The Dogfather

The stench at breakfast the next morning was unbearable. Students could be seen using their robes as makeshift face shields and refusing food. Even the Hufflepuffs - who were known for their proclivity towards all things culinary - left towering plates of pastries untouched.

The source of the odor? None other than the Slytherin table.

Harry sought out Malfoy almost immediately.

“Hey, Malfoy,” he greeted cheerily, sidling up beside him on the bench to several dirty looks from the Slytherin students, “we’ve been getting some complaints at the Gryffindor and I’ve been nominated to confront you. So, tell me - did all the Slytherins collectively forget to pack their Irish Spring or what?”

Malfoy scowled. “What’re you trying to get at?”

“It smells in here,” Harry pointed out.

“There was a hate crime,” Malfoy said pompously. 

Harry put his hand over his chest. “Gee, Malfoy, I had no idea - what happened?”

“Someone snuck into our common room and put dungbombs under all the tables.”

Harry had to stifle a grin - it was a brilliant prank, really. Simply, but classic.

“That’s terrible,” he said, frowning empathetically.

“Don’t apologize, Potter. God knows it was probably you and your malevolent godfather.”

“Well, now you sound like Snape, using words like malevolent.”

Malfoy smiled smugly. “Jokes on you. I take that as a compliment.”

“Right,” Harry said, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly, “note to self - Malfoy has it bad for Snape -”

“- I do not -”

“Besides - what makes you think it was me and Sirius?”

Malfoy scoffed. “Your godfather burned disownment papers in front of the entire school when you were sorted into Gryffindor. That doesn’t exactly scream house neutrality.”

Harry blinked, “how did you know they were disownment papers?”

“Who says I haven’t seen them before?”

“Oh. Er - alright.” Harry really did not want to get into the inner workings of the Malfoy household before 9am. “Honestly, though,” he said earnestly, “it wasn’t us. I can prove it.”

“Yeah, right.”

“No, really. Listen to this.” Harry repositioned himself on the bench. This concept was entirely his own brainchild - if it worked, he’d be able to unleash hell on the Slytherins for the next seven years with zero suspicion. Sirius would lose it.

“HPSAPAS,” he said grandly. “That’s trademarked, for your information.”

“It stands for Harry Potter’s Society Against Pranks Against Slytherins.” Harry placed a hand on Malfoy’s shoulder, trying his best to come off as genuine. “I’m really serious about this, Malfoy. I’m sick of this inter-house drama.”

Malfoy, to his shock and delight, looked touched.

“You would really do that for us?” he said, “because, I don’t know if you realize this, but you hold a lot of political sway around here.”

“Boy, do I know it. Some might even say too much, for an eleven year old,” said Harry. “It’s no problem. Really. Just don’t try and get in the way - only non-Slytherins are allowed in.”

Malfoy nodded vigorously. “Duly noted.”

//

Their first class was Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall. Harry was rather certain he’d breeze through this class with a nice, shiny O - after all, he’d been an unregistered animagus since he was eight. He took the form of a stag, of course - same as his father.

Their first assignment was to turn a match into a needle. Within seconds, Harry had transfigured a needle fit to darn a pair of socks. Perhaps he should’ve been a bit more subtle. Ron’s jaw nearly unhinged.

How did you do that?”

Harry just shrugged.

McGonagall, who was doing rounds around the classroom, was similarly floored.

“Wow, Potter. That's…” she seemed at a loss for words, “...really good.”

“Thanks, Professor” Harry said brightly, “would you like me to change it back, too? Unless you needed a bunch of needles, for some reason. In which case - I don’t think this class is quite there yet -”

McGonagall stared at him, perplexed. “We aren’t meant to start reverse transfiguration until April.”

Harry shrugged, “it’s just easy for me.” He tapped the needle with his wand, and it sprung back into a match. 

McGonagall picked it up and turned it over, examining it from every angle.

“This is brilliant,” she told him, plainly amazed, “your father was quite talented in Transfiguration too, you know.”

“Must be genetic,” Harry shrugged. 

McGonagall looked at him strangely. “I don’t think that’s possible,” she said, placing the match-turned-needle-turned-match back on his desk. “Well, you get an O for today at any rate. Help Weasley, will you?”

She walked away to check on Seamus Finnigan, who had managed to actually ignite his match and needed his robes extinguished.

Ron groaned. He’d made absolutely no progress on the assignment.

“You know, maybe I wouldn’t suck so bad at transfiguration if I had a wand that was actually mine.”

Harry stopped. “Wait - then whose wand is that?”

“Charlie’s,” said Ron.

“Did Charlie get a new wand or something?”

Ron shrugged helplessly. “Dunno.”

“Why didn’t you get your own?” Harry pressed, feeling quite baffled. “I mean, I get money’s tight - but a wand…? That’s a big one.”

“I honestly think they might have forgotten,” said Ron, blushing. “Seven kids - that’s a lot.”

Harry scratched his chin, unwilling to accept the idea that Ron’s mother had simply forgotten to buy him a wand. He had a sneaking suspicion Ron’s Wand Fund might have gone towards the first-edition box set of Gilderoy Lockhart books he’d seen on Mrs. Weasley’s mantle.

“You’re gonna need a wand, mate,” he said gravely.

“I haven’t got any bloody money,” Ron spat.

“Sirius will buy you one,” said Harry.

Ron’s face flushed red, “I don’t need charity -”

“Please,” Harry scoffed, holding up his hand, “don’t think of it as charity. Think of it as me not wanting to hold your hand through rudimentary transfiguration for the next seven years.”

Ron blinked. “You mean it?”

“Well, between me being an A-list orphan and Sirius being the last heir to an entire pureblood dynasty, we aren’t exactly scraping our pockets for change. A wand is well within our budget.”

“Thank you Harry,” Ron gripped his elbow, “seriously.”

“It’s genuinely not a problem,” said Harry. “Sirius is always looking for something new to spend money on - he’ll be thrilled.”

Transfiguration was followed by History of Magic, during which Harry actually managed to doze off for a while. Ron, bless him, was willing to let him catch some shut eye without disturbance. But Hermione would not have it. She swatted him until he awoke.

“What’s your problem,” he grumbled, “I was up late last night.”

“Why?”

“I was planting dungbombs in the Slytherin common room.”

It might seem stupid to disclose this to Hermione Granger, the biggest stickler for the rules he’d ever met. However, he a) was The Boy Who Lived, and b) had programmed Malfoy to tell a different story, thanks to HPSAPAS. 

Hermione’s jaw dropped. “That was you?!” she hissed.

Harry shrugged. “Yeah - it would be super cool if you didn’t say anything though, okay?”

Hermione looked so galled Harry wouldn’t be surprised if she slapped him. Thankfully, Ron nudged his elbow, drawing him away from the confrontation. “It's been your turn in hangman for twenty minutes, Harry.”

Dean and Seamus were also watching him expectantly. Ron had been the one to come up with the phrase.

“Sorry,” Harry apologized, turning towards them. “Can I guess to solve?”

Only three of the letters were filled in, but he had learned to read Ron by now.

Ron shrugged. “Sure.”

“MALFOY SUCKS.”

Sure enough, Ron beamed. “That’s right!”

Seamus looked furious. He rounded on Ron, “you told him, didn’t you?!”

“No,” Harry corrected, “I just happen to agree

They’d been looking forward to Defense Against the Dark Arts the most, though it proved to be a massive disappointment. Professor Quirrel was a complete joke. Harry found his massive purple turban to be an incredible distraction. Not to mention his classroom smelled worse than the Slytherins post-dungbombs, which was no small feat.

The stench was so dominating Harry witnessed Dean slip out of his chair to crack a window. Ron, with his hand not-so-discreetly over his nose, leaned over to whisper to him.

“It reeks in here, doesn’t it?”

“So bad,” Harry agreed.

“It’s almost unbearable.”

Harry shrugged helplessly. 

//

“Hey, Harry,” Ron said that evening, as they sat on their four-posters, pouring over their textbooks - “how’d you get so good at transfiguration?”

Harry kept his eyes glued to the page. “I inherited my dad’s natural ability, duh.”

“McGonagall said that wasn’t possible.”

“Maybe it's another case of nature helping nurture,” Harry said airily.

“God. Don’t tell me,” Ron groaned, “Your father wrote a groundbreaking treatise for Transfiguration Quarterly shortly before he was killed and Sirius has read you the manuscript every night since you were two.”

“Close,” said Harry, “want me to show you?”

Ron looked up, brows furrowed. “Huh?”

Harry transformed into his stag form. 

(Really, it was more like a fawn - skinny-legged and white-spotted. Sirius teased him relentlessly.)

Ron blinked. 

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” he said.

//

They had their first potions lesson with the Slytherins on Friday. And boy, did it start off with a bang.

“Potter!” Snape barked, pacing the front of the classroom like some freakish bat, “what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Harry sighed deeply. “Does it have to be powdered, necessarily?”

“Answer the question,” Snape growled. 

Harry just shrugged. “Not a clue, Professor. I’m eleven years old. This is my first ever Potions class.”

“Five points from Gryffindor,” said Snape. His fellow Gryffindor classmates groaned, but Harry took the blow with pride - these were not the first points he had lost, nor would they be the last.

“Where would I find a bezoar?” Snape asked.

“Oh! I know this one,” said Harry, “stomach of a goat.”

Snape looked extremely displeased. “What is the difference between -”

“Wait!” Harry interrupted. Several more of his classmates groaned. “I got one right. Can I earn my points BACK?”

“Absolutely not. Gryffindor will win the house cup this year over my dead body,” Snape said fiercely. 

“I can gladly arrange that,” Harry replied brightly.

“You can’t give teachers death threats, Harry!” Hermione shrieked.

“This is the only time I will ever say something even remotely close to this, Potter, so listen carefully,” Snape said slowly, “but - listen to Granger.”

He paused for a moment and swallowed, like there was a nasty taste in his mouth, then shuddered. Harry rolled his eyes. Honestly. And people claimed Hogwarts was blood progressive. 

“Anyways,” said Snape, having gathered himself. “What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

“You stumped me,” Harry said, shrugging.

Snape shook his head sadly. “Clearly fame isn’t everything, is it?”

“Clearly you’re projecting.”

A vein in Snape’s neck jumped menacingly. “Clearly your malevolent godfather didn’t teach you any manners.”

“Touche,” said Harry. “Wait… where’s Malfoy?” Harry stood and craned his neck to look at Malfoy, who was pretending to be absorbed in One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi. “See? I told you! Malevolent!”

“Sit down, Potter,” Snape growled. “Your peers may be interested in learning the correct answers to my questions.”

Harry sat. “One for three isn’t terrible for a first year,” Harry pointed out. 

“If you’re aiming for mediocre, perhaps,” Snape said airily. “And for your information - asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite.” 

Snape paused and looked around the room. “Well? Why aren’t you all copying that down?”

//

That evening, Harry and Ron stuck out to the divination tower to debrief the first week of classes with Sirius.

“I can officially confirm,” Harry announced, emerging through the hatch into the classroom, “Snape is the complete worst.”

“If I were religious, he would be the antichrist,” Ron added.

Sirius sat down heavily on a chintz sofa. “Lay it on me,” he said.

Ron was somehow able to recall every unfair question Snape had asked Harry and recited them all word for word. Sirius lapsed into deep thought for several moments.

“I bitterly regret Lily’s death,” he blurted suddenly.

Ron made a strange, gargled sort of noise. Harry figured he’d probably never been face to face with any sort of acute grief. He reached out and gripped Sirius’ knee.

“Me too,” he said, uneasy, “but that was a long time ago…”

“No - not that.” Sirius shrugged Harry’s hand off dismissively.

“I’m lost,” Ron admitted.

“So am I,” Harry agreed.

“Well, for starters, an asphodel is a type of lily, which is typically taken to mean ‘my regrets follow you to the grave.’ And wormwood stands for ‘absence’ and ‘bitter sorrow.’ Heavy emphasis on the bitter, in Snivellus’ case.” 

Sirius stroked his chin thoughtfully. 

“If you combine the two, you’d get something like I bitterly regret Lily’s death.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Holy melodrama.”

“That was really impressive,” said Ron, “how did you know that?”

“I learned Victorian flower language as a kid,” said Sirius, “it used to be a pureblood thing, back in the day.”

“You know what this means?” said Ron, rounding on Harry.

“What?”

“Snape was in love with your mum.”

Harry digested this for a moment. Sirius watched him carefully, chewing on his lip.

“Gross,” Harry said at last, “not to mention pathetic. I mean - it's not like Snape even feels sorry I’m an orphan. He just had a thing for mum. I’m actually being led to believe he has a hit out on me, to tell the truth.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Sirius.

“Really?” Harry crossed his arms. “Even when you struck first?”

Sirius sighed loudly. Ron’s eyes widened to the size of saucers.

“You tried to kill Snape?” 

“I was sixteen!” Sirius shook his head at Harry. “You had to bring this up - are you ever going to let it go?”

“Attempted murder isn’t something I can ‘let go’ in good conscience,” said Harry diplomatically.

“My brother Percy is almost sixteen, and he’s never tried to kill anyone,” said Ron.

“Percy is an outlier - what about Charlie?”

“He’s a conservationist.”

“You guys are so lame,” Sirius huffed. “Cut me some slack - it was just Snape. James intervened before anything truly horrible could happen, anyways.” Sirius shrugged. “Granted, he probably saved me some time in Azkaban.”

“Yeah,” said Harry bitterly, “and who would be our potions professor if Snape weren’t around?”