Chapter Text
After the war, Harry hadn't had anywhere to go. Which was how he found himself at Hogwarts, attending a staff meeting in late August about a week before the start of school. Although, he was barely paying attention to any of it. A bit overwhelmed by the suddenness of the role change. His teachers—former teachers, now—were his colleagues. It was an odd feeling, somehow being on the same level as those who fought the war with him.
He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms, surveying all of their faces as Prof—...Minerva droned on about… curfews? Harry wasn't quite sure, honestly. But he figured that he probably should be, lest his coworkers believe he's slacking.
“–Yes Pomona, the greenhouses have been restored along with the rest of the castle.” Minerva gestured to the rest of the staff, “Although, if you see anything out of the ordinary, please tell either Severus or I,” Harry looked at Severus, amused that the man didn't hide his boredom. “We really don't know how far… He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's reach goes, even after…” she trailed off.
Harry sighed, rolling his eyes. The bastard was gone and even Minerva McGonagall couldn't say his name? It was only a moment later when he realised the whole room was staring at him.
He felt his lips pull into a slight smirk and he raised one eyebrow. He stared into Minerva's eyes, daring her to ask. Thankfully for her, she decided against it and continued on about this year's Prefects.
He idly wondered who all was going to come back after the war, and his suspicions were proven correct when none of the Prefects for the upcoming year were anyone Harry had ever taken note of.
“Potter,” came a sharp monotone voice from somewhere to his right. He flicked his eyes toward Snape, giving his attention. The man at some point had shed his cloak and was now only in a long sleeve shirt—all black of course.
When there was no reply from Harry, Snape's sharp gaze turned almost predatory, “At least act interested.”
Harry cocked his head to the side, eyes swirling with wicked amusement, “Heed your own warning, Snape, and I might take kindly to it.”
The words were sharp, cutting through the room's pleasant air, leaving it…
Bare.
Raw.
Vulnerable.
Snape straightened in his chair, recognising the challenge for what it was. A small part of Harry wondered if he'd made a dire mistake, but he quickly smothered that flame before he started second guessing himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Minerva glancing nervously between the two men, anxiously waiting, as everyone else was, for the eventual blowup.
Snape let the tension hang in the air for a moment, slight amusement flashing across his face as he watched everyone else's anticipation. He let out a hollow sigh.
“Yes, I do suppose so… Harry.” It seemed he wasn't willing to shatter the delicate moment—not with an audience at least.
While everyone else in the room breathed a sigh of relief, Harry sucked in a breath, looking hastily away. He'd never heard his ex-Potions professor say his name… like that. Worse, he wanted to hear it again.
And again.
While Minerva continued, Harry avoided those dark eyes. Not that they were seeking him out anymore anyway. He attempted to steady his breathing, which he realised had ramped up sometime before now. What was wrong with him?
As term began the next week, Harry never encountered any harsh, stinging words from the man, nor were there any looks of contempt sent his way. Part of him was shocked that Snape could act like a normal, functioning human being. Okay, maybe not functioning.
Nevertheless, Harry reacted in kind, although not doing more than he was required to when it came to the man. He wasn't entirely sure of the other's motives, but what he could blatantly read between the lines was…
The promise.
The truce.
The vow.
They were no longer enemies.
——
Harry soon found out in his first week that teaching was incredibly dull. When he had run Dumbledore's Army, it had always been practical applications; now that he was actually teaching, he taught theory. Harry figured he hated teaching theory more than learning it. That was saying something.
Oh dear God, and he had cared back then—it was war afterall. He was teaching those he loved. But now, for the lower levels, he was still correcting them on wand form. Wand form! Even the third years needed help in this regard. Third years! Harry had fought off an entire hoard of Dementors his third year! Gah—
If he wasn't doing any of that, he was pacing in front of the class lecturing. That was, before he got interrupted by both Gryffindors who wanted to hear stories and Ravenclaws who needed to know more about every single example he gave. ‘What if’ this ‘what if’ that. Harry was sick of it.
Worse yet, the older years weren't any better. He'd—foolishly, it seemed—expected them to be more mature, with most having played in–or at least been affected by–the war. No, now they lacked motivation. Key example, Alexander Strillo, a 5th year Gryffindor of Ravenclaw heritage. Harry's most annoying student; the bane of his existence. Oh, how he wished to throw him out of this school.
Harry had been, why just yesterday, teaching about the importance of awareness, when he'd been interrupted. If Harry hated being interrupted, then Professor Potter despised it.
~Strillo had stood up, his chair scraping back on the tile, and whined, “Why do we have to learn about this? It's not like the Dar-...He-Who-...” He faltered for a second, before throwing his arms up, “He's dead!”
Harry could've thrown something. Instead he'd settled for staring at the boy, sneering.
“Mister… Strillo,” Harry had started, venom dripping in his tone. “Yes… Voldemort is dead. Yes, for it is I who killed him, and I do believe this to be common knowledge. But alas, it seems to have slipped from your attention, perhaps this is why the Hat disregarded your heritage… Ravenclaws are supposed to be intelligent, no?” He had paused, taking his time to walk to Strillo's desk. Looking down, he whispered, “I believe 20 points from Gryffindor will suffice for being unable to control your outbursts, this being the third example in the first week of term.”
The boy seemed terrified—good. “Interrupt me another time and it will be worse. I do not shy away from taking points from my own House… Obviously."~
He stabbed at his dinner, he could feel his scowl. But since the war, food hasn't tasted the same. It was more of a chore now than it ever had been; he'd used to love eating. In the early years it was because he rarely was able to eat, but after each start of term feast, the enjoyment had slowly started to fade away. Now, everything felt like sandpaper, and somehow tasted like it too.
Noticing commotion at the Gryffindor table, he silently rose, quietly making his way down the table. No one paid him any attention, and he found himself dully amused by this.
Stopping, he stood behind a group of Gryffindor students who were watching the Slytherin table avidly, as if waiting for something to happen.
Harry's hands were behind his back as he stood, one hand holding his wand—just in case. He had only just narrowed his eyes toward where their focus was when a small purple ball almost the size of a golf ball arched through the air toward the Slytherins. Lazily flicking his wand behind his back, he stilled its motion in the air. A second later, he vanished it.
They were all confused about where it went and ended up giving away who had thrown it. He should've known it would be Strillo. The children on the opposite side of the table from Harry saw him, and their eyes went wide. Harry's smile probably looked quite wicked, but he couldn’t help it—this was amusing.
“Strillo,” he barked behind him, and he revelled in the boy's little jump. He turned slowly, eyes wide.
“Oh.. uh, hey Harry,” he stuttered and awkwardly waved. The forced casualty made Harry sick; he wasn't their peer, he hadn't given them leave to use his name.
He straightened, looking down at the boy, and spat, “It's Professor Potter. Five points for your blatant disrespect…” He leaned in, “On top of detention with Mr Filch tomorrow at eight pm—which I must remind you is Saturday—for your stunt.”
Giving the wretched student no time to formulate a response, Harry walked out of the Great Hall. He didn't stop until he reached the Astronomy Tower. This was all so exhausting. Realistically, he knew he should be taking this extra time to grade the fourth year essays. Despite the work he had, he leaned against the cold, stone windowsill and fished around in his pocket until he found his tin of cigarettes.
Lighting one, he took a drag. It was a bad habit, he knew that, but it made him feel normal, putting the stress aside, if only for a few moments. He exhaled the smoke, watching it dissipate into the air. Once it had, only the night sky remained. He sighed and ran a hand down his face. He remembered that night all too well.
The fighting, the blood, the pain, the crying… it was too much.
He took another drag of the cigarette, relishing in the bite. Yes, it was self-destructive, but he couldn’t think of a single thing he’d done in his life that hadn’t been. That was his excuse. He leaned out the tower’s window, and, suddenly, the cigarette was ripped from him by the cold night’s wind.
He groaned and checked the tin again. That was the only one he’d had on him. Now he was out. He cursed at nobody but the night sky.
He heard a sharp, purposeful tap behind him and his instincts kicked in before he knew it. When he came to, he was holding someone by the throat against a wall, his wand pointed at their neck.
Who…? What…?
It's a man, he realised once his brain started functioning. He blinked a few times and lowered his wand. His eyes refocused and he realised he was staring at… no not just staring at, but choking against a wall with his wand turned at…
Severus Snape.
Harry froze, and Snape only raised a questioning eyebrow.
Oh my God.
His body finally responded and he let go of him as if he’d been burned. Snape closed his eyes and took a breath as Harry backed away, horrified. Although, he wasn’t sure if he was more horrified by his actions or by how Snape might react after the fact.
Snape cleared his throat, and Harry braced himself. “Harry,” he nodded curtly. “You’ve had a difficult first week, and I was originally coming to invite you for a drink… But now I think I must require it. Come now.”
Harry could only nod, half confused and half taken aback by the lack of response he’d gotten. Nevertheless, he followed, walking toward the stairs.