InsaneJournal

Dec 22/23; Harry Potter; Snape, Harry, Draco; Exposure/Common Ground
Title: Exposure/Common Ground
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing/Characters: Harry Potter, Severus Snape, Draco Malfoy
Rating: PG
Word Count: 928/636
Warning(s): AU, pre-slash (main pairing will be Snarry eventually)
Disclaimer: I own nothing, I write this only for entertainment purposes, no money is made by me.
Prompt(s): Snow globe/Red blanket
AN: Unbeta'd. Written for adventdrabbles 2014; Day 22/23. I have had this idea for months and now I will attempt to write it in December... so TBC. Part of series called 'Incomplete'. Follow up to Departure, Encounter, Storm, Night-time, Introductions, Observation, Rescheduling, Lecture, Outing and Greetings.

Harry sighs as he reaches for the umpteenth horned slug and eviscerates it with familiar and practiced motions. The animal’s still usable parts he collects into a barrel, the waste he throws into the appropriate bin. He has more prepared slugs than he needs for today’s assigned potion, but he makes more, because he knows how Snape hates the mundane job of dealing with ingredients. Moreover, disgusting ingredients.

Harry pulls a face as he removes the guts of one more slimy creature and looks in the direction of his two housemates, stationed in the opposite corner of the room. They are discussing some theory or other, judging by their passionate debate. Malfoy practically stands in Snape’s aura, and he is still getting closer with every breath he takes, leaning into Snape, seeking Snape’s body out with his own, certainly able to smell him from this proximity, and maybe even close enough to feel the man’s breath on his cheek… Harry’s knife slips and he cuts his finger; before he has time to react, his magic heals the wound without his conscious effort, flashing its intricate patterns all over Harry’s skin for a moment. He sends a panicked glance towards his companions but they haven’t registered that anything happened. Still, the incident is worrisome; Harry’s magic is acting weird and erratic nowadays.

Harry doesn’t know why.

His lessons are going relatively well, at least in two subjects out of three. It doesn’t come as a surprise: Potions he practiced with his mum, and he has a natural aptitude for performing magic based only on intent – that is how his hidden powers work, after all, although those powers are limited, available mostly in the area of Life Magic. Also, he needs to suppress those abilities for fear of being discovered; it’s fortunate that his mother taught him the traditional usage of magic, the proper way with a wand and incantations. Nonetheless, he is proceeding in his Spellcraft studies satisfactorily. The difficult part of the subject is to come up with an appropriate name for the newly developed spells.

The one subject he struggles with is Defensive Magic, or more appropriately, using offense as a defence.

After a few dozen more slugs Malfoy finally leaves and Snape turns towards Harry.

“You may finish preparing those for today, Mr Potter,” he orders. “Get ready for our duelling lesson.”

Harry groans; he really isn’t keen on duelling. Snape smirks at him and that never bodes well.

Twenty minutes later Harry is frustrated, because no matter how he tries, he cannot catch Snape unaware. Once again Harry is losing the duel, but what bothers him the most is Snape’s lips getting narrower and narrower, and his disappointment more and more clear on his face; Harry doesn’t like that look on the man at all.

As a last resort Harry tries an experimental spell. It – in theory – is able to animate any inanimate object made of organic material for a short amount of time. Harry hopes that the spell will distract Master Snape. He turns his wand towards Snape’s dragonhide boots and channels his intent. But instead of the boots coming alive for a moment, there is a noise, reminiscent of a dragon hiccoughing, and with a flash of flames, Snape’s sleeves are on fire.

Shit.

In his panic Harry casts the first spell that comes to his mind; it happens to be a quick Banishing Charm. The flames are gone in a blink of an eye. So are the sleeves of Snape’s robes, leaving his arms bare.

Suddenly the laboratory feels as cold and suffocating as the inside of a snow globe.

Harry’s eyes involuntary travel to Snape’s left forearm, to the ugly tattoo tarnishing his milk-white skin. Long, elegant fingers hide the design as fast as a snake would strike, but not soon enough. Harry lifts his gaze to Snape’s face.

Snape wears a mask of pure fury.

Harry gulps. “I am so sorry, sir. I didn’t want to… I just wanted to help. I am so sorry to… I mean exposing your… I mean I know that you are not…” Harry trails off. He doesn’t know what to say in the face of Snape’s absolute silence. “I am sorry,” he manages finally, his eyes cast down in shame.

“Sorry for what, exactly? Exposing me as a monster?” Snape asks, deathly calm.

Harry wants to protest, but he is stopped by Snape. “Have no illusions, Potter. I was a Death Eater,” he spits, and with a flourish of his wand restores his clothes to their original state.

Harry suddenly gets angry. “Exactly, sir. You were one. Not anymore, not for a long time,” he says passionately.

Snape sneers at him. “How can you be so sure?” he asks menacingly, stepping closer to Harry, probably in an attempt to intimidate him.

Harry is able to smell Snape’s scent, slightly burned but still himself, spicy, bittersweet, exotic. Harry suddenly feels very hot, and the magic under his skin swirls restlessly; he feels the familiar lines of fire running all over his body, forming tendrils of light on his skin, but he mustn’t reveal them, so he steps back hurriedly.

Snape face closes off completely.

“Well?” Snape asks.

Harry swallows hard. “My mum. She told me,” he says and lifts his head defiantly to face the man.

Snape snorts. “Indubitably,” he says with sarcasm dripping from the word. “We are done for today, Potter. Get ready to your lesson with Draco,” he orders and his voice leaves no room for objection.

“Yes, sir,” Harry agrees reluctantly.

Draco is furious when he arrives at the laboratory. Severus was in a right snit when he ordered Draco to start Potter’s potion lesson without delay.

“What have you done to him?” Draco snaps at Potter.

The idiot looks like a fish out of water, and only shakes his head in denial. Over their heads, a door is closed with a resounding boom.

“Sure as hell you have!” Draco accuses.

“I haven’t done anything,” Potter declares defiantly. “Shall we proceed with the lesson?” he has the gall to ask.

Draco fumes but begins to instruct the moron in today’s potion. Potter is not so bad with potions, but he doesn’t come near Draco’s talent. Because Draco is a talented brewer, there would be no way to deny even if he was a more modest man, which he isn’t. He is organized, in possession of a sixth sense regarding potions, lots of knowledge about what action causes which particular reaction, and he has a keen mind for planning and anticipating the next reaction even with an unknown potion.

Even Potter knows that; he follows Draco’s orders despite the fact that there is no love lost between them.

A loud thud comes from above; suspiciously sounds like a heavy object hitting the wall. Draco frowns and turns to Potter to call him to account.

The simpleton is looking at the ceiling with a familiar expression.

Draco recognizes that look immediately; he sees it often enough in his own mirror in his unguarded moments. It’s a look of sadness, longing and something soft and warm and vulnerable which suits Potter’s face much more than it does Draco’s.

It seems they do have some common ground with Potter after all.

“Whatever idea snuggled itself into your wasteland of a brain, forget it right now, Potter!” Draco snaps.

The nitwit looks clueless. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” he says foolishly.

Draco growls, “Of course you do, but let me make myself clear: I will kill you before you could stand between me and Severus,” he declares seriously.

Potter’s jaw drops to the ground. Idiotic oaf.

Draco allows himself a moment of indulgence; he imagines with sadistic glee that he disposes of Potter’s lifeless body and leaves it for the wolves in the freezing cold, letting Potter’s blood slowly paint the soft blanket of snow red.

His pleasant fantasy is interrupted way too soon.

“Are you threatening me?” Potter asks outraged.

Draco rolls his eyes. “What do you think?” he drawls.

Potter frowns at him angrily and is no doubt ready to start a ramble.

Draco gives him a frosty, calculating look. “I know that something weird is going on around you,” he says and Potter pales; ah-ha! The idiot wears his heart on his sleeve and Draco will use that fact to his advantage. “I will be watching you and I will figure out what it is,” he promises Potter.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Potter repeats, his mouth is set into a stubborn line, his eyes are sparkling with his anger, but still, his every tense inch shouts: caught!

Draco smirks and continues his instructions on the potion, using every opportunity to criticize a clearly disturbed Potter. Draco enjoys himself immensely.

Potter has to learn his place, Draco thinks, along with a few basic facts.

Severus is his. His protector, his sanctuary, his chance to get out of his father’s house, his way to show Lucius, that old sod, that Draco won’t be his puppet, ever again. Severus is his ticket to independency, and Draco has had his eyes on him for ages, and he won’t give him up, ever. He will be Draco’s, whatever it takes.

Draco’s lips turn into a smile at the thought, and the expression makes his angelic face glow.