Chapter Text
The door to Snape’s office burst inward at their approach. Its speed whipped the hem of Draco’s robes against his ankles, the heavy fabric clinging like bindweed. He tottered, arms wheeling, as Snape shoved him inside, slammed the door shut behind them, and threw the bolt.
For a heart-stopping moment, they were plunged into total darkness. Then the logs on the grate of the fireplace kindled with a roar like dragonfire, singeing their skin and spitting sparks across the bare stone floor.
Draco retreated as far as he dared, pressing his back against a shelf crammed with jars of wet specimens to the left of the door. The cloying stench of the embalming potion seeping through the glass made his already queasy stomach clench and roil, but he bit down on his nausea, crossed his arms and pressed them against his chest like a dam.
“Sit,” Snape hissed, and Draco’s eyes darted between the chairs at the man’s desk and the bolted door. He shook his head, his voice cowering beneath his tongue. He didn’t dare sit down. Even if his legs quivered, as long as he kept to his feet, he could escape. Running away would be undignified, but discretion was the better part of valour and Snape’s fury was tangible in the damp air, rolling off him like a miasma.
Draco’s eyes flicked back to the door. Could he make it out? Would there be anyone in this desolate corner of the castle to help him if he did?
Snape stormed around his desk and tore a medical kit from the middle drawer. He pulled the top open, scattering buttons across the floor as he snatched a roll of gauze and unrolled it with a snap.
Draco paled when he saw blood on Snape’s cuff. Had he done that?
“Did you have fun with your little charade, hm?” Snape asked as he yanked the bandage tight around his wrist. “You disobeyed me, lied to me, and now this! You helped that boy be named the Heir of Slytherin!” He struck the side of the medical bag with such violence it flew off the desk and slammed into the jars next to Draco’s hip. Draco recoiled as bandages and tinctures exploded at his feet like the innards of a gutted animal.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Any idea of the cost–” Snape choked, unable to finish. He leaned forward, his face twisting in pain.
Draco watched in terrified amazement as tears slid down his professor’s cheeks.
Snape whipped his head to the side and swiped an arm across his eyes. When he next spoke, his voice was a low growl. “I hoped you’d be different from your parents, but you’re just the same – grovelling at the feet of anyone with a hint of power like a dog begging for scraps!”
Draco flinched, his fingers digging into his arms as the barb struck home.
At the end of the war, suspicions had run rampant, and like a pendulum released at the height of its arc, the Ministry’s retaliation against its enemies soon swung past the laws they claimed to represent and into their own incarnation of terror.
Hunted and reeling from the sudden reversal in their fortunes, his parents had done everything in their power to keep their family from being torn apart, even if it meant sacrificing their dignity and cause to curry favour with those who would see their way of life extinguished – and he loved them for it.
Not all his friends had been as fortunate, and he’d seen how they were treated in public: the sidelong glances, the whispered conversations behind their backs, and the way older witches and wizards fingered their wands as they passed them in the street. That they’d been in swaddling clothes when the war ended was immaterial; they were tainted by association.
How dare Snape mock his parents for protecting themselves? At least they’d survived on their own merit, unlike Snape, who’d thrown himself at Dumbledore’s feet and begged for mercy!
“My parents saved our family,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Your parents saved nothing! They may have loosened their bonds, but they’re still lashed to the stake and no amount of struggling will save them from the flames!” Snape clutched his left forearm, raving. “Despite all their efforts, the world has not forgotten, and so they’ve turned to an arrogant, pampered brat for their salvation – dragging him into filth so their hands appear clean by comparison!”
Draco struggled to follow. Who had his parents dragged down? The only saviour he knew was Harry, but Harry wasn’t arrogant, and certainly wasn’t pampered! Yet, he could think of no one else. Indignation stiffened Draco’s spine. Was that how Snape saw Harry? Some brat with his head up his arse?
“You’re wrong!”
“Am I?” Snape spat, his robes flaring like wings as he closed the distance between them and grabbed Draco’s jaw hard enough to bruise, yanking his head up. “Then swear to me, here and now, that you will have nothing more to do with Potter. Swear it to me, and your father will remain blissfully oblivious of your desired mastery.”
Draco winced, a horrible feeling twisting in his stomach. He’d known the threat was coming and thought he was prepared for the sting of betrayal, but hearing it aloud... He shut his eyes. It would be easy to comply. To tell Snape what he wanted to hear, but the words stuck in his throat and he realised this was no longer about Snape, or even his father. It was for himself. Perhaps it always had been.
“No.”
Snape’s nails dug into his skin. “Say that again.”
“No!” Draco shouted.
Snape spun from him. He grabbed a tin of floo powder from the mantle and flung a handful into the flames. “Lucius!” he bellowed as the fire turned acid green and roared up the chimney. He sneered at Draco over his shoulder. “I thought your dreams meant more to you.”
“And I thought I meant more to you than whatever grudge you have against Harry! You’re supposed to be my godfather. Why are you doing this?”
“If you acted like a proper godson rather than a spoiled brat, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“I don’t take orders from you!”
A jar of leeches exploded next to Draco’s ear as Snape hurled the tin of floo powder across the room, flooding the air with a stench like rancid flesh and pelting Draco with shards of glass and small, slimy bodies. He screamed and threw his arms over his head. The side of his neck stung where he’d been splashed by the embalming potion, and he wiped it frantically with his sleeve.
“You have no idea what that boy has done!”
Draco glared at him. “Neither does he!”
“Severus?” The cool voice of Lucius Malfoy emanated from the flames, and for a moment Draco felt such relief that his eyes welled with tears. Then he remembered why Snape had called him and he trembled, suddenly cold.
Snape turned back to the hearth, where the shadow of Lucius’s head flickered amidst the flames. “A word, if you would,” he grated. “In person.”
Lucius quirked a brow, but a moment later the fire flared up to scorch the mantle and he stepped into the office with a whirl of slate blue silk. He had the look of a man who’d been interrupted in the middle of a good book; his hair was tied in a loose tail that cascaded over his shoulder and a pair of tartan slippers peeked out beneath the hem of his robes. The only thing missing was his burgundy dressing gown, which Draco envisioned his father abandoning on the sofa before stepping through the floo.
Lucius coughed and pulled a kerchief from his sleeve, raising it to cover his nose. “Gods below, what is that stench?” he asked, scanning the office. His eyes fell on Draco, wet and cowering in the corner, and his amusement evaporated. “Severus, what is the meaning of this?” There was an ominous rumble in his voice, like the peal of distant thunder, but Snape was lost in his own rage and did not hear it.
“Your son,” he spat, pointing at Draco, “has just got Harry Potter named the Heir of Slytherin!”
“Has he?” Lucius asked, turning to Draco in surprise.
“I…” It was on the tip of Draco’s tongue to admit he’d only acted at Harry’s behest, but his father’s eyes were warm with approval and Draco couldn’t bear to disappoint him. “Yes.”
“What a curious turn of events. Well done, Draco.”
“Thank you, father,” Draco whispered.
“Well done?” Snape sputtered. “Well done!?”
“Yes. That is generally what one says to acknowledge a success,” Lucius drawled. “I always knew you would do well in politics, Draco.”
Snape’s lips curled in a vicious sneer and the base of Draco’s stomach dropped to his knees. He knew what was coming, barrelling towards him like a train out of the mist. And he knew that, just like a train, there was nothing he could do to stop it.
“Politics?” Snape scoffed. “Your son doesn’t want to go into politics; he’s begged to be my apprentice for years.”
“Your apprentice?” Lucius said in astonishment. “Is that true, Draco? You wish to earn a living brewing potions?”
Draco hung his head so they would not see the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. “No, father.”
“You see, Severus, no son of mine would choose such a plebeian profession,” Lucius’s voice was heavy with sarcasm as he added, “No offence to you, of course.”
Pain lanced through Draco’s chest, and he was glad the stench of the broken jar gave him an excuse to raise an arm in front of his face so they couldn’t see his heart breaking. It was just as he’d feared; his father would never approve of his dream.
“Now, if you called me here only to complain, I will take my leave before I expire from this stench.” Lucius turned to Draco. “Keep me updated on the situation.”
“I will, father,” he murmured. “May I go?”
Lucius waved his hand dismissively towards the door. “Yes, run along now.”
Draco didn’t hesitate. He hopped over the shattered glass, threw back the bolt on the door, and slipped outside.
Lucius pushed the door shut behind his son and listened for the quick patter of feet retreating down the hall before he turned his attention back to Snape, who was snarling like a starving beast deprived of its meal.
Snape prowled to his desk and kicked the leg of one of the student chairs, pushing it back. He turned to collapse onto the seat. “You’re too soft on him–”
Lucius lunged across the room, catching him by the throat and shoving him against the top of his desk. Papers scattered and a small rack of student vials crashed to the floor as Snape struggled, but an icy fire burned in Lucius’s eyes and he didn’t let go.
“I can overlook many things, Snape,” Lucius hissed, tightening his grip until Snape’s chest heaved with the effort of drawing breath. “But if you dare threaten my son again, I’ll make you wish the dark lord had put you out of your misery that night ten years ago. Do I make myself clear?”
A plum red stain spread across Snape’s cheeks as he gasped, “He had… Potter… named the heir…”
“So he did, though I can’t imagine why you should care.”
Snape’s mouth opened soundlessly, his fingers prying at Lucius’s hands. “Lily,” he croaked.
Lucius narrowed his eyes and let go. Snape slid unceremoniously to the floor where he folded in two, coughing violently.
“Lily?” Lucius said with faint disdain. “Lily Potter?”
Snape’s fingers curled against the floor. “She would not have borne his child. She cannot have, and yet” – he looked up, his eyes wild – “her own son would drag her reputation through the mud – would see her name bandied about as the dark lord’s whore – mother of parselmouths! Is that to be her legacy? Is she to be sacrificed for a self-centred brat’s delusions of grandeur?” He shuddered and pressed a hand to his mouth. “It cannot be. It cannot…”
Lucius crouched, catching Snape’s chin and forcing it up. “Ah, Severus. Sometimes I forget what a pitiful creature you are,” he said before standing and wiping his hand with his kerchief. “What you choose to believe is none of my concern as long as you keep your hands off my son.”
Snape hung his head, his shoulders drooping. “Get out.”
“With pleasure.” Lucius turned on his heel and vanished back into the flames.
Draco missed the confrontation between his father and Professor Snape.
He fled as soon as the door swung shut, no destination in mind, only seeking a quiet place where he could be miserable in peace while he tried to glue the shattered fragments of his heart back together. He took the corner at a run and nearly bowled into a small hooded figure leaning against the wall. The figure jolted upright and reached out their hand, but Draco lurched to the side and blew past, turning his head so they wouldn’t see the tears in his eyes.
“Draco!” called a familiar voice. “Hey, wait up!”
“Why are you still here?” he snapped over his shoulder. “I told you to leave!”
Harry caught up easily and fell in beside him, matching his pace. “I know, but Snape looked ready to tear our throats out and I was worried he’d hurt you. So I figured I should stick around, just in case.” He glanced at Draco. “Are you okay? I could hear the yelling from all the way down the hall.”
Heat burned up Draco’s cheeks. “I’m fine,” he muttered.
Harry hummed noncommittally, his gaze fixed straight ahead. His quiet disbelief was almost worse than an outright challenge because there was nothing for Draco to contradict. They both knew he was lying.
Draco staggered to a stop and leaned against the wall, suddenly exhausted. As he caught his breath, Basil poked her head out of Harry’s collar and hissed. Harry glanced at her, then raised a hand to Draco’s neck. He touched the damp patch on his shoulder, brought his fingers to his nose and sniffed them. He coughed, his face puckering in disgust before he wiped his hand on the side of his robes.
“What’s on your shoulder? It smells terrible.”
Draco touched his neck where the potion had splashed him. It stung beneath his fingers, the skin hot and puffy where shards of glass had scratched him. He should treat it. He had an ointment back in his dorm his godfather had…
Draco let his hand fall back to his side.
Would he ever be able to see his godfather as the same sullen but brilliant tutor his mother had introduced him to all those years ago?
Did Snape even deserve that title?
“Draco?”
He took a deep breath. “Professor Snape… threw some stuff around. A jar broke and splashed me, that’s all. I should wash it off.”
“Let’s find a bathroom, then. Do you know where the closest one is?”
Draco looked around in a daze. He’d been so focused on getting away, he’d stopped paying attention to his surroundings, and was now well and truly lost. Ahead, the path opened into a cavernous storeroom packed to the gills with wooden casks and ceramic amphorae. The shadow of a house-elf slid across the floor as it passed silently in front of a hanging brasier.
“I think we’re near the kitchens.”
Harry’s eyes lightened. “I heard the entrance to the Hufflepuff common room is hidden in a barrel. Do you think it’s one of those?”
Draco grimaced and turned on his heel. It was bad enough having Harry see his puffy eyes and stained robe. He didn’t need a bunch of do-gooder badgers sticking their noses into his business.
Harry hesitated a moment before trotting after him.
It took them ten minutes to find a small, single-occupant bathroom with a working sink. The mirror was tarnished to the point his reflection was little more than a pale smudge, and the taps creaked stiffly and spat a stream of rusty water when they first wrestled them open, but the hand towels were still in one piece, if a little dusty.
While Harry carried a towel outside to beat it clean, Draco peeled off his robe and ran its shoulder under the tap. The trek through the castle had calmed him, and while his chest still tightened when he remembered his father’s biting disapproval, his heart lay in a stupor, heavy and hollow. It left him feeling cold; isolated in a way he’d never experienced before. He grit his teeth and wrung the water from his robe.
Harry returned with the towel and exchanged it for Draco’s robe without a word. Draco wetted the towel and dabbed his neck, carefully wiping his skin clean.
“Hey, Harry… What do you want to do in the future?”
Harry, who’d been stroking Draco’s robe as though it was a cat, his mind clearly elsewhere, blinked, his distant expression melting away. “Hm?” he asked, and Draco repeated his question.
“Oh.” He smiled. “I want to live with Basil and the other snakes in a nice big house where I don’t need to cook or clean, and where no one will bother me unless I want to see them.”
Draco, who already lived in such a house, shook his head. “I meant as a profession.”
“I’m not sure.” Harry paused, then his smile broadened into a grin and he said with a laugh, “Maybe I’ll breed basilisks.”
Draco bundled the towel into a ball and tossed it at Harry’s head. “I’m being serious!”
Harry ducked out of the way, still laughing. “So am I.”
“Breeding basilisks is illegal, you know.”
“Then I’ll just need to make it legal first.”
Draco sighed and held his hand out for his robe. The fabric was now bone dry, though he hadn’t seen Harry draw his wand to use the siphoning charm. He shook his head and slipped it over his shoulders. Draco liked snakes, but he couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to live with a basilisk. Even standing in front of the painted version in the common room had left him shaking like a rabbit. “You’re mad,” he grumbled. “You know that, right?”
Harry didn’t dignify that with a response. “What about you?” he asked instead. “Do you still want to apprentice under Snape?”
Draco’s fingers fumbled the clasp at the front of his robe as his distress came flooding back. He closed his eyes, fighting to keep control. “I don’t think he’d accept me. He said some terrible things about me and my parents.” Draco pressed his hands against the rim of the sink, head bowed. “And he told my father I’d rather brew potions than waste my time in politics and father, he… didn’t approve.”
“Then ignore him,” Harry said. “If you want to brew potions, just do it.”
If only things were that simple.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” Harry pressed.
“I just can’t!”
“Draco–”
“What would you know? You don’t even have parents!” Draco shouted, his heart aching as fresh tears welled in his eyes. Before they could spill down his cheeks, he turned on his heel and stormed towards the door. Harry stood rooted to the ground in shock as Draco yanked the door open, only leaping forward to catch his sleeve when Draco was in the passage beyond.
“Wait,” he said quickly, tugging Draco to a halt. The door bumped his back as it swung shut, but he didn’t seem to notice. “You’re right. I don’t have parents. I don’t know what it’s like to have someone worry over my future or tell me they’re proud, so there’s been no one for me to disappoint – other than myself. I guess I really don’t know what it’s like. Sorry.”
Draco caught his breath, suddenly ashamed. It wasn’t Harry’s fault his parents had died and left him with fearful, ignorant muggles. He’d never heard Harry speak well of his aunt and uncle, but had they really never praised him, for anything? Draco couldn’t imagine growing up a stranger in his own home. The disdain on his father’s face when Snape exposed his dreams for the future had felt like the end of the world. It frightened him more than he could bear.
He slowly turned to face Harry. “You don’t need to apologise,” he mumbled. “I shouldn’t have said that. It was rude.”
Harry shrugged, unperturbed. As though Draco’s words hadn’t hurt him. As though he’d heard so much worse over the course of his life, he’d grown inured to the pain.
“What will you do now?” Harry asked.
“I don’t know. Even if my father doesn’t approve, it’s not like we can drop Potions until after our OWLs, and those are years away, so… all I can do is keep going to class.”
“Maybe he’ll have forgotten by then,” Harry suggested, but Draco shook his head. His father had a mind like a steel trap, and Snape’s outrageous behaviour had been memorable, to say the least. No, his only hope lay in his father writing off Snape’s claims as lies borne of spite, but even that would only buy him a few extra years of peace before his father noticed he was spending too much time in a laboratory for his plebeian interest to be a mere hobby. Then he and his father would fight, his mother would try to broker a peace, and the happiness they’d fought and sacrificed for would come crashing down.
It would be best if he gave up now, before things came to a head, and yet… he didn’t want to let go.
“Do you think… would my father forgive me if I don’t go into politics?” He knew the question was unfair as soon as it left his lips. Harry didn’t know Lucius, or what was expected of the heirs of old families. Even so, he couldn’t stop himself from searching Harry’s face for reassurance.
“I’m not sure,” Harry said. “But sometimes, in order to be happy, you need to do things that will hurt other people.”
That dragged a laugh from Draco. Perhaps Harry understood Lucius better than he’d guessed.
“You sound just like him,” he said.
“I do?” Harry glanced at Draco in surprise. Then, after a moment, his eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms with a huff. “If he understands, then he shouldn’t be angry at you for following his advice. It’s not like it would kill him if you became a potions master.”
Draco wasn’t sure his father would agree, but knowing he had someone on his side who wouldn’t judge him made his heart feel a little lighter.
“Hey, Harry.”
“Hm?”
“Thanks for checking on me.”
“You’re welcome.” Harry smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “I’m glad you weren’t murdered.”
Draco could only shake his head, not understanding half of what went on inside Harry’s mind, but grateful to him nevertheless.
As he would learn later that week, sometimes ignorance was bliss.
“That can’t be right! If curses and boons never manifest together, it should be impossible for Harry to have both the Potters’ unruly hair and be a parselmouth!”
“As far as I know! There might be exceptions, but I’m not a genealogist. Go ask someone who studies family trees for a living if you’re so bothered! The more important question is whether Harry has the Potter hair at all — because he’s definitely a parselmouth!”
Draco sighed and set down his quill, abandoning his Potions worksheet in favour of the debate raging on the far side of the table. Pansy was leaning back, her arms crossed, while Hermione tapped insistently on an entry in the Pure-Blood Directory, which, beside its list of sacred families, was renowned as the leading source for information on all known mementos in the British Isles.
“Here,” he said, pushing the worksheet to Theodore. “I’ll finish my half later.”
Theodore glanced back into the library stacks. “If we don’t get kicked out first,” he muttered as he accepted it and bent his head to fill out the section on preparing unicorn horns for use in common antidotes.
Draco winced and pressed a hand to the scabs on the side of his neck, his mind flitting back to the crash of a shattering jar, the reek of rotten flesh, and the way Snape’s lips had twisted in fury as he screamed. He swallowed hard and shook his head, as though he could cast the memories out. The worst Mme Pince would do was give them a stern lecture about library etiquette before banishing them for the night. She wouldn’t throw things. She probably wouldn’t even yell — just whisper loudly; too proper to break her own rules. “That’s not so bad.”
Theodore shot him an odd look, and Draco snapped his mouth shut. He hadn’t meant to say that last bit aloud.
Rather than explain, he turned his attention to the bickering witches, shifting to sit on his knees to see them over the bottle-green hurricane lamp glowing in the centre of the table.
Hermione turned to the boy wedged between her and Draco. “Harry!”
Harry raised his head slowly, his eyes lingering on the half-finished draft of his worksheet. “Hm?”
“Harry, would you say your hair is” — she looked at the page in front of her and read — “wild as the fae; a nest of tangles as one freshly risen from bed, or caught in the teeth of a gale?”
Harry’s lips twitched. He finally looked up, laughter in his eyes. “That sounds about right.”
“Nonsense,” Pansy said. She rose to her feet and flicked a comb out of her sleeve like a duellist preparing for battle. She marched around the table until she was behind Harry. “You just haven’t brushed it properly.”
“Wha—?” Before Harry could utter a protest, Pansy was tugging the comb through his hair. He swatted at it like an angry kneazle and hunched his shoulders, but Pansy was undaunted. She teased the knots out of a section at the crown of his head and stepped back to admire her handiwork.
Draco choked down a laugh. “Now it’s just fluffy.”
Pansy grumbled and flicked her hand again. The comb was replaced with her wand. “Hold still,” she instructed. “I’m going to use the straightening charm.” Harry’s eyes widened as she traced an inverted hook in the air with the tip of her wand and said, “Corrigere!”
Harry shuddered as his hair rippled. Rather than straightening, the strands took it as an opportunity to weave back into a chaotic mess. He covered his head with his arms, perhaps wary of what spell she might try next. “It won’t work,” he said. “Nothing does. Even if you shave it off, it will be back tomorrow.”
Draco nudged Harry’s side with his elbow. “When did you shave your head?”
“It wasn’t me,” Harry muttered, lowering his arms as Pansy walked back to her seat. She dropped into the chair and shook her head.
“Maybe you do have the Potter hair,” she said, bewildered.
With Pansy’s position undermined, Hermione pulled the debate back on track. “If you’re unlikely to inherit a boon and a curse, what if they’re both curses?”
Harry looked at her sharply. “Speaking Parseltongue is not a curse,” he snapped.
She stiffened at the unexpected rebuke. “I know that, but let’s pretend for the sake of argument.”
“If they were both curses, one memento would have overwritten the other,” Pansy said. She pointed her thumb at Draco. “That’s why he’s such a catch. The Malfoys’ memento eats lesser curses for breakfast, and it isn’t even that bad. If I had to be cursed, I’d rather all my children be sons than watch them go insane like the Blacks, or have the Lestranges’ rotten luck.”
Hermione frowned at him and asked, “There’s never been a woman born into your family? Ever?”
Draco shrugged. “Not since we were cursed. There’s been a few female squibs, but they hardly count.”
“Why not?”
“Well, they aren’t magical, are they?” he said. “Most of them break all ties with our world and go live with muggles. So, even if one of their grandchildren or great-grandchildren is born magical, no one knows if they’ve inherited a memento along the way and it muddies the water for the rest of us” — he smirked — “mudblood.”
Hermione’s face flushed with outrage. “You—”
“Oh, calm down,” Pansy said. “He’s not wrong. Magic doesn’t appear at random. There’s a squib or two somewhere on your family tree, and until you know who you’re descended from, you’re a liability.”
“How am I a liability?” Hermione demanded.
Pansy rolled her eyes. “Because, for all we know, you’re carrying a curse powerful enough to wipe out an entire family line.”
The scrape of a chair being pushed back made them jump. Theodore had risen to his feet, his hands curled against the table. They stared at him in surprise, but his head was bowed, his eyes hidden in the shadow of his bangs.
“I— there’s something I promised I’d do.” He turned his back to them and grabbed his satchel off the floor. “Sorry, Draco. Could you finish the rest for me?”
Draco couldn’t reply before Theodore had stalked away through the stacks. He looked down at the half-finished paragraph on their worksheet in bewilderment. Even if Theodore was running late, he could have spared a few extra seconds to finish his current sentence. He’d run off so fast he even forgot his quill and ink bottle!
“Was it something we said?” Hermione asked.
Pansy pursed her lips and hummed thoughtfully, but didn’t reply.
They lapsed into silence, lost in their own thoughts until Harry asked, “Are all muggleborns descended from squibs?”
“As far as we know,” Draco said.
“And mementos can be passed down even if neither of their parents were magical?”
Draco propped his elbows on the table. “Yes, though they’ll be dormant in squibs and muggles.”
“Then could I have inherited one of the mementos from my mother?”
“It’s possible,” Draco said, straightening as he warmed to the idea. “The Potters were an old family down to their last heir. They wouldn’t have gambled away their future on a woman of unknown descent. Though ending up with the Slytherin memento of all things is…” He shook his head. It seemed ludicrous that such an ancient bloodline had survived among muggles when it was extinct in magical Britain. And to have showed up now, in Harry Potter of all people… his head hurt just thinking about it.
“So, if Harry really has two mementos, that leaves us with two options,” Hermione said, counting them off on her fingers. “First, he inherited the Potter hair from his father, and the Slytherin memento from his mother. Second, he inherited the Potter hair from his mother and the Slytherin memento from… someone else.”
“And the third option?” Harry asked.
Hermione wavered. “What third option?”
Harry’s brow crinkled. He matched her puzzled expression with one of his own. “I don’t know. I just feel there is one.”
Hermione shifted, opened her mouth to say something, but for once could not find the words. Draco watched her struggle, fascinated, and Pansy’s head came up like a hound scenting its quarry.
Hermione shut the Pure-Blood Directory with a snap and grumbled, “I wish you’d be that open-minded about everything.”
Pansy was on her in a flash. “Okay, spit it out Granger. What’s going on? You’ve been looking at Harry like he’s seen the Grim since breakfast — and that was just weird.”
Hermione leaned away from her. “I’m surprised you’d care about a mudblood’s opinions!”
“When have I called you that?” Pansy asked. “Draco said it, not me. And you’re deflecting!”
Draco smirked as Hermione turned her ire on him. Then he glimpsed a flash of green from the corner of his eye, and something cold sunk into his chest. Harry was watching him in quiet disapproval, and Draco supposed he’d reached his quota of mockery for the day. Though it pained him, it was time to make amends.
“If it bothers you, just find out who you’re descended from,” he told Hermione.
She glowered at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “So you can give me a charming new nickname?”
“Hardly,” he said. “All mudbloods are muggleborn, but not all muggleborns are mudbloods. If anything, we’d be calling you our long-lost cousin, seeing as how most of our families are related to some degree.”
She scoffed. “Related to you? I think I’ll pass.”
“Suit yourself.”
“If you two are done flirting—” Pansy began, only to be drowned out by an outcry from both Draco and Hermione.
“Flirt—”
“We’re not—”
She raised her voice. “—it’s time to spill the tea. Come on, Harry. What happened?”
Harry cocked his head to the side, considering them. Then, as though he were discussing the weather, he said, “Snape tried to kill me.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in. Draco was certain he’d misheard and searched Harry’s face as though he could find the truth written on his skin. What?
“We don’t actually know it was Professor Snape,” Hermione said. She turned to them, eager to explain now that the cat was out of the bag. “Someone cursed Harry’s broom during the Quidditch match. Professor McGonagall sent it out to be inspected and everything, but they couldn’t tell who did it.”
What?!
“There aren’t many people with the power to overwhelm a broom’s wards,” Harry argued. “The twins think it was Snape, and I agree with them. He was there, and he hates me enough to try. Especially if it would help his team win.”
Draco sunk back on his heels, reeling as several things that had been puzzling him clicked into place. Why Harry had chosen now to be named the Heir of Slytherin. Why he’d asked the prefects for protection from Snape specifically. Why he’d waited just down the hall when Draco was dragged into their professor’s office. All his odd little comments afterwards. Draco shuddered, his hand flying back to his neck as he remembered Harry smiling and clasping him on the shoulder.
‘I’m glad you weren’t murdered.’
He’d been… serious? The surrounding voices faded, swallowed by a rising tide of horror. Harry could be mistaken — it would be best if he was — and yet, Draco had never witnessed a rage like Snape’s before. If he could turn on his friends with such fury, what might he do to his enemies?
Pansy was on her feet. “Wait! What happened?”
“When I flew above the pitch to dodge your Beaters, my broom went out of control. It threw me and I caught the Snitch on the way down.”
“On the way down!?”
“I still think you’ve got the wrong person!” Hermione protested. “Professor Snape is a teacher. Even if he’s mean, he wouldn’t murder someone!”
“He has,” Draco whispered, his mouth dry.
Hermione recoiled in shock. “What?”
“He has killed people.” Draco took a deep breath. “He was the dark lord’s protégé.”
Hermione went stock still, her eyes so wide they looked as though they’d fall out. Harry only tilted his head the other way, humming softly.
“You must be mistaken,” Hermione said haltingly. “Professor Dumbledore wouldn’t allow him to teach if he really was that man’s…”
“There’s no mistake,” Pansy said. “When we lost the war, Snape threw his lot in with Dumbledore. They cooked up some story about him being a spy for the Order of the Phoenix, but it’s undeniable he was the dark lord’s protégé, and you don’t get into the good graces of a man like that by sitting on the sidelines.”
Hermione murmured something, but her words trailed off into silence.
After a moment, Harry said, “Well, there’s nothing we can do about it except not get killed.” He turned to Draco and held up his quill. “Draco, you have nice handwriting. Teach me how to use this damned thing. My writing’s rubbish.”
Draco stared at the feather in incomprehension.
Harry’s mind… was truly unfathomable.
Less unfathomable was the reality of Potions class that Friday.
Since learning of Harry’s brush with death, what had begun as simple nervousness to face the man he’d once admired burgeoned into a sickening, all-consuming dread that left him paralysed at the top of the stairs leading to the Potions labs. It was only the stolid forms of Crabbe and Goyle pressing against his back that forced Draco’s limbs into motion.
The ominous feeling hanging over his head increased when he found Harry standing at their locker, clutching the silver heir pin at his neck and muttering to himself. When Draco drew close enough to hear him, he felt every hair on his body stand on end.
“There’s no turning back,” Harry whispered. “You promised not to run away. If he wants a fight, just stand your ground and don’t panic.”
The scent of dried herbs and pickled frog legs wafting from the lockers made Draco’s head spin. He wished he could banish the panic twisting his gut through willpower alone, but nothing in his life had prepared him for the emotions of the past week. All he could do was cling desperately to his self control and hope the writhing mass inside him wouldn’t break loose.
He pressed a hand to his stomach and wondered if Harry had felt like this since the Quidditch match. How had he survived attending class these past few weeks? Draco was ready to keel over before the lesson had even begun, and the rest of the year stretched ahead of him like a bleak mountain path choked with thorns.
When Harry noticed him, he turned around with a faint smile. “Good morning Draco.”
“Morning,” Draco replied dully.
“Are you ready for class today?”
“No.”
Harry cocked his head, as if puzzled by Draco’s bad mood. “Have you heard from your parents?” he asked in concern. “They didn’t scold you, did they?”
Draco clutched his satchel, where several letters from his family were stuffed beneath his textbook, unopened. He couldn’t bear to admit he was afraid to read them, not after Harry had encouraged him to forge his own path, so he looked away in embarrassment. “Not yet.”
Harry huffed a sigh of relief. “That’s good,” he said as he picked out the last ingredient he’d need to brew the antidote Professor Snape had set for the day’s lab and bundled them together in a cloth. “Come on, the professor will scold us if we dawdle.”
Draco snatched his cauldron from its peg and closed the locker door. He wasn’t ready — not in the least — but there was no delaying the inevitable. He nodded and followed Harry off the landing.
Snape stood just outside the classroom, one arm holding the door open. He glowered at the stream of students scurrying past, and Draco could feel the man’s eyes burning a hole in the top of his head as he slunk into the room. He half expected to be kicked, but there must have been a limit to what Snape was willing to do in front of witnesses, so his shins escaped unscathed.
Just as he was feeling hopeful he’d survive the lesson, Harry did the unthinkable.
Rather than sit obediently at the desk a few feet to Draco’s right, he put his shoulder against its far side and, with a mighty heave, shoved the two together.
“What are you doing?” Draco whispered frantically. He glanced over his shoulder to see if Snape had noticed, but the man was thankfully still outside.
“Moving my desk,” Harry said as he kicked his and Hermione’s stools over. “There’s no point in keeping up the farce that we hate each other, and since we were partners originally, it’s only right we sit together.” Draco wanted to argue that they had every reason to continue to sit separately, but Harry grabbed his arm and manoeuvred him into one of the two inside seats, taking the other for himself.
Theodore arrived next and set down his bundle of ingredients. He glanced at the desks with passing curiosity, but said nothing as he sat down and pulled out a library book. In contrast, Hermione took one look at the layout of the tables and leaped immediately to the same conclusion as Draco.
“What are you doing, Harry?” she whispered. “Do you want to provoke Professor Snape?”
“Of course not,” Harry said. “But I won’t lie down at his feet and let him walk all over me. Nothing will get better if I back down now. All it will do is show him I’m too afraid to stand up for myself.”
Hermione clutched her cauldron like a life-preserver. “But, Harry,” she pleaded. “Please, can’t we do that some other way? This will only make him angry.”
The last of the students trickled into the room, and Draco watched with apprehension as Snape stepped through behind them and shut the door. He made it halfway to his desk before he noticed the change in seating arrangements.
Instantly, the muscles of his face tightened. He pivoted and surged to the desk, the nearby student scattering like birds fleeing a charging bull. Draco shrunk back as Snape stopped opposite Harry, his malevolent black eyes fixed upon him.
“Mister Potter, I don’t believe I gave you permission to rearrange my classroom,” he said in a voice as cold as ice creeping over the surface of a lake.
Harry’s shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t back down. “You never said we couldn’t,” he pointed out.
The rest of the class fell silent, riveted by the confrontation. Draco could almost feel Neville trembling with fright at the back of the room.
Snape leaned against the desk. “Move. It. Back. Now.”
“I could,” Harry said. “If you ask nicely.”
Snape’s lips twisted into a sneer. “Ask? I do not need to ask you to obey instructions in my classroom, Mister Potter. Even if you are suffering from delusions of grandeur.”
Beneath the desk, Harry’s hands were shaking, but he curled them into fists and pressed them against his thighs. “I have never insulted you, sir,” he said quietly. “Nor have I attacked you. I don’t know why you hate me, but I won’t sink to your level. If you ask me nicely, I will move the desk back. If you don’t, you can move it yourself.”
But you will have lost, Draco finished in his head, torn between terror and a heady sense of exhilaration at Harry’s reckless, mad defiance. He shivered and wrapped his arms around himself. No one else dared speak, and as the tension built, Draco looked helplessly at Hermione, who was standing to the side, still clutching her cauldron.
She met his eyes and slowly, almost painfully, pried her fingers off the cauldron’s pewter rim.
It fell with a clang that reverberated through the classroom, jerking everyone out of their trance. Snape snorted and took a step back, his wand appearing in his hand. With a flick, the desk jerked back to its original position, the leg slamming into Harry’s knees as it shot past.
Harry didn’t make a sound, though the blow must have hurt as he winced when he slipped off his stool to move it back.
“Fifty points from Gryffindor for insubordination,” Snape spat as he whirled to the chalkboard and, with another flick of his wand, caused the brewing instructions for their potion to appear. “And you can spend the next two evenings polishing the plaques in the trophy room until they gleam.”
The Gryffindors moaned as though dealt a mortal blow. They had only just recovered the points they’d lost in the disastrous Transfiguration brawl. The loss of another fifty put them in danger of being overtaken by Hufflepuff and falling into last place.
Harry seemed unbothered by the penalty, or by the reactions of his housemates, though Draco saw Hermione wilt as she retrieved her cauldron from the floor and set it over the burner. Harry smiled and patted her arm as if to cheer her up.
It didn’t appear particularly effective.
When Snape ordered them to turn in their worksheets, Draco slapped the group assignment onto Theodore’s book, sending him up on their behalf. Snape didn’t give it a second glance as it was buried in the pile forming on his desk, and Draco let out a sigh of relief.
Thereafter followed the longest three hours of Draco’s life.
He expected Snape to materialise behind him at any moment, venom dripping from his tongue, but it seemed Snape had chosen to ignore him in favour of harassing Harry, and after Theodore stepped in several times to keep Draco from ruining their ingredients in his distraction, he finally calmed down enough to complete the brew without melting their cauldron in the process.
Harry bore the man’s attention gamely, mashing mistletoe berries and grating the tip of his unicorn horn with more poise than Draco could have managed with Snape breathing down his neck.
At the end of the class, they bottled their antidotes and brought them up to the front. Draco waited until there was a crowd around Snape’s desk before he snuck his vial into the middle of the rack and scurried back to his seat.
He was carrying his cauldron over to the sink to wash out the remnants when he heard the tinkling crash of breaking glass. His heart sank. Behind him, Harry’s vial lay shattered on the floor, the antidote puddling at the boy’s feet.
“Whoops,” Snape said with ill-concealed glee. “How careless of me.”
Harry turned silently back to his cauldron. He scraped together a second vial from the dregs, wrote his name on the label, and returned to Snape’s desk.
He held the vial out to Snape on his open palm. It was only half-full, and the colour was muddy from the residue at the bottom of the cauldron. “Would you like to break this one as well?” he asked.
Snape twitched, his lips drawing back to reveal a flash of yellow teeth. “Leave it and go,” he ordered.
Harry placed it in the rack and walked away, not even glancing over his shoulder to see what Snape would do. Draco watched Snape’s fingers flex towards the rack, but then he seemed to realise all eyes in the class were fixed on him, and he settled for snapping at them to hurry, as he didn’t have all day to babysit them.
“Why?” Draco asked Harry as they climbed the stairs out of the dungeons.
Harry smiled at him. “I won’t let him bully me.”
Forget bullying, even if Snape was innocent of the attempt on Harry’s life, if Harry kept challenging him like this, he really would murder him! Draco couldn’t shout that on a crowded stairwell, so he settled for the next best thing. “He’s going to fail you!”
“That’s okay. I can learn on my own if I need to.” Harry’s smile broadened into a grin and he spoke without artifice. “Besides, if I need potions in the future, I’ll just buy them from you.”
Draco gripped the strap of his satchel as his mouth opened and closed, at a loss for words in the face of Harry’s faith. Pleasure lit in his chest, and he felt his ears grow warm. “Shut up,” he grumbled, pulling his hood up to hide his blush.
A sharp rap on the door startled Quirrell awake. He raised his head from where it was pillowed on a fifth year student’s essay on illegal uses of everyday charms and rubbed his eyes. The door swam into focus, dull in the dim light. Quirrell rubbed his eyes again, but the edges of his vision remained dark, as though he were sinking in deep water, his head turned towards the flickering light of a surface he no longer had the strength to reach.
The knocking continued relentlessly.
“Coming,” he called hoarsely. “I’m coming!”
The blanket he’d wrapped around his shoulders slipped off as he struggled to his feet. His limbs were leaden, and a spike of agony lanced down his spine as he straightened. He leaned against his desk and sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. The pain would lessen once he started moving, it always did, but overcoming the initial hurdle was both physically and mentally taxing.
He dragged his body to the door and pulled it open, wincing as the hinges squealed in protest. Filch stood outside, his lantern illuminating his face from below, transforming his scowl of displeasure into something grotesque. At his feet, Mrs Norris’ eyes gleamed with no less malevolence.
“You’re late,” Filch growled.
“Late?” Quirrell asked, leaning against the door for support. “Late for what?”
Filch waved his lantern at Quirrell and Mrs Norris hissed, baring her fangs. “Patrol, you damned layabout! You’ve begged off these past few weeks, but don’t expect me to do your work for you forever! I won’t!”
Quirrell’s heart sank as he glanced down the dark corridor outside his quarters, made even darker by his fading vision. He doubted he’d be able to complete his rounds, but it was true he’d excused himself for the past few weeks. If he avoided his duties much longer, the other staff would grow suspicious, and he couldn’t afford to have Mme Pomfrey knocking down his door to assess him. Gods only knew how Voldemort would present on a medical scan.
“Yes, of course.” He offered the caretaker a weak smile. “My apologies. I lost track of time.”
Filch snorted in disgust before he turned on his heel and stomped off. Mrs Norris watched Quirrell for a moment longer, her luminous eyes judging him. Then, with a flick of her tail, she melted into the shadows.
Quirrell dragged on his thickest cloak and drew his wand with a sigh. He had to steady himself before casting the fire-lighting charm on the candle of his lantern, his nerves sparking painfully as the magic swept down his arm.
His hand trembled as he lifted the lantern and stepped outside.
He made it only one floor before he could no longer bear the weight of the lantern’s metal frame and abandoned it on a windowsill, plucking the enchanted candle from the pricket and cupping it in his palms.
The stairs were a torment. If he were to encounter a student out of bed, he’d never be able to catch them. He wasn’t even sure he could summon the breath to yell.
When he reached a bench, he sunk onto the padded seat, bowing his head to stare at the pinprick of light dancing at the tip of the candle wrapped in his hands. A trickle of wax slid down the side and pooled against his fingers. It should have stung, but all he felt was a muted sense of heat.
The quiet rasp of Voldemort’s breathing was loud in his ears. Quirrell closed his eyes, trying to shut out the uncanny pressure of the wraith’s half-formed lungs in his back.
Far overhead, the clock tower tolled the hour. Quirrell counted each peal of the bells. Nine... Ten... Eleven... When they fell silent, he pried his eyes back open, staring past the light of his candle in a stupor as he summoned the energy to rise.
Lost in misery, he nearly missed the flicker of movement at the base of the far wall.
Quirrell dropped the candle and used all his strength to lunge off the bench. He hit the ground hard, bruising his knees and elbows as he scrabbled blindly along the baseboards. His left hand closed around a thin, cool body and he raised it in triumph.
The snake in his grasp hissed furiously and thrashed its tail, but it did not strike him. Not that he would have felt if it had.
Behind him, Voldemort roused, and a disjointed sense of excitement filtered through their splintered bond.
Quirrell lurched to his feet and scooped up the candle, for a moment forgetting his fatigue in the rush of adrenaline. They couldn’t speak here; the walls were packed with portraits uttering sleepy murmurs of protest at the late-night disturbance.
Before they roused, Quirrell forced his exhausted body into a jog, making for the closest empty room. He shut the door quietly behind him and searched the wall for a latch, but there was none.
He’d need to be quick.
Moving deeper into the room, he propped the candle upright on an empty shelf and awkwardly unwound his turban with one hand.
When he pulled the cloth from his head, Voldemort gasped and coughed weakly.
“Raise it,” the wraith ordered, and Quirrell raised the snake until it was level with his ear.
Voldemort hissed something, and the snake stilled. Quirrell had the impression it was listening. When Voldemort fell silent, Quirrell felt a slight vibration against his fingers as the snake replied.
Voldemort let out a rattling breath. “Release it in the corridor and close the door. I have further need of you.”
Quirrell’s heart was pounding as he set the snake down outside and shut himself back in the room with the dark lord. “Master?”
“I had hoped a human host would last longer, but you feel it, don’t you? Death’s fingers closing around your throat.” Quirrell swallowed hard, his hand flying to his neck, but the dark lord wasn’t finished. “You will be dead soon. Your body reduced to a slab of useless meat.”
Quirrell shuddered and clenched his eyes shut. “I’m not… that sick,” he protested, dragging a raspy laugh from the dark lord.
“Your confidence is as endearing as it is foolish.”
Quirrell gulped for breath as his hand tightened around his neck. “The fatigue will pass… I just need to rest a little longer.”
“You may lie to yourself, but you cannot lie to me. With every breath, you stumble closer to the veil between this world and the next.” The dark lord’s voice softened into a croon. “Ah ah, hush now. There is no need for tears. Now that my spy is in place, Lord Voldemort still has a use for you. I will teach you a way to extend your life. You will not like it, but you will live. If you are obedient, once I obtain the stone, Lord Voldemort promises to restore you to health, and Lord Voldemort does not go back on his word.”
Quirrell bowed his head, despair a cold, dark beast lurking within him. “I understand,” he whispered. “And I will obey.”
When Voldemort told him the price of his continued survival, Quirrell wept with horror, but he’d made a promise to atone for his attempt on Harry’s life. If this was to be his penance, then it was one he must pay.