Unsteady Foundations
The Great Hall buzzed with the arrival of students, laughter echoing as friends reunited after the summer. Severus Snape sat at the head table, his gaze fixed on the door, waiting for Potter’s arrival. As all students except the first years took their seats, and with no sign of Potter or Weasley, a sudden realization struck him. If he were the sort to do so, he would have smacked himself in the head.How could I have forgotten this incident? How many other critical details have slipped through my memory? The question gnawed at him.
Rising abruptly, he strode out of the hall, arriving just in time to catch Potter and Weasley peering through the window into the Great Hall, getting there slightly earlier than the previous time. Snape’s eyes narrowed as he overheard Potter muttering, “Hang on... there’s an empty chair at the staff table... where’s Snape?” He seized the moment, his voice cutting through the night air. 'Perhaps instead of worrying about me,' he sneered from behind, 'you should be concerned about why you’re not inside with the others.' Harry spun around, his eyes widening as he took in Snape’s silhouette framed in the dim light, black robes rippling in the cold breeze. Letting his gaze linger, Snape added with a sharp edge, 'Follow me.'"
When they finally stumbled into his office, more injured than he remembered, Snape’s face tightened as they slunk in, each slipping into a seat across from his desk, trying their best to look inconspicuous. But it was hard to ignore the state they were in: Potter’s head bore a golf-ball-sized lump, and Weasley had a cut over his eye that continued to bleed. The two boys sat stiffly, visibly shaken and shivering, avoiding his gaze. Snape thought about the previous time he’d scolded them without bothering to look at their injuries.
He allowed himself an extra-long, assessing look at Harry. Despite the mud caked on his face, Potter seemed... gaunt. The boy’s robes hung a bit too loosely, his eyes darker and more shadowed than before. Had he always looked this slight? Snape thought back to the start of Potter’s first year, recalling the bright-eyed, wonder-filled boy who had gazed at everything with awe. Death had claimed Potter was neglected, and now he couldn’t ignore the evidence before him—a small detail that irritated him more than he expected.
Snape took a long, measured breath before speaking, his voice laced with quiet, simmering fury. “Now that we’re here, perhaps you’d like to explain yourselves.” He folded his arms, his gaze piercing, demanding honesty.
Harry and Ron glanced at each other uneasily before Harry began, hesitantly recounting the events: the barrier at Platform 9¾ closing inexplicably, their frantic decision to take the car, and the harrowing flight that ended in disaster. As Harry’s account unfolded, Snape’s expression didn’t shift, yet his eyes held a steely glint of anger.
When they finished, he was silent for a few long moments, just watching them. They squirmed under his gaze, clearly unnerved by his restrained demeanor.
Without raising his voice, Snape’s words sliced through the silence. “So. In your infinite wisdom, the two of you decided not to alert a single adult but instead to steal a flying car, putting yourselves—and countless others—in mortal danger, all while putting the Statute of Secrecy at risk. Such reckless idiocy knows no bounds, it seems.”
Both boys lowered their heads, visibly chastised.
Snape’s mouth twisted as he thought of the previous timeline, when he hadn’t even bothered to look at the extent of their injuries or ensure they were properly treated. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. He threw, “Don’t move,” at them before turning on his heel. Heading to the Great Hall to retrieve Professor McGonagall, he found himself oddly restless. The scene he’d just left played in his mind: Potter’s eyes reflecting the same frustrated shame he’d seen the boy display too many times before. He should not care, he reminded himself sharply. Yet there was an unsteady realization—that he would have to understand Potter better if he was going to manage the strange task Death had given him.
On the way back to his office, Snape scowled, thinking about Potter and Weasley’s reckless behavior. McGonagall trailed behind, her gaze sharp. They were clearly rattled, and that was to be expected. The car incident was a reckless violation of both magical law and common sense. But what really grated on him was that Harry, as always, had a knack for putting himself into dangerous situations without considering the consequences.
His thoughts were interrupted when they entered, McGonagall’s sharp gaze fixing on the two boys. Snape watched Potter’s every minute reaction as they recounted their story, their words stumbling over themselves in an attempt to justify the absurdity of their actions. He barely listened to their explanations—only jumping in to beat McGonagall to the punch by asking Harry why he hadn’t used his owl and showing them the Evening Prophet, which he had suddenly remembered that he had discarded on his desk after receiving it, too preoccupied with his thoughts of the boy.
Snape wasn’t surprised when Dumbledore arrived shortly after, his usual calm demeanor giving nothing away. The headmaster listened intently to the boys’ story, his face impassive, before turning his attention to Snape. The quiet tension in the room was palpable.
Dumbledore, unfazed, addressed Harry and Ron with the same soft authority he always used in these moments. “You both understand how serious this is, I trust? If I hear of anything like this happening again, there will be consequences far more severe than detention.” McGonagall, with her usual efficiency, nodded in agreement.
“Come, Severus, there’s a delicious-looking custard tart I want to sample,” Dumbledore mentioned, almost idly. Snape didn’t reply immediately, his mind still occupied with the boys’ reckless behavior. Before he allowed himself to be swept out of the office, he added, “They’ll need to visit the hospital wing immediately. Weasley is still bleeding, Potter has a lump on his head, and I imagine they’re bruised and shaken enough to require attention.” He threw a pointed glance at Dumbledore, wondering why neither he nor McGonagall had ensured this last time. Snape then eyed Ron’s wand—a battered, splintered mess unfit for casting. The same wand that would wreak havoc over the coming year.
“And perhaps,” he added in a cutting tone, “someone might consider procuring Mr. Weasley a proper wand. There’s little point in letting him carry around a piece of driftwood that will only cause havoc any time it’s used. I trust someone will address that.”
He noticed McGonagall and Dumbledore casting each other questioning glances. Apparently, my reasonable statements about students’ well-being are unexpected? he thought, a touch of bitterness lacing his internal monologue.
With that, he turned to Dumbledore, who nodded, and together they made their way back to the Great Hall, leaving McGonagall to handle the punishment. As he walked, a faint but unsettling sense of responsibility weighed on him. This time, he would ensure Potter received the basic care and consideration that had been lacking before. For once, he had managed to break through their sense of invincibility—and he hoped the message would sink in. When Snape caught Dumbledore’s eye, he quickly averted his gaze and resumed his seat at the head table. His mind shifted back to the feast; he had a part to play, and he would not falter.