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Chapter Text

Harry gasped as the massive oak doors to the Great Hall swung open with the flick of McGonagall’s wand, revealing a well-let room and the strangest ceiling he had ever seen. He could see straight through it, all the way to the stars. It was breathtaking, only made more impressive by the floating blobs of light bobbing overhead.

He had so many questions. 

Harry was about to ask Ron if he knew how the ceiling worked, but Ron looked just as mesmerized as he was, which was baffling. Ron had five older brothers who’d been to Hogwarts—or so he’d said on the train—not to mention he had grown up around magic. How could he still be this surprised? Maybe Harry wouldn't be as far behind as he thought.

Deciding to keep his question to himself, partly out of embarrassment and partly because he doubted Ron knew the answer anyway, Harry turned his attention back to the floating lights and the four long tables crowded with students.

Not much later, he overheard the bushy haired girl from the train talking to a gentle looking red haired girl. She explained that the ceiling was bewitched to look like the sky outside, and that she’d read about it in Hogwarts: A History.  

Harry felt a flicker of satisfaction at getting his answer, but then his brow furrowed slightly. She’d already finished one of their textbooks? But they were huge! How had she even understood it? He’d barely made sense of the first few pages of the smallest book on their list…

He thought this girl was like him—that she hadn’t grown up around magic. If he remembered correctly, she’d even said she was the first magical person in her whole family. He felt something flare up inside him when he realized they weren’t similar in the slightest. 

She’s lucky, he thought as jealousy burned in him.

He was stupid for thinking they were similar just because they’d lived with Muggles. Of course she’d be better prepared than him. She probably had parents that supported her, encouraged her, rewarded her for being smart. Her guardians had probably been thrilled when she got her letter. Hadn’t his aunt said as much about his mother? 

A tightness coiled in Harry’s chest. 

Would his parents have been excited for him? 

He breathed in sharply, trying to shove the feeling down, only for it to be replaced by a tight knot of sudden anxiety. The girl had performed magic on the train. Ron had tried some, too. But what could he do?

He might be further behind than he’d thought. 

He hadn’t practiced anything over the summer. He hadn’t prepared at all.

What if he was the only student who hadn’t read any of his books? Was he going to be the only one who didn’t know anything?

Harry’s stomach dropped, shame and worry rising in its place. He should have tried harder to keep one of his books. Just one. He could have hidden it somewhere—could have practiced like the girl had. But…But he hadn’t. He’d just let Uncle Vernon lock everything away in his cupboard under the stairs. He should have…

What if the teachers… What if they thought he didn’t care?  What if they sent him back? What if—

A soft murmur spread through the hall, tugging Harry from his spiraling thoughts.

He looked up, startled, when someone at a nearby table had whispered his name. A lot of students were looking at him, he realized, pointing and exchanging hushed words. His cheeks warmed in embarrassment, remembering the Leaky Cauldron. He edged closer to Ron, who was quite a bit taller, and pressed his bangs down, trying to hide his scar, and wishing he could disappear.

A sudden hush fell over the room as Professor McGonagall climbed a few stairs. She turned to address them, a large table full of older looking witches and wizards looming behind her. “You all wait, along here. Get nice and close. That’s it,” she commanded gently, gesturing for the first years to spread out in front of a stone dais. As soon as she was satisfied they could all see her, the professor waved her wand with a flourish. 

A small wooden stool appeared before them with a shaggy looking brown pointed hat sitting atop it.

Harry cocked his head to the side, observing the well-worn article. 

Before he could think too deeply, the lights in the room dimmed and a spotlight from seemingly nowhere appeared over the hat and stool. Harry's eyes widened as he realized one of the seams along the brim started to open. The hat gave a stretch, much like a cat waking from a nap, then to his astonishment the hat started to sing. 

A hat was singing.

Was this real? Or was he living out some sort of fever dream?

He looked around at his cohorts and saw the same look of bewilderment on a few other faces, but one in particular stood out to him. 

He recognized her from the platform, when Hagrid had gathered all the first years for the boats. She hadn’t been wearing a robe then, but she was now. It was new, yet it dragged on the floor behind her, and the sleeves went far past her wrists, hiding her hands. He noticed she was very small compared to her future classmates—much like himself. Also like him, her clothing was threadbare, no longer fit to be called such. 

He wondered if she was like him. He hoped not. But after a quick glance at her shoes, he had his answer. His heart clenched painfully. She was like him. Much more so than the other girl. 

Would they be sorted into the same house? 

Maybe they could be friends. 

The lights in the room returned to their warm, pervasive glow, drawing Harry’s attention back to the hat. Everyone in the hall clapped and the hat performed as deep a bow as a hat could. 

Professor McGonagall walked back up to the stool and summoned a long scroll with the wave of her wand and promptly addressed the first years once again. “When I call your name, you will come sit on the stool, I will place the Sorting Hat on your head, and you will be sorted into your houses. Please be quick in getting to your tables. We’ve got quite a few of you to get through, so no dilly-dallying.” She adjusted her glasses and looked down at the list. “Abbot. Hannah.”

A rather tall girl with blond pigtails took a deep breath, before smiling softly at the girl with the too long robe, and climbing the stairs. 

Just watching her made Harry nervous. He was very glad his last name didn't start with the letter 'A.’ He would have hated to go first. Then again, having a last name so far back in the alphabet wasn’t really much better. 

“Nervous?” Ron whispered.

Harry nodded. 

“Yeah, I would be too if I didn’t already know I’m gonna be placed in Gryffindor.”

“How do you know?” Harry asked with a raised eyebrow.

Ron gave him a look. “I’ve got five older brothers,” he said pointedly. “All five have been in Gryffindor. Plus my mum and dad were both in Gryffindor. I don’t think the hat likes to split up families, so I think my chances are pretty good.”

The hat interrupted them with a loud shout of, “HUFFLEPUFF!” 

Harry watched the girl jump down with a relieved sigh. The next student was called as soon as Hannah hopped down the steps to join her new housemates.

The first person to get sorted that Harry recognized was the girl from the train—Hermione, he remembered once her name was called. She got sorted into Gryffindor. Ron was going to love that, Harry thought, if the groan and eyeroll were any indicator. 

The boy with the toad went to Gryffindor as well, which Ron seemed surprised by. Apparently Ron and Neville had been playmates when they were younger, old family ties and what not. 

Draco Malfoy had ended up in Slytherin, just like he said he would, and Ron scoffed loudly, earning a nasty glare from the blond. Harry hoped he didn’t get put in Slytherin, if only so he wouldn’t have to live with the pompous prat. 

Finally, Patil, Padma was called and sorted into Ravenclaw. A moment later, her twin sister, Patil, Parvati, stepped up.

Harry’s chest squeezed like a vice. He’d be called any second now.

“GRYFFINDOR!” the hat shouted.

Harry thought he saw Ron turn a little pale. So much for the hat keeping families together. If twins could be sorted into different houses, Ron’s confidence might not be so solid after all.

"Potter. Harry.” A hush fell over the hall before whispers started spreading like wildfire. Harry could feel his heart pounding and he wondered if the professor could hear it as he sat on the stool. He gripped the edge of the stool tightly and jumped when he heard a voice in his head.

Harry didn’t know how long he sat on that stool, begging not to be placed in Slytherin. Relief flooded him when the hat finally shouted, “GRYFFINDOR!” 

Three people after him were sorted into Ravenclaw before Harry finally learned the name of the girl with the too long robe. 

“Travers. Emma.” 

The girl trembled all the way up the steps and sat rigidly on the small wooden stool, jumping ever so slightly when the professor placed the hat on her head.

Harry bit his lip and crossed his fingers under the table. Please not Slytherin, he thought. The mantra had worked for him. Maybe it would work for her too.

He held his breath.

And then—

“SLYTHERIN!”

The table on the far side of the hall erupted in cheers. Harry dropped his hands into his lap.

His eyes burned. He blinked furiously.

If he hadn’t…

They could have…

He watched the girl slip from his grasp and straight into the hands of Draco Malfoy.

Chapter Text

Severus Snape slowly scanned the sea of first years as they entered the hall. The flock trailed behind Minerva like ducklings, their heads tilted skyward, eyes sparkling, and mouths agape. He knew what they were looking at. New students were always the same. He couldn’t remember if he’d been that impressed with the ceiling when he’d first arrived some twenty years ago. He supposed close proximity to such grandiose enchantments had dulled his appreciation. He continued his scan of the group. In previous years, he had never been so attuned to the goings-on of the entrance ceremony, however this year was going to be markedly different. This was the year the Boy-Who-Lived would be gracing the wizarding world with his presence. For some, this would be an exciting moment in their lives. They would, in effect, be going to school with a celebrity. But for him…Needless to say, he was not looking forward to the experience for a number of reasons.

A sudden murmuring spread through the hall. No doubt, some of them had seen the boy he was still searching for in the crowd. Now following the many pointing fingers of twittering teenagers, it didn’t take long for his piercing eyes to hone in on his intended target. Severus leaned back in his chair, crossing one arm over his chest. The other hand wandered up, the back of his knuckle lightly tracing along his top lip as he regarded the child. The boy was considerably shorter than he’d expected; even at eleven, Potter senior had been anything but. Despite this, the boy was his spitting image.  

A memory rushed to the front of his mind, and he was suddenly recalling the first encounter he’d ever had with James Potter. 

He and Lily had been chatting in a compartment near the back of the train, both of them excited for the school year as they repeatedly referenced things they’d read in their textbooks. The sliding door opened with a clatter , revealing two boys, both tall with dark hair and dark eyes to match. Neither looked familiar at the time, but they would become more familiar than Severus could have predicted. 

Snatching one of Severus’s old textbooks from the seat, the boy with glasses laughed at its state of disrepair. “Woah, check it out, Sirius. This thing looks ancient,” he said, pulling the book out of Severus’s reach when he made a grab for it. He handed it off to his friend.

The taller boy with bangs took the book and riffled through the pages haphazardly. “This book is older than my grandmother.” He looked at the inside cover and raised an eyebrow. “Prince? You’re a Prince?” he said, disbelief clear in the way he scoffed. 

“Doesn’t look like a prince,” the boy with glasses said plainly, gesturing to the boy’s attire.

“It’s Snape ,” Severus corrected, grinding his teeth together. He could feel heat tickling his cheeks and anger flared in his chest.

“Well, Snape ,” Sirius spat out, “You’d better watch your tone. I’m a Black, after all, and James here is a Potter. We deserve your respect. Even if you are from the Prince line.” 

“Respect is earned,” Lily said firmly, rising to her feet and glaring at him. “Now give it back.” She held her hand out expectantly, her green eyes blazing as the two had a stare off.

After a moment, Sirius scoffed and rolled his eyes, but James took the book from him all the same. 

“Fine. Here’s your relic back, your highness.” He tossed the book back onto the seat, resulting in creased pages and an injured spine. 

The murmurs died down when McGonagall climbed the stairs to the dais, heeled boots clicking on the stone. She turned sharply and ushered the first years further forward with a beckoning motion. “You all wait, along here. Get nice and close. That’s it.” She gave them a moment to spread out before summoning the Sorting Hat and small stool with a wave of her wand. 

The lights in the Great Hall dimmed and Severus rolled his eyes as the spotlight appeared from overhead. He made no attempt to hide his displeasure. His colleagues were well aware he detested the pomp and circumstance surrounding the sorting ceremony. It was not meant to be a difficult procedure: put the hat on, get sorted, and join your house. Yet the Hat tortured them, clearly reveling in the attention. A waste of time that seemed to get longer every year. 

Everyone, Severus included, clapped when the song ended and the lights slowly returned to their usual brilliance. 

McGonagall returned to the Hat’s side and summoned a long scroll as she explained the procedure to the first years. With a glance, it was easy to see that this year's class was smaller than usual. An effect of the war, perhaps? 

Regardless, the sorting would last anywhere from thirty minutes to over an hour. Though most students were placed within a matter of seconds, some required significantly more time. Severus liked to watch for those students.There were only a few reasons the hat took longer to sort them: they possessed traits that aligned with multiple houses; they had preferences or reservations concerning one of the houses; or they had complicated pasts that affected the hat’s perception of their character, requiring a deeper dive into their psyche. 

Severus retreated to his thoughts during much of the sorting process, not particularly interested in knowing which students got sorted to his house despite being head of Slytherin. He could already pick out three, having found the Malfoy heir and his two cronies standing near the front. A list of the others would appear on his desk at the end of the ceremony. He grabbed his goblet, idly swirling the red liquid within before taking a small sip. 

Time passed. As predicted, both Crabbe and Goyle ended up in Slytherin and Severus silently cursed his life, picking his glass up once again to down the remainder of his drink. Great. Now he’d have to endure seven years of fake niceties with Crabbe and Goyle senior. He placed the metal chalice down with more vigor than was necessary, startling Quirrell to his left. Snape shot the man a glare, then realized the current student had been sitting under the hat for over three—he glanced at the clock on the back wall—almost four minutes. 

One eyebrow raised in question, would she be a Hatstall? They hadn’t had one since Peter Pettigrew if he remembered correctly. But then, the hat shouted out, “GRYFFINDOR!”

Severus made note of the girl. Bushy hair. Orderly robes. A confident smile. She didn’t look like she came from a troubled home…so likely just the hat struggling with where to place her. Granger wasn't a wizarding name he’d heard of and muggle-borns did tend to take a touch longer. 

Lily’s sorting had taken some time as well.

Once more, memories of Lily fluttered into existence. His disappointment when she’d sorted into Gryffindor remained strong even now. A part of him blamed the hat for their eventual falling out. If she hadn’t sorted Gryffindor and if he hadn’t sorted Slytherin, maybe they would have remained friends. Maybe they could have been more. 

The irony was they very nearly could have been in the same house. 

With Lily, the Hat had debated between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, torn between a brilliant mind and a tenacious spirit paired with a strong sense of justice. 

If she had been sorted into Ravenclaw, he wouldn’t have fought the Hat so hard when it had been his turn. 

If Lily had sorted to Ravenclaw, Severus would have listened to the bloody Hat. 

But the Hat had settled on Gryffindor, a house he could not fathom being a part of. Especially not after those boys from the train had been sorted there ahead of him.

Severus waved the memories away in time to see Draco Malfoy earn the Fastest Sort of the Century. The Sorting Hat had barely come into contact with his head before it was shouting, “SLYTHERIN!”

Another acquaintance Severus had foolishly hoped to avoid. He crossed his arms over his chest and slumped against the backrest, dreading the inevitable confrontation with Lucius when the man tried to appropriate control of Slytherin House. 

He wouldn’t let him, of course, but he would need to tread carefully. Malfoy senior had a lot of sway in the Ministry. It would be best not to get on the man’s bad side, if he could help it. 

Having had enough with the ceremony up to this point, Severus looked at the remaining students, spotting a shock of bright red hair right next to the Potter brat. His face twitched, almost into a sneer. Another Weasley. Second to last by his count. Unless, of course, they’d had another, secret child in the past decade. The Weasleys were perhaps the most fertile family the wizarding world had ever seen so it would not surprise him if they had. He glanced at the Gryffindor table, already knowing this one would go to Minerva. He spied the twins conspiratorially whispering to each other and he narrowed his eyes in their direction, willing them to look up. 

They did not. 

“Potter. Harry.” 

There was a shift as every head snapped towards the front, some students craning their necks to get a good look, while others ducked over to whisper excitedly to their neighbor. 

Severus sat up a little straighter, placing his elbows on the table in front of him. He took a deep breath and laced his long fingers together as the boy approached the small stool. 

No longer obscured by his fellow first years, Severus could see he was correct. The boy was exactly like his irksome father. A veritable prince, he thought disdainfully.

The robes were new and perfectly fitted for his slender build. The boy’s round glasses looked new as well and were near replicas of those his father had donned during their time at Hogwarts—albeit these ones were black instead of gold. His trainers…were well past their expiration date. Severus scoffed. The boy probably wore them out galavanting around the neighborhood to his heart's content. Whatever relatives the boy lived with likely allowed him to do as he pleased, treating him like a hero for destroying the Dark Lord. 

The boy sat, his feet barely touching the ground, and Minerva placed the hat on his head. 

Severus held his breath.

A minute passed. 

Then another. 

Why was it taking so long? What was the Hat even contemplating? Surely the boy was a shoe in for Gryffindor. His cocksure father had been chosen for the house in milliseconds, much like Draco had been for Slytherin just a few minutes prior.

The boy’s shoulders tensed slightly, and the Hat finally came to its final decision.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The boy's shoulders sagged and he seemed relieved. The Hat must have tried to suggest Hufflepuff, and like his father, the boy must think himself too good for such a tender house. 

Severus clapped mechanically, as he did for every student—as he was mandated to do as a Head of House—and he waited for the last third of students to be sorted. After the Granger girl, the Longbottom boy, and Potter’s spawn, Severus was sure there would be no more surprises. But there was one more student who did become a Hatstall.

Her name was Emma Travers. 

And she would be in his house.

Chapter Text

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Harry looked up when he felt someone watching him. But all the students around him were deep in conversation or focused on the array of sweets sitting in front of them. Slowly, Harry reached for a slice of treacle tart. The action provided cover while he glanced around the room, hoping to spot whoever was watching him. His heart stuttered for a beat when he found one of the professors staring in his direction. 

The man was dressed in all black with long black hair and dark eyes to match. This contrasted with the man’s pale, almost sallow complexion. He was one of the younger looking professors, possibly around the same age as Professor Quirrell, who Harry recognized from a month ago at the Leaky Cauldron. 

They hadn’t made eye contact for more than a moment when Harry gasped. His hand shot up to his head because a sharp pain flashed through his scar. 

Harry rubbed at his forehead and the man in all black robes turned away to look at the man next to him. 

"Percy? Who’s that teacher sitting next to Professor Quirrell?" 

Percy looked at the head table and saw the gloomy looking potions master now making conversation with their former professor of Muggle Studies. "That’s Professor Snape," the older boy answered. "Head of Slytherin. He’s strict, and likes to take points, so make sure you pay attention in his class." 

“What does he teach?” Harry asked, suddenly nervous.  

“Potions.”

Harry nodded in understanding. The sharp pain dulled to a soft throb and Harry brought his hand down to start picking at his tart. He glanced at the man, Professor Snape, once more, wondering why the man had been watching him and if the man had made his head ache with some sort of spell or if it had only been a coincidence. 

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It was the second day of classes and Harry felt queasy as he nibbled on a triangle of dry toast. He knew he should eat something, but he just couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d have to be in close proximity to the professor who’d made his scar hurt. Or…well…the professor who had been looking in his direction when his scar started hurting. He glanced up at the professors through his fringe, quickly finding the man in question. He watched the dour looking professor in black rise, then disappear through a door behind the head table.

Harry turned to the large clock at the back of the hall. Class time was fast approaching, and he felt his stomach lurch again. He decided he was done eating for now. He’d have another go of it at lunch. When he stood up, the plate disappeared along with the full glass of orange juice. It was sort of funny how, now that he had unlimited access to food, he could barely stomach any of it. His nerves were going to be the death of him at this rate. 

"Ready, Harry?" Ron asked, nicking a sausage from one of the large platters as he stood, before stuffing it in his mouth. 

"Yeah," Harry nodded. "Er…Do any of  you know where we’re going?" he asked the other boys. 

Dean looked at Seamus who looked at Ron. The redhead was still chewing his last bite of sausage. 

Ron swallowed, then said, "I think it’s in the dungeons. Fred and George call Professor Snape the ‘bat of the dungeons’ so it’s definitely down." He saw the girl with bushy hair a few feet ahead of them, pulling Neville Longbottom alongside. Then he pointed in her direction. "She looks like she knows where she’s going. We can probably just follow her, yeah?"

The other boys nodded in agreement as they all worked to catch up. 

"What was her name again?" Dean asked, pulling his bag higher on his shoulder.

"Hermione," Harry supplied, remembering mostly because the girl had answered at least three questions in every class so far, earning them a number of points from Professors McGonagall and Flitwick yesterday.

"Right. She’s kind of a know-it-all, don’t you think?" Seamus commented in a high pitched voice. 

"Tell me about it," Ron said, sounding annoyed. "Me and Harry met her on the train. She’s a bit of a show off. I thought she’d be in Ravenclaw for sure. Can’t imagine why the hat decided to put her in Gryffindor."

"Well," Dean started, placatingly, "At least if she’s in our house, we’ll probably keep getting points." He gestured to the hour glass full of glittering rubies as they passed. "She’s already racked up like twelve points since yesterday." 

"That’s true," Seamus agreed with a sly smile. "Plus, if she keeps volunteering, we won’t have to participate as much. I hate getting called on and having to answer questions in class."

Everyone was in agreement there, especially Harry. He had learned early on not to draw attention to himself in his classes. He’d attended much of primary school alongside his cousin and overshadowing Dudley in subjects was a big no-no in the Dursley household. If Harry drew attention to himself, teachers started to notice him, and if teachers noticed him, they noticed bad things and started asking questions. When people asked questions, Harry got in trouble. So by his third year of primary, he’d learned to stay quiet and to do well enough to pass his classes but not poor enough to get notes sent home to his aunt and uncle.

He wasn’t sure if this school would send notes to his muggle relative’s yet, so he was still planning on keeping his head down and out of the spotlight.

When they arrived, Harry wandered into the classroom behind the other boys, well ahead of schedule. Ron had been right. Hermione had led them straight to the right place. He wouldn’t be surprised if the girl said she had mapped out how to get to each of her classes for the week. She did seem the type to go above and beyond. It must be nice to have guardians who encourage you to do well in school. 

Looking around, Harry noticed a few things. First, the professor was nowhere in sight. And second, the dungeons were dark, not to mention a little chilly. The floor and walls were both made of grey stone and long, wooden work benches were spread across the room in two columns of five, facing the front of the room. One column was already full of students. 

He saw a flash of green on one of the student’s cloaks. 

They’d be sharing this class with the Slytherins. 

It didn’t take him long to see Draco, blond head seated right up front with Crabbe and Goyle and a large girl with dark hair. Harry quickly looked around for Emma, remembering that she’d also be in the class.

It only took a moment before he spotted her and his heart pulsed with excitement. Emma was sitting in the second row from the front, right next to the center aisle. 

Nobody was sitting next to her. He wondered if she had made any friends yet and briefly considered taking up that spot, but all of his housemates were grabbing spots on the other side of the room. From his other shared classes, it was pretty clear that different houses didn’t tend to mingle with one another. He wanted to sit with Emma, but he also didn’t want to break some unspoken rule if he decided to sit with a Slytherin. What if Ron stopped being his friend?

The last thing he wanted was to make his fellow Gryffindors upset. He looked down at the floor, sliding past Neville and Hermione, to take the seat next to Ron, before pulling out a notebook, ink, and a quill. 

A quick look at the clock in the back of the room showed that class should be starting any second now, but their teacher was still missing. Harry was about to lean over and ask Ron where he thought the man was, when the door to the classroom opened with a sharp bang , sending Harry’s heart rate sky high with a flinch.

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Professor Snape pushed the door to his classroom open with more force than necessary, making it ricochet against the stone wall with a loud bang . 

Every head in the room turned to greet him and a sudden hush fell over the room. He strode confidently to the front of the class, his usual black robes billowing behind him. He turned on his heel sharply, the material following with an audible snap . Methodically, he counted each of them, his penetrating gaze travelling a familiar path that weaved from one table to the next.

Every student was in attendance. Surprising, but welcome. That meant there would be no interruptions. 

Nothing angered him more on the first day than being interrupted halfway through his speech by a lazy student who had not had the foresight to locate their classes ahead of time. If they did not care to be on time, he did not care to teach them, and he was notorious for being the first teacher every year to dock points for tardiness. 

There was always one.

Truthfully, he’d expected this year's offender to be the Longbottom boy. Minerva went on about the boy everytime she returned from tea with Augusta. The recurring theme seemed to be the boy’s inherent forgetfulness. Logic dictated if one of his students were going to be late, it should have been him. 

Suddenly suspicious, his eyes briefly flashed over to the boy and he wondered who had held the boy’s hand to make sure he arrived at the right class on time. 

Probably Potter, he thought, furious for no conceivable reason.

Pushing the boy from his mind, Severus regarded the class and started his first year monologue. It was a well practiced speech and required very little effort on his part. He delivered it with precision, each word chosen to craft a specific image. Every year he hoped to find at least one student with an interest in his subject that came close to mimicking his own. But every year he was disappointed. 

As he spoke he turned his attentive gaze onto each student, looking for any spark of interest in their wide eyes. He started his search on the Slytherin side of the room, assuming he would be more likely to find something there than on the Gryffindor side.

The Malfoy brat was enraptured, it seemed, but did he possess the ability? Time would tell. 

He moved on and was internally repulsed by the offspring of Crabbe and Goyle. Dunces, both of them. Just like their fathers. He’d barely started and they looked confused already. 

He quickly passed over the rest of the students. Zabini, Greengrass, Davis, and Nott were attentive, but did they look interested? Hardly. Parkinson was—he tracked her line of sight—staring at the back of Malfoy’s head instead of looking at him. And then there was Bulstrode who was…

He wasn’t entirely sure what the girl was doing really. She kept shifting in her seat. Her eyes met his in a silent plea, but she might as well have shouted seeing as her thoughts attacked him quite unexpectedly. He barely managed to hold back his grimace. 

If she had to use the bathroom, she should have gone during the break. He would need to refrain from making eye contact with her too frequently. She was an open book, it seemed. It was atypical for his legilimency to react without conscious effort on his part. He would have to consult Albus if it became a recurring problem.

He continued through the rest of his students. These ones he did not know nearly as well. For the most part they seemed to at least be paying attention. One small, dirty blonde haired girl though seemed to only be doing so out of what looked like fear. It was the Hatstall: Emma Travers. He made a mental note. 

As he continued, his eyes wandered begrudgingly to the Gryffindor half of the room. The Potter brat was looking down, sloppily scrawling something in his notebook. What was he even writing? Writing a note to one of his new found friends? Or answering a fan letter perhaps? 

It didn’t matter. 

How dare the boy not pay attention in his class. Snape felt a wave of anger swell in his chest.

Such blatant disrespect. He would not permit it. Especially not when the transgression was inattentiveness. That could result in permanent injury, if not death, and he would allow no student to besmirch his clean teaching record, least of all Potter.

"Then again," he increased his volume as he was forced to take a detour from his regular monologue. "Some of you may have come to Hogwarts in possession of abilities so formidable that you feel confident enough to not—Pay. Attention." 

Snape slammed a book on his desk and began walking down the center aisle between the workstations, slowly making his way toward Potter’s table in the third row. He kept a grin of satisfaction off his face when the boy’s head snapped up, a look of sudden trepidation in his eyes. 

A sharp pang stabbed through his heart when those green eyes met his, but he quickly pushed the feeling down, stuffing it in a trench at the bottom of the ocean with a sneer. 

He passed by the second row of desks, lightly running his fingertips across the smooth surface before coming to a stop and addressing the boy directly. 

"Mr. Potter. Our new... celebrity ." 

The boy frowned and his shoulders dropped ever so slightly, seemingly trying to make himself smaller than he already was. A pitiful attempt now that he’d already disrupted the class with his carelessness.

"You seem to think yourself above your peers, Mr. Potter," Snape said calmly. "You feel you don’t need to listen? You must know everything already then." He let that linger a moment before continuing. "Very well. Let us test your level of potions expertise." 

The boy needed to be pulled down to reality. He would not indulge Potter’s inflated sense of self. Here, he would not be the Boy-Who-Lived , Snape thought with disdain; he despised the title the Wizarding World had chosen for the boy. No. Here, he was just another student. 

"Tell me," he started, as though speaking with a colleague. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

The boy flinched, leaning away from a sudden movement that caught both their attention. 

His dark eyes flicked to the boy’s right. The bushy-haired Gryffindor girl was staring at him, eyes wide and hand high in the air, clearly eager to answer, despite his very obvious intent to teach the boy beside her a lesson.

"I-I don't know, sir," the boy answered once he settled back into his seat.

"Perhaps another then," Snape suggested easily, giving the impression of the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps the boy, a self-proclaimed expert, would do better with a simpler question. "Where would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?"

The girl raised her hand again, jostling the stool she was still barely sitting on in her haste. Snape ignored her. He raised an eyebrow at the boy, giving the impression that he expected the insolent child to regale them all with the correct response, though he knew full well the boy would not know.

"You don't know." It was not a question. 

"No, sir." The boy crossed his arms over his stomach and shrank down in his seat. 

The boy was uncomfortable. Good. That meant his message was getting through.

"Very well. Final question. What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?" 

The boy's eyes were glossy. He looked down at his lap, closing the cover of his notebook gently before whispering, "I don't know, sir."

Snape hummed dispassionately. "Pity." He then meandered, bootsteps echoing lightly through the room, until he was standing directly in front of Potter. He looked down his nose at the boy, the rush of victory washing over him. "Clearly, fame isn’t everything, is it, Mr. Potter?"

The boy shook his head and swallowed before lifting his chin and answering with a quiet but firm, "No, sir."

The ache in his chest returned when those green irises glanced up defiantly from under long lashes. He stared at the boy. He’d looked like—

No. 

His mind was playing tricks. 

But he’d seen a righteous fury in those emerald eyes. It had been there for less than a fraction of a second, he was certain, yet it had been cleanly hidden by the current look of obviously forced dejection. 

Shoving the thoughts aside, the man decided to elucidate the class while he had their full attention. Snape pulled up a stool from behind him so he could get eye level with the boy. 

"Put your hand down, you stupid girl," he snapped at the bushy-haired youth before returning his attention to Potter. "For your information, Mr. Potter: Asphodel and Wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite." 

Snape took a moment to let those answers sink in. All the while he stared into the boy’s eyes. A familiar flash of resentment forming beneath the surface. He broke eye contact and turned to the rest of the class. 

"Well…" he said expectantly, rising out of the seat.  "Why aren't you all copying this down?"

He quickly strode away from Potter, then stopped in front of the girl, turning to make deliberate eye contact with her.

"And you. Just because you opened a book over the summer, don't think it will put you ahead of your peers. One point from Gryffindor for each of you." He waved his hand between the two, almost dismissively. "One from you, Potter, for your negligence. And one from you..." He looked questioningly at the girl. 

"Granger, sir," she said, clearly aware she deserved to be rebuked.

He turned from their desk and strode back to the front of the classroom with purpose, shooting over his shoulder, "One point from you, Granger, for your egotistical want for validation." He’d barely reached the second row when a voice stopped him in his tracks.

"That's not fair!" 

Snape whipped around, his eyes flashing dangerously. 

"Another point for that outburst, Potter," he said sharply, barely managing to keep himself from shouting. "You will not disrespect me in my classroom."

The boy bristled and opened his mouth to respond, but the girl, Granger, elbowed him in the side and hissed in a low voice, "Leave it! He'll just take more points."

"Indeed," Snape agreed. "One more word out of turn this class period and I will be seeing you in detention." He turned to the rest of the class, letting his eyes sweep through the room. 

All eyes were still raptly paying attention to him. Some students looked on with wide, terrified eyes. Many of his Slytherins were smirking. And the majority of the Gryffindors were glaring daggers at him for the perceived injustice. 

"That promise extends to all of you," he decided to add in case one of them decided to be brave. "Next person to speak without being addressed will see me after class."

He huffed and stalked furiously back to the front of class. One of the students to his left flinched as he passed, knocking their quill to the floor with a soft tink . He glanced at them out of the corner of his eye. One of his Slytherins. 

It was that girl again. Emma.

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Chapter Text

Severus was only able to spare the girl a passing glance as he returned to the front. Though concerned, he was unable to pause for long. There was still much to get through today, and he’d had to waste valuable time teaching the Potter brat a much needed lesson in humility. He reached his desk and turned back to the class. 

“Today you will be preparing a tincture, tisane, and a decoction. None of these are potions per se, as Muggles are also capable of making them, however, they will introduce the process of properly preparing ingredients, as well as familiarize you with a variety of non magical substances which we will use throughout the course.”

Snape lazily waved his wand, summoning a large blackboard, then he tapped the surface and a piece of chalk started writing detailed instructions in a spidery script. 

“I expect you to always pay attention to the quality and cleanliness of your components. Poor product will result in poor taste for the tisane, but when we start with your first potions, it will reduce the efficacy. Additionally, neglecting to properly clean your ingredients may leave behind contaminants which can result in volatile chemical reactions. I will, of course, intervene if I see anything that verges on dangerous. And I guarantee that consequences for inattentiveness will be severe.”

 A few students paled at that pronouncement, but he continued his instruction. 

“I have listed the suggested method and order of preparation, starting with the decoction, as this will allow you to focus on timing and temperature. But you may deviate as you see fit. You will undoubtedly learn more from your failures than from your successes. And I suggest you learn to think for yourselves as opposed to blindly following orders, even when those orders are laid out by a so-called expert.” 

He turned and manually wrote a time on the board, then conjured a box on his desk with a bunch of holes in it.

“At the end of every class, you will leave a sample of your work with me for grading, which you will always stopper and place here.” He gestured to the box. “If you are capable of following instructions, you will more than likely receive a passing grade. But if I deem your work inadequate, you will receive a zero and be required to attend a make-up class with me that will fit within your schedule.” 

His dark eyes scanned the class before him. Not a soul had moved. Not even a nod of the head in understanding. It was difficult to tell whether they were comprehending him at all, which did not bode well for the remainder of the year. He sighed internally. 

Clearly, he had frightened them into unresponsiveness. He would step back for the remainder of the period to allow them room to breathe. If he didn’t, then it would be a repeat of his second year teaching, and he did not want to get lectured by Pomona and Filius again about being, “firm but approachable.” 

The last thing he wanted was for students to approach him. And yet, he was the one that the first years would turn to when they inevitably found themselves homesick or tormented by nightmares. 

“If you have not already pulled out your materials, you will do so now.” There was a flurry of movement and the screech of stools as students started readying their workspace. “The instructions are on the board. Unless you have any questions, you may begin. You have until the end of the hour.”

The bushy haired girl raised her hand and Snape rolled his eyes. 

“Yes, Miss Granger?” he drawled, sounding annoyed. It was going to be a long seven years with this girl. He could tell already. 

“Sorry, sir, but Neville's forgotten his supplies. Are there spares he can borrow?”

Snape nostrils flared and he turned a critical eye to the slightly chubby boy. 

“Is Mr. Longbottom incapable of speaking up for himself?” 

“Er...well, no, sir. But I—” Hermione stammered in an effort to explain herself, but Snape would have none of it.

“Quiet,” he hissed, turning to the boy. “Longbottom?” 

The boy flinched but made reluctant eye contact, fearing the worst. “Y-yes, sir?”

“Ah, so you do have a voice then,” Snape said sardonically. “Where are your supplies?”

“I-in our dormitory, sir.”

“In your dormitory,” Snape repeated with a slight scoff. “Did you not think you might need the potions equipment for your potions class? Did you think I was condoning frivolous spending for no other reason than to bolster the economy in wizarding London?”

“N-no, sir. I-I-I just f-forgot.”

“Well, let me help you to not forget again then. Another point from Gryffindor for your lack of forethought.” 

Neville ducked down in his seat, rightfully embarrassed. 

“You will also receive a zero for today's assignment. And congratulations, you will be the first to join me in make-up labs. It will likely be a one-on-one session, so you will have my undivided attention.” The boy blanched at that. “For now, you will start transcribing the first chapter of your text, to be turned in at the end of class. Make sure it is legible.”

 Neville opened his mouth as if to say something but closed it, obviously unsure of how to proceed.

Professor Snape sighed heavily. “I assume you forgot your textbook as well.”

“Sorry, sir…” Neville said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“You will borrow from one of your fellow Gryffindors.”

The Granger girl quickly passed her book to Neville and the boy dejectedly flipped open to chapter one and started writing. 

“Anyone else conveniently forget their materials?” Snape asked, looking around the room.

The girl from before raised a shaky hand, looking ready for rebuke. 

He pursed his lips and tried to speak in a neutral tone. “Miss Travers, yes?”

The girl nodded quickly, looking down at her lap. He decided not to press her for a verbal response, sensing that would overwhelm the already misty-eyed girl, and he rapidly took stock of her. The poor girl’s robes consumed her, going far past her wrists. Her posture was held tight to the point where her entire body shook from the strain. And she was taking shallow breaths, almost as if trying to remain invisible, like she expected to be attacked in some way.

Her level of anxiety far dwarfed that of Longbottom. The boy was scatterbrained, and Severus was positive that the boy knew of this deficiency. This girl though…

It was possible the girl had a personality that tended towards quiet, jumpy, and anxious, but he highly doubted it given the state of her. As of right now, all signs pointed toward some form of mistreatment, but he would need to confirm the severity. He hoped her case was a mild one, though he was not inclined to hope too much. 

“My office, Miss Travers,” he gestured to the door at the front of the class. “The rest of you get to work. Quietly. You should not need to consult your peers.”

Miss Travers quickly got out of her seat and scuttled to the professor's office, slipping inside like a mouse. Snape followed, actively slowing down his usual walking speed to not scare the poor girl. 

As soon as he was inside, he closed the door with a soft click and cast a silent muffliato . 

"Miss Travers. Would you like to explain why you don't have your equipment?"

The girl shrank in on herself and took a few quick breaths as she started to panic, expecting the man would not accept any sort of excuse. 

"Did you forget them?" the professor asked, keeping his tone level even though he was certain that wasn't the case. The girl hesitated, then shook her head minutely. "Are your materials in your dormitory?"

The girl didn't say yes or no. She just froze where she stood. He could see the gears in her head start to turn, thinking of the right way to respond. After a moment, her cheeks turned a very bright shade of pink and she looked off to the side, seemingly too ashamed to look at him.

“Eyes up, Miss Travers,” he tried, hoping to get a peek into her turmoil, but she refused to meet his gaze. “Your supplies aren’t in your dormitory, are they?”

She shook her head and the poor girl took a shuddering breath. 

“Do you have any supplies?”

He saw the tears spill over, trailing down her cheeks. 

He sighed and gestured to his desk. 

“Come sit down, child. You are not in trouble.” He pulled the wooden chair from in front of his desk out for her and she slowly sat down, barely daring to sit on the edge of the seat. Her feet didn’t quite touch the floor and with her over large robe she looked like a girl playing dress up. 

Snape summoned a handkerchief, then squatted down in front of Emma, making himself smaller to seem less imposing, and held it out for the girl. He tried not to push her into taking it, he wanted her to feel like she could make that decision herself. If she didn’t take it, then so be it. At least he gave her some semblance of control. 

Then, very slowly, she reached out, peeking at him warily before taking the cloth from his loose hold. 

Still squatting like a wicket keeper, he laced his fingers together and rested his arms on his thighs with a sigh. “Your name is Emma, yes?”

The girl nodded and wiped her eyes and nose on the hankie.

“Emma, I'm going to ask a more specific question and you can just nod or shake your head, alright?” The girl nodded. “Do you not have any supplies because your family cannot afford them?” She shrugged and tilted her ear down to her shoulder. Snape hummed. “Or did your family perhaps not have time to take you to get your supplies?” Emma became tense for a moment and then slowly tilted her chin down to her chest in a soft, half nod. Snape exhaled and stood up. “Right. Well, I don't know the specifics of your situation, Emma, but I can rectify the lack of supplies over the weekend. Until then, you will be able to use a spare set of equipment from the storage cabinet in the next class.”

Emma nodded her understanding and swiped a hand at her eyes as tears started pouring out again.

“I'm going to monitor your classmates as they finish their assignments. You may stay here and take time to gather yourself. And know, you will not be required to participate in make-up lessons with Longbottom.” 

She looked up at him in confusion, likely thinking of how he had treated Neville just moments before.

“Unlike him, you did not forget your supplies, Miss Travers. You did not have the opportunity to forget them. Your family simply could not”— more probably would not, he thought to himself —”provide your school things. That is not your responsibility and do try not to feel sorry for Mr. Longbottom. He made his bed and he will lie in it. And with any luck he will never forget his things for my class again. Am I understood?”

The girl swiped at a few more tears that spilled over and covered a quiet sob as she warbled out, “Yes, sir.”

The corners of his lips twitched up imperceptibly. A verbal response was a good sign. 

“Good. Take deep breaths, child. You're okay. And I'm not mad at you in the least. Come out when you are ready.” He grabbed the door then shot over his shoulder, “And if you aren't ready until after class is over, you have my permission to stay here. Your classmates will not have time to notice your absence.” 

With that, he opened the door and barked at the first student he saw goofing off with their neighbor. 

“Miss Brown! I assume you are done with all three procedures, else you would not be talking Miss Patil's ear off.” The girl froze and the smile fell from her face. “Bring them up here.”

The girl hopped off her stool and hurried to the front with her three vials, and she only just managed to not drop one in her haste.

He looked at the vials, before unstopping and smelling each, then huffed in annoyance to cover up his surprise. They were nearly perfect; but seeing as they were incredibly difficult to botch, he didn’t want to give the girl a large head by singing her praises. Not to mention she was a Gryffindor. He didn’t want to feel obligated to give points if he could help it. Merlin knew they got coddled by McGonagall and would surely regain all the points he’d taken by the end of the day.

“Adequate, Miss Brown,” he drawled, vanishing the contents before handing the vials back. “Clean these then go back to your seat and read ahead. Quietly . Unlike yourself, some of the other students do not have an aunt who runs a rather prolific apothecary.” 

Lavender cleaned the vials at the sinks in the back and shuffled back to her seat looking slightly put out. She then irritably pulled her textbook out of her bag and slowly turned the pages one by one with a fist to her cheek. 

Snape continued to watch the class from where he leaned back against his desk at the front, paying particular attention to his other Slytherins, looking for any indicators that he had more than one student to keep an eye out for. 

Outside of Emma though, the rest of his first years seemed rather well adjusted. The few students he did know—Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle—had parents that were strict, yes, but as far as he knew, they neither physically or emotionally abused their children. That could change as time passed however, so he would still keep a watchful eye out in future. 

He then turned his attention to the Gryffindors. 

No matter how he looked at the lot of them, the only one that stood out as a potential case was Mr. Longbottom. Augusta Longbottom was a rather severe woman, but he knew the matriarch well enough, and while the boy exhibited a gross lack of self-confidence, it was clear she loved her grandson dearly as the child was well-provided for. 

He was not, however, a fan of the boy's great uncle. From what he’d gathered, the man was irresponsible and had no place being around children. Minerva had been absolutely beside herself fretting over a truly concerning incident three years prior.

“What was he thinking? He nearly drowned the boy last year, and now he’s dangling him out windows? If Augusta doesn’t hex him—I swear to you, Severus— I will.”   

Severus had truly believed she would too. She was not a woman to make idle threats. 

He never did ask if she hexed the man or not. He liked to believe that she had, and the boy was now safe and away from the man, but he would monitor the boy for any indication otherwise, just to be sure. He was a Gryffindor, but he was still just a boy. He deserved the chance to find his niche.

Very unlike another Gryffindor who had clearly grown up with a silver spoon.

His eyes flashed back over to Potter who sat a few seats down. The boy was deep in thought, staring down at his tincture, though his gaze seemed to drift, almost compulsively, toward the empty seat Miss Travers had occupied. 

Snape frowned. He told her no one would notice. He’d been sure of that. And yet…

No. Snape shook his head. Potter was selfish. He couldn’t be worried about the girl. He was likely only upset because he felt that he had been treated unfairly. 

Besides, why would Potter be concerned over a Slytherin? 

He folded his arms over his chest as he regarded the boy, before stroking his chin between his thumb and forefinger. He looked to Emma’s seat, then back to Potter, but his eyes stuttered back over Neville on the way. 

Snape hummed. 

Perhaps the brat believed he had been unfair to the Gryffindors; that seemed probable. Now he was sulking because his cruel potions professor hadn’t taken points from Emma as he had from Longbottom. 

Snape sneered at the thought. 

It was a childish reason to be upset. He’d not taken that many points. 

Not bothering himself with the judgement of an eleven year old, Snape reasoned that the boy would get over the perceived slight once they were dismissed. Then in a few days, Potter could once again pout to his heart’s content when he took even more points during their next class. They would start their brewing in earnest on Friday and his free time would dwindle rather quickly while the first years tried to find their feet.

Resigned to his fate, Severus turned from the boy and continued his silent survey. In doing so, he completely missed the way the boy’s gaze kept flitting back and forth between that empty seat and his office door, concern and anxiety growing the longer the girl stayed gone.

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