Chapter Text
Except for the occasional scrape of quills against parchment, the kitchen was quiet. Harry and Malfoy sat at their usual places—opposite ends of the wooden table—-their schoolwork spread out before them, with both already looking disgruntled at the arrangement.
Harry wondered, sitting on a worn cushion and trying his best to silence his breathing, if this was some form of entertainment for Snape—-or, worse, some sort of punishment.
Two hours ago, when Harry had first been told to work on his summer assignments at the table with Malfoy, it had been tolerable. Questionable, but tolerable.
However, that at-ease feeling quickly wore off, leaving only the annoyance of forced proximity.
Now, with his half-finished plate disregarded to his far right, the remnants of food long gone cold, Harry was suddenly reminded of the very empty desk in his bedroom.
But he knew Snape’s orders were non-negotiable.
He could practically imagine Snape leaning back against the counter, arms crossed, giving them both a look that could only be interpreted as expectant. His posture would give off an air of that annoying, authoritative, almost egotistical confidence he held often in class, his eyes fixed on them with that all too familiar smirk. His voice would be smooth, laced with barely concealed amusement as he would open his mouth, saying something on the lines of “You have desks in your rooms, yet I would prefer you to complete your assignments here.” He would state it cooly, relishing in the pain he was causing them, relishing in the control . “Use this time to sharpen your minds—Merlin knows one of you needs to—” he’d shoot a nasty look towards him before continuing, “---and your ability to tolerate each other.”
Malfoy would then scoff, muttering, “Tolerate Potter?” with a sneer. “Sure.” He’d spat. To which Harry would find himself glaring in response, only for Snape to give him a warning look. He’d probably be called out on it too.
Harry continued writing, thinking of that empty desk in his room. Thinking of an equally empty desk in Malfoy’s. Thinking of everything that had led him to this point. Thinking of that stupid essay prompt staring up at him from his paper: Create twelve inches of parchment on the properties of moonstone and its uses in potion-making.
He had managed to scrape together about seven inches, mostly repeating what he knew about moonstone’s uses in Draught of Peace and Amortentia. The problem was the technical details. He was supposed to explain why moonstone worked as a stabilizer and how its properties reacted with other ingredients.
His eyes drifted across the table to Malfoy, who was sitting with annoyingly straight posture, scribbling away at what looked to be at least nine inches of neat, well-organized notes.
Before Harry could look away, Malfoy’s gaze snapped up. His lips curled into a smirk as he met Harry’s eyes. “Having trouble, Potter?”
Harry immediately looked down, pretending to be absorbed in his notes, flipping the pages of his potions book in frustration. Really, how was he expected to know this?
Malfoy let out an exaggerated huff. “Still playing the silent act, I see. You know, I’d expect that even a child could ask for help if it were so utterly lost. Unless, of course, it’s too proud or— too cowardly.”
Harry’s grip on his quill tightened. Was Malfoy still trying to bait him? After everything?
And yet, despite everything , the temptation to snap back was almost overwhelming.
Malfoy continued on, his attention back on his own parchment. “Funny, I always thought you were brave. And here you are, too afraid to admit you’re lost. You’d think being the Chosen One would at least exempt you from being a complete idiot.”
Harry took a deep breath, glancing at his potions book as he considered hurling it across the table. But he forced the feeling down. It wouldn’t do any good to let his emotions get the best of him. Again.
He let his focus shift back to Malfoy. Beneath the insults, there was something different in Malfoy’s tone. Less venom, perhaps. Almost as if he were going through the familiar motions, testing Harry’s boundaries but not crossing them. And Malfoy, for his part, still seemed unable to hold Harry’s gaze for long, looking away after a moment whenever their eyes met.
He seemed to be speaking for a….conversation?
Was he trying to banter with him?
Were they bantering?
He returned to his essay, trying to ignore the awkward tension hanging between them. Minutes passed, and the silence seemed to stretch on forever, each of them pointedly ignoring the other’s presence. Every so often, Harry would steal a glance at Malfoy, only to see him furiously scribbling away, his brow furrowed in concentration.
But the silence didn’t last. Soon enough, Malfoy spoke up again, his tone sharp but still lacking the venom it once held. “Honestly, Potter, if you’re struggling with your essay, it wouldn’t kill you to ask for help.”
Harry didn’t respond, not willing to give him the satisfaction. But Malfoy continued, undeterred. “You probably don’t even understand what moonstone does in half the potions Snape’s asked us to list, do you?”
Annoyed, Harry wrote on his whiteboard, Why do you care?
Malfoy hesitated, the usual smirk absent from his face. “I don’t,” he muttered, looking back down at his work. “But I’d rather not waste my time sitting here with someone who’s too thick-headed to even try to learn.”
Despite himself, Harry felt a small flicker of satisfaction. Malfoy was clearly frustrated, unable to rile him up in the way he’d hoped. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to get through the next few minutes without snapping.
However, he let his gaze drift back to his essay, still barely at 7 inches. He looked to Malfoy who was back to writing diligently.
Was he serious about it?
Did he mean—
Oh, to hell with it.
He grabbed his whiteboard again, ignoring the way Malfoy’s head snapped back towards him.
Are you serious?
“Serious about what?” Draco drawled, wanting Harry to say it, to admit he needed Malfoy’s help.
The blonde was far too happy about this.
You know about what.
“I’m not sure I do. Could you clarify?”
Harry took three controlled breaths before responding.
Will you help me or not Malfoy?
Malfoy smiled at that, his gaze flickering between the whiteboard and Harry, a satisfied smirk settling on his features.
“If you so insist” He replied, sticking his hand out towards Harry.
Harry looked at the hand, pulling his eyebrows together. What was he doing?
Malfoy rolled his eyes but kept his hand stretched out, huffing out, “I need to review what you’ve written before I can actually help.”
Oh. Feeling his face heat up, Harry quickly pushed his paper towards Malfoy, ignoring the other and staring down at the table. How embarrassing.
Malfoy glanced down at Harry’s parchment with a hint of a smirk still playing on his lips, shaking his head with an exaggerated sigh. “How have you survived four years at Hogwarts writing like this? I can barely make out the first few words.”
Harry gritted his teeth, quickly writing out a response. He knew this would be a bad idea.
Do you know the difference between talking and annoying?
Malfoy’s mouth twitched. “You know, being snarky doesn’t make up for incompetence.”
Harry rolled his eyes, going back to ignoring the blonde. Malfoy snorted, but didn’t retort. Instead, he took Harry’s parchment, his eyes scanning the messy writing with a critical eye. “You’ve got half of these preparations wrong. Here—-” He tapped his quill near the middle of Harry’s essay. “For the Draught of Peace, you still need to grind your powdered moonstone into a uniform powdered mixture with your porcupine quills. Even if it seems redundant, moonstone, while among some of the milder gemstones used in potions, can still have numerous harmful effects. Powdered moonstone helps bring the body into alignment, particularly chemicals in the brain, increasing the ability of the body and mind to relax and find “peace”. If you are able to expand more on its effect on the body as well as the potion, you would be able to quickly add a few more inches to the parchment. Also—”
As Malfoy continued to point out the shortcomings of his essay, Harry’s mind drifted to another person who would lecture him like this—-bossy and detailed. Hermione was a force of nature. Someone who seemed to always be world’s above him in intellect, and yet always determined to come back to earth to help him understand. To help both him and Ron.
Hermione would sit with them by the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room, making a show of the fact that she had already completed her homework, complaining about the hour but never leaving them. The flames in the fireplace would burn smaller and smaller and she’d still be there. Most of the time she would fill the space with her very common and very opinionated rants about everyone and everything at Hogwarts that put her on edge. How the far left sink in the girls bathroom always dripped, how that was a show of privilege and ignorance in a way because it was a waste of water, and how no one had come to fix it yet despite the many letters she had sent to Filch.
Other times, she would sit quietly on the couch, reading up on next week’s lectures or going over her already revised homework. She would be so quiet in those moments, her presence so small and yet so felt because she was there.
That was why, tuning out the rest of Malfoy’s lecture, Harry found himself so hurt by the fact that she wasn’t there. Not now. Not all summer.
Neither her nor Ron were there.
They were both so far from being there that Harry found himself wondering, for the first time since first year, what they were doing. Without him. And his chest felt just a bit constricted at the fact that he didn’t know.
Were they having the time of their life? The best summer ever? Were they so happy to be free of him and all his problems?
Was he a problem?
But it didn’t matter. Not really.
He just wanted them there again.
Malfoy broke him out of his thoughts, pushing the paper back towards Harry, scoffing. “To disregard grinding it out because it is already powdered? Snape would rip you apart for even suggesting it.”
Harry sighed, not really sure what he was talking about before making a note, realizing that Malfoy’s critiques were, irritatingly enough, helpful. Still, he wasn’t about to let him think he was impressed.
Why do you care what Snape thinks of my work?
Malfoy’s expression flickered. He shrugged, looking back to his own parchment. “Maybe I just don’t want to be associated with an idiot,” he muttered, his voice uncharacteristically low. “Bad enough I’m already stuck here with you.”
For a moment, Harry considered replying with some biting retort about Malfoy’s arrogance, but instead, he found himself focusing on that word.
Stuck.
It looped in his mind like a mantra, digging in deeper with every repetition. He stared at the scrawled words on his parchment, but they blurred and twisted under the weight of the thought.
Everyone seemed to be stuck with him.
Ron and Hermione—they didn’t say it, but sometimes Harry wondered if they ever saw him like he was a burden they felt obligated to carry. The Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One. Their tether to a war they never wanted to fight.
Maybe not responding to his letters was their attempt at being unstuck from him.
It would hurt, but he wouldn’t blame them.
Meanwhile, the Dursleys had always been stuck with him. They made that painfully clear every single day of his childhood.
And now, Snape. Harry clenched his jaw. Snape didn’t even bother to hide it.
And Harry himself—he was stuck.
He was always stuck .
Malfoy couldn’t even begin to understand being stuck .
Harry’s jaw clenched as he scribbled furiously on his whiteboard and held it up: Nobody’s keeping you here, Malfoy.
Malfoy’s gaze flickered over the message, his jaw tightening. His hands, flat against the table, curled into fists as he leaned forward, his shadow stretching over the table in the dim light. He looked down, almost as if he hadn’t expected Harry to respond. “Right. Just thought you’d be off somewhere playing hero, Potter.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. Better than playing lackey to a psychopath, he wrote, raising the board for Malfoy to read.
The color drained from Malfoy’s face.
“You think I have a choice?” he snapped, his voice rising, shoulders slumping ever so slightly that Harry couldn’t tell if he was bracing for a blow or if a weight seemed to be pressing down on him. “You don’t know anything, Potter!”
Harry scoffed.
“You don’t!” Malfoy shouted, hands moving around wildly. “Nobody does! Nobody will!” He stood abruptly, the scrape of his chair harsh against the floor. “Merlin, what more do you want! You can get whatever you want at school but not here! You can’t just—”
Malfoy paused, his breathing hard.
“You don’t get to take this from me too!”
Take what?!
“You know!” Malfoy continued. “You know what you’re doing!”
Harry didn’t know when he had started standing too. His magic buzzed faintly under his skin, like an itch he couldn’t scratch.
What the fuck are you talking about?!
“You’re trying to take him away from me! He’s my godfather! Not yours! Yours is a fugitive! Gone! He’s gone, Potter! Leave Severus alone!”
This is all about Snape?!
“Yes….! No! You don't get it! It’s not just that! It’s you managing to get whatever you want! Well you can’t! Not here!”
Malfoy’s chest was heaving, his breaths quick and shallow as he stared at Harry with a borderline manic look, eyes wide and hysterical.
Harry stepped closer, keeping eye contact as he held up the whiteboard again, his hands shaking with barely hidden fury.
Contrary to popular belief, Malfoy, I don’t just get whatever I want.
Malfoy scoffed and Harry felt his composure crack.
You think you know everything. You sit there on your high horse, sticking your head up as if the rest of us are so below you. You don’t know shit Malfoy. I didn’t ask to be here either.
“Then leave! You don’t—You’re not supposed to be here! You don’t belong here! Go back to your stupid relatives! You’re not wanted here!”
Harry felt his breath falter at the mention of the Durselys. Malfoy didn’t know. He couldn’t. Snape wouldn’t. He still wasn’t on good terms with the man but there was no way he would have run off to tell Harry’s secrets to Malfoy, not after what he had shared about himself.
Would he?
Harry fists shook.
Malfoy was right. He didn’t belong here, so why should Snape keep his secret?
He didn’t seem to belong anywhere.
Harry’s chest ached at the thought, and without realizing it, he stalked forward, his body reacting before his mind could.
His hand shot out, shoving Malfoy backward
Malfoy stumbled but recovered, his face pale but his eyes blazing, as if he had been waiting for a fight—needed it like Harry seemed to need. He shoved Harry back, harder this time, and Harry’s ribs collided with the edge of the table.
The pain was fleeting, eclipsed by the growing storm inside him. Harry lunged again, his hand grabbing the front of Malfoy’s shirt. The movement was too fast, too furious, and Malfoy froze. For a moment, Harry saw it—the flicker of fear in his eyes, the way his hands trembled as he raised them defensively in front of his throat.
Malfoy’s voice dropped to a whisper, shaky and uneven. “You’re not going to…” His words trailed off, his eyes darting to Harry’s hand and then back to his face.
The memory slammed into Harry like a tidal wave. Malfoy’s pale face, his panicked gasps, his desperate cries as Harry’s anger spiraled out of control. The magic that had roared through him then, wild and dark and unrelenting.
And so, so tempting.
Harry froze, his hand still gripping Malfoy’s shirt.
The air between them shifted. Malfoy wrenched himself free, stumbling backward until his back hit the wall. His breath came in short, sharp gasps, his eyes wide and haunted, hands wrapping around his neck, as if making sure he was still breathing—-that he still could.
Harry was still frozen, watching the scene before him as a wave of disgust coursed through him.
Malfoy’s eyes were still glued to his, like a wounded animal watching, waiting.
Waiting to see what Harry would do to him, and Harry felt himself grow sick, nausea curling uncomfortably in his gut.
Before he could take a step back, to show Malfoy that he wasn’t a monster, that he wasn’t going to…to kill him. To show that he was just Harry, a low voice interrupted.
“What is going on?”
They both turned towards the doorway of the kitchen. Snape stood in the entrance, dark eyes moving around, assessing the scene before him. He looked angry, the vein in his forehead pulsing. The silence stretched on as he stood there, and with each passing second, Snape seemed to grow angrier.
“I said,” He snapped, gaze fixed on the two of them, “what is going on?”
When neither responded, he stalked forward, footsteps light against the floor despite the clear irritation radiating off him.
“Are the two of you so incapable of being civil that you cannot remain in the same space for more than an hour without a brawl?!”
Malfoy seemed to gather what little courage he had and spoke up.
“He started it.” He muttered, glancing up at Snape before looking back down.
“He started it?” Snape repeated, twisting his head a bit to the side and drawing his brows together in exasperation before his face hardened once more as he moved his gaze from Malfoy to Harry. “I didn’t realize I had two children residing here.”
Harry ignored the taunt but Malfoy flinched visibly.
“Do I truly have to supervise the two of you like toddlers? Is that what this is? A crèche masquerading as my house?” Snape took another step forward, his dark clothing encasing him like a storm cloud. “Sit. Both of you.”
Neither boy moved immediately, but the sheer force of Snape’s glare was enough to spur them into action. Malfoy scrambled to the nearest chair at the table, still avoiding Harry’s gaze, while Harry moved stiffly, his limbs heavy with residual anger and shame.
He hated how out of control he seemed to be with everything.
Snape sat at the head of the table, his eyes boring into both of them as he conjured a cup of tea with a flick of his wand.
None of them spoke, and for a time, the only sound in the room was the occasional clink of Snape’s tea cup against the saucer.
Snape’s patience finally snapped. He set his cup down with deliberate force, the clang reverberating in the quiet.
“This…silent brooding, this childish refusal to address what has clearly become a problem—-” His voice rose slightly before he reined it back, his tone sharp and biting. “It ends now.”
Both boys glanced at him.
“You will communicate,” Snape continued. “And not with fists. You are not animals. Speak. Both of you.”
Malfoy shifted uncomfortably, his hand gripping the edge of the table. “There’s nothing to say,” he muttered.
Harry rolled his eyes, ignoring the way Snape’s eyes snapped towards him.
“Nothing to say?” Snape echoed mockingly, his brows lifting and gaze still on Harry. “I find that entirely doubtful. You both appear to have much to say. In fact, you seem to be resorting to physicality because you have too much to say. Am I correct?”
Harry clenched his fists under the table, his jaw tight. Screw Snape and his stupid ability to see things as they were.
“He–” Malfoy exhaled shakily, his voice breaking the silence.
“Continue.” Snape pressed.
Malfoy’s lips thinned, but he nodded. “I just don’t understand why he’s here.” He paused, his voice becoming angry. “He shouldn’t be here.”
“And why is that?”
Malfoy glared, staying silent.
“Use your words.”
“He’s just not supposed to be here!” Malfoy snapped, his hands clenched in fists above the table. “At school, it’s all Harry Potter this, Harry Potter that. Even at—” He hesitated, his eyes darting toward Snape before dropping to the table, his voice low. “And fine, whatever. But here? This is supposed to be different. It’s not supposed to be about him.”
Harry blinked, caught off guard.
Snape kept his gaze fixed on Malfoy, his voice a sigh. “You’re upset because you feel overlooked.”
Malfoy nodded, small and quick. “My parents—” he said, his voice quiet but brittle. “I can’t…I can’t go home. And now I’m here, and it’s like I don’t….It’s like—”
He shook his head, growing visibly angry. “It’s not fair!” He shouted, his fists slamming against the table.
Snape leaned back in his chair, his gaze heavy. “Draco, your parent’s choice—” He cut off, hands digging into the skin in between his eyes. “You are not invisible here. Neither of you are.” He glanced between them. “Having two teenagers under one roof can be very….stress inducing. I am not the best person equipped for this…and I find myself messing up most of the time.” His dark eyes seemed to bore into Harry before he turned back to Malfoy. “But I will not allow either of you to monopolize my attention—or each other’s peace of mind. Do you understand?”
Malfoy looked down, his fists still clenched on top of the table. Harry nodded slightly, unsure if he even believed Snape’s words but unwilling to argue.
But he wanted to.
He wanted to call Snape out on all of his bullshit.
Wanted to put up a fight.
But he couldn’t.
Fighting was the only thing he seemed to be able to do, and he was still doing that wrong.
Instead, he swallowed it all down, the effort like forcing himself to swallow shards of glass. His chest ached, ribs protesting the strain as he exhaled shakily, chanting to himself once again that the person Malfoy cowered from wasn’t him. That Malfoy didn’t just back away from him as if Harry were some kind of monster resurfaced. That Harry’s stomach churned with only a nauseating mixture of guilt and frustration. That he didn’t feel just a bit satisfied. And that, somewhere, deep inside him, he didn’t want to be the one doing the pushing.
He was fine only pushing back.
And yet, in that dark place in his mind, he wanted to push.
He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the feeling away. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t him.
“Harry.” A voice startled his thoughts, and he snapped his eyes open, chest heaving.
When did he stop breathing?
“Harry?” The voice repeated, and he turned towards it, finding Snape staring at him.
He shakily reached towards his whiteboard, feeling out of sorts.
But before he could make a grab for it, an arm reached across the table, stopping him. He flinched back at the contact, jerking away a safe distance so he could peer into Snape’s eyes with enough space that he felt just a bit comfortable with him being here.
However, looking across the table, he was met with those dark eyes, creased and searching.
Snape looked sad.
Are you alright?
Harry flinched back again, not expecting Snape to be inside his head. He turned his head sideways, looking towards Malfoy who was watching the exchange with confusion. He glanced back at Snape, who had still not taken his eyes off him.
Fine . He sent back, feigning as much nonchalance as he could.
Snape narrowed his eyes, not believing him.
Harry glared at the table, folding his arms across his chest. Trying to show that he didn’t care what Snape thought while also stifling the part of him that seemed to want to cry at the question. It was stupid. That part of him, childish and full of pathetic, wishful thinking, was supposed to be gone.
Should be.
Uncle Vernon, face red and fist full of Harry’s shirt, had made sure of it.
He had yelled, screamed himself horse while Harry, no older than seven, bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. The sobs caught in his chest, his small frame trembling and throat raw from holding them back.
Aunt Petunia, standing behind Vernon, always behind , had made sure of it.
She had looked down on him, arms crossed and stiff. “He just wants attention,” she said sharply. “Ignore him and he’ll stop.”
Harry, young and shaken, had looked up at his aunt, voice desperate and cracked, barely audible under his Uncle’s harsh breaths, and had tried to reason.
“I’m not—” he wept, wanting them to understand that this was just a misunderstanding. He wasn’t crying for attention. He just wanted—
The thought dissolved as Vernon grabbed a fistful of his hair and shoved him back down.
And Harry, clinging to the thin threads of the living room carpet, had made sure of it then.
Wishful thinking was stupid.
He glanced back up at Snape and was met with dark eyes.
Anything you would like to say?
He scowled. No.
Snape’s brow twitched.
“Why are you staring at each other like that?”
The question seemed to draw Snape’s focus away from Harry and onto Malfoy who had inched forward in his seat, his eyes furrowed and harsh.
“It is nothing.” Snape said before he stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “I will review what you have written later.” He sighed. “For now, since it remains clear the two of you seem incapable of existing in the same room without bickering or glaring at each other like petulant toddlers, we are going to do a different activity, one that will undoubtedly force you to act like civilized human beings.”
Harry frowned, leaning back in his chair. He didn’t like where this was going.
“You will brew a potion together, under my strict supervision.” His dark eyes flashed. “Consider this an exercise in cooperation. And If I hear so much as one insult—-” he turned to Draco—-“or see one fist raised—” he turned to Harry—“I will not hesitate to extend this activity into a daily exercise.”
Malfoy groaned. “You can’t be serious.”
Snape’s glare silenced him.
“Ridiculous,” Snape said, his voice hardening dangerously, “is precisely what this feud of yours has become. Now, move.”
Reluctantly, the two boys shuffled out of their seats and moved towards the locked door at the end of the hall.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The lab was as cold and oppressive as Snape’s room at Hogwarts, lit dimly by old-fashioned torches that cast shifting shadows on the walls. The faint scent of powdered moonstone and crushed Sopophorous beans was thick and stifling in the otherwise small space. Harry sat stiffly on one side of the workstation, arms crossed, while Malfoy meticulously laid out the ingredients as though he were in class.
Snape, after writing out the instructions on a giant chalkboard and declaring they would be brewing The Strengthening Solution, had remained seated by a small desk in the front of the room where he could easily supervise them.
Malfoy set about stirring the cauldron which was currently filled mostly of salamander blood, a turquoise color that shimmered and swirled. “We may not be getting a grade for this but do try not to mess up, Potter,” he muttered under his breath, barely audible if Harry had not been standing so close to him, counting his stirs.
Harry barely looked up, not wanting Snape to catch them bickering. Instead, he slid over his whiteboard to rest between them where it was concealed by the aged cauldron. He scrawled with quick, sharp strokes. Focus on your own work, Malfoy .
Malfoy glanced at the board, his lip curling.
Harry wiped the board clean, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He kept his gaze on the stirring rod circling the edges of the pot, the movements precise but rigid, annoyance bleeding into every flick of the pale wrist. When it was his turn to add the powdered Griffin claw, he measured carefully, trying his best to follow the instructions and squinting when the board would blur and his glasses would fail.
The potion seemed fairly simple enough, but as Harry began to work, a gnawing discomfort began to grow in his chest.
The first problem arose as he peeled the shrivelfig. His knife slipped on the waxy surface, leaving uneven chunks instead of clean strips. The book said precision was key, and Harry winced as the chunks dropped into the cauldron with a soft plop. The liquid darkened, shifting from pale blue to a muddy gray.
“Great start, Potter,” Malfoy sneered.
Harry clenched his jaw, refusing to even look at the boy beside him.
Malfoy snorted and turned back to his work.
Harry tried to steady his breathing as he picked up the next ingredient: powdered bicorn horn. The powder clung to his fingers as he measured it out, and as he leaned over the cauldron to add it, he noticed the faint shimmer of the potion again—a ripple that didn’t match the gentle boil the flame should have produced.
He hesitated, trying to pick the correct time to add in the ingredient, but he grew overwhelmed by the way the mixture seemed to have a rhythm he couldn’t understand, and he dropped it in frustration. The second the powder hit the liquid, the cauldron let out a soft hiss, and a faint glow pulsed through the potion, like the heartbeat of something alive. Harry recoiled slightly, his stomach twisting.
“Merlin, Potter, what did you do?” Malfoy demanded, leaning over to peer into the cauldron.
Harry quickly shook his head, grabbing the whiteboard. Nothing! I followed the instructions!
Malfoy scowled. “Looks like it’s about to explode. You better fix it before Snape notices.”
Harry turned back to the cauldron, gripping the stirring rod tightly. The potion had started swirling on its own, the liquid pulling in tiny, unnatural spirals as if communicating that Harry had fucked up. He felt a strange pull in return, a faint hum in the back of his mind that he couldn’t place but couldn’t ignore either.
The more he stirred, the worse it became. The spoon felt heavier in his hand, the liquid sluggish and resistant to his movements, rhythm so far out of his reach he wasn’t even sure it was coherent anymore. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple as he forced the potion to mix, his arms aching with the effort.
“Stop manhandling it,” Malfoy snapped. “You’re just making it worse.”
Harry gritted his teeth, the muscles in his hand cramping as he tried to stir more gently. But the potion seemed to resist him, pushing back against his attempts to control it.
A hissing sound began to emerge as bubbles rose to the surface, and the color shifted again—this time to an eerie, deep purple that seemed to glower at him.
Malfoy backed away from the table. “That is not supposed to happen.”
Harry’s grip slipped, and the rod clattered into the cauldron, sending a splash of the angry liquid onto the table.
“Pot–Harry!”
Snape’s voice cut through the tension like a whip. He swept across the room and stopped in front of their station. His eyes narrowed at the potion, which seemed to deflate and lose its shimmer.
“What,” he demanded, his tone deadly calm, “is this?”
Harry continued to stare down at the sad mixture on the table. It seemed to ooze disappointment at him and he couldn’t help but feel disappointed in himself.
He just couldn’t understand that rhythm.
Why couldn’t he do anything right?
“Har–” Snape tried again but was interrupted.
I’m sorry.
Snape blinked, his black eyes boring into Harry’s.
What did you do? He asked, making a show of pointing to the whiteboard still laying by the cauldron. Harry looked to Malfoy, clearly still a bit shaken by the strange potion reaction. Right. He couldn’t just have a conversation with Snape via his weird mind magic, not with Malfoy standing there, who was so afraid of being left out. He felt a spark of anger at that, though he didn’t understand why.
He grabbed the whiteboard, scribbling out a response.
I followed the instructions but I couldn’t catch the rhythm.
Snape’s sharp brow arched. “The rhythm?”
Harry winced at the incredulity in his tone. Malfoy, still hovering a step back from the table, crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes.
“What are you on about, Potter?” Malfoy sneered. “It’s a potion, not a waltz.”
I mean— Harry began to write, his strokes hesitant. It felt like it had a pulse . He paused, trying to figure out how to get them to understand. Like it wanted me to stir a certain way. But I couldn’t do it, it was beating too fast.
There was silence. Snape’s expression froze somewhere between disbelief and suspicion. Malfoy stared at the whiteboard, his face screwed up in confusion.
“You’re saying,” Malfoy began slowly, “that the potion was talking to you?”
Harry erased his words quickly, frustration bubbling in his chest. Not talking. More like…resisting.
“Resisting,” Malfoy echoed, his tone dripping with skepticism. “Maybe it's resisting because you’re rubbish at brewing.”
“Enough,” Snape barked, silencing Malfoy with a withering look. He turned his full attention to Harry, his dark eyes scrutinizing him like he was a perplexing puzzle.
“Explain,” Snape demanded, his voice softer now but no less commanding. “What exactly did you feel?”
Harry hesitated again. How could he explain something he barely understood himself? He fidgeted with the marker, then slowly wrote. It wasn’t smooth. The potion felt—- He erased and re-wrote, struggling to put it into words— I messed up putting in the powdered bicorn horn so it wanted me to stir differently. But I messed that up too.
Snape’s frown deepened. “Potions do not “want,” Harry.” His voice was flat, but there was a flicker of something behind his words—curiosity, perhaps.
Maybe not. But it felt like it did.
Malfoy scoffed, but his usual smirk was absent. “You’re barmy. Potions don’t feel anything.”
Snape, however and much to Harry’s relief, didn’t immediately dismiss his claim. He crossed his arms and stared at the cauldron, now full of a deflated mess of sludge.
“Show me,” Snape said abruptly.
Harry blinked.
“You claim to sense a “pulse.” Very well,” Snape said. “Start again. Follow the steps exactly as before. But this time”----his eyes narrowed—--“tell me when you feel this so-called rhythm.”
Harry hesitated but relented under Snape’s intense gaze. He had never seen the man look so interested in something before. He reset the cauldron and ingredients, beginning to wipe the table clean before the mess was vanished. He looked back towards Snape who had his wand out, nodding at him to continue. His hands still shook slightly, and he was acutely aware of Malfoy hovering nearby, watching with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.
As he worked, he began to feel it again—the strange pull, faint at first but growing stronger with each step. He squinted at the board to add the right amount of pomegranate juice, the step having previously been Malfoy’s task, but when it was time to add the powdered bicorn horn, the pull became almost overwhelming.
He paused, glancing at Snape.
“There,” Harry said, pointing to the cauldron.
Snape leaned in, his expression unreadable. “What do you feel?”
It’s beating fast? Kinda like it’s pulling, Harry wrote. Like it’s telling me not to rush.
Snape’s lips thinned. “Stir as you think it wants you to.”
Harry swallowed hard and gripped the stirring rod, moving it through the potion with slower, deliberate turns, focusing on controlling his breaths as though he were breathing with the potion, trying to match the beating of his heart with its pulse. His movements began to feel less stiff, and with each careful turn, the resistance lessened, and the potion began to shimmer faintly.
The sensation in Harry’s chest deepened—-a strange, hollow pull, like a thread connecting him to the potion. He didn’t just stir it; he felt it. The way it shifted, the faint alive-ness within it, like parts of a whole waiting for his guidance.
The air grew heavier, charged with something Harry couldn’t name but recognized all too well.
It felt just like the shed.
The memory struck him with the force of a Bludger. He remembered the cold, burning fury when he had discovered Malfoy there, the way he’d felt his anger lash out like an extension of himself. How Malfoy had crumpled, gasping for air and clutching at his throat as if Harry had snuffed out the very breath in his lungs. How he had almost done the same to Snape. How he could have also stopped Snape’s breath, his heart, his very life. How he was dangerous—because in those moments, it had felt so easy to kill.
All he had to do was tug at the raw pull—a pulse.
But it wasn’t the familiarity that scared him the most.
It was the fact that he had felt this familiar force just now and knew that Voldemort had nothing to do with it.
It wasn’t a whisper in his head or an intense, foreign blood lust. No, this darkness—the beat he had just felt in the potion, the rhythm that answered to him—wasn’t external.
It was him.
His hands trembled at the cauldron’s edge, and for a brief second, the world felt like it was spinning away from him.
Maybe Voldemort had been there, those nights, in his head, feeding into the darkest parts of himself.
But at this moment, Harry knew with chilling clarity that it didn’t matter. Voldemort hadn’t created this.
This was his.
The darkness wasn’t something foreign that he could fight or escape.
It was him.
He was dark.
He froze, the stirring rod slipping in his grip.
No.
The potion rippled uneasily, its surface breaking into small, nervous waves.
“Potter!” Malfoy yelled, his voice high-pitched with alarm. “Don’t stop now! It’s going to—”
The potion flared, the shimmer dimming to a sickly gray before it began to bubble violently.
Not again.
Harry closed his eyes, the pulse of the potion pounding against his senses. He couldn’t let it spiral out of control. But the more he tried to calm it, the stronger the pull became, like it was dragging him into its depths.
Harry.
Snape’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts and he desperately looked towards him.
I can’t control it. It’s too much like—I can’t do it.
Explain. His voice echoed, clipped and sharp.
It feels like before, Harry thought, his mental voice shaky. In the shed. When…when Malfoy couldn’t breathe.
The faintest flicker of something passed through Snape’s eyes.
And when you were there too , Harry added. It’s the same. Like I’m….pulling something out of it. Or it’s pulling me in.
Snape’s response was instant, his expression shifting into a composed mask. Normally, this detached demeanor would irritate Harry, but now it gave him an unexpected sense of reassurance—a steady anchor in the chaos that seemed to define his life. And you stopped stirring because….?
I panicked.
Idiot boy. The thought was harsh, but there was no venom in it. Only urgency. Focus. Do not fight it. Just Feel.
His grip on the stirring rod faltered, as the erratic pulse of the potion beneath him flared, wild and untamed. Feel? It was as though the cauldron itself was living, breathing, beating, mirroring Harry's chest, his own life force. How could he just feel? He squeezed his eyes shut, willing it to stop, willing himself to be better, stronger—-
I don’t want to be like this. The thought spilled from his mind before he could stop it.
Snape’s eyes seemed to soften then, ever so slightly. And yet, here we are.
The words were blunt, almost cruel, but they grounded Harry in a way nothing else could, and he almost smiled at the response. Trust Snape to say something so truthfully harsh to something so vulnerable.
He exhaled shakily, gripping the stirring rod again. “Just feel,” Snape had said. He closed his eyes, and instead of grasping for control, he leaned into it, letting the beat wash over him. He felt it—the hollow ache of it, the chaotic pulse, the life it seemed to hold—-and he let it move through him.
He moved the rod slowly, deliberately, feeling the connection between himself and the potion begin to settle. The pulse softened, quieted, its erratic rhythm aligning with his movements.
“Merlin,” Malfoy muttered.
Snape said nothing for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the cauldron. When Harry finished the step, felt like he could finally breathe , the potion had transformed into a smooth, silvery liquid, its surface calming until it shimmered, and without even looking at the correct result detailed at the end of the instructions on the chalkboard, he knew it was right.
Snape stepped forward, his sharp gaze flickering between Harry and the cauldron. His expression was unreadable, but his lips pressured into a thin line, a sure sign he was deep in thought.
You did it.
The thought rang clear in Harry’s mind. Snape’s tone in his head was calm, steady, like the faintest thread of approval.
He lowered the stirring rod, his hands trembling as he set it aside. His chest ached, the hollow pull still lingering like an aftertaste. He turned back towards Snape.
“You will explain,” Snape said aloud now, his tone commanding and for some reason so different from when he was in his head.
Harry shook his head, grabbing the whiteboard. He scrawled quickly . It felt like before. Like I wasn’t just stirring. It was pulling at me. Or I was pulling at it. It wanted me to do what you— He paused, glancing at Malfoy who was sitting silently beside him. He didn’t know about his weird mind magic with Snape, and Harry wasn’t sure if he wanted him to. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
His gaze flickered back to Snape, whose sharp eyes narrowed as they scanned the unfinished sentence. Harry bit his lip, gripping the marker tighter.
It wanted me to feel.
Malfoy’s brows knitted together in confusion. “What the bloody hell are you on about? Potions don’t pull or feel anything!”
Harry ignored him, looking up at Snape, hoping the man would understand.
“What did it feel like, Harry?” Snape asked slowly, his voice almost soft.
Harry paused, searching for the right words. Finally, he wrote: Like I was holding its life in my hands.