Chapter Text
Harry Potter hesitated, his hand raised to knock. He couldn’t believe he was going to do this.
The Hogwarts Express was leaving in an hour. Was he really spending his final moments in the castle thanking Snape?
Sure, the man had saved his life from Quirrell, but he had been horrible to Harry all year. Calling him dimwitted and arrogant and insulting his dead father. The greasy git.
Harry shook his head.
Aunt Petunia would smack him over the head if she knew he was considering disrespecting an authority figure. Especially if she knew he had been openly disrespecting his professor all year. And it was only polite. Snape had saved his life. And he had been trying to protect the Stone. And Harry and his friends had spent the entire year disparaging him. He deserved to be properly thanked for what he’d done regardless of how Harry felt about the Potions Master in general. At least, Harry was pretty sure he did.
Maybe he could send a note?
Harry raised his hand and rapped on the door of Snape’s office before his Gryffindor courage abandoned him.
“Enter.”
Why did it feel like he was walking to his doom?
Harry took a deep breath and opened the door.
The room was gloomy. Shadows creeped up the walls, which were lined with wooden shelves. The surfaces were crowded with large glass jars filled with revolting things that Harry would prefer to not learn about or ever see again. The fireplace was dark and empty. Harry shivered.
“Mr. Potter,” a voice drawled.
Professor Snape was sitting behind a large, sturdy desk, looking at Harry with a slight frown on his face. With his dark robes and black hair, the man practically blended into the dimly-lit room. On the desk was a large stack of what Harry assumed were the final potions exams. The parchment in front of him was scored with scratches of red ink, like tiny bleeding incisions. Harry could imagine the scathing comments. The instructions in your textbook call for six counterclockwise stirs, but perhaps I should not have assumed you capable of counting to that number, or Do I need to compose illustrations on the board for you to comprehend the most basic of concepts?
Harry hoped it wasn’t his exam, or else Snape would really, really not be in the mood to talk to him.
“Good morning, sir,” Harry said, much more timidly than he felt a lion should be. But, after all, this was the infamous dungeon bat himself that he was speaking to. Harry felt entitled to a little anxiety.
“I believe you are meant to be preparing for your imminent departure, lest you miss the train,” Snape scowled.
“I won’t be late,” Harry protested, a slight feeling of irritation distracting him momentarily from his fears.
“I will not be late, sir,” Snape snapped. Harry tried not to look slightly amused at the dour man’s refusal to repeat a contraction.
“Sir,” he amended.
Snape sighed and put down his quill, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Potter?” Snape demanded, his tone very much not sounding pleased. Harry shivered again, this time from the nervousness that had lodged itself in between his ribs.
“Erm…” Harry hesitated. For all the hesitating he had done in the corridor, he hadn’t actually thought about what he would say once he was inside. Idiot.
“Potter,” Snape growled, quickly growing impatient. His long fingers were tapping on the surface of his desk.
“I wanted to thank you,” Harry muttered, staring at the floor to get away from the intensity of the potion master’s eyes.
“Speak up, Potter,” he scowled, “this mumbling is unseemly. And correct your posture.”
Harry flinched and stood upright, lifting his chin to meet his professor’s gaze. Harry was rather regretting coming here in the first place. He swallowed.
“I want to thank you, Professor,” he said clearly. The Head of Slytherin House stared at him.
“You wish to thank me?” Snape deadpanned. “Please enlighten me on what, precisely, the great Harry Potter would thank me for?”
The man’s tone was dry and irritable as usual, but there was a curious glint in his eye. Harry was pretty sure his professor was genuinely curious.
“For saving my life, earlier this year, sir” Harry hurriedly explained. “During the Quidditch match.”
Snape’s brow furrowed.
“Potter, you are a student here,” Snape said, “I am your professor, and as such responsible for your continued wellbeing. You do not need to thank me for that.”
That was…a much nicer response than Harry had been expecting.
“Still, professor, I wanted to let you know I appreciate it,” Harry shrugged. “And I wanted to apologize.”
Snape’s eyes narrowed.
“Apologize?”
Harry nodded.
“Ron, Hermione, and I thought you were the one planning to steal the Stone. I saw you confronting Quirrel and from what was said I thought you were trying to get him to give you information. I was rude to you all year, mostly because I suspected you. So I’m sorry.” Harry shifted uncomfortably. “...Sir,” he finished, faltering.
Snape’s dark eyes studied Harry’s face like he was examining a potions ingredient that he was unsure how to dissect properly.
“Potter,” Snape said slowly. “If you truly thought me a danger, I suppose I cannot blame you entirely for being ill at ease. Although, of course, I do expect to be treated with respect at all times as a faculty member. You were, at times, quite out of line.”
“I understand, sir,” Harry assured him. “Aunt Petunia is always reminding me to mind my superiors. She says I never know when to hold my tongue.”
Snape’s slight frown had faded into a look of astonishment. Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen his professor so unguarded. The rather pale man had somehow gone whiter than usual.
“Petunia? Potter, you do not reside with her?”
Harry stared at the man, who was beginning to look vaguely ill, in confusion.
“Yes, Professor,” he replied. “I’ve lived with her and my uncle ever since my parents died. They’re my only living relatives.”
The professor didn’t reply. He didn’t look capable of it at the moment.
Harry started suddenly, glancing at the large clock on the wall. Distracted, he barely noticed that his professor was still staring at him in open horror.
“Sorry, sir,” Harry exclaimed, “I’ll miss the train if I don’t hurry.” He turned and hurried to the door. “Enjoy your holidays, Professor,” Harry called over his shoulder. “See you in September!”
With that, Harry rushed out of the room, the door banging shut behind him.
Severus Snape did not move for a very long time.