Chapter Text
Nearly three weeks had passed since Harry’s detention with Snape and the sharp sting of guilt had long dulled, replaced by the ever so incessant frustrations of youth; the Order’s efforts, no matter how noble or well-intentioned, simply stood no chance against the age-old adolescent sentiment: it’s just not fair.
So, Harry had taken to avoiding the man like the plague—well, even more than he usually did. Why subject himself to his future warden’s company a second longer than absolutely necessary?
But even within the sprawling, labyrinthine Hogwarts castle, evasion had its limits. The fifth-years’ double Potions remained an inevitable ordeal, looming on Harry’s timetable like a recurring nightmare.
Nonetheless, Harry found that his new demeanor had been working quite well for him. Who would have thought? Becoming a soulless husk of a being turned out to be the sure-fire way to skirt Snape’s wrath.
After letting Ron and Hermione know that he wouldn’t so much as glance at them during class, Harry’s eyes were locked onto Snape’s large blackboard and his own workbench, his gaze darting between the two as if he were watching a particularly slow, mind numbingly boring game of table tennis.
Snape could spew as much insult-laced instructions as he desired and Harry would simply wait for him to finish before almost mechanically tending to whatever dimwitted error he had made—or, even restart his brewing entirely.
To the rest of the class, Harry appeared eerily serene, as though he had reached an elusive state of zen after such a tumultuous year—the horrors of which they only knew a fraction of. The truth, however, was far more complicated.
Beneath the surface of his indifference, a fire smoldered in his chest—whether fueled by fury, fear, or perhaps a blend of the two, Harry didn’t dare dwell on. All that mattered was steering clear of another one of Snape’s unbearable, enraging, soul-crushing tirades. For his own sake if nothing else.
Just last week, letters officializing the guardianship had been delivered to both Snape and Harry.
To the outside eye, it would appear that the stresses of guardianship would pale in comparison to the pressures Snape endured in his double life. Both a Death Eater and a Hogwarts Potions Professor, the man was a skilled espionage spy, expertly serving the divergent needs of Lord Voldemort and Headmaster Dumbledore—all while having grown accustomed to the constant risk of exposure and death.
And yet, for all his mastery of subterfuge and control, not a single aspect of this new arrangement was proceeding the way it ought to—with the cold precision and order Snape usually wrought into his responsibilities. Two full months had passed since his begrudging agreement to Dumbledore and he had yet to make any progress towards embracement.
The austere rules he resolved to enforce remained unspoken, let alone drafted. The necessary reparations for his neglected home were still unplanned. Most glaringly, he had yet to call a formal meeting to address the guardianship with Harry—or, perhaps more importantly, to impress his authority.
Beneath Snape’s coarse veneer, a quiet unease riddled through him, threatening to fracture the hardened stoicism he honed over the latter half of his life; it was his most vital shield, ensuring his survival under the Dark Lord's unrelenting scrutiny. It was nearly fourteen years ago, on that cold, fateful October night, that Snape learned—hoping for even a sliver of mercy from Voldemort was a fool’s prayer…
Deep down, he had begun to feel the weight of taking on such a role in the boy’s life. Lily's son.
Never before was he the sole keeper of a child and his own upbringing certainly didn’t offer any guidance—only a reservoir of troubled memories, amplifying the echoes of his growing apprehension. His extensive experience as a disciplinarian at Hogwarts was not nearly sufficient for the nuances of guardianship over the boy, unnervingly personal and raw.
The simple, 12 inch letter had rendered this task insurmountable, clouds of doubt shadowing the recesses of his carefully guarded mind.
Meanwhile, Harry hadn’t even opened his letter.
Hedwig had delivered it over his breakfast, just before a Quidditch match against Hufflepuff. The formal, taupe envelope bore nothing more than an elegant script of his full name, but Harry instantly assumed its contents.
With a sinking feeling, he quickly shoved it under his plate of eggs and sausage. Seeing Snape listed as his official guardian was the last thing he needed to quell his nerves before such a big match.
Even now, the envelope remained sealed, buried in the bottom drawer of Harry’s desk, tucked beneath his invisibility cloak and a pile of spare parchment.
Little did either of them know of the brewing trouble.
***
The entire day, Draco Malfoy had been rereading his mother’s letter in which she broke the news, aching for a moment alone. After a series of court proceedings prompted by the showdown at the Department of Mysteries, Lucious Malfoy had been officially sentenced to Azkaban.
Unfortunately for Draco, just as Slytherins ferociously rose to support each other against all others, they could turn on each other, with just as much vigour, at a moment's notice. It was the painful truth every young Slytherin was bound to learn in their time at Hogwarts, though certainly not to this degree.
His fellow housemates made no attempts at sparing him for his father’s failure, taunting him mercilessly with relish. Even Crabbe and Goyle, his so-called loyal cronies, kept their distance, though not entirely out of their own volition. Despite their parents' also swearing allegiance to Voldemort, they had sent letters that same morning, forbidding their sons from interacting with Draco.
Nothing good could come from associating with the son of the Death Eater that had been revealed to the public, and more importantly, that had so greatly disappointed the Dark Lord.
The Malfoy name, once a symbol of power and privilege amongst the world of purity and the dark arts, was now tantamount with humiliation and shame.
It was only a matter of time before the news spread to those outside Slytherin—to the Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs that Draco had tormented for years. The jeering he faced from his own house would be nothing compared to what awaited him.
Finally, at nearly 2 AM, Draco found solitude in his dormitory bathroom. With trembling hands, he locked the door behind him, his tightly wound composure immediately unravelling. He clung to the sink, his thin frame wracking with stifled sobs as tears streamed down his face.
How could this be happening? Father in Azkaban? Poor mother… But she must be happ–No.
He splashed cold water onto his flushed face as if to shock the thought out of his head. It was simply preposterous. There was no way his mother was happier with his father gone.
… Is she?
Narcissa Malfoy never dared to speak ill of Lucious, refusing to tarnish the admiration a boy should have for his father. But her lone son was more perceptive than she gave him credit for. Draco knew she respected Lucious and was grateful for his protection, but had she ever truly been happy with him and the path he’d chosen for their family?
Draco stared at his reflection in the mirror, his pale brows furrowing as he wrestled with the thought.
Mother must be happier, he decided sullenly. But… am I?
He swallowed hard, the notion threatening to rupture the very foundation beneath his feet. Draco was, of course, infamous for flaunting the Malfoy name, wielding the threat of his father's involvement at any inconvenience in his life. But did he actually like Lucious?
The answer was as damning as it was instantaneous: No.
“I don't,” he whispered shakily, hardly recognizing the pained, glassy grey eyes looking back at him. “There... I said it!"
Domineering... Cruel. That’s all Father is...
For a fleeting moment, Draco fought the urge to shatter the mirror before him, suddenly loathing his striking, silver-blonde hair, almost glowing in the faint moonlight. Was he truly his father's son?
For his entire life, Narcissa had been his shield against Lucius’s harshness, comforting and spoiling him to a such a degree that he often believed he could do no wrong. But alone in this massive bathroom, Draco was plunging into the depths of a bitter hurt with no one there to catch him.
But not even a Mother's love, fierce and absolute, could save Draco from the grim realities—both inwardly and beyond.
The Malfoys had fallen, viciously knocked off their pedestal and swept beneath the murky waves of disgrace. Just the thought of Narcissa suffering the same ostracism he now faced made Draco's chest ache.
But worst of all... Lucious had failed the Dark Lord and nothing was left unpunished with him. What awaited the Malfoys for their plight?
An icy chill ran down Draco's spine, shuddering at the thought. He pressed his face into his outstretched hands, a sob escaping him.
It’s all too much. What is there left to do? Nothing… Nothing.
Weeping till his puffy eyes could weep no more, Draco quietly returned to his bed, desperate for the calm of the night to lull him away the turmoil in his heart.
But sleep never came to him. Like always, his lingering emotions churned together, bleeding into a familiar, unmistakable rage.
This is all Potter’s fault. Stupid fucking Potter and his stupid friends.
***
“The Draught of Peace is an advanced potion designed to relieve its drinker of anxiety and agitation,” Snape intoned, his resonant voice echoing through the dungeon.
“This will undoubtedly appear on your O.W.L.s. While you will not be assessing your draughts on one another, let this be clear; should you blunder through this brewing in future endeavors, the result could be…” His dark eyes scanned over the class before settling on Neville. “Catastrophic. An irreversible state of sleep, for instance.”
A collective shudder rippled through the room. It was another grueling double Potions for the fifth-year Gryffindors and Slytherins and Harry was prepared to be a ‘soulless husk of a being’ as he liked to put it.
Today, however, Draco had taken the table behind Harry and Ron, sitting with a Slytherin girl who still seemed to tolerate his company. Or perhaps, she hadn’t yet heard the news about Lucious.
Snape droned on and Draco couldn't help but roll his eyes, slouching on his stool. As if anyone cared about O.W.Ls with all that was going on. He cast a glance at Harry who seemed to be scribbling down bits and pieces of the lecture. That’s right Potter, take notes. You’ll need cauldrons of that draught once I’m through with you.
After Snape concluded his lecture, he waved them off to collect ingredients from the large table at the left side of the room. Draco waited for Harry to make his way first, shouldering him hard as he strode past.
Harry stumbled forward, shooting a venomous glare at the back of Draco’s blonde head. What’s his problem? Stupid prat.
Committed to his soulless act, Harry veered to the opposite side of the table, collecting his ingredients away from Draco. Ron followed, brows furrowed with confusion but Harry only offered a shrug in return.
“Powdered porcupine quills, Longbottom,” Snape’s icy voice rang out. “What part of ‘powdered’ do you fail to comprehend?”
Everyone had returned to their tables besides a frantic Neville, clutching an entire jar of whole porcupine quills. Choosing to block out the inevitable chiding, Harry focused on grinding his own porcupine quills and moonstone into a fine powder.
His right arm feeling particularly sore, Harry frowned as he read the board. After all that effort, he had only completed the simplest step. The brewing was delicate and particularly complex, so much so, that even one stir in the wrong direction could wreak havoc. But he had to start somewhere.
Lighting the flame beneath his cauldron, Harry carefully measured distilled water and added the powdered moonstone. Stirring clockwise, he watched as the liquid slowly shifted to a pale blue, a flicker of accomplishment flaring within him. He turned to check the next step when—splash!
Hot liquid splattered onto his hand.
“What the-?” Harry whipped around, staring in horror at his cauldron.
The once-serene blue mixture had transformed into a sickly red, bubbling ominously. He immediately looked towards Ron, his freckled face covered in a light sheen of sweat, still powdering frustratedly. Draco however, had just returned to his stool, a smug smirk etched on his face.
Scowling, Harry quickly extinguished the fire. He clutched the hot cauldron with the ends of his robes, its contents already thickening as he swiftly carried it to the waste bin across the room.
“Potter!”
Shit. Harry flinched hard, nearly dropping the cauldron.
“What, precisely, do you think you’re doing?” Snape hissed, the unmistakable sound of his boots clattering on the stone floor getting louder and louder.
“I’m starting my draught,” Harry lied flatly, lowering the cauldron from view, shaking it frantically. But Snape was faster, catching sight of the thick, red sludge dripping out.
“Starting your draught with the entirely wrong ingredients?” Snape sneered. “Do you believe your own methods superior? Ten points from Gryffindor,” he said sharply, eliciting an eruption of giggles from the Slytherins.
Face burning, Harry made his way back to his table. “Here,” Ron muttered, nudging his tray of ingredients toward him. “Malfoy was eyeing them, gonna nick them no doubt,” he mumbled out of the corner of his mouth.
Jaw clenched, Harry simply restarted his brewing.
Though Draco was certainly pleased with his little stunt, it ultimately backfired. Snape now stood too close for either of their comfort, his scrutinizing gaze following Harry's every move, inadvertently allowing him to complete half the brewing without any more of Draco’s interruptions.
“AH! OW!” Neville’s anguished shrieks cut the classroom’s bustling air of tension.
All eyes turned to him, crouched under Parvati and Lavender’s crowded workbench, desperate for help with his lackluster draught thus far. Completing the brewing at their own paces, the girls' mismatched stirring had caused elbows to clash, spilling their boiling draughts onto him.
Snape instantly strode towards their table. “Foolish boy,” he hissed sharply, immediately vanishing the scalding potion from the Neville’s neck and arms with a quick flick of his wand. “Continue brewing,” he ordered the rest of the class, pulling a whimpering Neville out of the classroom by the wrist. Madam Pomfrey would need to heal the blisters that were surely forming by the second.
Though Harry felt sorry for Neville, he couldn’t help the wave of relief that washed over him without Snape breathing down his neck. But he wasn’t the only one.
Abandoning his own brewing, Draco shouldered past Harry once more, ruining his precise stirs. With Snape finally out of earshot, Harry let him have it. “Knock it off!”
Delighted that Harry had finally deserted the boring nonchalance, Draco leaned closer, almost nose to nose with Harry. “Or what, Potter? Are you going to round up Dumbledore’s Army on me?” he sneered.
"I don't even need my wand to beat you, Malfoy," Harry shot back, his fists clenched beneath the table.
Draco scoffed. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand, since you don’t have one,” he snarled, jabbing a finger into Harry’s chest, “but you and your filthy little friends are going to pay for what you’ve done to my father.”
Before Harry could even respond, Draco spat into his cauldron. A pale circle of green expanded in the magenta liquid where the saliva had hit, the contrast stark and repulsive.
This. Disgusting. Fucking. Prat. “Yeah?” Harry asked, rising from his stool to face Draco. “You might want to tell your father about this, Malfoy.”
“About what? ” Draco mocked, stepping closer.
Without wasting a second, Harry shoved him hard in the chest, pushing him backwards into the wooden shelf behind him, the jars rattling dangerously.
“Argh!” Draco grimaced, a jolt of pain shooting through his back.
Eyes locked, a tense moment hung between them. Draughts forgotten, the rest of the class watched, buzzing in a mixture of shock and amusement.
Draco suddenly charged and Harry met him halfway, the pair clamoring into each other before crashing to the floor. They thrashed about, grappling wildly as they struggled to get the upper hand, their robes entangling around each other’s legs.
“Harry!” Hermione’s voice, panicked and shrill, cut through the gasps and cheers. “Harry, stop! Don’t!” she pleaded, her eyes darting to the classroom door. Snape would be back at any moment.
“Shh, get him!” Ron countered, his face screwed with anticipation. Harry didn’t need to stop, he needed to win.
Harry could hardly hear them, panting from the struggle as Draco managed to get on top. “Fuck. Off,” Harry huffed, attempting to catch Draco's incoming fists while trying to wriggle out from under him.
Draco suddenly pulled his fist back, charging a solid blow square to Harry’s gut. He gasped loudly, struggling to take the deep breath he so desperately needed, but it was impossible with the blonde on top of him.
Around them, the Slytherins whooped and cheered. Unbridled rage and adrenaline coursed through Harry. Summoning all his strength, he forced himself up and pushed Draco backwards, his head slamming onto the stone floor.
Draco immediately clutched his head, wincing in pain, but Harry wasted no time straddling him, barely feeling the pain spreading throughout his own abdomen.
“Get OFF me Potter!” Draco was hysterical, throwing his fists every which way before landing another punch. A dull pain shot through Harry's nose, tears flooding his eyes as the Slytherins cheered even louder.
Grimacing, Harry quickly forced his knee on top of Draco’s wrist, pinning it to the stone floor. Unleashing weeks of suppressed anger, Harry swung his fist at Draco’s mouth, then another to his cheekbone. The grim, yet satisfying sound of knuckle meeting bone was drowned out by Draco’s howls of pain.
“AHH!” he writhed, clutching his face with his free hand as blood dribbled from his split lip, twisting under Harry’s weight.
Ron and Dean were pumping fists in the air now. “Oy, that’s right Harry!” Ron shouted over the Gryffindors cheers. Seamus whistled through his pinkie fingers in celebration, when suddenly–
“Stand. Up. Now!”
Snape had returned, thoroughly confused with the commotion until he spotted the boys on the floor.
Shit. Harry slowly stood up, clutching his abdomen. He didn’t dare meet Snape’s eyes, staring down through his cracked lenses, watching the blood trickle from his nose onto the floor.
Draco, tempted to feign unconsciousness, knew better than to try. He stood next, wincing as he cradled his bruised cheek.
Snape slowly walked over to the huffing boys, his murderous gaze sweeping over them with disdain. “Who started this abhorrent display?” he asked silkily, his voice scarily calm.
“It was him,” Draco said immediately through bloody lips, pointing his thumb sideways at Harry.
Dirty little snitch.
Snape turned to Harry, his black eyes unreadable. “Is this true, Potter?”
Harry nodded at the floor, tenderly wiping at his bloody nose. There was no use denying it. Everyone had seen him put hands on Draco first. And besides, a couple of punches was nothing compared to what he really deserved.
Umbridge’s torture, Dumbledore’s Army exposed, the showdown in the Department of Mysteries—Draco had been a vile little rat through it all, and his despicable father had been hurling curses at them just before Sirius lost his life.
“Congratulations, Potter,” Snape said slowly, waiting for Harry to meet his eyes, flinty with fury. The sentiment that it was worth it quickly faltered.
With a silent swish of his wand, Harry’s now green draught vanished into thin air. “You’ve earned yourself a zero for today’s class. And detention. Six o’clock,” he snapped. There was no doubt the entire class had heard.
Finally, Snape strode away. “Return to your cauldrons!”
Not wanting to be the man’s next target, everyone hastily started up on their draughts once more, leaving Harry seething in front of an empty cauldron.
Of course, Malfoy gets away with it and I have detention. Didn’t even last a bloody month.
When class ended, Harry shoved his books into his bag and stormed out ahead of everyone.
***
Snape emptied all the cauldrons with a swish of his wand, ridding all traces of the sloppy, disastrous brewing session that had just occurred. The empty cauldrons flew to the corner of the room, slamming into the wall before landing in an orderly heap.
To say the man was furious would be an understatement.
Instead of returning to his office to grade assignments, Snape broke from his rigid routine and stormed to his private quarters. He drew the curtains, letting the little sunlight that peeked through the palladian windows to cast streaks of warm light onto the plush, Persian rug.
He brewed a cup of chamomile tea with practiced efficiency, the delicate aroma failing to soothe his frayed nerves. Settling into his black leather armchair, he clasped his hands together, staring into the steam rising from the teacup as he pondered.
The mistake, he thought at first, had been delaying his meeting with Harry. He dared incite a brawl in his classroom with a member of his own House, no less?
A mere week had passed since the arrangement was official and the boy's behavior was infuriatingly transparent; this was no doubt a calculated, adolescent tantrum, purely designed to test the limits of his authority.
Clearly, no warning was enough of a deterrent for a Potter to refrain from such repugnant behavior. Like father, like son—the arrogance, the bullying, the utter disregard for consequences.
But as his tea ran cold, lost in thought, his anger settled deeper.
No. The true mistake was placing his trust in Dumbledore. Snape had asked for only one thing: that the insufferable boy be kept away from that wretched Petunia and her oaf of a husband. And yet, the old man had spun his request into this—a tangled, ill-fated arrangement, weaving together Snape's private past and his bleak future.
Could Dumbledore truly not see that his patience was already stretched thin by responsibilities far more significant than watching over an entitled, insolent child?
Tink. Tink. Tink.
Snape’s gaze flicked toward the sound. Outside his window, an owl was perched on a gnarled branch, an envelope tied securely to its leg.
A letter delivered directly to his private quarters, rather than the Hogwarts Owlery?
***
After carefully washing the dried blood around his nose in the boys' bathroom, Harry made his way to the greenhouse in no particular rush. His adrenaline had worn off, leaving him drained, and Professor Sprout hardly fussed about tardiness as long as you slipped in before the ten-minute mark.
“Bloody good strikes you got on that lunatic,” Ron whispered, clapping Harry's shoulder as he sat down. “Yours was great too Hermione, we haven’t forgotten that,” he added with a grin, reminding her of the punch she'd landed straight on Draco's nose two years earlier. “But when’s my turn?”
Hermione shook her head with disapproval, though a smirk tugged at her lips. She leaned forward, raising her wand to Harry’s cracked glasses. “Oculus Reparo.”
Despite his sullen mood, Harry couldn’t help but grin sheepishly at both of them. “Thanks.”
After Herbology ended, the trio trudged back up the hill towards the castle, the crisp air biting at their skin as Harry recounted what Draco had said to prompt such a fight.
Hermione’s initial disapproval softened greatly. It had been a tough year for all of them, and though Harry didn’t elaborate, she knew he was thinking of all that had happened.
She squeezed his arm gently. “This can only mean that his father’s been convicted, Harry. This is huge—it could set a precedent.”
“What about the lot of them? We got our very own Death Eater in there,” Ron said, pointing towards the castle.
Harry snorted bitterly. “Yeah? Well, that Death Eater’s too busy playing house with me now, isn’t he?”
Ron and Hermione burst into laughter, though Harry’s sardonic tone lingered longer.
Truthfully, he hadn't considered what Draco meant about his father—not until Hermione pointed it out. Sure, it was satisfying to think that one scummy Death Eater was put away, but in the grand scheme of things, it meant very little.
Voldemort was still out there, hunting him down, Lucious Malfoy in Azkaban or not.