Archive of Our Own

The common room glowed in the firelight, warm and golden against the creeping chill beyond the windows. Though curfew loomed, students still milled about, their chatter rising and falling in easy waves that filled the circular room with life.

Harry Potter sank deeper into the overstuffed couch facing the hearth, unwinding after a particularly exhausting week. Ron sprawled along the other end, hands tucked behind his head, while Hermione sat cross-legged on the rug nearby, a book balanced on her knee.

Pages turned. Quills scratched faintly in the corner where a few students hurried to finish their homework. For once, life wasn’t entirely chaotic.

Then a thought struck him, sharp and ridiculous in its suddenness.

“Tomorrow’s April Fool’s,” he said, half to himself, half aloud.

He hadn’t spared the date much thought since coming to Hogwarts, which suited him fine. He vividly remembered his cousin Dudley bullying him under the guise of ‘pranks,’ far worse than anything that usually entailed. It made Harry dread the holiday and the humiliation that accompanied it.

Ron spoke up then, derailing Harry’s train of thought. “What’s that about?”

Harry blinked. Wizards didn’t seem to mark the occasion, which was strange, really. He would have expected them to, considering all the other stuff they’re up to normally.

“It’s a Muggle holiday,” Hermione supplied without looking up from her book. “The day is dedicated to playing harmless pranks or practical jokes on your friends and family.”

Harmless pranks. Harry almost laughed. He wished he knew it that way.

Harry had been reclaiming pieces of his childhood ever since stepping onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters— learning what birthdays were supposed to feel like, what friendship looked like when it wasn’t conditional, what laughter sounded like when it wasn’t at his expense. Learning that he did not always have to fend for himself. Maybe this could be another one.

“Oh,” Ron said, eyes lighting up with sudden comprehension. “So, is this a ‘we do something’ thing or are you just mentioning it?”

Harry hadn’t planned on it. But now that the idea had taken root, it refused to leave.
A lighthearted prank, something genuinely funny. Something that wouldn’t leave bruises, visible or otherwise.

And reckless as it might be, there was only one person Harry truly wanted to attempt it on— mostly because he was the only one Harry could imagine getting away with it. He only hoped it would be as funny in practice as it was in his head.

He glanced at Hermione, who had lowered her book entirely now. Ron, meanwhile, sat up in anticipation.

“Well, I was thinking we could—”

A loud noise, similar to a herd of thundering Hippogriffs, interrupted Harry. It was the twins hurtling down the stairs, yelling something incomprehensible and scattering anyone nearby like a gust of wind.

“Bloody hell,” Ron muttered. “Here come Fred and George.”

The twins arriving just as Harry was about to mention his prank had to be either perfect comedic timing on their part—or Harry’s sheer luck.

A flicker of embarrassment stung Harry’s cheeks. He was an idiot; he had only just remembered something painfully obvious.

Tomorrow was their birthday.

How he had managed to forget that Fred and George Weasley—of all people—had been born on April Fool’s Day was completely beyond him.

“You lot!” Ron called across the room. “Any of you know what April Fool’s is?”

Hermione huffed quietly.

Harry knew her well enough to recognize the sound. She knew exactly where this was heading and clearly didn’t approve—but curiosity had already taken hold, and Hermione Granger rarely walked away from it.

The twins skidded to a halt.

Their heads snapped toward Ron in perfect unison, identical grins spreading across their faces as though he’d just handed them a gift.

“Course we know what April Fools is,” Fred said immediately.

Harry opened his mouth to ask why they didn’t celebrate it, but George beat him to it.

“Bit redundant for us honestly,” George added with a wink. “We don’t need a designated day for pranks now, do we? Every day is April Fools for us.”

That sounded clever enough. Harry huffed a quiet laugh and returned the wink.

Ron, however, had no patience for the theatrics. He jerked a thumb toward Harry.

“He’s planning to do something.”

And just like that, the twins’ stares fixed on him.

“Really, Harry? Tell us everything!” Fred said eagerly, already striding over and dropping onto the couch beside him.

“Don’t leave us out now, mate,” George said, intrigued as well. He dropped down beside Hermione on the rug.

Harry hesitated. That had escalated quickly. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to share the idea—but once he said it aloud, there would be no taking it back.

Hermione nudged his leg lightly.

“Out with it, Harry,” she said. “I’m sure it will be good.”

“Yeah,” George added casually, “it can’t be that bad. You could want to prank Snape.”

Harry froze.

His shoulders drew in slightly.

“Well…”

The pause probably said everything.

“No way!” Ron choked at the exact same moment George let out a sharp bark of laughter.

Hermione’s book slipped from her knee and landed forgotten on the rug.

Fred stared at Harry for a long second before his face split into a delighted grin.

Harry let out a quiet breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. For a moment he’d been worried he sounded completely mad.

The twins, at least, seemed thrilled.

Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Ron and Hermione.

Harry avoided their eyes as the weight of their stares settled on him.

“Only you would have the nerve for that, Harry,” Fred said approvingly, clapping him on the shoulder. George nodded in agreement.

Harry swallowed.

He wasn’t sure he had the guts Fred was talking about. Facing Snape felt impossible—but the idea… the idea had lodged itself firmly in his mind now, stubborn and impossible to shake.

And, if he was being honest with himself, a small part of him wanted to see what would happen.

“Harry,” Ron said firmly, forcing him to look up—which unfortunately meant facing Hermione as well. “You can’t be serious.”

Hermione’s gaze was steady, far too knowing to be simple surprise.

“That,” she said carefully, “is a really bad idea.”

It wasn’t the words themselves that made Harry shift slightly in his seat.

It was the tone.

The subtle emphasis.

The unspoken reminder beneath it.

Ron glanced between them, frowning faintly.

“I mean… he’s Snape.”

As though that explained everything.

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He already knew that.

Of course he did.

That was rather the point.

Harry leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He had to get Ron and Hermione to understand this.

“Look,” he began, glancing between them. “I’m not clueless about this. You lot just have to trust me. I promise we’ll be able to look back on it as a good memory.”

Hermione blinked at him slowly, arms crossing as she tilted her head. “Yeah,” she said dryly, “That’s assuming we survive it.”

Harry almost smiled. Surviving wasn’t exactly what he was worried about. He knew better than that. He only wished Ron and Hermione understood just how much better.

So he simply waved a hand dismissively, “I’ve got a feeling we will,” he said lightly.

Ron still looked unsure, but in the end he nodded. Ron tended to trust Harry’s instincts—even when those instincts led somewhere questionable. His partner in crime, one could say.

Hermione let out a quiet breath, giving a small shake of her head. Harry interpreted it as reluctant approval. He supposed she thought he could make it work, or at least, she wasn’t going to stop him outright.

Fred and George, who had been watching this exchange like spectators at a Quidditch match, immediately seized the opening.

“Oh brilliant,” Fred said, clapping his hands together. “Planning stage!”

George bent over eagerly.

“How about we charm his hair to change colour every minute?” he suggested. “Black, green, purple, back to black again. Very festive.”

Harry snorted. The idea dragged up an old memory of accidental magic—turning one of his primary school teacher’s hair bright blue. The results had not been well received.

“I like the spirit,” Harry admitted, “but I feel like we could do something… even better.”

Ron perked up immediately. “We could sabotage his food?”

“That would be way too difficult to pull off,” Hermione said immediately. “You’d have to get into the kitchens, then somehow ensure it specifically ends up on Snape’s plate—”

“Yes, yes, logistics,” Fred waved her off. “Next idea.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but leaned forward slightly.

“What about doing something to his robes?” she suggested after a moment. “They’re kind of his… signature. Everyone notices them when he moves. It’s rather hard not to.”

That was putting it mildly.

Everyone at Hogwarts knew the dramatic sweep of Snape’s robes.

Harry rubbed his chin, thinking.

“That could work,” he murmured. “What if we charm them so that whenever he moves—”

He paused, searching for the right words.

“—they play the sound of doom. Like dun… dun… dun.”

For a second, nobody said anything.

Harry pressed on, warming to the idea.

“Imagine it,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “Snape sweeping into the Great Hall, robes billowing—and every step comes with this dramatic, foreboding music.”

Silence lingered for half a heartbeat.

Then Fred’s eyes lit up. George actually clutched his chest as if deeply moved. Even Ron was staring at him in dawning delight, and Hermione’s lips twitched despite herself.

“That,” Fred declared, “is genius.”

“We’ve got the perfect spell for that!” George said immediately.

“Well—not exactly,” Fred amended quickly. “But we could definitely tweak one so it works perfectly.”

Hermione frowned slightly.

“Wouldn’t he be able to remove it?”

Fred waved a hand confidently.

“Nah. It’s one of our own inventions. Only we know the counter-curse.”

Hermione looked unconvinced but Harry’s mind ticked over the implications. So only they can undo it… brilliant. No pressure at all.

Ron, ever the practical one, raised a hand.

“How exactly are we supposed to get the spell on his robes?”

That was a very good question.

“We’ll figure something out,” Harry said with more confidence than he actually felt.

In his mind’s eye he could already picture it: Snape striding into the room, robes swirling dramatically—while the ominous soundtrack of impending doom followed him across the floor.

“I suppose tomorrow’s going to be interesting,” Harry murmured.

That was all the encouragement the twins needed.

Ideas immediately exploded around the group—arguments about spell timing, dramatic musical choices, theories about how long it would take Snape to notice.

Ron was laughing.

Hermione was trying—and failing—not to look amused.

To anyone watching from across the room, it probably looked like he’d completely lost his mind.

But to Harry—

it felt like the perfect plan.

Morning the next day arrived far too quickly. Harry still felt sluggish, which was hardly surprising considering how much of the night had been spent planning. After hours of whispered arguments and frantic brainstorming, he and the others had finally settled on a plan that might actually work.

Now it was up to Harry to execute it.

Which was why he currently stood in the corridor leading to the Great Hall, hidden beneath his Invisibility Cloak. The Marauder’s Map was clutched tightly in one hand while the other held the cloak firmly around him.

Students trickled past on their way to breakfast. Harry kept his head down, resisting the urge to tug the cloak tighter around himself.

Thankfully the corridor wasn’t very crowded yet. It was exactly what Harry needed. If half the school had been here, someone would have walked straight into him already.

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and bent over the map, carefully tracking the small dot labeled Severus Snape.

The moment the dot left the professor’s quarters and began moving toward the Great Hall, Harry sprang into action.

His goal was simple in theory and far more complicated in practice: bump into Snape without making it look intentional.

Harry scanned the corridor once more before pulling off the cloak and shoving it quickly into his bag. Flattening the map beneath his palm, he began walking forward, carefully matching his pace to the moving dot. Too slow and he’d miss him. Too fast and it would look suspicious.

Closer.

Closer.

At the turn of the corridor, he slipped the map into his pocket and replaced it with his wand. Then he hurried forward, deliberately looking anywhere but straight ahead.

Right on cue, Harry collided with something solid.

He barely stopped himself from swearing as the impact jolted his shoulder, but Harry had been ready for it. As he stumbled forward, he angled his wand downward and muttered the incantation under his breath.

For the briefest instant, the tip of his wand brushed against Snape’s sleeve.

A faint flicker of magic sparked and vanished almost immediately. If the charm had worked, it was already woven into the very threads—Snape wouldn’t feel a thing until the Great Hall.

Harry forced himself not to react.

“Potter!”

Harry staggered back a step, looking up—and immediately wishing he hadn’t.

Snape looked furious—not the usual irritated sort of furious either. The dangerous kind. Which, to be fair, was entirely justified. His black eyes were narrowed to slits, his lips drawn into a thin, dangerous line as he stared down at Harry.

Good. Perfect, actually.

Harry could tell the professor knew something had happened. He simply didn’t know what. And since the man wasn’t saying a word, Harry decided it was safest to play along… at least for now.

Around them, a small group of students had slowed, curiosity clearly winning over their desire to avoid Snape’s temper.

“P-Professor,” Harry stammered, scrambling for the excuse he’d rehearsed. “I—I wasn’t looking where I was going. I was in a bit of a hurry.”

Snape’s expression darkened slowly, like a storm cloud gathering. Harry could feel the man’s eyes drilling into him, as if he were weighing each flicker of movement, searching for the truth.

For a moment he simply stared at Harry.

“Clearly,” he said silkily. “One might assume that the purpose of those glasses perched upon your nose was to assist your vision. Apparently, I was mistaken.”

Harry opened his mouth to defend himself—purely for appearances—but Snape’s gaze had already shifted downward.

To the wand still clutched in Harry’s hand. Brilliant, Harry thought. Absolutely brilliant.

His eyes narrowed further.

“And pray tell, Potter,” Snape drawled, “why are you sprinting through the corridors with your wand drawn?”

Harry forced himself not to panic. Of course Snape would notice the wand. Harry hadn’t thought of an explanation for that part of the plan.

“I—I was just about to put it away, sir.”

Snape’s lip curled faintly.

“How unfortunate,” he said coldly. “You appear to have missed your opportunity.”

His voice sharpened.

“Fifteen points from Gryffindor for running through the corridors with your wand out like an overexcited first-year.”

Harry winced.

Judging by the sympathetic murmurs behind him, several other students did too. A couple of Slytherins, however, looked positively delighted.

Snape turned his full attention back to Harry.

“And should you not be making your way to breakfast, Potter?”

There it was.

Exactly the question Harry had been waiting for.

He gestured quickly down the corridor.

“I was just going to get Ron, sir.”

At the far end of the hall, Ron Weasley was standing exactly where he’d been told to wait.

For the briefest moment, something flickered across Snape’s face—surprise, perhaps.

Then it vanished.

When his gaze returned to Harry, it was colder than before.

“Remarkable,” Snape said softly. “Even your attempts at responsibility appear suspicious.”

Harry tried his best to look confused rather than terrified.

Snape’s eyes lingered on him for a moment longer than necessary, sharp and searching, as though weighing something only he could see.

“Have you all forgotten your destinations?” he snapped, turning sharply toward the watching students. “Or do you intend to spend the morning loitering in the corridors like a flock of particularly dim sheep?”

The gathered students scattered instantly.

Snape held Harry’s gaze for several seconds.

Long enough that Harry had to fight the urge to shift under it.

“Do try not to assault any more professors on your way to breakfast, Potter.”

And with that, his robes sweeping dramatically behind him, he stalked off toward the Great Hall.

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Only once Snape’s robes disappeared around the corner did the tension in his shoulders finally loosen.

“Harry!”

Ron hurried toward him.

“We actually did it!” he whispered excitedly.

Harry was still half in shock himself.

But slowly, a grin spread across his face.

“Yes,” he said.

“Yes, we did.”

Side by side, Harry and Ron headed toward the Great Hall, hurrying as fast as they could.

Harry tried to keep his expression neutral, but excitement bubbled in his chest. If everything had gone according to plan, the real show was about to begin.

The Great Hall was already buzzing, packed with students taking advantage of the last stretch of breakfast before lessons began. Long house tables stretched the length of the chamber, cluttered with half-empty plates, bowls of porridge, baskets of toast, and abandoned goblets of pumpkin juice.

Harry and Ron slipped inside just in time, both of them slightly out of breath from hurrying through the corridors.

Harry tried very hard to look like a perfectly normal student who had absolutely not just committed something that could loosely be described as magical treason. Which, he admitted, was a bit dramatic—but still. He had charmed Snape.

His eyes immediately darted toward the High Table.

Snape wasn’t there yet.

Good.

Harry would have been devastated if he had missed the show.

Then he spotted Hermione at the Gryffindor table. She was clutching a goblet of pumpkin juice like it might provide emotional support, her brow furrowed in deep apprehension. Nearby, Fred and George looked like they were about to vibrate straight off the bench, barely containing their excitement as they kept glancing toward the staff entrance.

Harry felt a small rush of relief. At least he wasn’t the only one nervous as hell.

Ron and Harry slid onto the bench beside Hermione, and Harry had barely settled before Fred leaned forward like a man about to receive life-changing news.

“Did it work?” Fred whispered urgently.

“I made sure to touch his robes,” Harry whispered back, his heart still hammering against his ribs. “We’ll just have to wait and see now.”

“Then any second now…” George murmured, glancing at his watch. “The charm is proximity-based. Once he hits the threshold of the Hall…”

Harry looked around.

The Great Hall had settled into its usual breakfast rhythm—students laughing, silverware clinking against porcelain plates, owls flapping lazily overhead.

Completely normal.

For now.

“Look!” Hermione whisper-yelled suddenly, her eyes snapping toward the main doors.

Harry’s head whipped around.

The doors creaked open.

Snape entered.

He didn’t simply walk—he glided. His long black robes billowed dramatically behind him like the wings of some enormous bat as he swept across the floor with his usual intimidating grace. Harry couldn’t help thinking—somewhat resentfully—that he wished he could walk like that.

Not that he’d ever admit it.

Snape placed one foot onto the raised dais.

DUN.

A deep, vibrating cello note thundered through the Hall.

It was so loud the plates rattled.

Harry’s eyes widened in horror.

He had not expected it to be that loud.

He whipped around to glare at the twins.

Fred and George merely shrugged, entirely unapologetic.

The chatter in the Hall died instantly.

Harry clasped one hand over the other to stop himself from biting his nails as Snape froze mid-step.

Every single student in the Great Hall was staring.

Snape’s brow furrowed as he slowly glanced around the Hall, searching for the source of the sound.

Harry held his breath.

Snape took another step.

Ron grabbed Harry’s forearm so tightly Harry thought he might lose circulation.

DUN.

The second note rang out—higher this time, sharper, like the opening of some grand orchestral tragedy.

The entire Hall froze.

Forks hung suspended halfway to mouths.

Snape’s eyes snapped straight toward the Gryffindor table.

Harry, with remarkable speed, suddenly became fascinated by his porridge.

“I swear he looked at you,” Ron whispered shakily.

Harry believed him.

He had to admit—Snape was terrifying when he wanted to be. Every passing second made Harry reconsider his confidence about getting away with this.

“I know,” Harry hissed.

He dared to glance up.

For a split second, their eyes met.

Then Snape simply turned away and continued striding toward the High Table with his usual sharp, purposeful pace.

Harry had absolutely no idea why.

Maybe the man had seen the sheer terror on Harry’s face.

With every snap of Snape’s robes, the music swelled.

DUN… DUN… DUN-DUN-DUN-DUNNNNN!

It wasn’t just sound anymore—it was a full orchestral score, the kind Harry imagined played during the climactic reveal of a villain in a Muggle thriller.

As Snape reached for his chair, a piercing violin screech ripped through the Hall.

The kind that screamed impending doom.

The silence afterward was deafening.

Snape stood perfectly still, his hand gripping the back of his chair.

Slowly, he turned his head, his gaze sweeping across the Hall like a searchlight.

At that moment, he looked less like a teacher and more like the dark villain whose theme music had finally caught up with him.

“Who,” Snape said softly, his voice smooth and dangerous, “is responsible for this… theatricality?”

Harry felt his stomach drop.

Apparently Snape wasn’t planning to name any suspects. Yet.

Still, Harry knew Hogwarts gossip moved faster than a Firebolt. It wouldn’t take long before someone remembered Harry bumping into Snape earlier that morning.

“He looks like he’s going to explode,” Ron whimpered into his sleeve, his shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter.

“I told you it was a bad idea!” Hermione whispered furiously.

Harry gulped.

He really should have listened.

Suddenly the Headmaster stood.

Harry hadn’t expected that at all—but with Albus Dumbledore, the unexpected was practically guaranteed.

“Now, now, Severus,” Dumbledore said pleasantly. “Whoever has done this is merely honoring the spirit of April Fools’ Day. Best to take it in good humor.”

Harry wanted to slam his face into the table.

That was absolutely not helping.

He was already mentally preparing himself for a lifetime of detentions.

Snape, however, did not look remotely amused.

He raised his wand.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut.

Two hands grabbed his—probably Ron and Hermione—but he refused to open his eyes.

He simply couldn’t.

Or rather… he very much didn’t want to.

The Hall suddenly erupted into loud whispers.

“Harry! Look!” Fred called.

No.

No. Absolutely not.

“No!” Harry said firmly.

“C’mon Harry, you have to!” Ron nudged him.

Harry stubbornly kept his eyes shut.

Then something splashed across his face.

Cold water.

Harry’s eyes flew open.

George stood there, wand in hand, looking far too pleased with himself.

If it hadn’t been his birthday, Harry might have hexed him.

Hermione grabbed Harry by the chin and physically turned his head toward the High Table.

Snape was sitting calmly in his chair.

Eating breakfast.

Like absolutely nothing had happened.

“What—what happened?!” Harry demanded.

“Snape used his wand to banish his robes,” Ron explained helpfully. “Then he conjured new ones and carried on like normal.”

“We forgot the charm was only applied to the robes,” Hermione added. “There was no countercurse necessary. Removing them solved the problem.”

Oh.

Ohhh.

Harry slowly sank lower in his seat.

He wanted the chair to swallow him whole.

“Well, mate!” Fred said brightly. “You still made our birthday one to remember!”

“More like one to wreck the nerves,” George added cheerfully.

Harry barely heard them.

He felt strangely numb.

Almost in a trance.

And then, for reasons he would never understand, Harry glanced back toward the High Table.

Severus Snape was looking directly at him.

And Severus Snape—

was smirking.

Harry felt his stomach drop.

Then another, far worse realization struck him with the force of a Bludger.

His first class of the day…

was Potions.

With Professor Snape.

The walk to the dungeons felt like a slow march to the gallows. Usually, the stone stairs were just cold; today, they felt like they were leading Harry directly into the mouth of a very large, very grumpy dragon.

“Maybe he’ll be in a good mood,” Ron said, though his voice cracked at the end. "You know, Dumbledore said it was the spirit of the holiday. Maybe he... appreciated the musical theory?"

"Ron," Hermione said, her voice tight with sympathetic dread, "With how everything played out, I highly doubt Professor Snape is thinking about musical theory right now.”

Harry, meanwhile, was far too tense to laugh. Had he messed up so badly that Snape would be furious? Well, of course he would be furious. But would he be too furious?

Harry seriously didn’t know what to expect.

They reached the door to the Potions classroom. Usually Snape was already inside, hovering like a wraith over the room before class even began. Today, however, the door was shut tight.

A small crowd of Gryffindors and Slytherins had gathered outside. Malfoy was leaning against the wall, looking particularly smug.
“Rumor has it you’re the one behind the prank, Potter,” Malfoy drawled. “I hope you’re prepared. I can’t imagine what it’ll be like for you in this class.”

Harry secretly agreed with Malfoy for the first time in his life. He couldn’t stay silent though; that would only confirm things. But before he could retort, the door swung open with a bang that made everyone jump.

To Harry, the classroom felt darker than usual. Looking over at Ron and Hermione, he realized it actually was. The torches were dimmed to mere embers, leaving long shadows stretching across the dungeon walls. The scent of vinegar and dried herbs hung heavier than usual in the air.

Snape stood at the front of the room. His robes— thankfully the ones without the charm— were crisp black, shimmering faintly in the gloom.

"Inside," he commanded.

Harry hurried to his usual seat beside Ron. Hermione partnered up with Neville.

But before Harry could sit, the stool beneath him slid aside.

Harry dropped straight to the floor.

For a moment he just sat there, stunned.

He could have sworn the stool had moved on its own.

A quiet gasp came from Hermione, followed by several loud chuckles from the Slytherins.

“You okay, Harry?” Ron whispered, offering a hand.

Harry took it and stood.

His eyes flicked immediately to Snape. Snape was looking straight at him.

Harry waited for the remark— the cutting comment that usually followed any mistake he made. But it never came.

Snape simply looked away.

Harry frowned. That was… strange.

Wait. Was Snape playing a prank on him?

Harry had no idea how his mind arrived at that conclusion, but once the thought appeared, he couldn’t get rid of it.

It sounded ridiculous. But even after years of knowing Snape, Harry still couldn’t be one hundred percent sure what the man was capable of.

He glanced at Ron. He didn’t seem to suspect anything at all.

Which, Harry supposed, was normal.

Harry grabbed the stool firmly before sitting down again.

This time, it stayed put.

Then Snape began the lesson.

Part of Harry almost wished Snape would just acknowledge the prank outright so everything could explode at once. But Snape didn’t.

He continued as though nothing unusual had happened.

“Today,” Snape began, his voice barely above a whisper yet somehow carrying easily across the room, “we shall be brewing the Calming Draught. A potion many of you—”

His gaze flickered briefly toward the chalkboard when Harry expected it would land on him.

“—clearly require.”

He flicked his wand.

Instructions appeared across the chalkboard in neat writing. But at the bottom there was a small note that Harry was certain hadn’t been there before.

Note: When dealing with unstable reactions, it is often wise to remember that one step may trigger consequences several steps later.

Oh.

So this was Snape’s way of saying it was time for payback.

Snape glanced directly at Harry the moment the words finished appearing.

That was all the confirmation Harry needed.

This was going to be rough.

Harry deserved it, though, so he braced himself.

Harry gulped as Snape explained just how complex the potion was.

“Being too heavy-handed with the ingredients,” Snape said smoothly, “may result in the drinker being placed into a sleep far deeper than intended. Sometimes irreversible.”

Harry arranged their workstation while Ron went to fetch ingredients from the storeroom.

Before they could start, Snape swept over to their bench.

Harry’s heartbeat quickened.

But Snape only glanced down at their table with obvious disapproval.

“Is that what you call arrangement, Potter?” he said coldly.

He flicked his wand.

Everything on the table shifted into new positions.

Harry frowned as soon as Snape walked away.

He was almost certain he had arranged everything exactly the way Snape preferred.

Ignoring that, Harry began working.

They only had an hour and a half.

But as he started and reached for the powdered moonstone, it moved away from him.

Harry blinked and paused, his hand hovering awkwardly above the table. For a moment he thought he had imagined it.

He glanced around to see if anyone had noticed, but Ron was focused on carefully measuring ingredients into small glass bowls, and Snape was gliding between the rows, looking everywhere but at Harry.

Harry slowly reached for the moonstone again.

The jar slid neatly two inches to the left.

Harry stared at it.

He reached again.

It slid farther away.

Harry frowned, trying to look casual as he pulled the jar back toward him. The moment he let go, it rolled out of reach again.

He grabbed it quickly this time, but when he reached for the syrup of hellebore, the small dish quietly scooted away instead.

It happened again.

And again.

Before long, every time Harry reached for something, it moved away from him.

The knife slowly turned so the handle faced away from his hand.

Even the stirring rod rolled just out of reach whenever he tried to grab it.

Harry cursed under his breath.

It became so obvious that Ron finally noticed.

His friend glanced over just as Harry lunged once again for the syrup of hellebore, only for it to slide away yet again.

Ron blinked.

“…Did it just—”

“Yes,” Harry muttered irritably.

Ron leaned in closer, clearly about to say something, but Snape drifted toward their table at that exact moment.

Ron straightened immediately.

“Mr Potter,” Snape said coldly, looking down at the untouched cauldron. “Most of your peers are already halfway through their draughts, and you haven’t even started yet.”

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes like he always did whenever the man said something like that.

Sometimes he even did roll his eyes.

This time he forced himself not to.

“My ingredients are moving away from me, Professor.”

Snape raised one eyebrow.

“Pardon?”

Harry gestured stiffly at the table.

“They keep—moving.”

Snape stared at him for a moment, expression completely blank.

“Are you quite alright, Potter,” he said slowly, “or have the loud noises at breakfast somehow interfered with your ability to perform even the simplest of tasks?”

Oh.

So he had finally acknowledged the prank. Harry felt something in his chest tighten.

Game on, then.

If Snape wanted to argue, then Harry didn’t see why he needed to hold back.

“With all due respect, Professor,” Harry said tightly, “I’m fairly certain ingredients don’t normally try to escape from students unless someone is making them.”

A few nearby students looked up.

Snape’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.

“Ten points from Gryffindor,” he said silkily, “for talking back to a professor, Mr Potter.”

Then he swept away as if nothing unusual had happened.

As soon as he was gone, Ron nudged Harry in the side.

“He was baiting you, Harry.”

Harry knew that. He had to get baited.

If Snape was going to pretend nothing strange was happening, Harry couldn’t exactly sit there and let the whole class think he was losing his mind.

Besides, Harry didn’t particularly care about the points.

He turned back to the table with a quiet sigh.

When he reached for the knife to chop the stewed mandrake, it twisted slightly in place so the handle pointed away from him again.

Harry grabbed it firmly before it could move.

The container rolled away as he tried to slice it.

He dragged it back.

It rolled again.

Harry glared at it.

“Very funny,” he muttered.

By the time he finished chopping them, they were uneven and far messier than they should have been.

Ron was trying very hard not to laugh.

“This is ridiculous,” Harry muttered.

Every step became a battle.

The porcupine quills rolled across the table whenever he tried to pick them up.

The stirring rod spun lazily away from his fingers.

Even the ladle in the cauldron seemed determined to rotate the wrong way when he tried to stir.

Harry was convinced Snape was watching the entire thing.

But every time Harry glanced toward the front of the room, Snape appeared to be inspecting someone else’s potion.

Which somehow made the whole thing even more irritating.

By the end of the lesson, Harry’s nerves were completely shot.

His potion was barely finished, and what was done Harry was quite sure wasn’t correct.

It was supposed to be a pale, misty blue.

His was a dull grey that bubbled in a slightly suspicious way.

Snape eventually made his way down the aisle, stopping beside Harry’s cauldron.

He peered into it.

A long silence followed.

“Detention, Mr Potter,” Snape said smoothly, “for failing to even complete your potion.”

Harry embarrassingly pouted. That was exactly what he needed.

Harry stood in the dim corridor of the dungeons, just outside the office of Severus Snape.

The torches along the walls flickered quietly, their light reflecting off the damp stone. Normally Harry didn’t mind the dungeons much anymore— he’d spent enough evenings down here over the years— but tonight the corridor felt unusually long.

He raised his fist and knocked.

“Come in,” Snape’s voice called from within.

Harry pushed the door open. The office beyond was exactly as it always was: shelves packed with glass jars and potion ingredients, a large desk stacked with parchment, and the faint lingering scent of dried herbs and potion fumes.

But there was no one inside.

Harry sighed softly.

Turning left, he approached a seemingly blank stretch of wall. He pressed his palm against the stone and, almost immediately, the concealed doorway revealed itself with a quiet shift of magic. The entrance to Snape’s private quarters opened, and Harry stepped through.

Despite everything, he felt a small knot of nerves twisting in his stomach.

Snape was exceptionally good at acting angry. Usually Harry could tell when it was just for show, but the scene in the Potions classroom earlier had been… convincing. Convincing enough that Harry wasn’t entirely sure whether this detention was one of their usual private talks or an actual punishment.

The quarters were far warmer than the dungeon corridor. A small fire crackled quietly in the hearth, soft lamplight illuminating bookshelves, a low table, and two well-worn couches facing each other. The room smelled faintly of tea and parchment rather than potions.

Harry’s eyes immediately landed on the couch to the left.

Snape sat there, a blanket thrown loosely over his legs, one hand wrapped around a steaming mug. The opposite seat— the one on the right— sat empty, unofficially reserved for Harry.

Snape glanced up as Harry entered.

“Harry.”

Just that single word of acknowledgement.

Harry’s shoulders sagged instantly in relief.

So Snape wasn’t truly angry after all.

He felt a little foolish for having worried the entire walk down to the dungeons. Ron and Hermione had tried to encourage him earlier, though their reassurances hadn’t helped much. They meant well, of course— they always did— but there were parts of Harry’s life they simply didn’t know about.

And Harry understood why. He had accepted the circumstances a long time ago.

Still, he appreciated their support.

Snape, noticing the immediate change in Harry’s posture, straightened slightly.

“What is wrong?” he asked.

Harry padded across the room and dropped into his usual place on the couch, sinking comfortably into the cushions. He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

“I thought you might actually be angry about the prank.”

Snape regarded him for a moment, his expression completely serious.

“And why,” he asked slowly, “do you assume that I am not?”

Harry looked back at him.

Not at the cold, unreadable face Snape wore in class— but at the one Harry only ever saw here. The one where the tension around his eyes softened slightly.

“I just know,” Harry said simply.

And it was the truth. Somehow Harry had always been able to read the man better when it was just the two of them. He liked to blame it on all the Occlumency shields.

Still, Snape’s serious expression made Harry hesitate.

Maybe he really was angry.

But it was hard to believe while Snape sat there looking so… comfortable. Wrapped in a blanket, holding his favorite mug, looking more like someone enjoying a quiet evening than a furious professor.

Harry began to tense.

Snape noticed immediately.

Then he smirked.

“Harry,” he said dryly, “I have been responsible for you for four years. A childish prank is among the least surprising things you have ever done.”

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

With a small flick of his wand, Snape summoned another mug from the adjoining kitchen. It floated neatly across the room and settled into Harry’s hands.

Harry wrapped his fingers around it at once and took a sip.

His favorite tea. Still warm.

Harry huffed quietly. “See? I knew you weren’t mad.”

Snape raised an eyebrow.

They both knew Harry was lying.

Harry had come here fully expecting to be in serious trouble.

It had been during Harry’s first year that Snape had discovered— entirely by accident— the way Harry’s relatives had been treating him. What followed had been quiet, complicated, and kept very carefully hidden from the rest of the world.

For four years now, Snape had been helping Harry rebuild pieces of himself he hadn’t even known were broken.

Most of the damage had healed.

Mostly.

Harry knew that better than anyone. Some things still crept up on him when he least expected it— a flinch here, a bad memory there— but compared to the boy who had first arrived at Hogwarts, he was almost unrecognizable.

Across from him, Snape set his own mug down on the low table with a quiet clink.

“So,” he said mildly. “The prank.”

Harry brightened immediately, the earlier tension fading like it had never existed.

“You have to admit it was good.”

“I will admit,” Snape said slowly, folding his hands together, “that I did not expect it.”

Harry grinned, leaning a little further back into the couch.

“But you figured it out pretty fast,” he added.

Snape looked faintly offended.

“Of course I did. The collision in the corridor was rather telling.”

Harry winced slightly at the memory. In hindsight, running straight into Snape probably hadn’t been the most subtle move.

“I will also acknowledge,” Snape continued after a moment, “that the first half of the charm was clever. You failed only in assuming I could not simply remove the robes.”

Harry lifted a finger in defense.

“That part was the twins’ idea.”

Snape gave him a look that clearly said of course it was.

“I assume,” Snape said, “that Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger were also involved?”

“Yeah,” Harry admitted.

He hesitated.

“Sometimes I wish I could tell them,” he added quietly. “About… all this.”

The words hung in the room for a moment.

Snape had heard that sentiment many times before. Harry said it differently each time— sometimes frustrated, sometimes wistful— but the meaning was always the same.

And as always, his answer did not change.

“The time will come, Harry.”

Harry nodded, though he wasn’t sure when that time would be. For now, the secret stayed between the two of them.

He finished the last of his tea and set the mug aside. Snape made a small motion with his wand as if to refill it, but Harry shook his head.

“No, thank you,” he said. Then his eyes narrowed slightly in mock suspicion. “We need to talk about your prank.”

Snape’s eyebrow lifted slightly.

“Wasn’t that a bit cruel?” Harry asked, exaggerating the offense.

“I believe,” Snape replied calmly, “that you should have anticipated retaliation.”

“Sure,” Harry said, sitting forward slightly, “but what if the potion had exploded? Or something worse?”

Snape made a dismissive sound, clearly unimpressed with the concern.

“I replaced your ingredients with harmless decoys while I was… arranging your workspace.”

Harry stared at him.

“You what?”

“You heard me.”

“But I had everything set up perfectly!” Harry said, horrified. “Exactly how you like it!”

“Yes,” Snape said calmly. “You did.”

He paused, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly. “I felt slightly guilty disturbing it.”

Harry groaned and slid further down into the couch.

“I wish I was as smart as you.”

Snape waved that off lightly.

“It comes with age,” he said dryly. “I’m sure you will reach that level eventually.”

Harry felt warmth spread through his chest.

Snape gave compliments rarely— and only when he meant them— but they still made Harry feel strangely giddy every time.

“You will, however,” Snape added, “still remake the Draught.”

Harry sat up immediately.

“I’m good at Potions!”

“Yes,” Snape said calmly. “But being good at Potions does not mean mastering a potion you have never brewed before.”

Harry huffed and crossed his arms.

“Fine.”

He held the pose for all of two seconds before the annoyance melted away. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“But did you like the prank?”

Snape considered the question with surprising seriousness.

“It was… creative.”

Harry’s grin widened.

“And how did you like mine?” Snape asked, one eyebrow lifting slightly.

Harry tilted his head, pretending to consider the question with equal seriousness. After a moment he gave a small shrug.

“It was alright.”

For a second Snape simply stared at him.

Then he snorted softly.

“Cheeky brat.”

At that moment, a sharp knock sounded from the office beyond the hidden door.

Snape sighed and pushed himself to his feet, the blanket slipping from his lap as he stood.

He glanced back at Harry with something faintly apologetic in his expression.

“It’s fine,” Harry said quickly.

Snape moved toward the hidden doorway— but paused just before stepping through.

“Next year,” he said thoughtfully, “perhaps we should attempt this again.”

Harry’s eyes widened in horror.

He shook his head so quickly his glasses nearly slid off his nose.

“No. Absolutely not.”

Snape’s smirk returned as he stepped through the doorway.

Harry leaned back on the couch once he was gone, staring up at the ceiling.

It was almost funny, really.

The wizarding world was convinced that Harry Potter and Severus Snape hated each other.

They saw arguments in classrooms. Sharp remarks in corridors. Points taken from Gryffindor with particular enthusiasm.

They saw exactly what Snape wanted them to see.

Meanwhile Harry was sitting here in the man’s living room, drinking tea and arguing about pranks.

The biggest joke of all was the one the rest of the world didn’t even realize was being played on them.

If that wasn’t the greatest prank of all, Harry didn’t know what was.

After all, the man was practically like his father. Snape once had mumbled as much in his sleep, about a year after he had taken him in. Harry still teased Snape about it occasionally.

And Snape, despite everything, had never once complained.