Falsus Vates

The-Boy-with-the-Note

Harry Potter was off to his first ever lesson at Hogwarts: Potions with the infamous Professor Snape. But on his way there, he finds himself passed a note that - for him, changes the entire class.

A courtesy,Draco Malfoy had said.

Harry trudged down the chilly dungeon corridor, the click of his shoes echoing off the stone. He clutched his brand-new school bag a little tighter, trying to remember which twisting passage led to the Potions classroom—his very first lesson at Hogwarts. Though he had only arrived just a couple of days ago, he had already gotten lost numerous times in an effort to try and explore the grounds. Already, the whole of the castle felt like a maze of little secrets and hidden marvels, each new corridor offering up some new and fascinating aspect of wizarding culture and life that just seemed to blow Harry away. 

Not that Harry was complaining. These last few days—spent before classes officially began—had been some of the most incredible of his life. He could still scarcely believe he was here honestly. The Sorting Feast felt as though it had happened both an eternity and a heartbeat ago. He remembered gliding across the Great Lake in a small boat, heart pounding as Hogwarts’ many turrets and towers rose majestically out of the expansive night sky. Then stepping inside the vast entrance space, with its soaring arches and torch-wielding gargoyles, caught in the throng of countless other nervous and excitable first years, before being utterly agog at the overwhelming beauty and splendour of the Great Hall with its floating candles, brightly coloured banners and enchanted ceilings.

Morning after morning, he’d wake in his four-poster bed inside the Gryffindor first-year dorm, blinking in amazement as sunlight streamed through tall, arched windows. The Common Room bustled with older students trading Quidditch gossip or passing around wizarding newspapers with moving photographs. Even routine announcements pinned on the notice board made Harry smile; he’d never experienced such a friendly, communal space before—so different from the silent, stiff existence with the Dursleys.

He had also grown fond of trying to navigate Hogwarts in general. Staircases that shifted unpredictably, hidden doors that required a firm push (or the right password) to open—getting lost felt more fun than frustrating. Fred and George Weasley seemed to share that sentiment; they’d all but adopted Harry at this point, cheerfully pointing out trick steps to avoid or corridors best bypassed if you didn’t want to get stuck after curfew. Harry was grateful for their guidance—and their friendship. It was dizzying to realize he suddenly had people now who actually liked him.

He had also struck up a tentative friendship with Neville Longbottom, a round-faced boy whose shy manner belied a sweet, earnest nature. Neville had lost his toad—Trevor—nearly half a dozen times already, and Harry had helped him search under chairs in the Great Hall, behind dusty suits of armor, and even down one particularly disorienting corridor that tried to turn them around every few feet. Though Neville blushed easily and tended to mumble, Harry found him a comforting presence in a place where nearly every sight was both simultaneously astonishing and slightly terrifying. Neville even confided in Harry that he hadn’t been entirely sure he had any magic at all until his accidental bursts of it in childhood. And though growing up, Harry had more the opposite experience - terrified that he was indeed some kind of monster and just wanting to be normal - that uncertainty, Harry thought, made them alike in some ways.

And speaking of uncertainties...he was trying very hard not to let the whispers get to him. All the attention over his name, his history, that one infamous night he couldn’t even recall—sometimes, it felt like he was under a lamp in one of those interrogation rooms in the police shows that Aunt Petunia really liked on the telly. Harry couldn’t help but notice the way heads turned whenever he passed. Students whispered and nudged each other, eyes flicking to the faint lightning-bolt scar on his forehead. It had been like this from the moment he’d stepped into the Great Hall for the Sorting. Even now, winding through these dim dungeon corridors, he felt the weight of curious gazes. He was the Boy Who Lived, the child celebrity of a world he barely knew—and he’d most certainly be lying if he said all the attention didn’t make his stomach clench.

A handful of older Ravenclaws were walking a few paces behind him, and Harry was sure they were discussing him in hushed tones. The day before, two Hufflepuff girls had actually asked him for an autograph in the courtyard—he’d been so flustered, he practically dropped his quill trying to sign his name. And a group of Gryffindor second years had peppered him with questions about “his greatest memory of You-Know-Who,” as if he could possibly recall more details than what everyone else already knew. He’d never been asked so many questions in his life; back with the Dursleys, most people avoided him on purpose.

He tried to ignore the knots twisting inside him, opting instead to focus on his upcoming Potions lesson with the infamous Professor Snape. Nearly everyone in Gryffindor House had plenty to say about the Potions Master. Rumor had it that Snape favored Slytherin students so blatantly that he would downright ignore correct answers from the other houses if it meant awarding points to his own. He was said to be a strict disciplinarian, always lurking around corridors to catch unsuspecting pupils breaking rules and was absolutely terrifying when it came to nit-picking exact details when it came to teaching. Someone in the common room had even mentioned that Snape had once threatened to hex a student for shredding ingredient labels—though Harry couldn’t imagine that was actually true…was it?

“You’re heading the wrong way,” A voice spoke then, startling Harry, his feet practically leaving the ground before he wound back on the speaker. “Snape’s classroom is down that corridor, then down the first flight of steps.”

Harry blinked. Standing there was a pale, almost-silver haired boy whom Harry immediately recognized as the other equally exciting rumor magnet in their current year - Draco Malfoy. He had first caught sight of the other first-year at the Sorting Feast; Draco had ended up in Slytherin, and according to a number of the other students, similar to Harry, was no ordinary first-year. Something about an incident over the summer and Draco being a “seer”. Whatever that was. But Harry himself hadn’t really spoken or interacted with him at all, aside from vaguely noticing him talking to Ronald Weasley—who, quite unexpectedly, according to the twins, had also landed in Slytherin.

He could tell that the twins definitely had thoughts about that, given how they tried very clearly to steer any sort of discussion away from their younger brother. But they didn’t seem angry. More confused than anything, and Harry thought he sort of understood. From what he had managed to infer from most of his fellow students and the sparse number of adults he had thus far encountered in the Wizarding world, Slythering was supposedly the House where all the bad eggs seemed to settle. The House where all the Dudleys and his friends would have been sorted if they were also magic. 

He didn’t even know how true that was, but he did know that probably meant Fred and George were feeling torn. He’d wanted to ask them if they’d talked to Ron since the Sorting, maybe to see if there was any real hostility there, but every time the subject skirted close, Fred or George changed tack with some joke or ushered Harry off to see a new secret thing about Hogwarts. Harry figured it might still be too new, too raw for them. The only real mention they’d made was a quick, genuine “Look, if you see him about, tell him—no matter what House, he’s still our brother,” which struck Harry as more earnest than either twin usually let on.

“Oh,” He replied awkwardly, shifting his focus back to the blond before him, already feeling a little embarrassed for being caught out. “Er...thanks.”

Draco gave a small, cool nod. He shifted on his feet, glancing up and down the corridor as though checking if anyone else was around. Then, in a sudden motion, he closed the distance between them, reached into his robes, and pressed a folded scrap of parchment into Harry’s hand.

“Here,” he said in a quiet voice, “you’ll need this.”

Harry looked down. “What is—”

“It’s a list of ingredients,” Draco explained, his tone still brisk. “Memorize them. Snape’s going to ask about them. You don’t want to look clueless.”

Harry unfolded the parchment. There, scribbled in cramped handwriting, was a small checklist: 

• Asphodel + Wormwood = The Draught of Living Death.

• Bezoar = The stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons.

• They are the same plant.

Slowly, Harry raised his eyes to Draco. “Um, why?”

A flicker of something—wry amusement? No, it was both sadder and harder than that—seemed to cross Draco’s face. “Let’s call it a courtesy.” Was the eventual reply. “Now just take it, memorize it and be grateful. And it goes without saying, don’t let on I gave it to you.”

Before Harry could ask another question, Draco nodded curtly, then slipped past him, footsteps echoing on the stone floor. Within moments, he had rounded the corner and disappeared further into the hall. Harry stared after him, heart thumping uneasily in his chest. The slip of parchment rustled in his hand, its edges slightly bent from where Draco’s fingers had pressed it into his grip. For a long moment, Harry simply stood there, uncertain what to make of this exchange.

He shook himself, aware that time was ticking. Sliding his finger under the seal, he re-opened the parchment and read over it again. That third line confused him—“They are the same plant”? Maybe Draco’s handwriting had been too cramped, or he’d left out some detail. Harry frowned, deciding to worry about it later. Tucking the scrap discreetly into his school bag, he turned back around to follow the directions Draco had given him: left at the next corridor, then down the first flight of steps.

Sure enough, after only a minute or two—and passing a scowling portrait who hissed something about “the nerve of brats nowadays always chattering about”—Harry spotted a cluster of students edging into a room lit by low-burning lanterns. The heavy smell of damp stone and some pungent, bitter aroma hit him almost at once. 

This had to be the Potions classroom.

When he entered, the room was already half-filled with students taking their seats. The tables stood in pairs, each with a high stool. Most of the Slytherins were clustered on one side, the Gryffindors on the other, though it looked like a few people hadn’t settled yet. Harry scanned the crowd and found Draco Malfoy and Ronald Weasley in the second row—sitting right next to one another.

Ron’s red hair was stark against the Slytherin-green of his tie and though at first glance, Harry thought the other boy seemed ill at ease, throwing wary looks around at a few of the other Slytherin first years—he actually looked almost amused, given how Draco was currently leaning towards him and the twin pair of smiles the two boys happened to be wearing. Ron, for his part, rolled his eyes, muttering some form of a retort beneath his breath to a comment Draco had made, leading the blond to let out a rather inelegant snort as he fought against his giggles.

I guess they really have become mates, Harry acknowledged, remembering how Fred and George had somehow seemed even more baffled by the fact that Ron had walked straight up to Draco of all people after the sorting than perhaps even the sorting itself. Apparently, it was some sort of family rivalry, Fred - Or was it George? - had mentioned in passing, doubled down even further due to how apparently their Dads just really didn’t like each other. 

Harry hovered by the classroom’s entrance for a few seconds, shuffling awkwardly and trying to decide where to sit. He spotted Neville at one of the tables near the middle and hurried over, nodding a shy greeting. Neville looked just as anxious as Harry felt, pale cheeks puffing slightly at the sight of the simmering cauldrons and the shelves upon shelves of mysterious jars filled with things lining the walls.

“Mind if I sit with you?” Harry asked in a low voice, setting his bag down.

Neville shook his head hastily, relief flickering over his features. “Sure—go on.” He breathed, shifting over to give Harry himself space to settle. As Harry obliged, he couldn’t help but take a breath. This was his first ever proper wizarding lesson—Potions with the famously difficult Professor Snape—and he could already feel the pressure of a thousand eyes bearing down upon him all over again. 

He couldn’t help glancing at the Slytherin side of the room, where Draco Malfoy and Ron Weasley sat. The two boys seemingly wholly at ease whispering between one another, and Harry’s mind drifted to the folded scrap of parchment Draco had pressed into his hands just minutes before. 

A courtesy, Draco had called it. 

He reached into his bag, fingertips brushing the parchment. Maybe he ought to read it one more time, just to be certain… 

But as Harry gingerly tugged the note part way out from his bag, half-intending to skim it again, was when the door at the front of the classroom swept open, an immediate hush falling over the whole of the class. Professor Snape entered with billowing black robes and a cold glimmer, and all thoughts of re-reading that scrap piece of parchment flew fully from all aspects of Harry’s mind. 

Snape reached the head of the room, his gaze sweeping across the rows of cauldrons and wide-eyed first years. Harry caught the slight curl of the man’s lip—an expression that was neither a grin nor a frown, but something far more unsettling. The professor paused, then spoke in a low, almost silken voice.

“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don’t expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes…nor the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses…”

Harry swallowed, transfixed. Snape’s voice was barely above a murmur, yet the words filled the dungeon as though they were hissed directly into each student’s ear.

“I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren’t as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.”

He ended his speech with a snap of dark eyes towards Harry, making him flush and almost immediately stare down towards his desk. The professor’s tone was icy and deliberate, as though waiting - pausing for effect. Sure enough, after a heartbeat in which no one dared breathe, Snape barked, loud and startling.

“Potter!”

Harry felt his cheeks flame, eyes reluctantly shifting upwards. He clutched the edge of his table, Neville beside him, sat as tense as a bowstring. 

“What would I get,” Snape continued softly, “if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

A hot jolt of panic lanced through Harry’s stomach. He knew— he’d seen these words. They were on the very note Draco had given him. But he’d read them too quickly, had been too flustered to memorize them. Asphodel, wormwood…Draught of… He had it on the tip of his tongue, yet the name refused to snap into place.

Hermione’s hand shot into the air. Snape didn’t even glance at her.

Harry struggled to recall the lines from the parchment— Asphodel + Wormwood = The Draught of Living Death. But the note had also said something else cryptic, something about being “the same plant” that he hadn’t understood. Self-conscious and flustered, Harry opened his mouth to respond but managed only a stammer.

“I—I don’t know, sir,” he finally blurted.

Snape’s expression curved into a sneer. “Pity,” he drawled. “Let’s try again. Potter—where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”

Harry felt dread curdle in his stomach. The entire class, from the front row to the back, seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for his answer. Snape’s dark eyes didn’t waver; they pinned Harry in place, as if daring him to guess and be wrong. Again.

He scrambled to remember precisely what had been on Draco’s note. A bezoar— the stomach of a goat. That was it, right? 

Wasn’t it? 

His heart hammered in his chest. “I—” He swallowed. Hermione’s hand was still in the air, trembling with urgency.

“In the stomach of a goat, sir,” Harry blurted.

There was a flicker of recognition across Snape’s face—almost annoyance. He made a low, skeptical noise. 

“So,” he murmured, “the boy who didn’t know the first answer somehow knows the second? Fascinating.” He gave a slight pause, letting his gaze move over the rest of the class. 

“Correct, Potter. A bezoar can indeed be found in the stomach of a goat. It can save you from most poisons. Pity you didn’t bother learning about the most iconic of sleeping draughts first.”

Harry’s cheeks flared again. But he exhaled a silent, shaky breath of relief—he’d at least answered something right. He risked a quick glance across the room. Neville looked startled. A couple of the Gryffindors were blinking at him as though unsure how he’d pulled that off. On the Slytherin side, Ron Weasley appeared more curious than anything, while Draco Malfoy’s expression was carefully blank—though Harry thought he caught a subtle lift of Draco’s brow .

Snape made a point of ignoring Hermione’s upraised hand once more, terrifyingly turning back towards Harry. “One final question, Potter. Let us see if your sudden knowledge extends beyond just random guesswork. What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

Harry felt his stomach lurch. He remembered that last line on the note: They are the same plant. He had been so puzzled about that bit at first that it was essentially the clearest thing he could remember. Swallowing, he forced himself to raise his voice clearly. 

“They’re the same plant, sir,” he answered, hoping to all that was good and just in the world, that that was the last of Snape’s questions.

A ripple of surprise skittered through the class. From the corner of his eye, Harry saw Hermione lower her arm in dismay, clearly astonished he’d known something she’d presumably memorized from a textbook. Several students exchanged wide-eyed looks. Neville just stared at him, unbidden, mouth entirely agape. 

Snape’s expression cooled, skepticism shadowing his features. He tapped his long, thin fingers once on the desk. Then he spoke, each word slipping out like a blade. “Correct again, Mr. Potter. Fascinating indeed.” He allowed the silence to stretch.

Then, without preamble, Snape turned away from Harry and addressed the entire class. “For future reference, you would all do well to thoroughly read your textbooks—and certain additional sources—if you intend to survive my class. I will never repeat answers.”

Harry wasn’t quite sure if he should feel relief or worry as Snape chose to move on. He could sense the eyes of his classmates on him, especially those of his fellow Gryffindors. He chanced another glance toward the Slytherin side: Draco was keeping his face pointed at the board, but there was a subtle tilt to his chin, almost as though he were pleased. Ron looked like a mix between mild amazement, confusion and open fascination.

Snape picked up a piece of chalk, writing out instructions on the blackboard for the day’s potion. “We will be attempting a simple cure for boils,” he said coldly, “unless any of you would like to further demonstrate any knowledge you don’t actually possess.”

An uncomfortable shuffle of papers swept through the students. Harry dipped his head, feeling a swirl of conflicting emotions. Part of him was grateful; if Draco hadn’t given him that note, he would have been utterly humiliated. Yet Snape’s ominous stare made him think the professor suspected something was amiss.

Sure enough, a moment later Snape broke the hush again, voice slicing through the dim dungeon air. “Additionally, five points to Slytherin Mr. Malfoy,” he announced in a deceptively mild tone. “For supporting a classmate.”

There was a scattered ripple of confusion from both Slytherins and Gryffindors alike. Harry’s heart lodged in his throat. He heard a few low murmurs from some of the other students: 

Malfoy? 

Helping Potter? 

But Snape didn’t elaborate. He merely shifted his black gaze to Harry and added in the same chill voice, “And three points to Gryffindor. Mr. Potter, for heeding instruction—surprisingly.”

With that, Snape flicked his wand sharply at the board. The chalk instructions glowed brighter. “Let us begin,” he snapped, cutting off any opportunity for further questions. “We shall see if any of you can produce something vaguely fit for purpose.”

“Hey Neville.” Harry began, endeavouring as best as he could to watch their potion as it was stirred, the solution having already shifted in colour at least two or three times in the past little and as such needed to stay at its current sickly sort of vomit yellow, else it would bubble over and apparently explode . “What’s a Seer?”

Neville’s gaze shifted toward Harry, wariness written clearly across his rounded features. His eyes moved briefly toward Snape—who was moving along the rows, cutting a rather menacing figure in his dark teaching robes that seemed to billow as he walked—and then back to Harry’s question, swallowing as though he hadn’t expected to be asked anything on the topic, or perhaps more likely anything at all. At first, Harry thought Neville might not respond, given how quietly the other boy spoke in class and how flustered he often seemed to get. 

“Well…” The other Gryffindor began tentatively, continuing to stir their potion at the slow and measured pace the instructions demanded, “Basically, they’re people that know things about the future and stuff. Mostly, like little bits and pieces, but sometimes even huge things that make them sound absolutely barmy. Gran always told me there were very few genuine Seers in our world—real ones, I mean. Loads of people claim to be Seers, but most of them just guess, or read tea leaves for show. The true Seers—the ones who can see actual events before they happen—they’re meant to be really rare. Like…a handful every dozen generations.”

He paused, pressing his lips together as if uncertain whether he was explaining this properly. Harry gently encouraged him with a small nod, all the while trying not to let the swirling cauldron contents shift from that sickly yellow color. A single twitch of the ladle too fast, and the potion might change hue.

“Apparently,” Neville went on, lowering his voice even further so that only Harry could hear him over the clink of glass phials and the soft hiss of burners, “a true Seer might sometimes get spontaneous visions—like flashes of the future—or they can slip into a kind of trance that’s just terrifying to see, their eyes cloud over and everything. But it’s unpredictable, see? No Seer can just produce a vision, or - or knowledge whenever they want…though I hear some get these, er, smaller glimpses, sort of like impressions about what’s going to happen in a single day.”

Harry listened with rapt attention, tipping in another carefully measured scoop of dried nettles. He thought back to the snippet of parchment Draco had pressed into his hand. If Draco really was a Seer, then it made sense how he might have known exactly which questions Snape was going to ask. Maybe Draco had experienced one of those “smaller glimpses” Neville had described—like maybe in a dream or a strong feeling that told him Snape would single Harry out, ask about asphodel and wormwood, or quiz him on the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane. 

And if that was true, then that meant that Draco had chosen to use his abilities to help Harry. Which was, honestly, really nice of him. He didn’t even know Harry and yet still he’d decided he’d go out of his way to lend Harry a hand, in what would otherwise have been a fairly awful first lesson. Instead, Potions so far, had actually gone pretty well. Even Snape had seemed to mellow out as the class continued. Still sharp, and mean, but not to the point of actively searching for things to docks points for, grade wise and House wise. Harry would maybe even go so far as to say that beyond the start of class, Snape had been kind of fair. 

But that could also have been due to the fact that he had, as of yet, not come back again with anything negative against Harry. He actually even seemed to reluctantly acknowledge Harry’s skills with a knife while he was cutting the nettles, if that low unhappy sort of rumble the man had made could be interpreted in that way. Who knew cooking meals for the Dursleys would actually come in handy at some point? It was even a little “fun”, he thought, and though there had been a few bumps while working with Neville it hadn’t been anything too crazy. Sure, the other Gryffindor was nervous beyond words sometimes, but Harry found he was able to mostly keep up with any issues since Potion making so far was basically just more complicated cooking. 

And he glanced up towards Draco. Though he figured he’d be having far less of a surprisingly decent time, if he hadn’t had that note when the time came. He had no idea how he would have reacted, but considering his growing temper as of late, it probably wouldn’t have ended up as anywhere near as pretty for their potion as things currently were now. Absently, Harry let out a low breath, still half-watching his brew. He noticed that while Draco had a certain confidence in the classroom, Ron beside him often cast uncertain glances at the instructions on the board. Occasionally, Ron would prod Draco in the side, muttering something question-like, and Draco would respond with a quick flick of his wand or a quiet nudge to add an ingredient. 

The scene looked - nice . With Draco very clearly and actively supporting Ron while the redhead worked to gather his bearings and follow along with the board. 

Maybe, there were some nice Slytherins after all. 

Meanwhile, Snape swept down another row, pausing to eye Seamus Finnigan’s potion, which was still smoking from an earlier mishap. Harry felt Neville tense beside him; they both carefully kept stirring, ensuring their mixture did not meet a similarly disastrous fate. 

Harry, partly relieved by this slight easing in the classroom atmosphere, took advantage of Snape’s relative distraction to whisper to Neville. “So… you said Seers can’t always control what they see, right?”

Neville nodded. “Yes. That’s what Gran told me. Although some Seers are rumored to get what’s called ‘ prompted vision s’ if they focus on a particular upcoming event. Still, it’s never guaranteed. It’s not like casting a spell. It’s… unpredict—.”

“Stop stirring,” Harry whispered suddenly, pointing at the board. “We’re supposed to let it sit for twenty seconds or so, remember?”

Startled, Neville let go of the spoon, letting it hover in the brew without further motion. Harry started counting and by the time he reached twenty, the potion’s color had settled into a more neutral, sludge-like green, which matched what the blackboard predicted. Harry exhaled softly.

At that moment, Snape slid into view, silent as a shadow. He loomed over their cauldron, peering into it with an inscrutable expression. Harry braced himself for something scathing to slip from between the professor’s lips, but instead, Snape merely sniffed and gave a slight, grudging nod.

“Acceptable,” he declared in that low, disdainful tone, before seamlessly moving on, stalking toward Seamus and Dean’s workstation again. For a brief second, Harry and Neville exchanged relieved glances. Maybe, just maybe, they’d survive this lesson without losing any house points or humiliating themselves in front of the entire class.

Time ambled on, marked by the steady drip of condensation from the dungeon’s stone ceiling and the occasional hiss and whoosh of a potion gone on slightly wrong. The Cure for Boils recipe was time-consuming but not especially complicated, like mashed potatoes or lasagna, and as the lesson steadily drew to a close, Snape instructed each pair to ladle a small sample into a phial and bring it to his desk. The professor then examined each offering by holding it up to lantern light, swirling it carefully. A sharp sniff or a displeased grunt would tell each pair how well—or poorly—they’d done. Harry and Neville presented theirs, hearts thumping. Snape tipped the phial in the light, pursed his lips, and gave a curt nod.

“It does seem as though you have not produced poison,” he said sharply, setting it aside on his desk. “It is satisfactory.”

Harry ventured a brief glance at Neville, who looked as though he’d just had a weight lifted off his shoulders. Another pair stepped forward—Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown—and Harry and Neville retreated, waiting for the final tallies. Once the entire class had been assessed, Snape turned to address them all, his voice echoing slightly against the stone walls. 

“You will bottle the remainder of your successful potions— if you were successful —and label them. Bring them here, and I shall determine if they are salvageable for the hospital wing. As for those of you who utterly failed to follow instructions, count yourselves fortunate this first potion will not count significantly towards your overall final grade. Class is over,” he said coolly, “clean your work areas thoroughly and leave. If I catch so much as a single stray porcupine quill on the floor, you will all be serving detention.”

With that, the dungeon filled with the sounds of scraping stools, the clatter of cauldrons, and a sigh of audible relief from many of the students. Ron shoved his supplies into his school bag, Draco set a used mortar aside, and the pair traded a quiet snicker over something Harry couldn’t hear. Neville hastily wiped down their table and Harry himself coiled the last of their remaining quills into bushes before double-checking to ensure no ingredient scraps remained. 

He was already rehearsing in his head how he might approach Draco in the corridor—what he might say to express gratitude without sounding like an idiot. Maybe just a quick “ thanks for the help ” would be enough . He hoisted his bag over his shoulder, and across the room, he caught Draco’s eye, but the Slytherin looked away almost immediately as he worked to gather up his own belongings. A part of Harry wondered if Draco was purposely avoiding talking in front of everyone. Possibly to preserve whatever secrecy he wanted about that note.

Then, just as the students began funneling out toward the door, Snape’s voice sliced through the low chatter. “Mr. Malfoy,” the professor intoned, “A word, if you please.”

That single request caused several heads to swivel around in curiosity. Ron turned halfway, as if about to wait for Draco, but Snape lifted a brow at him in mild challenge. “You may go, Weasley,” he said, neither sharp nor warm. “You have other classes to attend to.”

Ron opened his mouth, once, twice, then looked at Draco who gave him a nod. He shot the other first-year a look of encouragement, or maybe concern, then disappeared out of sight with the rest of the students. As the last of the first-years trickled out of the classroom, Harry shuffled himself up to walk alongside Neville, his mind abuzz regarding the events over the lesson. Draco’s note had undeniably saved him from a horrible first experience with Snape, and he knew he owed the Slytherin a proper thank you. He glanced over his shoulder once, just in time to see Draco step back into the classroom with Snape, shoulders squared in a way that seemed both expectant and resigned.

Harry turned back toward the hallway, hand gingerly reaching into his hand bag to pull out the note he had been given. He frowned, patting the side of his bag absently before realization struck like a lightning bolt to his chest.

It was gone.

His heart leaped into his throat. He had tucked it away, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he? 

His fingers scrambled at the flap of his school bag, shuffling through his quills, parchment, and textbook. Nothing.

Panic surged in his stomach. If someone found it—if Snape found it—Wait. 

The points from earlier.  

Why did Snape give Draco points for supporting a classmate, if he hadn’t already figured out that Draco helped Harry? 

Without thinking, Harry slowed his steps, letting Neville and the others drift ahead as he turned sharply, bolting back toward the classroom as fast as his feet could take him with all the supplies weighing him down. His heart hammered painfully against his ribs, each footfall echoing loudly in the deserted dungeon corridor, guilt already weighing heavily upon his shoulders. As he approached the familiar heavy doors, he slowed instinctively, hearing the sound of quiet conversation emanating from the space beyond. 

“Despite my best efforts, I find I am beyond confounded. Why did you do it, Draco?”

“I’ve the faintest idea what you’re talking about Professor.”

“Do not play smart with me child. We all know - given context, there was only one way Potter could have gleaned any modicum amount of accuracy for those questions levied at the start of class. You helped him, informed him ahead of time - with this exact note - written in your handwriting left beneath Potter and Longbottom’s cauldron.”

A pause, and then almost an explosive sort of sigh, tired and long suffering. “Bloody Potter… Couldn’t even do the one thing ruddy asked of him…”

“So you admit it then?”

“Tragically.”

Another pause. “So why? Why would you go so far for this boy, to the point it nearly undermined my lesson?”

“It hardly matters.”

“It matters a great deal, actually. Explain yourself, Draco.” The sound of shifting fabric. Of steps, heavy approaching those lighter. “You are smarter than this. You are not one for meaningless gestures, particularly after your ill-timed and unexpected inheritance. If you respect me at all, you will give me honesty. Why did you do it?”

“...Fine … I did it, because I suppose I’d prefer the adults in my life not act like children.”

"...And just what do you mean by that perchance?"

"Exactly what it implies. It's rather difficult seeing someone I look up to stoop so low as to bully children."

And the other voice seemed to just grow softer and softer as they responded. To the point it was almost a whisper. “How dare you speak to me in such a way, impudent child. You dare attempt to pass judgement on me?About the way I acted? The insolence. You know nothing of me and-.”

”But I know enough, Uncle. Enough to know that humiliating a child just because you hate their Father, would not only be unfairly cruel but also should be beneath your character.”

“DO NOT SPEAK TO ME AS IF YOU KNOW ME. You know nothing of what is and is not BENEATH MY CHARACTER. Simply because you’ve accrued some modicum amount of unfairly gifted insight does not mean you could ever grasp the depths of my personage.”

“I don’t need to grasp anything about you Uncle. Because this wasn’t about you. No child should be subject to humiliation or punishment they did nothing to deserve. Especially one who’s suffered so much already.”

“Suffer? I beg your pardon - Suffer? That boy is HARRY POTTER. The Grandest Celebrity in all of wizarding Britain, child of Head Auror James Potter and practically swimming in so much money and privilege it’d make even Lucius’ head spin.”

“Then you haven’t been really looking, Uncle Severus. He shies away when people yell. He’s small enough to hide in spaces other children couldn’t even think to fit in. If you can’t see the signs, then you're choosing not to see. You’re choosing to see the second coming of James Potter, while entirely ignoring the fact that he’s literally just as much - Lily Evans.”

A gasp. A quiet and strangled intake of air, as if a breath had been cut short and left to die. “…How do you…”

“Besides, if you think you hate James Potter, Uncle Severus - Then let me be very clear, there is no other person in this world who has the bloody magic-given right to loathe James Potter more than his own abandoned son. 

Perhaps that can be something the both of you can bond over.”