Ensnared, Chapter Three: Blackmail

A Snarry fanfic

The morning passed rather uneventfully, or so it seemed to Harry; for all he knew, everyone could have suddenly dyed their hair purple and Draco proposed to Hermione, he was so preoccupied. And as Harry sat by the fire during break, he was only dimly aware of Ron and Hermione’s idle talk. He didn’t even notice Fred and George showcasing their latest joke-shop item until Hermione started shouting at them. After a moment’s grinning at the new “mature” fake wands, he checked his watch; five minutes to go. Anticipation rose in Harry’s stomach, giving it that burning, tingling feeling he was quite familiar with. He reached for his school bag and started to cram his books and quill into it.

“You seem rather eager to get to your classes today,” Hermione remarked.

Harry looked up to see her eyeing him quizzically, arms crossed. He cast his mind about for an explanation, but he couldn’t think of anything good.

“Er…I-I just want to get this day over with, that’s all. I’ve…got a lot on my mind.” Weak, he thought. But it was the best he could come up with.

“Is this still about Cho?” Hermione asked, eyes softening. “If it’s really that important you should just talk to her—”

“Ah, leave him alone,” Ron said, coming up behind her. “C’mon, we’d better get going anyway, don’t want to be late.”

So all three of them gathered their bags and stepped through the portrait hole. Hermione walked swiftly, nose buried in the essay that wasn’t due until the next Monday. Ron gripped Harry’s arm and slowed their pace, letting Hermione pull ahead.

“Hey, I know you have Hermione fooled,” Ron whispered, “but you can’t fool me. Whatever you’re thinking about, it isn’t Cho.”

Well, he was certainly right about that. Whatever feelings he’d had for her had (quite recently) evaporated. But there was no way he was telling Ron—or anybody else—what had replaced her in his mind. So he said nothing.

“So c’mon, out with it. I know something’s been bothering you.”

“It’s nothing, really,” Harry said somewhat tersely.

“Ohhh, I see…is it Umbridge again? Or is it Snape this time?”

“No, neither of them are bothering me, at least not any more than usual,” that was mostly true. “It’s my own, personal problem, all right? So just drop it will you? You know, I’m getting a bit tired with everyone always asking ‘how I’m feeling,’ or ‘if the nasty teachers are bothering me!’”

Harry’s voice was rising now, and in front of them Hermione slowed and looked back over her shoulder, making obvious eye contact with Ron.

“Honestly, it’s as though everyone thinks I’m made of glass,” Harry muttered, face red from his sudden loss of temper.

Thankfully (and wisely, Harry thought) neither of them pressed the matter. Honestly, why did everyone think he couldn’t hand anything? Snape never treats you like you’re made of glass, a small voice in Harry’s head said. He tensed up at the thought; so now it was not only curiosity, but gratitude that he felt for Snape? Harry was saved from dwelling on this by their arrival outside the potions classroom, where most of the Slytherins had already gathered. Draco was a few feet away, lounging with his back against the stone corridor, one leg up like a flamingo, looking cocky as ever. As soon as he saw Harry he began his usual taunting, but the Daily Prophet hadn’t provided him with any new material, so Harry easily ignored it. Just as Pansy Parkinson and her gaggle of Slytherin girls were giggling over something that wasn’t even remotely funny, Severus Snape swept down the corridor, his usual black cloak billowing out behind him as he walked. He paid Harry no attention, but as he passed by the latter felt his stomach jump up into his throat, and a tingling sensation down his arms…like Quidditch nerves, he thought.

“Settle down,” Snape said silkily as he unlocked the door and pushed through into the dark classroom beyond.

As the class filed in Harry peered over their heads to watch Snape as he sat at his desk. The latter didn’t look up, and seemed to be avoiding catching his eye. Harry then glanced at the door off to the right that led to Snape’s private office, which sparked the memory of what had happened there last night to replay in vivid detail, which caused Harry’s stomach to twist itself into a most impressive pretzel shape. He gulped; he hadn’t expected the room to be such a memory trigger. He stumbled towards his seat, trying to ignore the feelings and colliding with a corner of the desk in the process.

“Today you will be brewing a potion to cloud memories. Similar to the spell ‘obliviate,’ but less precise and less complete in its eradication of the memory. Instructions are on the board,” he flicked his wand at the chalkboard, “ingredients are in the cabinet,” then at the store cabinet. “Begin.”

The potion wasn’t too complex, but the vapors tended to cause confusion if you didn’t stay focused. Twice Harry had to stop himself from adding the wrong ingredient. Now he had picked up his phial of Lithe River water and was about to add a few drops to his baby blue-colored potion when out of nowhere a pale hand snatched hold of his wrist. Harry’s head jerked up and his eyes feel on Snape. He stared down at Harry with unreadable black eyes, lips curled into something that was half sneer, half amused grin.

“Not so fast, Potter,” Snape whispered so only Harry could hear. “You mustn’t add the second dose of Lithe until you’ve stirred the potion four times.”

Snape released Harry’s wrist but stayed standing behind him, watching over his shoulder. Heart racing, Harry stirred the potion four times, then added the drops of Lithe. The potion immediately became a cloudy white, thick steam flowing from it as though he’d dropped a chunk of dry ice into it.

“That’s it,” Snape said, so quietly that Harry wasn’t sure he’d heard him, then stalked away.

Harry stared down at his completed potion, which was almost as good as Hermione’s. Then he looked over at Ron, who had made the mistake Harry had been about to, and was now staring down at a sickly-grey concoction. Stirring is one of the easiest things to forget when making potions, and the confusing aura of this particular potion would make the simple task even more difficult to remember. That was the challenge of this potion, Harry thought; whether or not you could stay focused. But then that would mean Snape had helped him, actually helped him! What on earth was that about?

Perhaps Snape was worried Harry would report him for abuse or something, and thought being “nice” would make him keep his mouth shut. As Harry bottled the rather excellent potion he thought once more about using the incident to his advantage, but decided against it. He didn’t like that underhanded and manipulative way of doing things. So just as planned, while everyone was packing up he let his bag slip onto the floor, spilling its contents everywhere.

“You guys go on, I’ll catch up,” he muttered as he bent to gather his things.

Ron shrugged and immediately turned to go, but Hermione lingered, glaring at Harry in suspicion. Harry just smiled and waved her away, and finally she followed Ron, who was waiting at the door.

“See you at lunch!” Ron called over his shoulder.

Now Harry was alone in the room with Snape. Trying to calm his racing heart, he picked up his bag and walked over to the desk. Snape looked up in surprise at the sound of his approach.

“Potter?” he said, so caught off-guard that he forgot to sneer the name.

Harry glared down at the professor, angry that he couldn’t conjure up the hatred he usually felt towards him. Snape stared back with a questioning look, and Harry thought he saw a flicker of foreboding in his eyes.

“It’s about last night,” Harry said.

Snape’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t speak. So Harry went on.

“We can pretend it never happened,” he said. “Go on like normal, and never speak of it again. Nobody ever has to know.”

Shock flickered across Snape’s cool composure. “I see,” he muttered.

Harry lingered in front of his desk, expecting more of an answer. But none came.

“Right,” he said awkwardly, “that’s settled, then,” and turned to leave.

“Potter, wait!” Snape shouted, rushing over to grab hold of Harry’s arm, pulling him around to face him. “What is the meaning of this, ‘pretend it never happened’ business?”

“It means we can pretend it never happened!” Harry said, rolling his eyes.

“Does it indeed?” Snape sneered, “Or are you planning on using this-this incident as blackmail against me?”

“Ha!” Harry laughed. “Of course you’d expect that.”

“It’s what I would do, I admit,” Snape said with a shrug.

“But I wouldn’t,” Harry said. “That would make me no better than a Slytherin.”

Snape fixed Harry with a scrutinizing glare, and Harry tried to ignore how that stare made his hands shake, and their intimacy sent Goosebumps all down his arms.

“Y-you should have guessed that, Snape,” he said, struggling to keep his forceful tone and glare. “After all, you’ve seen more of me than anybody else…haven’t you?”

He was referring to the Occlumency session, of course; Snape had seen so many of them, some of which even Harry hadn’t remembered. Snape’s eyes widened unperceptively at his words, and his grip on Harry’s arm tightened.

“Now I’d appreciate it if you let go of my arm,” Harry said, practically shaking with the intensity of emotion as he stared up into those fathomless eyes.

Snape did, and Harry hurried from the room without looking back.

“Thank you, Potter,” Snape said, again so softly that Harry wasn’t sure he’d heard it.

***

Snape’s thoughts:

I’m not sure what I expected from you, boy. I’d played out all likely scenarios over and over in my mind, just so I wouldn’t be surprised. But I was surprised. Maybe because deep down, I believed you would use the incident as leverage…take advantage of me. And you refused to do that, because it would “make you no better than a Slytherin.” How damn noble of you Potter. A true Gryffindor. I can’t help but smile at the memory of you, at any memory of you. Because despite how cruel I’ve been to you, you’ve never been cruel to me. Arrogant, disrespectful, and stubborn, sure, but that’s hardly the same thing. I watch as you run from the dungeon, already missing the glare of those green eyes, and hating myself for it. Why do you make me feel this way, Potter? At first I blamed the little bit of your mother I saw in you—in your eyes—but somehow, that doesn’t feel like a valid excuse anymore. I whisper my thanks as you hurry away, not sure if you hear, not sure how you feel…about any of this. If I know you as well as you seem to think, then you’re probably just as confused and angry as I am. But…is it for the same reason? For this same crazy, wonderful, horribly wrong attraction I feel? That question will haunt me until I know for certain. I tear myself away from the door where you disappeared, and make my way to my office. And once again (and against my will), I burn with anticipation for when we next will meet.