Harry took a deep breath. It was hot and humid, which was to be expected with how close by the river was and how merciless the sun was burning down. Usually he’d be home now, sitting close to the cooling charm his mother would cast every morning, and pluck histerbloom petals to dry out. It’s what his mother used in the potion they’d use on the crops to make them grow a bit bigger.
But he couldn’t stay home today. Couldn’t bring himself to hide away in the cool shade when instead, he could torture himself as he witnessed the catastrophe unfold in the village plaza.
He stood amongst the people of the village of Castabury, where all of them looked up at the stage in the village square, erected of old and brittle wood, ugly with wear. Harry, too, looked up, squinting his eyes at the blinding rays of sunshine.
“Good citizens of Castabury, we are forced to meet here once again. Satan stalks this land,” the priest bellowed in a loud, desperate voice. “We must continue to root him out, and do whatever it takes to save the soul of our village. We have assembled here for the Judgement of Helena–!”
Disgusted cries and angry insults spat from the people around Harry, interrupting the man who was yelling down to the crowd, pretending to read off the yellowed parchment in his hands.
Whore of Babylon, Seductress, Heathen, the people screamed. Witch, they screeched. Harry had seen them scream this all before, when once or twice a year they’d drown a small girl, calling her a witch. So far they had not drowned a single witch.
“– daughter to the Grangers! –”
At that a particularly piercing wail of a woman was heard, sobbing grotesquely how she is no daughter of mine, I have no daughter!
Harry shuddered as he imagined that to be the voice of his mother.
“– Accused of the wicked ways of the devil, defiling herself to his lure!”
Harry pulled his lips into a frown at the image. The girl looked like a mess, her hair cut unruly and short, curling against her scalp. Her skin was dirty, her feet bare and bloodied. She wasn’t crying, but her expression was despondent. Harry didn’t really care if she was a witch or not, he wanted to go up there and help her. She must only be ten or eleven, his age.
He took another deep breath, grounding himself, to keep his feet from doing things that would cost him his life.
“The Court of Castabury has ruled her to be a witch, but she has begged for repentance, so in their overflowing patience and mercy the Elders have given her the opportunity to redeem her blackened soul in the eyes of the Lord!”
Harry winced. He didn’t know what it was like to be interrogated by the pastor and the court; his mother had never spoken of her own experience. His father once told him that young witches were tortured into desperation, giving in to any demands.
‘It is not very unlike the Second Unutterable,’ he had explained with a pinched face, which told Harry enough.
The Unutterable curses, so foul that any wizard even taking them into their mouth was ostracised, were only referred to as the ‘First’, ‘Second’ and ‘Third’. The second caused unimaginable pain, every child knew that.
The speech of the priest drew Harry’s eyes back to the happenings before him.
“For her crimes and the contempt of court she shall bear the stoning and ridicule as befits of a whore, until sunrise, when God’s Judgement shall be upon her.”
Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her, Harry thought, unbidden.
It was a quote from that holy script muggles always held when killing these young girls, he only knew it because his mother had one of them at home and at times would read it to him. It always struck him as particularly infuriating that the priest would condemn young girls to death, when it was their holy script that told them to be kind and love each other. To repent for one’s own sins first before looking down on others.
It was mid-day, the sun high and summer promising to burn down mercilessly on the poor girl. She was pulled to the pillory, too high for her still small body. Harry closed his eyes at the way she cried out in pain, pulling together his brows.
He couldn’t listen to this anymore. Not without doing anything.
But he couldn’t do anything. Not until sundown.
When Harry had told his parents about Helena, the smart girl who wanted to learn reading and become a scholar, they had smiled in that way they usually did whenever he told them about the muggles he would befriend: in a very placating way, that still somehow communicated their worry. Harry always thought they worried too much. After all, he wasn’t a girl, and even if the townsfolk grew suspicious, what could a bunch of muggles do against two and a half powerful wixen?
That didn’t even mention the many friends Harry’s parents had, being active members in the community. The whole Order of the Phoenix. Harry knew he couldn’t let it get to his head too much, but he knew he was lucky. He saw it every year or half year when little girls hung or drowned.
He could afford a little suspicion.
Helena couldn’t. When he told his parents he suspected her to be a witch, their expression had shifted from smile to wide-eyed. There was fretting, fear. The likes. Harry had begged his parents to let him tell her what she was, but they had been against it. Vehemently so. Now Helena was tortured and hurt, bared to the whole village to assault and ridicule.
It made him angry. But he couldn’t do anything. Even his parents couldn’t put a whole village to sleep without them noticing.
They’d have to wait until sundown, when there were less people.
He opened his eyes again, looking at the girl in rags. She was crying again.
He turned away, fleeing the plaza.
---
Upon sundown the mob of villagers was gone, as expected. There might be a witch, but she was in shackles and the people had to work tomorrow. None could afford to throw rocks and spit at a girl all day.
Harry and his father were hidden from the guard’s direct sight by a corner leading to a blind alley they had apparated into. They looked around the corner and when Harry expressed his worry about the man with that large frame his father had rolled his eyes.
“Don’t worry, Harry, he’ll be out like a light,” A mischievous smile bordering on cruel came across James Potter's face as he ruffled his son's hair. “Now take out your Cloak, if anyone catches us and you end up getting caught I wouldn’t forgive myself.”
Harry nodded, feeling an uncomfortable clot settle at the bottom of his stomach. He wouldn’t be caught. They wouldn’t be caught. And they’d save Helena.
His father pulled out his wand, tapping the tip against his own head and, as if paint dripped over him, he took on the vague colours of the night. Drom a good distance nobody could see him. He then aimed his wand at his son, whispering something Harry couldn’t make out well.
“Tread lightly. Wand in hand," his father said to his invisible son. Harry nodded, realising too late that his father wouldn’t see the gesture. Instead of trying to say anything he fumbled with his holly wand.
But the other had already stepped past Harry. There were two guards that had to be put to sleep, and once that was done Harry could go up and get Helena from the pillory.
He tried to ignore the small voice in his head that insisted that she never could have survived the last few hours.
With determination he stepped outside of the alley, his invinsibility Cloak pulled over his head. He and Helena would fit under it without problem. He had already lost sight of his father, so he simply climbed up the wooden stairs that led to the podium the priest had stood at this mid-day. He took his time stepping up, making sure he didn’t make too much noise. The guards were still standing, until suddenly, two cerulean lights burnt brightly, and there were two heaps on the floor.
The way they dropped to the floor looked and sounded painful, but Harry was fresh out of sympathy.
Helena, though, did not expect the noise and rattled against the shackles. In a moment of panic Harry felt himself grip his wand tightly.
“Silencio!” he whisper-yelled, wincing at how loud he’d been. No time to worry about that. In the moonlight he could see the way Helena struggled in the pillory, but no noise was made. He took one quick look at the lock, pointing his wand.
"Alohomora," he mumbled, making sure his wand movement was exact. The telltale click told him it worked. A bit too well as Helena immediately fell out of the pillory to the floor. Her moonlit face looked both terrified and terrifying.
He wanted to tell her that everything would be okay, that she would be fine and that she just needed to breathe, but he was still invisible, so instead of scaring her any more, he decided to put his wand away, drape the invisibility Cloak around her too and pick her up. She flailed, but was too weak to put up much of a fight. Harry wasn't sure if he should feel relieved or horrified at how easy it was to carry her, when she so clearly did not want to be held right now.
She'd understand later.
Right now she was looking at Harry as though he was a dragon, about to roast them to a heap of burnt meat.
"It's okay," He whispered, slowly walking back down from the podium. He could hear his father whisper something, probably a rennerverate, as he carefully stepped back into the alley.
He tried to not tense up when he suddenly felt his father's hand, gripping him tight and fumbling a bit for Helena's wrist.
Then a sharp tug and they stood on the front porch.
"Everything okay?" His father asked, pulling the Cloak off Harry's head. The disillusionment dripped off him too, making him a bit better to spot in the total darkness of their home plot.
"She looks sick and– oh, I cast Silencio on accident…"
His father ushered them inside, reassuring Harry that he did everything just right, and that Helena would be okay. Harry's mother, Lily, greeted them and took the child from Harry‘s arms before running off with a deep frown on her face.
What followed was the Potters fretting over the girl, feeding her potions and applying salves to heal what had been broken. Even before saving her Harry had known that this would be the hard part.
The hope was that, eventually, Helena would truly be okay. If only on the outside at first.
On the inside, it would take longer for her to come to terms with what she was. A witch. Once she regained some of her composure she started crying, sobbing that everyone had been right, that she truly should be tied to a rock and sunk to the muddy floors of the coast. She had cried and cried, begging for them to somehow undo it all and make her normal so she could go back home to her family. But eventually, because she had no other options, she gave in to the cold reality.
Harry was there, and he thought that maybe it helped that he was.Even if she was stiff about 'Mister and Missus Potter', she opened up to him.
And when she was a bit better on the inside (if not really alright ; Harry thought that maybe she’d never be truly alright) she started to be a bit like how she used to be before she knew that she was a witch. She learned reading and writing with Harry, learned right alongside him about all the things they could do, and all the things she had always wanted to learn. When they visited Ollivander she was visibly enchanted as he told her about the different wands that had chosen the Potters and what they all excelled at, and was just as excited when she held her own – well, to Harry’s dismay she called it the wish stick, but really it was just a wand.
“10¾" long, made of vine wood, and a dragon heartstring. of a SIberian Red Tailed Wyvern,” Ollivander said, proudly. “The most rigid Vine wood I have ever seen."
Of course, wherever there was success there were a myriad of struggles. When the townsfolk ran through every house, looking for the missing witch, they didn't spare the remote home of the Potters. Hiding Helena was as easy as pie for the two and a half wixen, but it was as though another cavity was etched into her soul when she realised that she was to be hunted for all her life.
Father and Mother soon enough decided that it was best to move away. Using the 'escaped' witch as a reason and bad omen, they could leave without rousing too much suspicion. The hardest part was convincing Helena that she had to use a different name.
"They will interrogate every girl with your name, sweetheart. You won't be able to talk to people. If you don't feel comfortable with it in ten years you can always change it back later. It's for your own safety," the older muggle born witch insisted, kneeling next to the young girl. She had been there, changing her name for her own safety. Harry didn't know the old name of his mother. She didn't like talking about it.
After what felt like months (but was effectively a week) Helena didn't exist anymore, and in her stead stood Hermione.
"It's from that new play that Shakespeare wrote," Harry's father mused. "A Winter's Tale, me and Sirius had gone to watch it half a dozen times by now. You’d like his work.”
The Potters wasted no time with goodbyes.
A quaint village called Godric's Hollow was to be their new home. A village with less worries than Castabury. Their house was smaller than before, but Harry and Hermione could share a room easily. They might have shared one even if there had been a dozen standing empty, as the children had soon become inseparable
They shared more than just a room in their lives from then on. Between the two of them, they shared quills, books, sweets, the Cloak, parchments, gobstones, their broom and their hair brush. Harry never used it anyway, but Hermione made him brush her hair out a lot. They also soon shared friends. The magical kind. Ron and his siblings delighted in teasing the two Potters, who soon considered each other close as twins.
(Even though when people asked, Hermione did say she was the older child, by 10⅓ months on the dot.)
They also shared passions. Flying, even if Hermione abhorred doing it on her own, was quite enjoyable when your very talented brother was steering the broom. Arithmancy and Potions too, were subjects the two were greedy to devour, begging their parents for new books every lunar eclipse, solstice, equinox, blue moon, red moon, full moon, Christmas, Easter, birthday, New Year’s and so forth. Every special day was abused as an excuse to get more books.
“You need a more balanced diet,” their uncles, not in blood but in magic, often liked to joke when they brought gifts along with their visits.
Harry disagreed with the sentiment, but usually kept his mouth shut as he leafed through the tomes they had amassed.
---
“Listen, children,” Mother said, left hand stemming into her hip as she tapped the entrance to Diagon Alley. “You’re both old enough to take care of yourself, but I want to say it again: Steer clear of trouble, don’t do anything your father would do, don’t buy anything you don’t need and no ‘pit stops’ in Knockturn Alley!”
Her expression grew sterner, and her children nodded obediently, as though none of these taboos had ever occurred.
“Don’t worry, Lily, we’ll behave," Hermione said, with more honesty in her voice than Harry felt in his heart. He’d maybe take a peek. Itsy bitsy sidestep into Borgin & Burkes.
“Harry?”
“Yes, yes, may we go now?” he asked impatiently as the stone wall revealed the vibrant magical market. The weather had been freezing the night before, so now the brilliant white of snow was decorating the illuminated streets.
Their mother heaved a sigh and was about to give them her blessing to go off, but before she could get a word in edgewise, Harry and Hermione were already running away,calling out a lot of love you s and we’ll stay safe s.
Running down the Alley was never boring. True, muggle markets were a lot more prone to change than Diagon Alley, but none of them had magic. And winter especially made the muggle market unbearable. Hermione flicked her wand as she caught her brother rubbing his hands together, warming them both with a well-practised charm.
“What do we need?” Harry asked absentmindedly as he walked past the pet store with feeling. He’d yearned for an owl for his seventeenth birthday, as he simply couldn’t bear life without one for any longer. A snowy owl as white as Yuletide maybe, but that was still a long way off.
Hermione pulled out one long roll of parchment, studying it. “We can get a lot of these at Slug & Jiggers. We should check if we can maybe afford a glass rod first too, maybe even a cauldron that is of a cleaner material than pewter. I don’t believe we can convince mum to let us use the silver cauldron without telling her what it's for.”
“We can’t tell her about her own birthday gift!” Harry huffed. They had planned a potion that would stave off grey hair (or at least temporarily turn them as red as their mothers usual hair) as a jest and another potion that would relax her with only a drop for when their father did something stupid again. Or her children. Or uncle Sirius. Or anyone she knew really, since their mother had to tolerate quite a bit of tomfoolery.
“Obviously, but getting the cauldron will be so expensive!” his sister lamented and Harry crossed his arms. It would be, but they’d be using it a lot.
As they entered Slug & Jiggers, Harry held out his hand for Hermione to give him the roll of parchment. She was the only one who had prepared a shopping list and was now giving him a bit of a stink eye for not doing his homework. Flicking her wand once more she duplicated the paper.
“Just get everything they have standing out here, I’ll go to the counter for the other stuff.”
He nodded, looking down at the list, grimacing. Frog tongues, urgh. As he went about, filling an enchanted little container with the ingredients, he kept talking to his sister. Some other patrons glared at him for the noise, but for every time he remembered to not bother others he would forget a couple seconds later again.
“We should get a cauldron mother doesn’t already have, otherwise it would be a waste of money. Do you think they have a glass cauldron?”
“They can’t make those," Hermione responded in a clipped voice, obviously gauging the quality of some tropical snail mucus. “Glass is quite resistant to enchantments that would protect it from heat, and even if they do manage to enchant it, they are quite unstable and randomly combust. They featured it in an article of Potions Weekly.”
“Aw, that’s no-good," Harry frowned, biting his lower lip. “We should invent a glass cauldron for Mother’s birthday next year.”
“I think Lily would appreciate it more if we spent our time with less impossible things. Didn’t I just tell you it’s impossible, brother mine?” Hermione whirled around, her bushy hair bobbing. “Really, get on with it! And stop wasting time, I’m almost done!”
“Yes, yes! Ugh, you’re unbelievable!”
He quickly catalogued the beetle eyes, carefully selecting those with no milkiness and unsquashed.
When he came to the counter, he handed the little box off to Hermione, who carefully evaluated all items she put on the counter before taking a deep breath. “That’ll be all.”
The man eyed the items, swaying his wand over them to measure some or count them more quickly, before looking up again.
“Ten galleons, thirteen sickles and two knuts,” he said with a crisp voice.
“Ten– I calculated these out before I stepped outside the house, they shouldn’t be more than six galleons and five sickles!” Hermione immediately exclaimed, her eyes nervously flicking over the ingredients. “I– It shouldn’t!”
The man immediately shot her down with a frown, “I can round it down to ten galleons since today’s been a good day, but I won’t go any further down, lass.”
Harry felt a knot form in his stomach and he pulled Hermione's sleeve, a bit nervous. “Can’t we just pay the ten galleon, sister?”
Hermione was still shaking her head, and Harry felt the knot fester. He hated it when Hermione looked this lost, since she was usually quite resilient. But sometimes things would catch her off-guard, when people told her she was wrong about something.
“Six galleons and five sickles?” a smooth deep voice suddenly spoke up, making all three wixen jump slightly.
Harry looked to Hermione's right, where a man stood, tall and lanky and frankly looking dressed a bit too warmly, even for the biting cold that was waiting outside. He must have a particularly large nose, since Harry could only see that poke out from the black, stringy hair, the rest of the mystery man hidden away from where he stood.
“Ah– Master Snape, you too must see that that’s a particularly cheap price!” the salesman said, throwing his hands up.
Hermione's shoulders slumped as she mourned over the neatly organised ingredients.
“I would say that five galleons would be too much for that pathetic heap. Are you running so short on change, Mister Rillen, that you need to swindle little brats now?” Snape asked with that incredibly even voice. It had this slow pace to it, as though the man was sinking a blade laced with poison between your ribs, slowly and meticulously twisting it. Harry huddled closer to his sister to hide from the many eyes that were now looking on.
Rillen must have seen something in Snape’s face that Harry could only begin to guess from his voice, because he looked mortified.
“N-no of course not, sir, but please, check again, surely you jest,” he fumbled, growing paler by the second. Harry was curious how deadly Snape looked right now.
“I watched, heard and smelled the entire process of these two dunderheads trying to select whatever ingredients they tried to procure for their already botched experiment,” the man now snarled, his voice, despite Harry believing it impossible, going even deeper. Deadlier too.
"You check again, Rillen."
The salesman nodded, slowly, before turning his eyes back to the ingredients, not swaying his wand once.
"Six galleons and five sickles seem in order–"
"Five galleons I said, and we will take off ten sickles if you keep up this detestable charade, swindler."
By the time the Potters and mystery man Snape were out of the store they were five galleons lighter and a good heap of ingredients heavier. Snape paid, slamming down five of the ugliest and dirtiest galleons they had ever laid eyes upon. As Hermione pulled him along he stared at the black stringy hair, trying to decipher why in Merlin's name Snape had paid, and he could only imagine that the man did it solely for dramatic effect.
Standing in front of the shop he still stared, his mouth opening without him even thinking what to say.
“You’re scary.”
Harry was certain that to Snape that was no insult, though he couldn’t know that for sure from the man's stony expression.
Snape had skin that looked like he hadn’t seen the sun in a while. In a good while at that. His eyes were black, and frankly unsettling. Those dark circles beneath them did not help with the intense, unblinking basilisk’s glare he seemed to fashion. Now in the light of the open, Harry could make out the thousands upon thousands of buttons that had vanished into the black material earlier. How the man ever got out of that overcoat, only Gaia knew. Perchance magic was at play in the process.
How dramatic, Harry thought. Wearing a stone's worth of buttons just to hassle with magic to undress. Honestly, this man must be playing in the theatre.
Snape would make a splendid Beatrice, from Much Ado About Nothing, Harry realised. He and Hermione had seen the play with his father and Sirius and she had been played by a man with features too soft for the ballsy woman who thought that challenging someone to a duel wasn’t escalation enough. Snape on the other hand looked sharp.Cheekbones high, but face slim, giving him the features needed to play a woman on stage.
“Stop staring, you ingrate. If I am so scary, how come you two have yet to flee?” Snape snapped, looking quite miffed. “You wish me to tell you exactly why your cauldron will melt the second you attempt to brew your little Draught of Clemency ?”
Harry clamped his mouth shut. He could understand how Rillen would be in such fear.
Hermione didn’t know fear though.
“We aren’t brewing that though. It’s impressive that you constructed that from only the ingredients, sir!” she gasped and Harry could feel a waterfall of words rumble in his sister.
“But just to make sure, if, hypothetically, we were to brew that Draught with these ingredients, it would fail the second we add the Obelia petals. The Draught of Clemency requires the stems, cut into the finest of stripes, to be sieved out at the decanting step,” she rattled off, and it was a bit humorous how Snape went from infuriated to slightly annoyed to cross eyed.
“Additionally, the Draught does not ask for several ingredients we purchased. The moonlit dew, freezing hillberries and bear fur are all not compatible with this brew for seperate reasons.”
Hermione was taking deep breaths by now and Harry tried his best to not laugh next to his sister. Six years and he still had to get used to how she could sometimes just let go of a slew of words like some magnificent avalanche.
“You missed that Draught of Clemence is to be stirred with a wooden rod in a gold cauldron. Everything else pollutes the potion and ruins the longevity of the brew,” the man somehow corrected and now Harry was scared again because who in Merlin's name ever listened to Hermione.
Hermione seemed taken aback too, judging from the way her mouth stood agape, robbed of all her words. Harry once again felt compelled to comment.
“You’re smart.”
The way Snape looked at Harry made the sixteen year old feel particluarly dumb.
“Thank you for your belief and trust in my cognitive abilities, Potter. A bit of advice.”
The man leaned in, and from this close up Harry could see the way his teeth were crooked and yellow.
“A silver rod is, and always has been, superior to glass. Wear dragonhide gloves or get a leather handle, do not be cheap. ”
With that, the man returned to ramrod straightness, turned around and whirled away to stalk down the street.
Before either Harry or Hermione could escape their daze, the man had vanished into Knockturn Alley, beyond their reach.
---
“Don’t tell mum we met this Snape man today,” Harry said by the time they had purchased their pair of dragonhide gloves.
“What? Why not?”
Harry paused, thinking about it for a bit.
“Because he recognized me for being James' son… But Father never mentioned Snape… So I think they might be on bad terms.”
---
“Haha, you tykes!”
Mother was looking down at the, as Harry and Hermione dubbed it, ‘Gray-Away’, giving her children a dubious smile. She had unpacked their gift last, as was tradition by now.
“This is honest to god one more thing that will just make my hair turn into silver mane all the sooner! Why do you have to take after your father so much!”
“Don’t you like it?” Hermione asked, eyes big and innocent and lips quivering.
(Not because she was near crying, but because it was quite strenuous to hide her grin.)
“I cherish it,” their mother sighed, holding her hands out for a hug, pressing sloppy kisses on both their foreheads. Their uncles and father chuckled a bit at the way Hermione and Harry both tried to wind themselves out of it, rubbing at their foreheads with red cheeks.
“Well, if you liked it that much,” Harry started, trying to get back some of his composure, “you’ll like this even better!” he declared, loudly as promised, as he pulled out the sage green potion.
“Oh my–! Not another joke, I don’t think my poor heart can take any more ridicule! And on my birthday, too!”
This elicited some more laughs and Teddy, their baby cousin currently climbing up at Sirius’ robes, screamed in delight at the happiness in the room.
“I’m so proud, I’ve done a good job with those two,” their father exclaimed, cocksure with a wide grin, “so what is it?”
“Oh, uhm–” Harry looked at his sister, suddenly feeling a bit of stage fright.
“It’s a relaxant salve. It clears your aches easily enough and if James or Sirius does anything particularly foolish you’ll be able to still rest at ease,” she explained quickly, fumbling with her hands, waiting for her mother’s judgement.
“Ohh, my children are geniuses!” their mother immediately exclaimed. “You must have made the whole thing from scratch, what potion did you base this recipe on? That’s such a beautiful colour too, you two should really consider looking for a Master of Potions to apprentice under. Nobody ever bothers with it, but nothing beats the experience of those taught the proper way.”
Suddenly she paused, eyeing the viscous green cream a bit closer.
“What am I saying, you two already excel, any Master would be lucky to have you! Oh let me try it, Harry darling, show me how to use it?”
---
The discussion of education came up sporadically here and there, but Harry and Hermione had never been children that shied away from learning. Their parents encouraged it, and while Hermione was often considered the more bookish sibling, Harry, too, was a brilliant and hardworking boy.
Well brilliant and hardworking young man, as his father liked to say now. Harry wasn’t even quite seventeen yet, but since Hermione had come of age they had both been treated like adults by their parents.
Harry both mourned not being his mother's baby boy anymore, and was thankful for his parents taking him serious enough that they wouldn’t get mad if he took a stirring rod in his hand without asking first.
They wanted their children to not miss out on any chances. A wixen’s life was long and if you missed your chance early on, things could get harder later down the line. 120 and no education left a wizard often quite dependent on family.
You should find a Master of Potions!
Alice told me Neville is apprenticing under Master Bulwarp now.
Did you hear, Bill got stationed in Egypt now, those Cursebreaker teachings have benefitted him immensely in life, truly!
It was getting a bit on Harry’s nerves to be honest, especially since every time he asked Hermione if she had anything specific in mind she always said, ‘Still searching, I’m still looking, Don’t worry, brother mine’.
It wasn’t the early blooms of July when Hermione suddenly stormed out to the garden, trying to pull her brother away from work.
“Sweetie, leave Harry here, he still hasn’t done all his chores," James frowned, flicking the wand to levitate crates of cherries and apples.
“It’s about finding an apprenticeship, Father, and it’s urgent!” Hermione immediately answered, pulling Harry further away and leaving a flabbergasted James.
“You saved up calling him Father for keeping secrets?” Harry asked her a bit unimpressed by her straightforward tactic.
“It worked, didn't it?” she asked right back, a bit red in the cheeks and quite impatient. “Less questioning me, more walking! You should be more excited, I finally found him!”
“Who?”
“The Master of Potions we’ll apprentice under, you dunderhead!”
Harry's eyes widened as Hermione pulled him into their home and then into their shared room. She locked the door with her wand and then finally let him go.
“Look!”
Harry looked around, noting the big box of letters on their desk.
“Hermione, blimey! Have you been getting poems from someone?” Harry moved to pick up one of the letters, immediately noting how upscale the speech and handwriting was. Ron would be jealous.
“Some uppity, too. Who is trying to court you, Malfoy?”
Hermione pulled a grimace at the insinuation, picking up a different letter.
“No! These are my correspondences with the dozen or so Master of Potions The Great United Kingdom has! Mother was right, the craft of potions is completely undervalued in Britannia. The community is incredibly close-knit and so everyone knows everyone. But they are so conceited.”
Hermione covered her face in lament, her voice exasperated with frayed nerves.
“Oh Harry, I am suddenly not surprised at all how Master Snape behaved at Slug & Jiggers. He honestly might be one of the easy going ones!”
Harry slowly nodded, reading through a couple of letters, picking up the gist.
“Why did you have to go through all these Masters to find Snape then?”
“Master Snape!” she immediately admonished, before huffing a bit indignantly. “He hides !” his sister called out, voice ripe with frustration. “And how he hides! A dozen scripts, but not a single article in Potions Weekly! Infamous but untouchable! When I wrote to Master Belby that I had met him, see what he wrote!”
She pulled out a yellowed paper from her little chest, pulling up her nose. “I understand that Master Snape is a much asked after man, but that is no reason to lie, young girl. I haven’t lied at all, the man paid for my snail mucus!”
Harry huffed a chuckle at Hermione, before going back to reading more.
“You have an address now then?”
“No, I have a name. And I have magic. And if you get that pretty white snow owl for your birthday we have an owl that is smart enough to find the man with only those two things!”
That sounded like a genius plan.
“I’m going to call her Hedwig,” Harry mused with a wide smile.
Hermione rolled her eyes.
“And I already told you, it makes no sense to name an owl native to the northern bounds of American soil after a German witch! Saint Hedwig was also famous for her black hair, you should call her Barbara, like Barbara the Unsalted!”
---
Harry had already been begging his parents to get him the pretty snowy owl before their plan, but once he knew getting an apprenticeship with the elusive and much sought after Master Snape depended on it, it got a bit ridiculous. His birthday was only weeks away and his parents assured him that they never said no to the idea, but they couldn’t imagine how much hinged on Hedwig becoming Harry’s pet owl. So Harry ignored them and decided to impress them with doing chores, being particularly well behaved and everything else that could possibly curry favour favour
He didn’t even curse Hermione's hair dry with a spell for the rest of the month which would make it fluff up like a cloud (something he thought was incredibly pretty on her head, but which she despised).
When his birthday came around he couldn’t help but hold his ear against every present he was handed. He was careful to rattle none of them too much, in case they contained a live owl.
“Harry begged Mother and Father for a bird,” Hermione explained to their many friends assembled in the wide backyard, rolling her eyes. “Really childish if you ask me. He was extra nice and everything.”
“That pretty owl?” Ginny asked, eyes wide. “She is incredibly pretty. If only I just had to be extra nice so my parents got me an owl! I’d degnome the garden all day long!”
“We could get you an owl Ginnytums!” one of the twins thrilled, looking very much like they were going to do something untoward to that bird first. Ginny grimaced too, proving that she too didn’t trust her brothers with gifts or animals.
“It’s amazing you finally get to do your thing," Luna hummed and Harry almost choked.
“My– my thing?”
Luna looked up with a frown. “No, your and Helena’s thing. With the scrying spell.”
Hermione’s eyes widened now too. This wasn’t too particular for Luna though. The running theory was that she had a naggy third eye that sometimes made things a bit too clear for the younger girl. Luna insisted she was simply a very good and attentive friend.
“I’m going to get myself some more fruit,” Harry simply mumbled, extracting himself from between Ron and Fred. Or George.
“I’ll check on Father, he meant to bake a cake, I am honestly a tad worried.”
The Potters fled, for a moment's reprieve, to the kitchen, where they were greeted by their uncle Remus and a snowy white owl perched on his arm and Nymphadora holding Teddy who made grabby hands.
“Harry, no! Oh, Circe be damned, it was supposed to be a surprise!” their uncle moaned. Nymphadora laughed loudly next to him, her hair turning as white as Hedwig's feathers.
---
“Should we mention that he’s scary?”
“No! Why should we even imply that we dislike him? He might make that an excuse to not take us on as his pupils!”
“But he is.”
“He is also an incredibly talented, intelligent, righteous man! Why not mention all that, hm?”
“We will mention that, too, but he is also scary so we shouldn’t lie!
“We’re not lying, we’re omitting the truth.”
“So you admit he is scary!”
“Of course Severus Snape is scary! Have you seen the man!”
“Severus?”
“That’s his name. Nobody could confirm a second name.”
“That’s so soft compared to his last name.”
“We are not complimenting his name in our application, Harry.”
“Huh? Oh, of course not.”
---
Potter,
no.
Sincerely yours
Snape
---
Potters,
I loathe repeating myself, but as you are incapable of reading a two letter word I take a gamble and try to conjure a swath of words as that little no-good missy stormed the day I had the unfortunate displeasure of making the poorest choice in my life yet: Associating with you ingrates.
Let me put this into layman words: I do not want to. Teaching is for the callous and the arrogant. Go to Master Greengrass, he is subpar, so you should get along well. Potioneering is the intricate art of patience and impatience. A hidden talent only a select few possess.
May you live in interesting times,
Snape
Postscript: Do not believe me naive, Potter. If you know what is good for yourself you will cease these illicit jokes. Or do you wish to duel?
---
Dear dunderheads,
still no. And I do not believe you, frankly. What incentive do I have to believe two children that have only met me once?
Cease.
Snape
---
I will not meet with two green-behind-the ears pests.
---
Fine.
Next Friday.
The Hog’s Head.
Sundawn, ask for my room.
Wishing for your demise,
Severus Tobias Snape,
Master of Potions,
the Man Who Will End You One Day,
To Hell With You
---
“Shouldn’t we at least tell Mother where we are going? This seems… foolhardy," Hermione complained, holding her messenger bag closer to herself. Her hands were fumbling with the beads that were embroidered onto the flap by hand, nervously twirling them.
They were standing in front of the Hog’s Head, a little inn in Hogsmeade. It was not the most welcoming of buildings.
“No way. She’ll tell Father, and I am sure he and Snape have some unfinished business. You’ve read the postscript, Hermy. He was willing to duel Father because he thought it a jest on his expenses.”
“Master Snape, Harry. He is a very esteemed person,” Hermione admonished before returning to nervously fidgeting. “Maybe we should have told her, especially in that case then.”
“You just said he was a very esteemed man!”
“Esteemed men can kill!”
“This is ridiculous,” Harry murmured before stepping inside. The pub was sparse, but the people inside looked less questionable than Harry would have figured from the outer appearance. The man behind the counter, tall as a tree, sneered, appraising the siblings with piercing eyes.
Harry felt his courage leave him just as quickly as it had led him inside, but thankfully Hermione walked up to handle it.
“We are looking for Master Snape?”
The bartender grumbled at Harry’s sister a bit, but he eventually gave her a nod, towelled his hands off and waved them both to follow him up the stairs. Coming to a halt at the last door he turned to the siblings.
“Yell if he gives you problems,” the man said briskly and Harry suddenly felt a lot more comfortable. He didn’t expect the shopkeep to care for their safety.
“Thank you, Mister…?”
“No, cut that, no Mister here,” the man grimaced. “Aberforth’s the name. Go on then.”
And with that he was gone again, lumbering down the hall and letting every step of the stairs groan.
Hermione stared at the door handle, until Harry gave in and knocked.
The door opened suddenly, like the maw of a predator biting down on unsuspecting prey that had walked right between the fletched teeth.
The man who stood in the door did not fletch his teeth, but he might have as well. He looked angry. But not as angry as in Diagon Alley, so Harry only shrunk into himself a bit.
The man was still wearing that impossibly thick coat – he must have cooling charms under that. His eyes were black, as though he only possessed pupils, something that Harry had not previously noticed. His skin was still pale, a bit sallow actually. His lips were thin, but a cool dark maroon colour. How had he missed that?
“The Potters. A delight, truly," Snape hissed, not stepping aside to let them in. “Prove it is truly you.”
Hermione frowned.
“How– why–”
“Tell me only something the two of us would know,” Snape barked, no patience for Hermione's disorientation. Harry thought that the harsh line that seemed pronounced with stress did not suit Snape’s otherwise so melodious voice.
“I called you scary, and then intelligent," Harry admitted, straightening his back. He wasn’t small either. As a child he had been a bit on the scrawny side, but he had filled into his father’s form quickly.
“You could have told that to your father.”
“But we didn’t even tell Father that we met you!” Hermione hissed, looking a bit angry now. “Because Harry actually deduced your dislike for our father!”
At that Snape paused. Then he stepped aside, those intense eyes never leaving Harry.
“Make yourself at home," the man gritted out.
Both Potters stepped inside quickly.
“Thank you, sir," Hermione said, voice not shaken the slightest. Harry only stepped inside behind his sister, seating himself beside her at the table after she conjured two extra chairs.
“Now that we have proven ourselves earnest and sincere, can we please move on to the negotiation of the apprenticeship? You do not strike me as someone who enjoys wasting time, Master Snape.”
The man still stood beside the door which was now closed. He still looked angry.
“Cease assuming things about me, you chit,” he said, his voice a lot calmer than before. It soaked the room like syrup, and Harry felt his hands unclench.
“Then please tell us about yourself, sir?” Hermione asked, hopeful.
“No.”
---
Master Snape (he insisted on the title, which Harry did not mind, except Snape looked really uncomfortable being called that) was hard to please. Hermione had already informed Harry of this from the multiple accounts she had on the man, but Harry knew so beyond a doubt from the first second he had laid eyes upon the man. He was no beggar, thus he was a chooser. A choosy chooser at that.
It just so happened that when their mother said that anyone would be glad to have the Potter siblings as students she had not been overselling. Harry and Hermione were hungry for knowledge, extremely studious and, what seemed to be most important to Master Snape, self-sufficient.
Harry was vaguely aware of what was in the contract Hermione and Master Snape drafted that night, but he did not understand all the details.
They had to learn, they had to obey him (within reason), they would live with him (he did have a dwelling which was not with the Hog’s Head; he simply did not wish to potentially disclose it to James Potter) and finally they would receive his guidance. Harry was excited. Something about Master Snape tickled him like nothing had ever before and he couldn’t wait to find out more.
The next hurdle would be breaking the news to their parents. Dinner seemed a time as good as any.
“Mother, Father? We need to uhm-”
“We have found a Master of Potions to apprentice with and would like to show you the contract that was drafted. Just so you can be prepared,” Hermione cut her brother off, watching as both their parents stopped eating their soup and rather let their spoons hover in the air.
“That is– amazing news! Who– who is it? When did you even meet any Masters?” their mother first regained her composure, dabbing off some spilled soup on her chin.
Hermione glanced over to their father.
“We fear you might not approve… And we want to remind you that the decision is ours. We truly believe this is an amazing chance.”
Harry nodded along, stirring his soup a bit.
“I am sure whoever you found will be excellent, do share his name, sweetie.”
Hermione gave Harry a glance, opening her mouth but getting stuck on actually saying anything. Harry looked up from his soup, gnawing on his lower lip.
“His name is Severus To–”
“What?”
To their surprise their mother suddenly stood, her green eyes burning.
“How did you meet that man?” she asked, sounding as though they had told their parents they had had tea with Merlin himself.
“First at Slug & Jiggers–”
Lily didn’t let her daughter finish as she got up. “Where does he live?” she asked. Their father on the side sat still, fists clenched.
“Mother–”
“Harry, sweetheart, if you know where Severus lives I need you to tell me this instant," his mother shot him down, swishing her wand and calling upon her coat.
“Harry.”
Harry caved into his mother’s glare and turned to Hermione with a pleading expression.
“He uhm… A place he called Spinners End,” Hermione confessed. With a crack their mother was gone.
---
While Lily was gone James pulled the children aside, seating them in the living space meant for reading and playing games. He had a carefully neutral expression that neither child fully trusted.
“You mother and– Snape –'' disdain was evident in their father’s voice, ”– have somewhat of a past. They used to live in the same town as well. That Lily wasn’t, well, Lily yet.”
Both children's eyes widened.
“He got her out of the pillory?” Harry asked, not trying to show how reverent he sounded.
“He– No, he actually saved her from the stake. Your mother, she… Well, it isn’t my place to say.”
They both understood. It was somewhat of a sensitive topic to any wixen born to muggles.
“Unlike us, Snape did not have a plan. When he saved your mother it was… It was dark. Big. In the end they blamed the witch and in a sense, Lils blames herself as well. He had warned her, apparently, that she was a witch and she should flee, but honestly she could not have known and–”
Harry thought it was odd to see his father, who was always so incredibly sure of everything, suddenly so unsure. Frightening even to see the unshakable man so shaken.
“What happened next?”
“Lils and Snape ran. He knew enough magic to get by, and they were desperate. He did– a lot of despicable things. I first met him when I was fourteen, and we fought and your mother was firmly on his side and… “
He sighed.
“You don’t have the context, Back then muggles thought that all the dark magic he produced was considered the work of the Cursed Cokeworth Witch. Muggles were killing little girls left and right. It was a tragedy, but at the core it was him holding her hostage in their wild goosechase of asylum.”
“He just tried to survive,” Hermione croaked and her father frowned at that, letting a hand go through his bird's nest of hair.
“I suppose. Back then I didn’t quite… Long story short, I stumbled across them, parried his cutting curse, yelled at him for putting the whole country in a panic and… He fled. Your mother talked too. I never found out what she said to him, but she mentioned some previous tension and he took that as a sign that she didn’t want him around any more, I guess. I don’t like him. He’s deranged and dark and I’ve seen what he has done to humans. How callous he is with the life of others.”
Thoughts, unorganised and volatile, swirled through Harry’s mind, but one question stood firm.
“What does Mother want from him now?”
James tapped his finger against his knee in a staccato rhythm, thinking for a moment.
“An answer, most of all.”
---
It seemed impossible at first, but eventually their parents were supportive, in a very roundabout way.
Once their mother returned home she filled them in on a couple of gaps. How she and Sev had been thicker than her and her sister. How everyone they knew as children had died that night. It was a gruesome tale, but Harry and Hermione had seen gruesome tales like that before with their own eyes. More than just Hermione too – being part of the Order of the Phoenix meant that sometimes their parents would offer help where help was needed.
They were supportive of Harry and Hermione.
They weren’t happy with where their children were headed, the siblings knew that much, but something seemed to stifle their parents in trying to talk them out of it.
---
“You didn’t think I’d take on two pupils without testing their competence, did you?” Master Snape asked the two young adults with sadistic glee.
They were in his basement – a huge laboratory – where cauldrons of all depths and sizes lined the walls. Utensils were strewn all around, distillers, glass phials, crystal bottles, rods of varying material and size and more arranged in a chaotic symphony that must make sense if one was familiar with all of Master Snape’s particularities. There was one wall dedicated solely to ingredients that seemed to glitter in the darkness. Harry recognized some of the air sealed glass containers, but there were colourful rocks and herbs and juices he never could have imagined. Somehow Harry suspected that this was only the thing Snape had on hand for immediate brewing and that, somewhere, he stored even more colourful treasures.
In Harry’s opinion, it was beautiful.
“Focus, Potter,” Master Snape snapped.
Harry’s head whirled back to look at the stunning man.
“You shall brew me what we had already discussed. You have three days and my personal playground to use. If I find your results subpar by the dawn of day three you shall leave and never return," he continued, the silk of his voice weaving a duvet filled with expectations.
He seemed a bit lost in thought for a moment as he looked at the two of them, but then he produced his wand from thin air and flicked it. A pull, sudden and strong, separated Harry from his sister, until they were standing at opposite ends of the cutting counter.
“You shall work separated from each other. I will know if you try to help the other,” he explained, expression holding not an ounce of trust for either candidate.
“Go on then.”
Harry watched as the man vanished in a flourish of black robes. It looked so cool.
“Focus, Potter! ” the man called from outside before closing the heavy metal door of the laboratory.
Harry looked at Hermione and gave her a curt nod. They knew this potion, after encountering Snape, Master Snape, Harry reminded himself, in Diagon Alley – Hermione hadn’t stopped talking about the draught since. It was a potion meant to test if someone was truthful, used for confessions or confirming apologies.
When a feud was resolved it was customary that both parties undergo the test.
Making it was not easy. The right utensils were elementary. Harry looked up at the pewter cauldron that was already set up and spelled it to levitate as he put it aside. The scripts recommend a purer cauldron, so silver or up, but Harry would never forget what Snape said to Hermione that first day.
”– stirred with a wooden rod in a gold cauldron –”
He clamped his hand around the grainy stirring rod, watching water boil in the gleaming cauldron.
---
Obviously, they both passed the test. Master Snape had talked down on their concoctions, the way the viscosity was too thick (Harry thought it behaved very much like water), how the orange shimmer should have been ocher (wasn’t that just shimmering orange though?) and how it did not at all smell like grass.
That last bit Harry agreed with. He also smelled flowers and tree bark when he leaned over his cauldron.
After berating their ‘pathetic attempts’ he signed the contract, accepting the responsibility of guiding them both to become Masters of the craft like him. Harry felt excitement bloom in him, eager to learn all these amazing things not from unclearly written text but from the man who knew the craft, breathed it, lived it.
Master Snape immediately ordered them to scrub their workstations down, squashing that initial excitement.
The first three months the man spent making them regret everything that had led them to this point of their lives. If Harry even reached out for a stir rod, his hand was swatted like that of an unruly child trying to snack on the dough his mother was preparing.
The first three months Master Snape spent making them watch him prepare the most basic of solutions and watching them clean the resulting mess. It was obnoxious and reminded Harry of how his mother, one day, had expected them to do their own dishes with almost no forewarning whatsoever.
The first time Harry tried to scrub the bigger pewter cauldron he tried his damndest to put all his frustration into the scrubbing, leaning into the large sphere.
“Do not do that, you will hurt your wrist,” Snape had grumbled in response, pulling him back harshly by the neck of his shirt. Harry felt a bit like a wet cat, shaking his head and pulling down the fabric as he tried to not glare at his teacher.
“How– I’ve always scrubbed the cauldron like this!”
“Then you have always been doing it wrong Potter," Snape snapped right back. “Did that ever occur? What is a Master of Potions without his hands!?” the man barked the question, eyes needling him for a response.
“A glorified library?” Harry mumbled, unsure what he was supposed to say. Everyone would have a hard time without hands.
Master Snape looked as though that particular answer was like fermented cockroaches on his tongue, if the way his eyes blazed and nose pulled up were any indication. He must’ve found it at least a bit funny, because instead of donning a sneer, he seemed to be chewing on his lower lip.
“You are a fool. A Potions Master who cannot even protect his hands is a failure, Potter, and if you have not noticed: I do not produce failures. So cease your insolence and watch.”
With that the Master stepped forward, and Harry was entranced with how he pulled up those tight sleeves, exposing his forearms. They were white as milk, marred with black curse marks. Watching the dexterous hands scrub the metal with such deliberate movements was like watching a piece of art getting unveiled. It was like seeing actors dance over the stage in a performance. Mesmerising.
“Can you manage this much?” Master Snape scoffed, pulling his cufflinks down again and Harry nodded, not trusting his voice to not wobble.
He would never forget that demonstration.
He could feel the unimpressed look Hermione threw him from all the way from where she was cleaning the utensils. He did not care in the slightest for her input on the whole thing.
---
Harry noticed that that was not the only time he struggled to breathe in Master Snape's direct presence.
As Harry and Hermione shared a roof with the man (this was the first time they did not share a room!) they took to eating supper together with their surly Master. Snape insisted on cooking, something about them solely focusing on their education while they were with him.
Harry sometimes got to observe the man in the kitchen, and it was just as fascinating as watching him brew.
Merlin, watching Master Snape brew was like watching a ballerina dance. It was graceful in a way. Measured in a way that Master Snape was in no other aspect of his life. He was artful in his craft. Harry wished he could look as effortless when doing – anything really.
Hermione said that he was really good at flying the broom, but Harry frowned. That was so brutish compared to potions.
Sometimes Harry ran into the man in his leisure time, reading a book, and the intensity of the man's eyes would have stopped the younger man's heart if they were directed at him. It was downright indecent how thoroughly Snape got under his skin without even properly trying.
Even thinking it over and over and over again though, Harry still struggled with who was the indecent one in that scenario.
---
As Harry was contemplating what it was about Snape that got him caught up so badly he neglected a development that caught up with him faster than he would have liked.
Hermione one late night knocked at his door, and when Harry opened it he could see her eyes, brimming with tears.
“I miss you,” she confessed as they huddled under the blanket. She used to be taller than him, but now it was him wrapping his arms around her with ease. “I miss sharing a room, and sharing a cauldron. I’m scared of Master Snape, he hates everything I do. What if he drops me, but keeps you? Do we have to separate even more?”
Harry hugged her a bit tighter.
“I would go with you,” he said in a heartbeat. And he meant it. He was– fascinated with Snape, but if his sister was to leave he’d be right with her. She’d do the same. And even if she didn’t, that was okay too. Unconditional love had this quirk where it was not bound to anything but the person.
He kissed her forehead, and when they left the room that next morning, both looking not rested at all (from all the crying they did), Harry looked Master Snape in his dark, unfathomably deep eyes, as though to challenge the man to say something. To assume something about the siblings that wasn’t there.
---
“We shall endeavour to brew a simple Dewarting solution today,” was what Master Snape declared at breakfast, as though that was not the most phenomenal news after six months of apprenticeship.
He must’ve seen the happiness on their faces, as his expression immediately cooled.
“Do not forget that all which you have learned before will still make out a great part of your studying here. Brewing the potion is the easy part,” he huffed with an odd expression.
Harry had started to categorise the many faces of Severus Snape, and he thought that face was particularly close to fondness.
---
Hermione wasn’t the only one to sometimes wander around at night. Master Snape did not insist on a curfew, though he could be particularly vicious if he was under the impression one had skipped out on necessary sleep.
Usually Harry would grab his broom and fly one round in the absolute darkness, but it was getting colder again and he didn’t want to catch a cold. Not when Master Snape wanted them to brew the medical solution only in a week or so.
So instead, he went down to maybe peruse the study for a good read. Master Snape had given them free reign over the house as long as nothing vanished or broke. The only area of limits was his bedroom, though Harry wished he could take a peak. He had only seen Snape in those black coats of his, so getting a glimpse of him in something more comfortable was quite the dream Harry never expected to come true
It did not come true tonight either, but he did see Snape in spite of the late time.
“Sir- excuse me. I will leave you to your reading,” Harry immediately tried to excuse himself, but Snape waved his wand and the door to the study closed.
“Stay," the man said, voice heavy. “It is highly inappropriate, but can I serve you a drink?”
Harry looked at the small table and the opened bottle of Firewhiskey. Half empty too.
“Of course, sir.”
“Sit, sit, you are getting on my nerves standing there.”
Harry obeyed, spellbound by how Snape’s articulation was ever the slightest bit slower than usual. Snape made even something as mundane as filling a glass with Bourbon look absolutely ravishing. The way his hand wrapped around the bottle made Harry wish the man would wrap his hands around him.
Suddenly remaining in the study seemed like a dumb idea. Quick, make him kick you out, Harry.
Before he could come up with some genius plan to get himself booted out, the now filled tumbler of amber liquid was in his hand.
In an attempt to drain his fear he raised the glass to his lips and drained the alcohol, letting some of it pass down his throat. He’d seen uncle SIrius do it plenty of times, but he never would have suspected the feeling of literal fire in his throat and stomach. Firewhiskey his arse, that stuff was like magma rushing through his blood.
He coughed a bit, trying to hide the way his eyes teared up at the nasty sting.
“Sir, you freed my mother, did you not?”
He will behead you, his mind noted, dryly.
Harry and Hermione’s parents were a bit of a taboo in the house; discussing them in Snape’s presence only aggravated him. It was a surefire way to get killed, or so Harry at least thought.
“I do not believe she ever felt as though I saved her,” the man sneered, throwing back his own drink. He made it look effortless, charming, and attractive. Harry only took another sip so the sting of tears would hide how much he was staring.
“So I suppose I never did.”
When Harry thought of his mother and Snape he wasn’t sure about that. Thinking back to how his mother had reacted when she had heard of the name Severus… It was as though a light had returned to her eyes that Harry had never noticed to be missing before. Maybe not exactly a happy light, but one fueled by such strong emotion, she must’ve had some attachment to the man who had done so much for her survival.
“But you freed her from the stake–”
“I murdered hundreds,” Master Snape interrupted Harry, voice hollow. “I have bound your mother’s life to the death of hundreds. To the sacrifice of hundreds.”
“I’d’ve done the same for Hermione,” Harry responded without hesitation. “I’d still do it. I’d do it in a hundred years too. Wixen or Muggle, I don’t really differentiate in that regard. If they harmed her, and if I had the power to hurt them for it, I would.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
And Harry knew that logically, Snape was right, but he was holding an empty glass and feeling anger hot as Firewhiskey flooded his mind.
“Don’t tell me what I would do for my sister.”
Snape’s eyes had this indecipherable quality to them that gave Harry a particularly hard time to sort the man's expressions sometimes. It was as though Snape had erected a wall between them. Harry stared right into those eyes, trying to make out the slightest glimmer.
“You want to know what I think?” Harry asked by way of breaking the silence.
“Not particularly, no.”
“I think you saved my mother. I think she thinks so too. And I think by virtue we owe you a debt that we can never repay because saving her cost you everything while it gave her the chance she needed.”
Harry put the glass down, mostly to buy time, but in a small part because he feared he’d drop the precious looking tumbler.
“I think you love my mother too much though, like how I love my own sister, to ever take advantage of this debt. Because that would defeat the purpose of your sacrifice. Because, despite what everyone thinks, you’re not actually that interested in causing mass hysteria.”
With those words, as though someone had cut the strings holding the man up in that perpetual tension he seemed to be in, he slumped.
He didn’t affirm or deny Harry’s claim, and for once he didn’t think it was because of Snape’s shrewd disposition but because of the sheer bafflement that must’ve befallen him in that moment. As though Harry had voiced a thought Snape had never considered before, presenting him with a truth he could have never found on his own.
If Harry had to sort the man’s expression he might’ve called it ‘lost’. It looked so foreign on that pristine face that to Harry it tasted like curdled milk.
For the first time since Harry knew the Potions Master, it felt lacking to simply catalogue the expression he wore. Harry wished to reach out and let his hand touch that face, maybe to smooth out some of the disorientation. He wanted to tell Snape something that would put his mind at ease, and reassure the man. Maybe something that would annoy him and make him snap at Harry, because that was an expression he wore much better.
In the end he didn’t, because before he could act, Snape’s expression was blank again. A firm wall was in place where, just a moment ago, uncertainty had been.
No second chance to act presented itself afterwards.
---
It was hard to capture the moment that admiration turned into love for Harry. Hard to pinpoint the exact moment he wished for Master Snape to consider him in such a way.
It would have been easy to say it had been that night in the library when they had shared that glass of Firewhiskey, but Harry knew it had been more gradual than that.
What made it even harder to pin down was that at first there was the irrational fear that Hermione might be cross with him for holding affections for their teacher. The idea that she might misunderstand his feelings as a form of abandonment kept him from even acknowledging the budding emotions.
That fear proved sorely misplaced once she revealed that, if she revealed that if she had to pinpoint the moment Harry had fallen in love, it would have been that fateful meeting at Slug & Jiggers.
“I knew you liked him," she only revealed. “It’s why I wanted us to apprentice under him, did I never tell you?”
She hadn’t. But Harry was too relieved to be mad at her for not mentioning it.
He sometimes thought that Snape felt a similar way about Harry, but it was hard to tell. The man tried hard to appear proper. To compensate for his past indiscretions. Having thoughts of such a nature of your apprentice surely was considered bad etiquette at best, so even if Snape wanted anything, he would never actually act on it. And that frustrated Harry to no end. It was not a rejection, it was perhaps worse than a rejection could ever be.
At least, with a rejection, you could learn to move on from it all. Though, if Harry was honest with himself, he already knew he had already lost at that front. Because when he laid in his bed at night, and tried to fall asleep, there would be a sting in his closed eyes and the distinct burn of firewhiskey in his mouth. His veins. His heart.
---
When one wished to become a Master, one had to make something that had never been done before. Harry and Hermione had done such a thing at a small scale as young adolescents, but now that they were adults, both 23-year-olds, it was time to unveil their first own creation.
The process of calculating the ideal conditions, what time of day, what temperature, what ingredients, if it should be brewed close to the lunar eclipse, solstice, equinox, blue moon, red moon, full moon or a combination of these above was gruesome. Every stir had to be justified and well reasoned.
That was, Snape insisted, the proper way of developing a potion.
He also confessed that no true Potion Master abided by all these things, but as neither of them were Potions Masters yet he would most assuredly fail the both of them if they took any shortcuts under his tutelage.
When Harry one day stepped down into the laboratory, and was greeted by a strange woman it took his still sleep-addled brain a couple of moments to realise it was Hermione who had ingested her successful Morphjuice Potion : seemingly an alternate Polyjuice Potion, but only in function. The potions differed in every every step of their making.
Harry decanted his own Tempered Solution only two weeks later.
It was a potion that allowed glass that was doused in it for one hour to remain stable even in extreme heats. Histerbloom roots dug out during the coldest lunar eclipses of the year, he had found out, were essential in cooling and stabilising the minerals contained in glass. Handling the thin, wiry flower had felt like home.
"Well, looks like the dream of a glass cauldron isn’t so far out of reach anymore,” he joked, barely dodging the wad of crumpled parchment his sister threw at him.
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Celebrations were in order when Harry and Hermione returned home as Masters of their craft. Pretty much everyone the Potter family had ever known even vaguely had been invited. Harry was pretty sure at some point he had seen an old man who actually claimed to be the Albus Dumbledore. However his parents were friends with him, Harry had no clue whatsoever. He suspected Order business.
Harry (and Hermione too) hadn’t seen his family of friends much the past six years. The apprenticeship had taken a lot out of them, especially time. There was the occasional letter or gift, but it was nothing like seeing everyone face to face again. To be surrounded by all their loved ones once again was overwhelming. To have their family and friends gather, all to celebrate their achievements, even more so
Hermione was with the Weasleys, laughing at something Ron had said, doubling over with a drink in her hand. Teddy was at that age where he would run around, causing mischief, his parents taking it with a blasé smile.
Harry was waiting though, for one person specifically.
Snape hadn't actually said he’d come; had actually insisted that he would not, quote, ruin the homely atmosphere of the festivities.
While Harry understood, he was also incredibly selfish. Deep down he hoped that Snape, too, would be selfish.
He wanted to meet the man as a sort of equal. Wanted to stand before him and ask questions, do things that would no longer place the man between a rock and a hard place. Now he’d be merely embarrassed or annoyed, which Harry thought were both expressions Snape would wear well.
With a sigh Harry slipped away, letting his sister retell some of her favourite moments. He wanted to get away for a bit, if only to not snap at Ron who was looking so horribly lovestruck that something ugly and possessive curled in Harry. Hermione would be incredibly cross if he hit Ron over the head though, so he refrained.
As he walked down the field, down to where land met creek, Harry treaded slowly beneath the shades of the trees his father had planted 15 years ago. They’d grown faster than they would have without magic, and the cherries held important properties for the famous cherry pie Harry’s mother made.
As he let the breeze tousle his hair, he looked up at the leaves, squinting at the way they seemed to rush in the wind. With a loud crack Harry was up in the crown of a tree, feet planted firmly on the wide branch. He captured Snape in his arms and caught himself by leaning against the wide trunk.
The way the light danced through the branches and landed on Snape’s black wool-clad figure looked divine. Not like Harry had ever seen an image in which the caustic man did not look divine.
“Hi,” he whispered up to the beautiful face. “You, Severus, are an elusive man.”
The shocked face turned from pasty to rosé as the man tried to wind himself out of Harry’s arms. He wasn’t trying particularly hard though and Harry stared at the face, etching the way Severus’ blush spread across the thin skin of his face into his heart and into his memory like one etched an image into stone.
“I don't think there will ever be a moment where I will cease enjoying the intricate art of figuring you out,” he whispered into the man’s chest, breathing in the calming fragrance that held so many different herbs and ingredients it made Harry’s head spin. The fragrance that, too, had become home in the past six years.
“You, Harry,” Severus breathed, and the way his name sounded when Severus spoke it made a warm feeling wash all over him, so hot and sparkling it put that Firewhiskey to shame. Harry looked up at the man, almost choking at the warm air ghosting over his lips in a way the younger man could only consider teasing.
“You have a hidden talent for looking right through me.”