only outward sign of the spark of irritation that flared at Snape’s jealousy.

And he accuses me of being obvious…

He exhaled sharply and jotted the title of a Quidditch book onto the letter.

Did Severus still not believe he was serious? Were the watch’s predictions not proof enough?  He knew soulmate or fated love sounded silly… but what else could explain how he felt?

After a while, the rest of the class filed in. Hermione paused beside Harry as if to speak, but he gave her a pained look and nodded toward Dean. She still looked weak, and he didn’t want her caught in another row with Ron.

Alone in the center of the classroom, he tried to focus on the Gatling Barrier demonstration, but his gaze kept drifting to the man behind it.

He traced the sharp angles of the professor as he glided across the dais, wondering how he might look when the day’s edges softened and the papers were put away, when it was just the two of them and whatever surprise waited.

Two pages of notes and a single practical demonstration—one that sent Susan Bones diving for cover—later, class finally ended.

Harry hung back by Severus’s desk, waiting for him to escort him to Herbology. As the rest of the students filed out, Hermione paused, her expression set in steely resolve.

“I’m going to talk to Ron again,” she declared. “This is ridiculous.”

“Don’t bother, Hermione. I get it. I don’t want you caught in the middle of it.”

“I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your notice, but I already am,” she huffed, her brows knitting in frustration. “And just so you know, I don’t get it. This”—she waved a hand around the empty room—“is far more stressful than if you two just fought and got it over with.”

Harry gave her a pleading look, and with a final harrumph, she spun on her heel and marched out of the classroom.

He sighed, leaning against the desk as Snape wiped the chalkboard clean. One by one, the students trickled out until only a lingering Malfoy remained.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Severus said as he crossed to Harry, “if you have a question, you’ll need to ask during my office hours. I need to escort Potter to his next class.”

Draco hesitated, grey eyes darting toward him. “No, Professor Snape. I’m just… slow today.” He gathered his books with deliberate care, placing them into his bag.

“…Very well. Potter, come along. I will not hear Professor Sprout’s complaints that I made you late.”

Severus guided him toward the door, Malfoy trailing a step behind.

Throughout the rest of the day, Harry was caught between absent-minded musings and frantic N.E.W.T. prep.

Even Sprout’s screechsnap lecture and McGonagall’s brisk Transfiguration drills barely pierced his thoughts of whatever Severus had planned for the night, the question looping back with every task he finished, a restless blend of anticipation and nerves that made each hour stretch impossibly long.

When the hour finally arrived, Harry sat in the Gryffindor common room with his Defence and Transfiguration books forgotten beside an unrolled sheet of parchment.

He waited until the coast was clear before he slipped the invisibility cloak over his shoulders and eased through the portrait hole behind some third years, the common room’s firelight fading behind him.

The corridors were crowded, filled to the brim with students from every house heading to dinner, slowing his progress until he finally reached the familiar door.

He knocked.

It opened at once as a hand closed around his arm, pulling him inside before the echo faded.

“You’re late,” Snape hissed, striding toward the kitchen.

He tore off the cloak and turned to hang it on the hook by the door. “I know—the halls were packed—” He stopped mid-sentence, the rest of his explanation slipping away, forgotten.

In front of the fire, beside Severus’s high-backed chair, sat a deep green couch, plush and perfectly at home against the rich tapestries and rug.

A crooked smile tugged at Harry’s lips just as a distinct pop sounded from the kitchen.

“So this is what you were being so secretive about?”

“The couch?” Severus flicked his wand, two wineglasses sliding neatly to the table. “Hardly. That is mere happenstance. After days spent on that wretched watch, even I figured we needed a break.” He poured a deep red wine, filling each glass halfway.

“Like a date?” Harry’s pulse fluttered. Of all the possibilities he’d imagined, this had never crossed his mind.

The man grimaced at the word as if he had said something indecent.

“What? What did I say? What’s wrong with a date?”

“Being smuggled into a dungeon to dine with me is hardly a date,” Severus replied, sweeping to the table and setting the wine before two plates of chicken with roasted potatoes and side salads. “But I suppose it's better than eating dinner alone.”

Harry couldn’t agree more.

He quickly settled into his seat. The food laid out before him looked incredible, and his stomach gave an appreciative growl.

Severus made no move to sit; instead, he chose to stand behind his chair as if waiting for Harry to do or say something.

The smell of roasted potatoes and herbs filled the small room, but neither spoke for a long moment.

“So…” he ventured, spearing a bite of chicken. “Did you, uh, cook all this yourself?”

Severus lifted one brow, the corner of his mouth twitching as he finally slid into his chair. “My chambers are not equipped for large-scale cooking,” he said flatly. “I had a house elf fetch it.”

He gave a short nod and reached for the wine. He felt Snape’s eyes on him, steady and unreadable, the weight of that scrutiny almost tangible. He lifted the glass and took a cautious sip. The wine was rich and smooth, leaving a slow warmth curling down his throat.

“It’s good,” he said, setting the glass down carefully.

It was as if a spell had broken, and something in Severus’s shoulders eased almost imperceptibly.

“Wait,” he said, holding the glass up to the light. “You didn’t put that aphrodisiac in here, did you?” 

A smirk triggered at the man’s lips. “You flatter yourself. I reserve that for truly special occasions,” he replied dryly.

“Like… a date?” He blurted, eyebrows doing an uncoordinated wiggle.

“Potter, I would prefer you didn’t make me out to be a predator.”

“Oh—wait—NOO, that’s not what I meant!” His face went scarlet. “I swear! I just—why can’t this be a date? I mean, not like—ugh, you know what I mean!”

Severus’s eyes sparked in amusement. “Oh no, Potter, please tell me, in great detail, what you meant?” 

Harry’s face burned even hotter as he took a large gulp of wine, half hoping he could drown himself before Snape decided to pick him apart.

The man gave a low, bitter chuckle and lifted his glass for a measured sip. “A date,” he said evenly, “is something done in the open, like a restaurant or a walk. Not hidden in a dungeon.” 

After a beat of silence, Harry set his glass down. “I don’t think that’s how it works,” he said, meeting Severus’s eyes. “A date isn’t about spending money or being out where everyone can see you. It’s about, you know, choosing to spend time with someone. That’s what really counts.”

Snape studied him for a long moment, the candlelight catching in the dark planes of his face.

 “Intention,” he repeated the word like it was unfamiliar on his tongue. His gaze was steady. “You give me far too much credit, Potter. I’ve never participated in what anyone would properly call a date.”

Harry blinked. “None?”

“I fail to see why that should surprise you.”

Another silence.

“I was a spy for most of my adult life,” his tone lowered until Harry could hardly hear it. “Before that, a Death Eater. What I know is physical, nothing more. Dates have always been for other people.”

Harry’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. “So you’ve seriously never been on a date?”

The man’s mouth twitched, something between amusement and self-defense. “Not in the sense you describe.”

A slow grin spread across Harry’s face. “Well,” he said, leaning back, “I did take Ginny to Hogsmeade once, so I guess that makes me the expert here.”

Severus arched a brow. “You? An authority after a single outing with a girl you had no interest in?”

“Hey,” he said, laughing, “one more than you, I’m happy to show you the ropes.”

Snape scoffed as he took another sip of his wine.

He couldn’t stop the grin that tugged at his mouth. “And, by the way, as the subject matter expert— this is a date.” 

After that, the conversation wandered easily—from classes and small irritations to his mother and the years she and Severus had once shared as childhood friends. He spoke quietly of the day he’d lost her, of the bullying from his father, and of the single word—Mudblood—that had ended everything.

The following silence carried the weight of years lost and regrets never fully voiced.

Harry studied the man across from him, struck again by how vast and unknowable a person could be.

For a fleeting moment, he wished he could reach back through all those years and take the hand of a younger Severus, to stand beside him when no one else had. He imagined offering the kind of friendship that might have softened the anger and loneliness that shaped him. 

The thought lingered, bittersweet, as they finished the last bites of their dinner, the candlelight burning low in the quiet between them.

Severus cleared the plates with a lazy flick of his wand as they drifted toward the new couch. The cushions gave a soft sigh when Harry dropped into them. 

Snape summoned a small box from across the room with a sharp, effortless swish of his wand.

Harry shot him a look—half amusement, half disbelief. “Chocolates?”

He didn’t even glance his way, already refilling their glasses as though summoning dessert from thin air were the most ordinary thing in the world.

“Yes. I could always toss them into the fire if you prefer.”

“No!” Before Severus could make good on the threat, he grabbed a piece from the box and popped it into his mouth.

The warm salted caramel and dark chocolate melted together, and he closed his eyes with a quiet sigh of pleasure.

The man hesitated, then selected a piece of his own. “Hmm. Acceptable, I suppose.”

Harry shifted closer, the wine warm in his veins. “Only acceptable?” he asked, leaning in until their lips brushed. “How about now?”

Black eyes met green as Severus captured his lips again, the bittersweet taste of wine and chocolate between them.

Chapter Text

“Why didn't you tell me this before?” Severus asked as they walked down the hall toward the Headmaster's office.

“I was going to, I just forgot. Last night kind of threw me.” Harry dragged his feet across the stone. It felt like he had waited forever for the older man to be his weekend escort again, and instead of continuing from where they left off the previous evening, he had detention.

"Surely Crouch prowling the halls and provoking your watch should have ranked above some chicken and wine?”

“To be fair, it was really good chicken and wine. And that dessert? I would do that again.” He gave him a sheepish grin, but the man just raised a brow.

“What did the Elf say again?”

“You’re really no fun, you know that?”

“Yes, now what did she say?”

“I don’t know. Something wasn’t where it should be. That’s all I caught before Crouch sent her to Hogsmeade.”

“And then your watch alerted you?”

“Yes, that’s when the cat’s eye and Neptune appeared. Honestly, it wasn’t one of its better predictions, yeah, I’m going to get caught if it keeps going off like that when I’m hiding.”

They finally reached the stone gargoyle that guarded the spiral staircase to the Headmaster’s office.

“It’s definitely vague. Give me your journal, and I’ll see if I can find something more on it.” Snape paused and scanned the hallway to see if they were alone, “I don’t know if we can trust him.”

Harry stilled. “What do you mean by that? Okay, sure, it was messed up that he agreed to spy on me for my dad, but that’s hardly the same as hurting someone.”

“I’m not entirely sure yet… just stay away from him.”

“But Professor Dumbledore—“

“Isn’t telling us why Professor Crouch is really here. I have repeatedly brought up my concerns, and he has dismissed them.”

That was surprising; he hadn’t known he had been suspicious enough to report the other professor.

“Now that I think about it, it was kind of slimy of him to pass Draco’s dreamless sleep off as his own.”

 Severus nodded in agreement, eyes sharp. “Let’s not forget you are the one witless enough to take it.”

His face heated, “You already made your point about that.”

“And I will continue to make my point until I’m sure you won’t do it again. Chocolate Frogs.” 

The Gargoyle leapt aside, revealing the long spiral staircase to the office.

“Meet back here after lunch? I have one more practice before tomorrow’s game. Then it’s whatever you want.” Harry said, trying to stall whatever dull punishment Dumbledore had concocted.

“Whatever I want?” Snape drawled, his tone almost bored.

He paused as he took the first step, “Except that. Whatever it is you’re thinking, we’re not doing that.”

“I cannot imagine what nonsense you’re prattling on about. Now, off you go—you’ve wasted enough time already.”

He threw the man one last pleading look and started up the stairs.

“See you after lunch, Potter,” Severus’s unsympathetic baritone echoed after him.

When he reached the top, he knocked on the heavy oak door looming above him. 

“Come in, Harry,” came Dumbledore’s muffled voice as he entered.

The office was as impressive as ever—timeless, orderly, and untouched. The large glass display cases stood proudly against the walls, as if he hadn’t shattered them months earlier.

The faint scent of lemon, tea and honey lingered in the air. 

Professor Dumbledore sat at a small side table on the landing behind his desk, near the large window that overlooked the grounds. 

His robes shimmered with iridescent fabric that caught the light like fish scales, a striking contrast against his sallow complexion. A white teapot floated beside him as he gazed out the window in peaceful silence.

“Good morning, Professor,” he greeted. “I’m here for my detention.”

“Ah, yes—you are. Very last, if memory serves. Come, sit,” Dumbledore said, gesturing to the seat across from him. “Tea first.”

He shuffled up the steps and sank into the offered seat, accepting the porcelain cup handed to him.

“Sugar?”

“Yes, thank you.”

The Headmaster looked pleased at that and passed him the sugar dish. He shoveled two generous spoonfuls into his cup, stirring vigorously until every grain had dissolved.

When he looked up, Dumbledore was watching him fondly from beneath his half-moon spectacles.

“A man of taste,” he said approvingly, raising his cup to his lips. “Truly, you remind me so much of your father when he was your age. He had a terrible sweet tooth and seemed to find himself in detention just as much.” A soft chuckle escaped him. “Some things do seem to run in families.”

“I doubt half of it was for anything that serious,” Harry said, nibbling on a lemon biscuit.

The man’s eyes twinkled with their familiar, knowing glimmer. “I wouldn’t say that. James always had a knack for landing himself right in the middle of trouble, and often not the good kind.”

“Really? He always made it sound like his time at Hogwarts was some grand adventure,” Harry said, glancing at the older wizard, who was now looking out across the sprawling grounds.

Dumbledore smiled faintly, his gaze distant. “I suppose he did see them as adventures,” he murmured. “They’re funny things, aren’t they? Adventures… they have a way of calling to certain people.”

Harry gazed out across the hills as they unfurled beneath the morning mist, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever had drawn the Headmaster’s attention.

“It’s a tempting song, really. Promises glory, purpose—oh, all the shiny things. But it never mentions the price.”

He frowned into his tea. “You make it sound like it’s alive.”

“In a way, it is.” A faint smile curved the old wizard’s mouth. “It sings to the brave and the reckless alike—and I’ve admittedly been both, sometimes on the same day.”

The faint clink of china punctuated the quiet as a pained smile crossed the Headmaster’s lips.“I’ve answered it more times than I can recall. Some were necessary. Others…” His gaze drifted once more, and Harry noticed the tremor in his hands. “Well, they made for good bedtime stories afterward, if nothing else.”

“Maybe,” Harry said, “but someone has to keep answering it, don’t they? If everyone stopped listening, half the good in the world would disappear.”

Like Regulus, like Severus, if they hadn’t listened to that call and stepped off the path that life had laid before them, who knows where the Wizarding World would be?

Dumbledore chuckled faintly. “Spoken like a true Gryffindor.”

The faint ticking at his wrist was oddly loud in the silence.

“Professor.” Harry finally spoke. “What’s this about?”

The Headmaster’s weary blue eyes landed on him, and he was struck with the sense that the man wasn’t truly present. 

“Nothing to concern yourself with, my boy,” he said softly, pouring himself another cup. “Just an old man reminiscing on younger days.” He lifted the cup, then rose from his chair with a faint rustle of robes. “Come now, let me show you your task.”

He followed quietly as he was led to an unassuming door nestled between two glass display cases. The older wizard drew his long, pale wand and traced an intricate pattern across the wood, the air humming faintly as the wards dissolved.

He hadn’t known what to expect, but the shabby storage room crammed with old clothes, broken trinkets, and the lingering scent of mothballs certainly wasn’t it.

“Ah, here’s the true punishment,” Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling. “I’m hopeless at tidying. I’ll conjure some boxes. Separate the clothes from the junk, and if you happen upon anything that suits your fancy, feel free to keep it.”

He eyed an atrocious, puke-green robe crumpled on the floor and gave the Headmaster a polite nod as several boxes appeared with a soft pop.

“If you need me, I’ll be just a call away,” Dumbledore added before turning towards the door.

Harry rolled up his sleeves and began to make sense of the chaos. Most of it was junk—robes long out of fashion, chipped teacups, a single boot missing its mate—but every so often, something made him pause. A strange brass instrument shaped like a sunflower that hummed when touched. A tattered banner from the first Goblin war. An hourglass filled with blue sand that flowed backward.

Each time, he’d call out a question, and Dumbledore’s voice would answer: amused, fond and occasionally distracted.

A few cleaning spells, a levitation charm or two, and soon the floor was visible again. He was down to the last of it; a heap of coats and cloaks hanging limply from a rusted rack at the back of the room. He reached for one, a heavy winter cloak that smelled faintly of cedar and old smoke. As he lifted it, a sharp chime rang out.

The watch had come to life.

He froze, his eyes darting down as the timepiece warmed and a faint hum filled the small space.

At four o’clock, a Trinity Knot flared brilliantly before splitting in two—one half blazing gold, the other bleeding into black—then rejoining, whole once more.

Above the dial, Venus brushed against Pluto’s orbit and dimmed, the planets aligning briefly over the numbers four, seven, and two.

He cursed under his breath. He hadn’t seen this one before, and Pluto never meant anything good. Patting his pockets, he remembered too late that he’d left his journal with Severus.

“Blast.”

He rifled through the winter cloak, checking every pocket and sleeve for anything to write with.

Nothing.

The watch grew warm again against his wrist.

Harry tossed the cloak aside, pausing at the distinct sound of metal striking stone.

Curious, he thought. I definitely checked everything.

He picked the cloak back up, running the folds between his fingers until he felt the hard outline of something solid. A hidden pocket? He spread the cloak flat on the floor, tracing along the inner stitching until his fingers brushed against a small, round shape. Following the seam downward, he found the faint ridge of concealed fabric.

Slipping his hand inside, he pulled out a thick gold ring set with a large black stone. Etched into its surface was a symbol—a triangle enclosing a circle, a single line cutting cleanly through the center. 

Harry turned it over in his palm, fingertips brushing the faint pattern of scales carved into the band.

It was unlike anything else in the Headmaster’s collection. He closed his fingers around it and stepped out of the closet.

“Professor, can I have this?”

Dumbledore chuckled from behind his desk, glancing up from the neat stack of papers before him. “Ah, something finally piqued your interest? Come, bring it here. Let me see.”

Harry brought the ring to the desk, letting it slide from his hand into the eager, outstretched palm

Almost immediately, the man stiffened.

“Where did you get this?”

“It was in the pocket of one of the cloaks. Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing… at least, not anymore,” Dumbledore said, his tone suddenly grave. “Do you know what this is?”

“A ring?” Harry offered uncertainly.

“Not just any ring,” the Headmaster murmured. “This once belonged to Marvolo Gaunt—one of the last descendants of Salazar Slytherin. His voice dropped lower as he turned the ring over between his fingers. “And, more recently, it was a Horcrux.”

Harry jerked back, his stomach twisting. He wiped his hands frantically against his robes. “A Horcrux? Why was that in your pocket? I thought they were all destroyed!”

“Easy now, Harry,” Dumbledore said gently, his tone placating but firm. “Yes, they were all destroyed. I unbound each fragment of Voldemort’s soul through ritual and drove them from this world.” He set the ring carefully on the desk.

Harry frowned, still eyeing it as if it might spring to life.

Dumbledore’s gaze lingered on it for a long moment, every year etched across his face. “Of all the Horcruxes,” he said quietly, “this one fascinated me the most. There was something in it I could never quite grasp… something I suspect even Voldemort himself failed to understand.”

The black stone caught the sunlight from the window, glinting with a muted, inner light. “I kept it close,” he went on, his voice raspy. “At first, out of scholarly curiosity. Truthfully… I think I just couldn’t bring myself to part with it.” 

His gaze went distant. “When you’ve spent years chasing evil, it leaves a mark, even when it’s gone. Perhaps I wasn’t ready to live without the chase. But like all things, in time, whatever hold it had on me began to wane.”

His gaze softened. “But you needn’t fear it. It’s inert now—an empty shell that I misplaced. Mind you, not out of carelessness—out of exhaustion, I think.”

Harry didn’t answer right away as he watched Dumbledore’s fragile wrist slide the ring across the desk towards him.

“Quite harmless now, I promise,” Dumbledore said, his voice lighter than before. “If you’d like, you may keep it. Perhaps you are the one meant to uncover its remaining secrets.”

Harry’s watch sat heavy against his wrist, the metal still warm from earlier. A pull stirred in his chest at Dumbledore’s words. Secrets? Maybe that is what the watch is trying to tell him.

He reached out and lifted it from the desk. “Maybe,” he murmured, slipping the piece of jewelry into his pocket.

Dumbledore nodded toward the closet door. “Have you finished with your task?”

Harry glanced back, following the professor’s gaze. “Almost. I just have a few coats and cloaks left, then it’ll be all clear.” He hesitated. “Would you mind if I borrowed a piece of parchment and a quill?”

“Of course.”

With a small wave of his wand, a sheet of parchment and an elegant eagle-feather quill floated from the desk and came to rest before him.

Harry gathered the quill and ink, then slipped back into the storage room for privacy. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he quickly scratched down the symbols and planets from the watch’s earlier prediction—before he forgot.

He was just setting the quill aside when a heavy pounding echoed from the door above the staircase.

“Ah. I believe that would be your next appointment. Come in.”

The door swung open with a sharp creak, and Severus filled the doorway, his heavy black robes settling around him. “Potter,” he said curtly. “There you are. You were to meet me after lunch. Practice has already started.”

Harry swore under his breath, stuffing the parchment into his pocket beside the ring before scrambling to his feet.

“Thank you for the tea, Professor,” he said quickly, hurrying towards the door.

As he followed the Severus out, he couldn’t help glancing back one last time at Dumbledore’s thin frame behind his desk, bathed in golden light.

The Headmaster’s words and the ring clung to him long after the door closed, and his lingering thoughts trailed him down the staircase and out into the chill morning air.

If he were to be an Auror, he would be answering that call to adventure as many times as it came, but what was the price? He had never really thought about it before. Would he be willing to pay it?

Had his father paid it?

By the time he reached the pitch, his mood had dimmed, and whatever warmth he’d carried from Dumbledore’s office had vanished. Even Severus’s subtle probing could not break him from his contemplation as they approached the pitch, his team circling high above.

The team had been less than understanding about his tardiness, and the moment his feet left the ground, he was promptly bombarded with Bludgers and reckless aerial dives—led, of course, by Ron.

It was brutal.

If Harry hadn’t been so exhausted, he would’ve decked Ron himself. 

It was one thing to ignore or avoid him, but leading the entire team against their own Seeker and Captain before the biggest match of the season was beyond unacceptable.

Didn’t he realize what was at stake here? Malfoy’s father had upgraded the entire Slytherin team’s brooms again. If they had any hope of winning, they needed to stand united, not tear each other apart.

Harry twisted sharply in the air, his hand slipping on the broom’s handle as Katie Bell dove past him once more, laughing as she streaked toward the goalposts.

That’s it. He’s done.

Adjusting his broom, he dove towards the ground, leveling out just before impact. He dismounted a foot above the grass and stumbled to his knees, catching himself before standing upright again.

Off to the side, he spotted Snape beside Hermione in the stands. The former’s eyes were narrowed in unmistakable disapproval, while the bushy-haired witch looked about two seconds from hexing Ron herself.

Harry tore off his gloves with his teeth and drew his wand from the holster inside his robes. Pressing the tip to his throat, he growled, “Sonorus.”

“Oi! Team—down here!” Harry’s magically amplified voice cracked across the pitch like thunder. Every head snapped toward him midair. Even the Bludgers hesitated for a beat. “That means now!”

Reluctantly, the team descended, brooms dipping one by one until they touched down in a loose semicircle around him. Ron was last, glaring as if daring Harry to start something.

“Good,” Harry said sharply. “Now that I have everyone’s attention—what the hell was that supposed to be?”

No one answered. The wind whistled softly through the goalposts.

“Because from where I was flying,” he continued, pacing in front of them, “it looked a lot less like practice and a lot more like a bloody ambush. Did I miss a meeting? Did we switch captains without telling me?” His gaze cut to Ron. “Or did you decide you’d rather see me in the Hospital Wing than the Cup?”

Ron’s ears flushed. “You were late—”

“Yeah, I was late!” He snapped, rounding on him. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t know how bad Hogsmeade was? Fine. I screwed up. I’m paying the price. But what you just pulled up there? That’s not leadership, Ron. That’s a bloody tantrum.”

A muscle twitched in Ron’s jaw, but he didn’t speak. The rest of the team shifted uneasily.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, forcing his voice into a calmer register. “If we’ve got any chance at beating Slytherin, it’ll be because we’re a team. The kind that has each other’s backs, and doesn't try to knock each other from their broom 50 feet in the air.”

Katie’s face turned bright red, and her eyes were firmly on the ground.

“We either start acting like one right now, or we can hand Malfoy the Cup and save ourselves the embarrassment.”

Silence hung for a long moment. Then, quietly, Ginny said, “He’s right.”

A murmur rippled through the group, shame and agreement mingling equally.

Harry nodded once, letting the spell fade from his throat. “Mount up,” he said simply. “We do this properly—or not at all.”

After that, the team finally fell into place. The Quaffle was passed cleanly, Bludgers were blocked, and they even managed to score a few points before Harry caught the Snitch.

Afterward, they ran a handful of agility drills, and by the end of it, he decided they didn’t look completely terrible.

When practice ended and the team touched down, no one, not even Ron, could meet his eyes as they filed past him into the locker room.

Ginny lingered by the doorway, arms folded across her chest, watching him with a sharp, assessing look that always reminded him of Mrs. Weasley.

“That was… well said,” she admitted after a moment. “I think we needed to hear that.”

Harry blew out a breath, running a hand through his hair. “Didn’t mean for it to turn into a lecture.”

“Maybe not,” she said, “but it wasn’t undeserved either.” Her gaze drifted back toward the locker room. “It’s gone too far, you know. The house. The team. Everyone pretending you’re invisible.”

His shoulders tensed. “Yeah, well…”

“No, it has, stop that.” Ginny snapped, lowering her voice. “It’s not just about you being late or the Hogsmeade mess. Ron’s… not been himself since Hermione got hurt. He’s been blaming himself. She had wanted to go on a date, buy some books, that kind of thing. But he thought helping you was more important. He promised to make it up to her, but…”

Harry looked away, jaw tight. “That wasn’t his fault.”

“I know that,” She said. “And so does he, somewhere deep down. He’s always been a bit thick, though, hasn’t he?” She gave a small, sad smile. “He’ll come around. They all will. I’ll talk to him—talk to everyone. This can’t keep going the way it is.”

He nodded, grateful but weary. “All right. I’ll give you some space. You don’t need me making things worse by hanging around.”

“You sure?”

He nodded again. “Yeah. I’ll use the other locker room.” He tried to make it sound casual, but they both knew he’d been doing that for weeks.

Ginny’s expression softened. “You shouldn’t have to.”

“I know,” he said, watching Snape approach from behind her.

She hesitated, then gave him a quick, fierce hug before disappearing inside.

Harry stood there for a moment longer, staring out over the empty pitch. He smiled as Severus moved in closer, his sharp gaze sweeping over him.

“Weasley is fortunate,” Snape said coolly, standing beside him. “I’m confident Miss Granger will rearrange his face before I have the opportunity.”

Harry barked a laugh, the sound rough from exhaustion. “You’ll have to get in line. My fist nearly beat her to it.”

Snape’s mouth twitched; it wasn’t quite a smile, but close enough to count. “Tempting as it is, I’d prefer you keep your hands intact. I fear that skull of his is so thick you would instantly shatter it.”

Harry smirked. “No promises.” He leaned against the door, admiring the man before him. “Ginny is going to talk to him and the team for me.”

“Do you think it would help?” 

“It can’t hurt, I don’t know how much more I can take… If anyone can do it, it’s her.” He said, “She’s basically a mini Molly. Where she goes, the others follow.”

“Good,” Severus drawled, his dark eyes sweeping over him. “So, tell me, Potter—do I finally have your undivided attention, or should I schedule an appointment?” 

“Hmmm, I think I can fit you in,” Harry said with a crooked grin. “I just need to clean up first. I probably smell awful.”

He lifted his arm as proof, then immediately recoiled as a pungent odor wafted up. “Ugh, yeah. That’s vile. I’ll be back, then we can do whatever you want.”

“You said it, not me,” Severus said with a smirk as Harry slipped into the empty locker room.

He quickly disrobed, tossing his Quidditch gear, glasses, and watch into a heap on the bench. One of the perks of using the secondary locker room was the privacy—it meant he could strip down without worrying about the glamor on his scars slipping, or one of the girls accidentally catching a glimpse.

Turning on the shower, he waited for the water to heat. Once steam began to roll through the room in heavy clouds, he grabbed his soap and stepped under the soothing stream, closing the curtain. The sound of pounding water filled his ears.

Then he heard it. The distinct rustling of robes and footsteps on the tiled floor. He chuckled under his breath. Looks like Severus couldn’t wait.

He stuck his head out from behind the curtain.

“Seriously, give me five minutes and—”

The wide grey eyes of Draco Malfoy met his through the haze.

He gave a startled yell, but the Slytherin flicked his wand before he could call for Snape and shouted, “Silencio!”

The shower hissed as steam billowed around them. Malfoy’s wand was aimed squarely at him, his hand trembling.

“Don’t move.”

Harry’s heart thundered in his ears as he bolted from the shower stall, pushing past the Slytherin with all his might.

Draco staggered back, but only for a moment. Regaining his balance, he lunged after him, gripping Harry’s arm and yanking him back hard.

The slick floor gave way beneath his bare feet, and Harry crashed down hard on his backside. His head hit the floor; spots danced across his vision as his breath came in rough, soundless bursts.

 He looked up into Malfoy’s wide, panicked eyes as the other boy stood over him, wand raised and ready to immobilize him at any second.

“What the hell, Potter! I told you not to move!” his voice cracked, his eyes darting from the prone Gryffindor to the door. “Just—just stay put, all right?”

Panic surged through Harry as he lay there, completely exposed. What was going on? Was Malfoy still under the Imperius? His eyes darted wildly around the room, but everything blurred at the edges without his glasses. He squinted, desperate to make sense of it, to find his wand—or anything he could use to make enough noise to alert Severus.

He winced as pain flared up in his backside, his body beginning to tremble.

“Bloody hell,” Draco muttered, sounding more rattled by the second.“This isn’t what I meant— this has gone entirely wrong.” he reached behind him, fumbling for the towel hanging from the hook just outside the shower.

“Here!” He threw it at Harry, the motion sharp and clumsy. “Just—just cover yourself, all right? Merlin, I don’t need to see that!”

He snatched the towel and wrapped it around himself as fast as he could, and once he was decently covered, they both relaxed slightly.

“Okay, this looks bad,” Malfoy said quickly. “You weren’t supposed to hear me.” He paused, grimacing. “Wait—that sounds even worse—” He swore under his breath before blurting out, “I just needed to talk to you. Alone. Without Professor Snape or any other teacher hovering, this is literally the only place you’re ever unsupervised.”

Harry looked at him as if he’d grown a second head. What could possibly be so important that he had to corner him like this? Heat rose in his face as he yanked the towel tighter around his waist.

Draco’s mouth tightened as he dragged a hand through his damp fringe, eyes darting to the door before settling back on Harry.

“I didn’t come here to hex you,” he began. “I just—this is bloody awkward.” He gave a short, humorless laugh and shifted his weight.

“Look, I know it’s probably been rough. Your house and your friends turning their backs like that, but that doesn’t mean you’re alone.”

Harry wondered if he had a concussion, because he was officially lost.

“There’s that Lovegood girl I’ve seen you with. You could likely coerce Longbottom into conversation; he’s pretty weak, I imagine it wouldn’t be hard.” He paused, “and there’s Nott… He’s into you, you know. Clever. Well-bred. Appropriate.” Grey eyes flicked up, landing on his.

Ice shot through his veins as he rose unsteadily to his feet. Appropriate? What did he mean by that?

“I know my godfather has been… protective of you.” Draco hesitated. “He doesn’t do that for just anyone. It probably feels flattering.” He stepped closer, voice lowering. “I’m not judging. It’s only that he’s complicated—brilliant, yes, but volatile and far more fragile than most would believe. I don’t want to watch him unravel over something, or someone, he shouldn’t.”

Harry tried to speak, tried to deny the truth that Malfoy had half-guessed at. His heart hammered against his ribs as his free hand clenched into a fist.

“That’s right. Finite Incantatem.”

Harry exhaled through his nose, trying to gather the right words. “Malfoy, you’ve got it wrong. There’s nothing… whatever you’re thinking, it’s not that.”

Draco raised a skeptical brow. But he didn’t interrupt, which somehow made it worse.

“Snape’s just—he’s known my mum since they were kids,” Harry went on. “He looks out for me because of that. Because she asked him to.” He shrugged, the towel slipping slightly as he gestured. “It’s nothing more than that.”

Silence stretched between them. As grey eyes scanned over Harry’s face, weighing every word.

“Right,” Malfoy said at last, his tone tinged with relief. “Just doing his duty. Out of respect for your mother…Perhaps I’m imagining things.”

He studied him for a long moment before a troubled expression crossed his face. “But if I’m not—be careful, Potter. He never does anything halfway.”

A new voice cut through the steam, a low hiss that dripped with fury.

“No. I do not.”

Harry spun toward the sound just as the man emerged from the fog, his black robes shifting like smoke and his eyes gleaming. 

He looked every bit the reaper stepping out of the mist.

“Expelliarmus!” Snape’s voice cut through the air, icy and precise. A flash of red light burst from his wand, sending Malfoy’s spinning straight into his waiting hand. He advanced on the Slytherin, every step radiating controlled fury.

“Professor Snape—” Draco stammered, taking a step back.

“What do you think you’re doing?” his voice was a snarl, anger, and betrayal bleeding through every syllable.

“N–nothing! I just needed to talk to Potter!”

Harry flinched as the black eyes snapped to him. Even blurred, he could see the accusation behind it, the disbelief. He stood half-shielded by the mist, dripping wet and wrapped in nothing but a towel.

Severus had to know that he would never.

“Tell me, Draco—was this conversation so urgent that it couldn’t wait until Potter found his trousers?” He asked, suddenly calm, “Or did you just want a closer look?” 

Truly, for the first time, Harry saw him as the Death Eater he must have been: a shadow among shadows, cloaked in black, purged of emotion.

There was no laughter, no warmth, no man. Just a servant, a weapon who reveled in the pain of those he saw as lesser.

“Well? Do not just stand there gaping; get dressed. Or do you enjoy flaunting yourself?”

Harry scrambled for the locker room, ears burning hot with shame and anger as he snatched up his robe and glasses. 

But he didn’t dare say another word, not when Severus’s voice was like that.

He tugged the robe over his head and hurried back into the bathroom. The shower had been turned off, and the older man had Draco backed into a corner, his wand leveled squarely between the boy’s eyes.

“I knew it!” Malfoy spat. “What I felt when you went into my mind wasn’t protectiveness. You want him!”

“You are the one who was fantasizing about him!” Snape snapped, his voice sharp as a razor.

“I know what I felt!” Draco shot back. “He’s my age, Severus—a student! Have you gone mad?”

“Yes!” the man snarled, his face twisting into something almost unrecognizable. “Is that what you wanted to hear? That I have gone completely insane?” He pressed the tip of his wand flush against Draco’s temple. “I fought it for as long as I could—but now that I have it, no one, not even you, will take him from me.”

“Severus, wait!” Harry surged forward, grabbing him around the waist. “Don’t hurt him! He isn’t going to tell—I swear he won’t! He was looking out for you!”

The man’s body was rigid in his arms, every muscle trembling. Harry held tighter, pulling him back against his chest, desperate to break whatever dark spell had taken hold.

There was a long, heavy beat of silence before Severus finally spoke, “I was not going to harm him,” he said tightly, the fire draining from his eyes. “Only to alter his memory, Obliviate him… make him forget.”

Draco’s eyes were as wide and silver as the moon. His breath quivered in the silence. “But I’m your godson,” he said softly. You always looked out for me. During the war, you and my mother kept me from the worst of it.”

“Yes,” the quiet admission hung heavy.

“I just… I wasn’t sure. I wanted to protect you. I don’t want you to throw everything away, not for someone like Potter. If you’re caught, they’ll drag you through the mud, bring you before the Board of Governors, and you’ll never find work again.” He hesitated, voice cracking. “Is he worth it?”

Harry’s breath caught. He slipped his arms around Severus’s middle, pulling him close until their bodies met, his face pressed into the crook of the older man’s neck. He knew—Merlin, he knew—that what they had wasn’t conventional, wasn’t allowed while he was still a student. But he’d been so caught up in him, in the heady rush of the man’s attention and his gaze, that he had never truly considered what it might cost him.

Now, standing there in the heavy silence, he was terrified of the answer.

Severus lowered his wand at last, the tension leaving him in a single, uneven breath.

“Worth it?” he said softly. “No, Draco, nothing about this is worth the cost. But I stopped weighing my choices in such terms a long time ago.”

He turned slightly, black eyes flicking toward him. “Some things… are simply beyond reason.”

Relief flooded through Harry at once, his hands loosening their grip around the man as his voice finally returned. “Malfoy, I know it must seem strange,” he said, “but I promise I’m not playing games. You can’t tell anyone—please.”

Malfoy’s shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of him as his eyes darted between Harry’s still damp form and Snape’s rigid posture. “All right, I won’t tell anyone. But not for you, Potter, for him.”

Severus regarded him for a long, measured moment. “See that you don’t.” The unspoken threat lingered in the air.

Draco nodded, pale as parchment, and he fled without another word, his footsteps echoing through the locker room until the door clicked shut behind him.

Harry exhaled, running a hand through his damp hair. “I think we can trust him,” he said, voice low. “He won’t say anything.”

Snape gave no reply, only tucked his wand away and stared at the tiles as though they’d personally betrayed him.

“But you’d do it, wouldn’t you?” he asked softly. “If he even hinted at telling anyone, you’d wipe his memory.”

Severus’s jaw tightened. “I would do what is necessary.”

He searched his face, only to be met with the inscrutable mask of calm. “I know,” he said, the words barely above a whisper as he pulled the man back into his chest and kissed the side of his neck. “That’s what scares me. I want you to promise me that you won’t.”

The older man looked away, unable to meet his eyes.

“Then I’ll make you a promise,” Harry said softly, “but only if you think about what I want.” He rested his chin on Severus’s shoulder. “If you do what’s right by me. Even if it’s hard, no matter what happens—Death Eaters, governors, my parents—I’ll come back to you.”

“You can’t possibly promise that,” Snape murmured, shoulders easing slightly as he leaned into the touch.

Harry smiled faintly, his breath brushing against the ear beside him. “Well, lucky for you, I’m very good at the impossible.”

Severus shifted, pulling from his embrace. “I was told we would do whatever I wanted?”

“Yes,” he said, frowning, his hands chasing after the dark robes.

“Then come with me, Potter.” The man’s voice regained that smooth, commanding edge as his long strides carried him across the room. The Gryffindor followed, still barefoot and slightly unsteady. “You’ll need to get your things,” he continued, without looking back. “I will not have you leave me tonight.”

Chapter Text

It was almost unbelievable how Harry was always so tight around his cock.

Severus’s hips snapped forward again, and the Gryffindor cried out hoarsely, his walls clenching in excitement.

He was lovely like this. So hot, skin flushed pink as he pounded into him until he was nothing but a babbling mess. 

So perfect, so responsive.

“Fuck! Plea—” the pleading moan broke through the sound of skin on skin. “Yes, yes, yes, yes… I can’t.” 

He’d spent years pretending he didn’t need anyone. Yet here, with Harry gasping beneath him, the thought of losing him, of losing this, made every breath feel borrowed.

He gently brushed a wild lock of hair from Potter’s face, clearing it from his line of sight.

If Draco exposed the nature of their relationship… Would he still get to see those green eyes? 

His rhythm faltered at the thought, every stroke suddenly feeling perilous. 

Would that ridiculous smile still be turned to him? Would the wit and quiet warmth that had touched long-dead parts of him be lost?

A hand snaked into his hair, tugging him down until their mouths met, and Severus returned the kiss with a hungry urgency, reveling in the way Harry gasped so sweetly for relief.

No, they could try, but it was far too late. Their magic had already intertwined so completely and irrevocably that he knew that there was no stopping this.

Shifting the hips below him, he began moving in slow, long strokes so he could feel every inch of the tight heat. 

“Stop teasing me— told you I can’t.”

An animalistic groan ripped from his throat as the strong legs that had been wrapped around his waist pulled him in so hard and fast that he almost came instantly as he bottomed out.

He stilled, trembling at the overwhelming sensation of his cock being buried so completely.

Harry cried out in frustration at the lack of movement and Severus smirked.

Who was he to deny such a request?

“I recommend you hold onto something.” He slid his cock out. “You’ll be lucky to stay on that broom tomorrow.”

Clouded eyes stared up at him before widening in realization.

“Wait, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean —Ah!” He shrieked as Severus flipped him over.

“Hold on.” He reminded him, before he lined himself back up and slammed in. Harry cried out in surprise, jerking forward with each thrust until he finally gripped the headboard, desperate to regain some control.

“You’re always pushing me.” Severus was a mess—his undershirt clung to his skin, his heart pounding from exertion under the now brutal pace.

“I want to see you like this, begging for it, taking it.” He watched his member disappear between the now red arse cheeks. 

“He may have gotten to see you, but he doesn't get to see this…” Two more forceful thrusts were punctuated by a moan. “This is just for me.”

Fueled by the intoxicating scent of cinnamon and sex and Harry’s spasming tight heat, Severus frantically pumped into the fevered passage below him.

Long strips of come painted the sheets, and with one last deep push and a shudder, he released himself into his younger partner, filling up the now limp body.

Still connected, he collapsed beside him and pulled him right to his chest. The pulse between them slowed as their breathing evened out.

No, they didn't get to see or have this. He would make sure of that.

“Severus.” Potter groaned, shifting until his now soft cock slid out of his abused entrance. “I’ve got a game tomorrow! How can I play if my arse is this sore?”

He nipped the Gryffindor’s shoulder and chuckled when he earned a glare. “Calm down. I have something prepared.” 

Reluctantly, he left the comfort of his bed, and with one last glance at his young lover’s debauched appearance, he left the warmth of Harry’s skin and the bedroom.

He crossed the chamber to his private storage cupboard, the cool air replacing the earlier calm with a creeping unease that coiled in his gut like smoke— back to the one loose thread he couldn’t ignore.

He undid the wards with a few precise taps, and the door opened with a click.

What to do with Draco…

Harry was convinced his godson wouldn’t reveal anything, that he only wanted to protect Severus, and there was probably some truth to that.

It would have been touching if he didn’t know better. But he knew the Malfoys, knew how they thought, and Draco was no different. Nothing from that family came without strings, and he’d be damned if Harry became the cost.

He finally found the red bottle he was looking for. He picked it up, watching how the facets caught and scattered the candlelight.

He should have just ignored Potter and obliviated the entire mess from Malfoy’s mind. One flick of his wand and the problem gone.

Sure, there was a risk of scrambling his mind, but the boy probably would have been fine.

Probably.

Another vial caught his eye, a clear bottle promising a sweet and dreamless sleep. His hand hovered over it.

It might not be too late.

A few drops into Harry’s draught and the room would go quiet. Then he could deal with Draco like he should have.

He lifted the clear bottle. The stopper loosened beneath his thumb, and for a moment, he simply held it—watching how the liquid clung to the sides in slow, viscous ripples.

It would be so simple.

From the bedroom, he heard the rustle of fabric and a content sigh—the kind that only came when Harry felt safe.

He shoved the vial back in place and slammed the cupboard door shut, a lump rising in his throat as he turned away and hurried back.

A playful whistle greeted him as he slipped back into the room. Harry gave him a cheeky grin; he was lying nude across the bed, his perky red arse exposed to the cool dungeon air. Severus noted that he’d scourgified himself and the sheets.

“Did you get lost? I was worried I would have to come find you.”

“I wasn’t gone that long.” He settled beside Potter and handed him the vial. “Now drink.”

“What is it?”

“Pain Relief Draught. Should help with the sting.” He ran his hand up Harry’s firm backside. He really was lovely. “I have more for you tomorrow.”

The green eyes sparked with mischief as he took a sip from the bottle. “You’d better, or I’m going to have to call interference on Slytherin.”

“Interference? Hardly. Consider it a tactic.”

The snort in response was immediate. “A tactic, huh? Sounds like the kind of thing a losing team would say.”

Severus’s lips twitched. He was impossible.

He took the empty vial, setting it aside, and sank back deeper onto the bed. The air held the trace of comfort between them. Harry lay close, his chest rising and falling in an easy rhythm.

“Thank you for not sending me back,” he hesitated, his voice low. “I don’t think I could handle it tonight.”

He heard the fatigue more than the words; the isolation had taken its toll.

“After the day we’ve had, consider it a practical decision.”

“And here I thought you wanted me here.” Potter sighed dramatically.

The candlelight traced gold along Harry’s bare shoulders, and Severus found his gaze wandering. There were more scars than he remembered. Faint lines across his ribs, a narrow mark along his hip. He followed the path of one in particular—a pale, curved impression along his right shoulder.

“This,” he murmured, fingertips brushing near it. “I don’t recall seeing it before.”

Harry glanced down, then grimaced.

“Bloody hell.”  He pulled back from him, his hand covering the fang-shaped scar. “The glamour must’ve faded.”

Severus froze. “You’ve been using a glamour?”

Potter struggled with the sheet as he tried to pull it over him, flushing crimson as his legs tangled. “Brilliant.” He kicked at the knot in vain. “Get off me!”

Severus stilled him and pulled the sheet aside, his gaze tracing the pale lines that crossed the Gryffindor’s body.

“I’ve been using it since fourth year, mostly. It’s stupid, I know. Got this one from the basilisk in Second year.”

The faint scar gleamed in the low light, and he could picture it—the venom, the sheer impossible luck of surviving it. 

Potter gave a small, weary shrug

“I don’t wear it every day. Just for Quidditch… or if I know someone will see.” He paused, glancing at Severus. “It’s easier than trying to explain.… They’re old, anyway. They don’t matter.”

He wasn’t sure he agreed. He’d known the story, of course. Everyone did. But the abstract details of a boy and a monster were different than seeing the aftermath beneath his own hand.

“Albus never told us, but how did you even get down there?”

“You won’t believe it,” he started. “Did you know the Sorting Hat can speak Parseltongue?”

Severus raised a brow.

“Seriously!” He chuckled. “You’ll love this—we thought Lockhart might actually be useful.”

He really didn't believe that, and whatever expression he wore clearly betrayed his thoughts.

“Hey! I was twelve, and he was supposed to be this amazing expert on dark creatures, so we ran to him the second we found the snake carving.”

He snorted. “Big mistake. Took about five minutes to realize he couldn’t handle a Puffskein, let alone a Basilisk. We dragged him to Dumbledore’s office, but he wasn't there— business at the Ministry. The Sorting Hat was, though, and it told us to take it.” A small and tired smile crossed his lips. “Apparently, it’s got bits of all four Founders, even their abilities, rattling around in it. So we figured, why not? We grabbed the Hat, kept Lockhart from fainting, and went straight into the Chamber.”

For a long moment, Severus said nothing. The silence between them stretched, thick with the weight of everything he hadn’t known.

“You went down there alone,” he said at last. “At twelve.”

Harry nodded once. “I just couldn't let someone else get hurt.”

Severus exhaled slowly. “You were surrounded by adults,” he murmured, "and still you couldn't ask for help.”

He knew that feeling.

The fear that reaching out would only prove how alone you really were.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “It was dumb. Mum and Dad were pretty mad, but I think they were mostly just happy I was alive.”

He’d seen it before, in Hogsmeade, Lily calling it strength, and James, well… he was certain, mistook it for pride.

They had both failed him, neither willing to see the fear behind their son’s silence.

He had failed him too.

Once, he accused Potter of arrogance. He pulled Harry to him and gently kissed the raised tissue. But he understood now.

“After the Dursleys, I guess I got used to handling things myself.”

Fingertips brushed the hem of his still-damp shirt. “Take this off,” Harry murmured, his nose wrinkling, “It’s disgusting. You’ll catch a cold.”

He hesitated. The mark on his arm burning.

“Come on,” Potter said, tugging his shirt. “I can’t be the only completely naked one, can I?”

Hesitantly, he undid each button, the chill of the dungeon raising goosebumps as more skin was revealed.

Harry’s breath hitched. “Is that—”

“Yes.” Severus’s voice was steady. The faded red brand stood stark against his pale flesh.

“I’ve never seen one up close.”

“Nor will you,” he replied after a pause. “Very few of us were ever bestowed the honor.” The words were bitter in his mouth.

“Honor?” Harry asked, his voice tight with disbelief. “How could that ever be an honor?”

How did one explain a kind of self-hatred born from an abusive Muggle father and a life of small humiliations? The lure of power that promised to erase everything he despised—to grant him the respect he thought he was owed?

He didn’t move for a long moment. Severus half expected him to turn away in disgust, in horror.

Instead, without a word, Harry reached out and laid his fingers gently over the mark, pressing just enough to feel the ridges beneath his skin.

He looked up, searching Severus’s face. Whatever he found there made him shift closer until their foreheads touched.

“And then there was my mother,” he murmured.

“And then there was your mother,” Severus echoed, dazed. The attacks on Lily had woken him. Nothing in the world would ever have been better without her in it.

Harry kissed him softly, his voice rough when he spoke. “I guess we have both made some pretty dumb decisions.”

For once, he had no reply. The ache in his chest was too full for speech.

A hand slid from his forearm to his chest, tracing idle circles as they lay together. Severus let his arm curl around the younger man until the room fell silent save for the tender rhythm of sleep.

Carefully, he slipped from the bed and moved through the room like a shadow, Potter’s warmth fading quickly in the damp chill.

“Lumos.”

With a flick, the tip of his wand flared to life, casting pale light across the chamber. Severus crossed to one of his many bookcases and began pulling volumes at random: oaths, contracts, binding spells—there had to be something.

He stacked the books neatly on the side table and sank into his chair, the pages glowing white beneath the steady light of his wand.

He opened the first volume and began what promised to be a long night of research.

*****************************

By morning, the search for answers had given way to the deafening cheers of students.

As far as early December days went in Scotland, today was a perfect day to watch Quidditch. 

Severus scowled as he adjusted his green and silver scarf against the slight chill and obnoxious crowd.

Would his time have been better spent researching or catching up on the latest issue of “Potions Weekly”? 

Yes. 

But even he had to admit, his team was in excellent form. Lucius’s new Nimbus 3000s carried Crabbe and Goyle as if they weren’t cinder blocks with arms, and Blaise was streaking through the air, intercepting almost every pass the Gryffindors made.

Granted, they were nowhere near as fast as Harry on his Firebolt, but few things were.

Off in the distance, he could just make out Potter circling the pitch, occasionally barking out directions. It had been a rough start, but the team finally seemed to be falling into line.

The Gryffindor shifted uncomfortably on his broom, and Severus frowned.

He may have gotten a bit carried away last night…

A loud bell rang across the field, and the Slytherins and some Ravenclaws erupted into cheers, the abrupt sound causing him to tense.

“That’s another ten points to Slytherin—courtesy of Zabini,” came the amplified dreamy voice of Lovegood over the pitch. “Don’t worry, Gryffindor. They may have faster brooms, but you’ve got much better energy.”

“Luna! You can’t say that! We’re supposed to be unbiased!” hissed Zacharias Smith.

“Oh,” she said, sounding surprised, “is it biased if it's a fact?”

“Yes! …I mean, just report the score, describe the match.” Smith sputtered, causing a ripple of laughter from the crowd.

He glanced over at Minerva, who was decked out in red and gold. “I’m assuming you’re responsible for this hit job?”

“What? Oh, nonsense.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Miss Lovegood and Mr. Smith were our only volunteers. They’re from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff—it only seemed fair to have them as commentators for this game.”

“Oh, look, what a lovely hand off to Katie by Ginny. Perhaps you can give Slytherin a few pointers—they don’t seem to know how to pass properly.”

“Luna!” There was a brief scuffle, followed by Smith’s strained voice echoing across the field. “Slytherin, one hundred points—Gryffindor, forty!”

“Well, with a score like that, it seems Gryffindor could use the support,” Dumbledore chuckled from behind them. The older wizard was wrapped head to toe in an unnecessarily thick red-and-gold wool cloak, a matching Gryffindor scarf looped neatly around his neck.

Severus suspected that he had coordinated with McGonagall

“It seems hardly fair that the Slytherins are all allowed to use top-of-the-line brooms,”  she complained bitterly.

“You just don't want to lose another bet to me.” He smirked. “If you want to talk about fair, let's talk about Potter’s Firebolt or the whole concept of the Snitch.”

“Please, Severus, let us not bring up that old argument.”

“Betting?” a prim voice interrupted them. “Sounds interesting. What are the stakes?” Professor Crouch slid into the empty seat beside Dumbledore, just behind them.

He didn’t turn. “Professor Crouch, how unexpected. I wasn’t aware you had an interest in student recreation.”

“I enjoy a little friendly competition,” the blonde man replied, his smile fading. “Surely there’s room for one more?”

“Oh, surely there is,” Severus murmured, eyes fixed on the field. Crabbe sent a Bludger barreling towards the Weasley girl, who narrowly dodged it. The two Slytherin beaters had been wildly sending Bludgers at the Gryffindors all game. It was a miracle one hadn’t hit them yet. 

“It’s simply that Minerva and I are… familiar with the more specific tactics of our teams, and we’d hate for you to feel at a disadvantage.”

Crouch’s expression tightened. “I assure you, I grasp the basics.”

“Of course,” he said pleasantly. “Though I imagine the basics can be quite demanding when one is more accustomed to… administrative pursuits.”

A cold flash of fury danced across the Defence Professor’s eyes. “Now, you see here, I am more than capable of—”

“Oi, Professor Snape, McGonagall! Five Galleons says Potter’s about to try somethin’ daft!” Hagrid roared from a few seats over. 

“Reckon he’s goin’ fer the Snitch upside down. Saw him practicin’ that once!”

He had better not do that.

With a swish of her wand, she summoned the Galleons from Hagrid and pocketed them. “Ten to one against.”

The Half-Giant grinned. “Aye, that bad, is it?”

“It’s Potter,” she said crisply. “Frankly, I’m being generous. Now, Professor Crouch, you most certainly may join.” She shot Severus a long-suffering look over her spectacles.

Crouch hesitated; he gazed uncertainly toward the players. “That’s quite all right, perhaps next time. I’m actually here to speak with the Headmaster.”

He inclined his head toward Albus, who rose shakily from his chair to follow the man somewhere more private.

“Please,” Dumbledore added over his shoulder, “do call me when Potter spots the Snitch.”

McGonagall waited until the two had left before turning a withering gaze on him.

“Honestly, Severus,” she said, voice low but sharp. “Must you antagonize every Defence Professor who crosses your path?”

“I fail to see the harm in discouraging mediocrity,” he replied coolly, folding his arms.

“The Defence marks have actually improved under his instruction.”

“A marginal improvement hardly warrants sainthood.”

“Try civility, then,” she said tartly. “You might surprise yourself.”

Lovegood’s voice floated from the commentator’s box above, cutting him off before he could respond. “It seems Potter has seen the Snitch, look at him go!”

Grabbing his Omnioculars, his head snapped toward left field. Harry was a scarlet blur against the sky, bent low over his broom, robes whipping around him as he quickly gained altitude.

Draco came up fast from behind, pushing his Nimbus 3000 until they were neck and neck.

A smirk passed across his face, and whatever he said to Harry caused him to falter, and Severus saw him glance down at his wrist.

Then a shout from the crowd split the air.

A Bludger, wild and spinning, slammed into Potter’s side with a sickening crunch. His body went limp, broom veering out from under him as he dropped.

The crowd gasped; Luna’s voice faltered mid-sentence, Severus shot to his feet.

Draco hovered for a moment, a stunned look plastered across his face, before snapping back into motion and tearing after the Snitch.

Harry was plummeting and he just stood there, frozen.

A flash of red, orange, and gold tore through the sky.

“Is that? Yes!” Lovegood exclaimed. “Ron, get him!”

Weasley dove faster than he had ever seen him move, faster than he thought the school-issued broom was capable of. He screamed downward faster and faster until he was nothing but air and color hurtling toward the limp body.

“Merlin, no,” McGonagall breathed, half rising from her seat, wand in hand. “I can’t cushion it! He fell from too high up.”

Before either could hit the ground, before it was too late, Weasley snatched the other boy around the waist, yanking him up hard.

The weight wrenched the broom sideways, sending them into a violent spiral. The handle jerked and bucked as he fought to regain control.

For a heartbeat, Severus thought they wouldn’t make it.

Then, with a frantic twist, Ron leveled out—broom skimming just feet above the field as they crashed onto the grass in a spray of dirt and momentum.

A deafening horn blared.

The match was over.

Droves of Gryffindors stormed the field towards the two prone forms on the ground.

Around the pitch, Draco looped triumphantly through the air, the golden Snitch held high above his head, his face still pale. The roar of Slytherin House rose to meet him.

Severus barely heard it over the frantic pounding of his own heart.

Minerva bolted from her chair toward the stairs, finally snapping him out of his daze. He overtook her within seconds, the sharp echo of his boots cutting through the roar of the crowd as he descended toward the pitch.

“Out of my way!” he snarled, slicing through the sea of Gryffindors like a knife through butter.

Weasley lay crumpled on the grass, his tall, lanky frame clinging to his friend.

He dropped to his knees beside them, dark eyes quickly assessing the damage. Ron’s arm was bent at a sickening angle, a deep purple bruise already blooming across his pale, freckled skin. He trembled with adrenaline, muttering something incoherent under his breath.

“Mr. Weasley, I need you to release Potter.”

“The sky... the sky will favor you, if you dare,” Ron chanted, voice trembling. His grip only tightened. “The sky will favor you... It will favor you... it will favor—”

“It’s okay, Weasley,” he said, steady but firm. “You did good. You got him. You can relax now.”

Ron’s white-knuckled hands loosened, the color slowly returning to his fingers.

“That’s it,” he coaxed as Harry’s motionless form slipped free from the boy’s grasp.

Potter looked terrible; his goggles were cracked, and bruising was already blooming up his neck. There was no question in his mind that he was bleeding internally.

“Get out of our way!” a shrill voice cut through the throng. “I am his mother, and I said, MOVE!”

Molly Weasley burst through the crowd like a force of nature, Pomona, Arthur, Lily and James close on her heels.

A flicker of relief cut through Severus’s tension at the sight. At least now, help had arrived. If anyone could keep a clear head in this chaos, it was Madam Pomfrey.

As soon as she saw that her son was breathing, Molly scooped him into a bone-crushing hug, earning a sharp yelp of pain.

“Mum—my arm.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie.” She sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with the edge of Arthur’s robes. “Are you all right?”

“I’m okay,” came the quiet reply.

Molly studied him intently. “Are you?”

Still trembling, Ron rested his head against her shoulder and closed his eyes. “That was mental… but I’m okay.”

Severus caught James watching the exchange with a furrowed brow, before the man turned his attention back to his own son.

“What’s the damage?” Madam Pomfrey asked him, rolling up her sleeves as Lily began casting diagnostic charms.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s internal bleeding,” he replied. “I was only just able to pull Weasley off him.”

Lily’s hands shook, but her voice was steady as she cast another diagnostic spell. A faint blue light hovered over Harry’s chest before it deepened to crimson.

“There’s internal bleeding,” she said quickly, “but it’s not severe. If we keep him stabilized, some potions and a few targeted healing charms should be enough.”

Pomfrey gave a sharp nod. “Then let’s move him. Weasleys follow us.”

Between the four of them, Severus, McGonagall, Pomfrey, and James, they managed to lift Harry steadily. Lily’s magic shimmered subtly around him, a silvery aura holding his chest and abdomen in place as they crossed the pitch with the Weasleys in tow.

The stands had gone silent. Even the Slytherins, who had been celebrating earlier, watched in uneasy quiet as the group hurried toward the castle.

By the time they reached the Hospital Wing, Lily’s spell was wavering. Severus stepped in without a word, reinforcing the stabilizing charm. The two magics met, intertwined, and steadied.

Pomfrey moved quickly, directing them to a bed near the window. “On three,” she said. “One—two—three.”

His body hit the mattress with a muted thud. The faint, ragged sound of his breathing was followed by a soft groan.

The sound hit Severus harder than it should have.

Pomfrey and Lily immediately began layering healing spells. The distinct scent of Blood-Replenishing Potion filled the air, while the occasional diagnostic charm flared blue before flashing red over the areas they had missed.

After several tense minutes, the mediwitch finally straightened, letting out a slow breath. “He’s stable. That will do for now.”

She turned to Minerva and Severus, wiping her hands on her apron. “Thank you both for your assistance. I can handle it from here.”

McGonagall inclined her head. “Of course, Poppy.”

A cry of pain came from the bed over.

“Mr. Weasley!” Pomfrey barked, whirling toward the next bed. Ron had tried to sit up, his broken arm jutting at an impossible angle. “Hold still, I am getting to you!”

“Sorry!” he yelped, going red to the ears.

A tired sigh escaped the Head of Gryffindor at her students' antics. “Come on. Let her handle the chaos. The families will want privacy.”

He hung back, his eyes lingering on the pale figure lying in the bed.

Was he always so small?

Lily sat beside him, adjusting the blanket and tucking it neatly as she went. When she reached his arm, her brow furrowed. She lifted his wrist, eyes flicking between the watch and his face, studying him as though she might divine meaning from the shifting pattern of its runes.

At last, she rose and joined James, who was murmuring something to Arthur near the window.

His fingers flexed at his side, and the urge to cross the room and brush the damp hair from Potter’s forehead—to be there when he woke, to see what the watch revealed—rose sharp and sudden, almost painful.

But that would be noticed. Questioned.

Instead, he forced himself through the doors and into the corridor beyond the ward. Minerva stood with Dumbledore, the two speaking in hushed tones.

“How are the boys doing?” Albus asked, the timbre of his voice low and weary. “You don’t believe it was another attack, do you?”

“No,” she confirmed. “Thank Merlin—it’s just a nasty Quidditch injury. Goyle, the big brute, hit the Bludger straight at Potter. He didn’t see it coming.”

Goyle. So that was it. He’d been so focused on Harry that he hadn’t noticed where the Bludger had come from.

“Ah, perfect timing,” Albus said, inclining his head in greeting. “Minerva, I’ll let you get on your way. I’m sure the rest of the Gryffindor team will be anxious to hear about their teammates’ conditions.”

She gave them both a quick nod and hurried down the hall, no doubt, to contain the inevitable Gryffindor chaos.

Nerves still raw, he focused on emptying his mind. He couldn’t afford to slip now—not in front of Dumbledore.

“Thank you for stepping in while I handled my business with Professor Crouch,” he said gently.

Severus folded his arms, expression unreadable. “It seems my unofficial post as Potter’s personal crisis interventionist remains secure.”

A soft chuckle escaped the Headmaster. “You’re quite on top of it, I admit.”

But Severus wasn’t smiling. Curiosity prickled at him until he finally asked the question that had been eating away at his thoughts. “And what, precisely, required your attention with Crouch?”

Dumbledore sighed, the sound heavy, the weight of it seeming to settle into his shoulders. “That is what I wished to speak with you about before meeting with the Potters and the Weasleys.”

He glanced down the corridor, ensuring they were alone. “I’ve kept this matter quiet for some time now, but the truth is… I didn’t merely request that the Ministry provide a Defence teacher. I asked for assistance in undoing the curse upon the Defence Against the Dark Arts post.”

Severus’s eyes narrowed. “After all these years?”

“The curse remains as stubborn as the man who cast it,” he admitted quietly. “How it works, why it persists after Voldemort’s demise—there is still so much we do not know. So the Ministry sent an Unspeakable to aid us.”

“Barty Crouch Jr.”

The older wizard nodded. “He’s been working tirelessly to uncover its origin and find a way to unravel it.”

Severus’s mouth tightened. “That explains some of his behavior, but not what I’ve witnessed with Potter. The touching. The after-hours tutoring. He gave the boy Dreamless Sleep— unsupervised.”

All things he himself was guilty of… except worse. The thought stung, and he forced it down.

“Yes,” Dumbledore said, unperturbed by the acid in his tone. “You’ve already made your concerns abundantly clear. Barty’s shortcomings in understanding what is expected of a Hogwarts Professor are my fault. He was only meant to assist with the curse, nothing more. But when no one else would take the post, I called in a favor, and he graciously agreed to step in.”

Something in the man’s voice made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

“I have seen to it that he now understands what is acceptable,” the Headmaster said mildly. “I believe he hasn’t crossed any lines since your little chat with him, hmm?”

He went still. Albus knew about that?

“No—he hasn’t.”

“Not much escapes my notice in this school.” Dumbledore’s pale blue eyes regarded him with quiet scrutiny. “Barty came to me with concerns of his own. About you. About your interest in the Potters. About the Death Eaters.”

His voice dropped. “What did you say?”

“The truth.” He paused. “That I trust you with my life—have trusted you with my life. I realize you and Barty may never see eye to eye, but I am still asking you to consider lending him your expertise. The curse follows a pattern; if it holds true, we are running out of time. I doubt he will be as fortunate as Lupin.”

“Why now?” Severus asked slowly. “Why try to undo it after all this time? And why keep it hidden?”

Dumbledore’s gaze drifted toward the closed infirmary doors. Then, in a gentler tone, he said, “Because, my dear boy… after all these years, the soul-unbinding ceremonies are catching up to me. Magic like that—well, I held it off for as long as I could.”

He looked at the man before him, drowning in his red-and-gold wool cloak, thinner than he had ever seen him. He turned away, his jaw tightening against the rising knot in his throat. He didn’t want to say what Albus would not. He didn’t want to give the truth the power of words.

A comforting, frail hand came to rest on his shoulder. “Yes, Severus,” Dumbledore said quietly. “I’m dying.”