Harry was in the library, working on an essay for Transfiguration, when he figured out the mystery of the chocolate frogs. Teddy and he had researched magical signatures, and then analyzed the two boxes of frogs Harry had received. After they eliminated their own signatures, plus the one or two people who had touched the boxes aside from Harry, they discovered that, yes, there was one signature on both boxes that they could not identify. The boxes were both from the same person.
All that remained was Harry going about and testing the signatures of all the people in Hogwarts who could have sent him the sweets to see if their signature matched the one on the boxes. The incantation to test someone's signature was Reveleo Quisnam, and the wand movement was a simple side to side swish. Easy.
But few people in Hogwarts took kindly to have a spell cast at them, even if it didn't hurt them. So Harry had to do it sneaky. That was okay. He was in Slytherin House, after all, and one thing he'd learned over the last month and a half was that Slytherins would take the behind the scenes route to solve a problem instead of hitting it straight on. Straight on, he knew, was usually fraught with danger.
Harry himself had done plenty of sneaky things growing up with the Dursleys. Sneaking food, sneaking out of his cupboard, sneaking to do his homework. He knew better than to oppose their rulings straight on, but he got his tiny revenges. Like when he cut Dudley down with a well placed barb, or "accidentally" trimmed a prized shrub of Aunt Petunia's till it resembled a bowling ball, or "completely unwitting," encouraged a cat in heat into making a nest in Uncle Vernon's company car.
Oh, yes. He could do sneaky.
This time, though, he had only cast the spell on three people - Teddy, not completely sure the other boy wasn't having him on the whole time, Draco, 'cause, well, he was nearby and vulnerable to having a spell cast on him, and Pansy Parkinson, who seemed to dislike him altogether and it would have been odd if she sent him sweets, but stranger things had happened - before he discovered who the culprit was.
Hermione Granger, his library study partner.
He was surprised, though he realized he shouldn't have been, really. She was nice and they got on well in the library, despite him being from Slytherin, and the way most Gryffindors treated the Slytherins. When he had been scrounging for every second he could study, she had been helpful when they worked on the same subject at the same time, and she was quiet, like he was. He liked quiet people. Noisy people reminded him too much of the Dursleys. But the quiet . . . he'd had quiet when he was in his cupboard, except when Dudley was being a prat and stomping up and down the stairs. He had treasured the quiet. It was one reason he still liked to study in the library when he could.
Thus, when he discovered the identity of his anonymous gift-giver, that afternoon in mid-October, he smiled shyly at her.
"Mind telling me what spell you just cast at me?" Hermione said, not looking up from her book.
Harry startled, then laughed softly. "Shoulda known you'd catch me. You don't miss a trick."
"Not with magic," she said, and finally lifted her gaze to meet his. Her expression was one of curiosity, not anger, and he nodded.
"Thank you for the sweets," Harry said, instead of answering her question.
"What sweets?" she asked, even as her cheeks turned as red as her Gryffindor tie.
"The chocolate frogs you sent me when I was in the Infirmary. Both times." He grinned. "You could have signed your name and saved me and Teddy a bunch of work."
She grinned back. "What fun would that be? This way, you learned some new spells and counter curses and everything."
Harry gaped at her. "You knew what we were going through? And you just let us keep going and going . . ."
She shrugged, still smiling.
"You could be in Slytherin!"
"Perish the thought," she said and shuddered dramatically. "That's the only House the Hat didn't consider for me."
Harry didn't get more than a tiny bit annoyed about Hermione's prejudice about Slytherin House; he was well aware of his House's reputation amongst the rest of the school. He also knew it was, for the most part, completely undeserved, but now was not the time to argue that with Hermione. "It considered all of them for me," he admitted.
"Why'd you choose Slytherin then?"
"I didn't so much choose," he told her, recalling the short conversation with the ratty old Hat a month and a half ago, "as the Hat decided I'd do best there. I just . . . I wanted somewhere to belong, where people would accept me for me."
Hermione nodded, looking a bit wistful. "I think sometimes I might have been better off in Ravenclaw. They would understand," she gestured to the books strewn across the table and her many parchments and quills and notes, "all this."
"Why'd you choose Gryffindor then?" Harry asked, throwing her own question back at her.
For some reason, Hermione's cheeks grew even redder. "Truth?"
"Well, yeah."
She wouldn't meet his eyes as she said, very quickly, "I thought you would be sorted into Gryffindor."
"You chose it because you thought I'd be in it, too?!"
She nodded, then hid her face in her hands.
Harry didn't know what to say. No one had ever desired his company like that before. He was just a Freak, just 'that idiot, Harry,' and not a person anyone wanted to spend time with. He had learned that lesson over the last ten years, if nothing else. And he liked Hermione all right, but that she would choose a house to be near him . . . Finally, he asked the only thing he could. "Why?"
She mumbled something into her hands, and he had to stop her. "I didn't catch that," he said.
Lifting her head, she sought his gaze, almost squirming in her seat under the weight of his regard. Then she cleared her throat and plowed ahead. "When I met you on the train, I knew you were someone I could be friends with. That I wanted to be friends with. I saw how you shared all those treats with Ron Weasley, and you didn't laugh at me when I was being so . . ." she shrugged, "you know, overbearing with all those book facts."
Harry had to smile. "I didn't think you were overbearing."
"See?" she said. "I knew you'd be a good friend."
It was Harry's turn to blush. He could feel his ears getting hot. "Thanks," he mumbled, and hunched his shoulder a bit.
Hermione pointedly looked away until he was back to himself, then she said, "I still really want to know what that spell was."
Harry laughed, and then showed her.
As Halloween neared, Harry was wishing for some free time to just kick back and relax. His schedule was very full, what with Quidditch practice - the first game was just over two weeks away - and his study sessions with Professor Snape, which were held every evening except when he had Quidditch, in which case, they were in the afternoon, as well as regular classes and study group meetings and making sure he got to each of the three meals each day. Sometimes he felt he had no time to himself. And even when he was alone, he wasn't really. The Bloody Baron was always nearby, his gaze impenetrable, even when his words were soothing and full of concern.
He never heard the Bloody Baron yell, though, until one afternoon when he was just outside Professor Snape's office, preparing to knock to be admitted for his "tutoring" session. He heard raised voices, and, though he knew eavesdropping was tactless, he could not help himself, especially once he heard his own name on the Professor's lips.
"I just can't believe how callous he's being!" Snape snarled. "Potter is the golden boy, isn't he? The Boy Who Wouldn't Bloody Die? Yet he would not credit my word!"
"Severus Snape," the Baron intoned, "calm yourself. Having a fit will not change anything."
"Except make me feel better."
The Bloody Baron chuckled. "Tell me what he said, then."
The Professor stalked back and forth, as if he were lecturing, but his steps were heavier than usual. Then he paused. "He accused Potter of cheating in one breath, and dismissed the danger Quirrell presents to the boy in the next."
"Cheating!" the Baron howled and his next words were mere sputters, "As if, the boy . . . only now has he the time! I'll show him cheating . . ."
Harry's hands had clenched into fists, furious at the indignity of the very idea. Cheating? Him? He didn't even know who this "him" was that had accused him, but right now he was seeing red, and wanted to punch someone.
". . . he had was the word of that old fussy cat," Snape was saying. He was pacing again.
"McGonagall accused him?"
Professor McGonagall? Harry was stunned. He knew the Deputy Headmistress and Head of Gryffindor didn't exactly like him, but she seemed decent enough. And she'd appeared genuinely pleased to see his grades improve. She had even smiled at him the other day after class, and said his father had been skilled in Transfiguration, and if Harry kept improving, she was sure he would be, too.
"That's what he said," said Snape. "Nothing overt, of course, just that 'concerns had been raised.'" There was the sound of something hitting a desk. A fist, maybe? Or a book? "Barmy old coot. Wanted me to keep a closer eye on the boy, to make sure his study habits were up to snuff."
"Oh," the Bloody Baron said, in a much changed tone. "I see."
Snape whipped around - Harry could hear the billow of his robes from where he hid, pressed up against the wall in the corridor - and snarled, "You know something. Tell me."
"I believe . . ." The ghost sighed, and Snape made an impatient sound. "I believe the 'old coot' is making sure you have an excuse to continue to look out for the boy. If Quirrell is indeed dangerous to him, and if he has some connection to the Dark Lord, then any interactions you have with young Harry Potter will be suspect . . ."
"Unless I am ordered to undertake them," Snape finished. He sighed then. "Damn manipulating codger!"
"Indeed," the Baron agreed. "But it seems he is still looking out for you, which is a good thing, if the Dark Lord is rising again."
"And for the boy," Snape said, much more quietly, in an almost reluctant tone.
"And for the boy," the Baron said. "Who just so happens to be waiting in the hallway."
A brief, shocked pause, and then, "Potter!"
Harry shuffled into the room, head down. He could feel the weight of their stares. "Sorry," he mumbled.
"For the impertinence you've displayed in listening in on a private conversation, I assume," the Professor hissed.
"Yes, sir," Harry said, and risked a glance up. "But you were talking about me, sir, so I . . ." He shrugged. "I wanted to know what you were saying. Does Professor McGonagall really think I'm cheating?"
Snape's eyes were dark holes into nothingness, and his expression gave nothing away. It was the blank mask that Harry always disliked seeing the most. This mask was the one he himself often adopted when he didn't know how to react in a situation, and any way he could think to react would be mocked or yelled at. Blankness was safe . . . but it was hard to understand from this point of view.
Finally Snape said, "I do not believe so."
"Why'd she say it then? You know I haven't been . . . doing that. I wouldn't ever!"
Snape studied him again, still giving nothing away. "It's complicated, Potter. Did you bring your books?"
Raising his eyebrows, Harry also lifted his heavy book bag, which was obviously in his hands. He did not, however, say anything like, 'What does it look like?' since he didn't need to sign his own death warrant, thank you very much. Instead, he said, "Yes, sir. Charms, today."
"Get to work then."
Harry frowned, and opened his mouth to argue, since he wasn't done with this conversation, not by a long shot!
But Snape cut him off before he could get anything out, and said in one of his coldest tones, "Work now, talk later. If you do as you're told."
Pressing his lips together, Harry gave a short, angry nod, but went to the table where he usually worked and took out his books and parchment. He hated being left in the dark about things that concerned him. Who did they think they were, anyway? To shove him to the side, as if his feelings on the matter didn't count?
He was too angry, banging his quills and ink bottle about and slapping down parchment, to notice when the Bloody Baron came to hover over his shoulder, until the ghost said, "Be at ease, Harry Potter."
Harry jumped, startled, but then set his jaw. "I don't like being talked about."
"I understand."
"Do you?" Harry turned to glare at the ghost. "I've been lied about and talked about for ten years. Those stupid . . ." He broke off, not wanting to discuss the Dursleys. At all.
"The Muggles?" the Baron said softly.
A brief nod.
"They lied about you?"
"They said I cheated. Any time I got better grades than that whale of a cousin of mine. I obviously cheated, 'cause there was no other way I could do better than him at anything. He was obviously so superior." Harry snatched the stopper out of his ink bottle, not even caring that he splattered a few drops of black ink across the table.
"But you never cheated."
"No! I never did. I didn't have to. Dudders is such an idiot I'd have to try to do worse than him in school." Harry dropped into the chair and rubbed at his forehead, and the stupid scar that marked him as different. "Didn't matter, though. They said I cheated, and the school took their side. Always did."
"Doesn't sound fair," the Bloody Baron said.
Harry glared at him. "Of course it wasn't fair. Life isn't. I'm not a child, you know."
He expected the ghost to make the same protests he'd heard a million times, about how he was too still a child, despite having practically raised himself, and survived the Dursleys, not to mention an attack by a currently disembodied megalomaniac who meant to kill him in nasty ways.
So he was surprised when the Baron merely nodded. "As you say."
The quiet agreement quite took the wind out of him, and he stared at the desk, and his hands, clenched together on top of it. "I . . . I have to work on my Charms essay," he said inanely.
"You do that, Harry Potter," the Baron said. "And please, when you speak to your Professor Snape, remember, he has your best interests in mind."
He'd heard that before, from teachers, and the Headmaster at his primary school, and even that one cock up involving the school nurse. Too bad none of them had ever meant it. Still, he shrugged in response to the Baron, and got on with his essay.
An hour or so later, the discussion about the overheard conversation was less difficult than Harry had imagined it being.
"How much did you overhear, when you were lurking about in the hallway?" Professor Snape asked him, once Harry had finished his Charms essay, and after Snape had read it over and made some corrections.
Harry flushed. "I said I'm sorry about that."
Snape glared. "That doesn't answer my question."
Expression settling into a glare of his own, Harry muttered, "Fine. I heard you say that Professor McGonagall accused me of cheating, and then the Bloody baron said something that made you call someone a manipulating codger. But I haven't cheated, not at all!"
"I know you haven't, Ha - Mr. Potter. I have been monitoring your school work, have I not?"
Harry's eyes narrowed as he looked at Snape. Had the Professor nearly called him by his first name? Then he shook his head, the uncomfortable feeling of being falsely accused of something making his stomach twist into knots. "Then why would she say I did?"
"I do not believe she did." Snape held up a hand when Harry opened his mouth to argue. "I believe the Headmaster told me she did, so as to make me . . ." His mouth twisted as if he tasted something sour. "To encourage me to leap to your defense, as a falsely accused member of my House."
Harry stared at him, and stared some more. Then he crossed his arms over his chest, unconsciously mirroring his professor's stance. His mind was awash with questions, but the only one he could vocalize was, "What does Quirrell have to do with it, sir?" Snape looked down his long nose at Harry, and raised an eyebrow, and Harry quickly amended his question to, "I mean, Professor Quirrell."
Snape nodded shortly. Then he held Harry's gaze for a long moment, as if measuring him. Harry sat up straight, not wishing to be found less than adequate in Snape's regard. Snape nodded again. "I believe, as does the Bloody Baron, that Professor Quirrell," Harry noticed the slight sneer that accompanied the honorific when it came from Snape's mouth, but didn't call him on it, "is working for the Dark Lord. We believe he will try to kill you again. It is my opinion that the Headmaster wants me to keep an even closer eye on you, to make sure that does not happen."
Harry's hands had started to tremble, and he clasped them together on his desk top. He knew Quirrell was up to no good, and was probably working for the same monster who had killed his parents and tried to kill him when he was just a baby. But to have it spoken so baldly . . . it was startling. Not least because he was unused to people telling him the truth like this. And Snape was, he realized. Snape wasn't holding back to spare his feelings or to pretend the danger wasn't real. Harry was grateful for that, but he was still . . . startled.
"But sir, why didn't he just tell you to do that then? Why be coy about it?"
Snape's eyes flashed with some unnamed emotion, and he turned away in a billow of robes. "That is none of your concern."
"But sir!"
"No, Potter. I have told you what you need to know. The rest is immaterial."
Harry scowled at the man, who had yet to turn back to face him. Snape's hands were clenched into fists and his body was held so tight it looked like he might explode any second. Harry had no idea why, but the reason for Dumbledore's roundabout way of having Snape protect him was obviously causing Snape some distress. And though he was loath to admit it, Harry knew the reason was really probably none of his business.
"I'm sorry, sir," he said softly. "I didn't mean to pry."
Snape whirled around again, his expression one of surprise, before his face was carefully schooled once more to that blank mask. He held Harry's gaze for a few more moments before he inclined his head slightly. "It is nearly dinner time," he said. "Go on now and eat before practice."
"Yes, sir." Harry rose, collecting his book bag and slinging it over his shoulder. "Thank you," he said, glancing back at the professor as he reached the door. "For sticking up for me."
Snape shook his head just a bit, but the sharp brittleness in his eyes softened, and he waved a hand in silent dismissal.
Harry smiled and slipped through the door.