The two greatest gossips at Hogwarts were, without question, Poppy Pomfrey and Irma Pince. One was a kind school nurse who moved through the wards with a medicine tray; the other was a sharp-tempered librarian who wielded a feather duster like a weapon. On the surface, they appeared to have nothing whatsoever in common.
What very few people knew was that these two women were, in fact, the closest of friends—the sort who could spend an entire weekend together doing nothing but drinking tea and exchanging secrets.
Their respective posts, as it happened, gave them unparalleled access to Hogwarts' freshest intelligence. The hospital wing and the library between them caught nearly everything.
Madam Pomfrey possessed a particular gift. She was extraordinarily perceptive, and could reliably detect the early stirrings of a romance from the pattern of a student's unexpected visits, or from a certain telltale tenderness in the way one patient watched another being discharged.
Madam Pince had her own methodology. She worked from evidence—from the careful observation of who sat with whom, year after year, in the quieter corners of her library. She could count confirmed pairs on her fingers with the confidence of a seasoned investigator.
In the middle of an otherwise monotonous working life, what greater pleasure was there? In the words of Poppy and Irma, it was their shared passion that had bonded them in the first place. They were, both of them, devoted enthusiasts of a good story.
This hobby kept the crow's feet at bay, they agreed, and gave them frequent occasion to remember that they had once been young themselves.
Any visitor to the celebrated Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop in Hogsmeade on a quiet holiday afternoon would almost certainly find these two settled in a secluded corner, deep in conversation over matters that not even Professor Dumbledore was privy to.
"The Chamber of Secrets is finally behind us," Madam Pince said, settling back contentedly into her armchair and setting her pointed hat on the empty seat beside her. "We can work in peace again."
"Indeed," Madam Pomfrey agreed, catching the eye of a passing server to order their tea.
"Anything interesting lately?" Madam Pince asked, resting her chin on her hand as she passed the tea menu across the table.
"I believe that Weasley boy—Percy—has formed quite a particular attachment to a certain Ravenclaw girl," Madam Pomfrey said, with the air of someone presenting a gift.
"Penelope Clearwater. A Ravenclaw prefect." Madam Pince nodded, entirely unsurprised. "They read together in the library regularly. A well-matched pair, if you ask me—both prefects, both excellent students, both with a great fondness for books."
"Speaking of Ravenclaw—I've had my eye on Cho Chang and that Hufflepuff Seeker, Cedric Diggory," Madam Pomfrey said casually, handing the menu to the server.
"Really?" Madam Pince's eyes widened. That one had slipped entirely past her. "How did you find out?"
"He came to visit her in the hospital wing after she was injured at Quidditch practice." Madam Pomfrey smiled warmly. "He brought flowers and a box of Honeydukes chocolates. Rather sweet, don't you think?"
"I wouldn't have guessed—they're hardly ever together in the library," Madam Pince said, frowning faintly. "I'll have to ask Rolanda. She sees far more of the Quidditch players than I do."
"Ah, Quidditch players!" Madam Pomfrey sighed, a distant, rather wistful look crossing her face. "There's something about it, isn't there? Racing through the clouds side by side—and both of them Seekers, no less. Chasing the same thing across the same sky. How could feelings not develop?"
It was the Easter holiday, and the warmth of late March had at last found its way into Hogsmeade. Through the tea shop window, they could see a few pale green shoots pushing up beside the front steps. They swayed gently in their chairs, each cradling a favourite blend, pleasantly adrift.
"What of the Seekers in the other houses?" Madam Pince said presently, rousing herself. "Gryffindor's must be your most frequent visitor by now, I imagine. Didn't he come in just recently? Anything out of the ordinary?"
"You mean Mr. Potter?"
"Yes. He's been giving me a headache for two years running—always hovering near the Restricted Section when he has no business there," Madam Pince said, sighing in long-suffering resignation.
"I don't think he's quite grown into himself yet," Madam Pomfrey said mildly. "His happiest visits are probably the ones when Mr. Weasley comes to see him."
"Mr. Potter's closest friends aren't only Mr. Weasley—there's Miss Granger too," Madam Pince said, lifting her teacup. "I see them all together in the library. She has a particular talent for chivvying the other two into doing their homework."
"Oh, yes, perhaps—he did seem rather cheered when she visited him once," Madam Pomfrey agreed, stirring her tea absently.
"That's a very noncommittal answer, Bobby."
Madam Pomfrey glanced around the tea shop, then leaned in and dropped her voice. "Because I don't believe Miss Granger and Mr. Potter are a couple at all. In fact, I've recently come across something that will genuinely astonish you."
"Tell me at once!" Madam Pince set down her cup, her eyes alight. She knew Poppy's expressions well enough by now; that particular combination of barely-suppressed excitement and deliberate restraint meant the gossip was exceptional.
"Slytherin's Seeker—Mr. Malfoy—and Miss Granger," said Madam Pomfrey, and promptly raised her tea towel to shield herself.
Across the table, Madam Pince—entirely predictably—sprayed a mouthful of Darjeeling directly onto it.
"You cannot be serious," she breathed, her eyes wide. It was, for anyone who knew her usual severity, a remarkable transformation.
"I was every bit as startled. It began with Miss Granger's Petrification..." Madam Pomfrey launched into the full account.
Twenty minutes later.
"Merlin's beard—" Madam Pince pressed both hands together, eyes shining. "He gave her the only vial of antidote. The only one! If that isn't love, I renounce the subject entirely."
"And he carried her in himself," Madam Pomfrey said, with the soft, slightly mournful tenderness of someone recalling something lovely. "Young people. They really are something."
"I always took Mr. Malfoy for a rather frosty sort," Madam Pince said. "Haughty. Keeps to himself."
"He was nothing of the sort with Miss Granger—quite the opposite, in fact. You should have heard him speak to her. Patient, coaxing, extraordinarily gentle." Madam Pomfrey shook her head slowly. "That is not normal behaviour for that boy. Something is very definitely afoot."
"And the Malfoys, of all families—with their views on blood status…" Madam Pince shook her head, though she was smiling. "Lucius Malfoy would be absolutely apoplectic. A Slytherin and a Gryffindor would be remarkable enough on its own, but a pure-blood and a Muggle-born on top of it?" She waved her teaspoon in delight, earning a pointed look from Madam Pomfrey.
"Do mind the other guests, Irma."
Madam Pince straightened up and recovered some of her habitual dignity.
"I shall be watching those two very closely from now on," she said, setting her teaspoon down with decision. "If there's truly something going on between them, it will show itself in the library sooner or later. It always does."
---
Meanwhile, the subject of their considerable speculation was in the dungeons, putting the finishing touches on a batch of Mandrake Restorative Draught in Professor Snape's private laboratory. This was the final stage; the potion needed only to simmer to completion, then be set aside to rest.
Draco wiped the perspiration from his brow and allowed himself a quiet exhale.
"Adequate, Draco," Professor Snape said, from somewhere behind him.
Draco's mouth curved slightly. High praise, from Snape.
With the Potions master overseeing the entire preparation, no one in his right mind became complacent—not even Snape's most favoured student. Especially not his most favoured student.
"Were it my work, I would add several leaves of ribwort plantain at this stage of the simmer," Professor Snape said, producing a prepared plate with a wave of his wand and setting it before Draco. "It will ease the fatigue the patients are likely to experience following prolonged Petrification."
"Of course. Thank you, Professor." Draco added the plantain leaves carefully. They rose and sank in the draught, slowly dissolving into the brew.
He watched them and thought, briefly, of how drawn and exhausted Hermione had looked when she first came round. He was quietly grateful for Professor Snape's precision.
This was the thing about Snape. Reading the theory was straightforward enough—but to refine and innovate within an existing framework, to intuit what a potion needed beyond what the textbook prescribed, was another matter entirely.
"I will say," Professor Snape continued, "that your instinct for materials is considerably more refined than one would expect at your level." His expression shifted, fractionally. "With proper guidance—"
"If you can bear to put up with my ignorance, Professor," Draco said, with appropriate humility. He knew this particular dynamic well.
"If you are ignorant, then Mr. Longbottom constitutes a genuine hazard to the discipline," Snape said, with cold contempt. He appeared to recall, at that very moment, Longbottom's most recent practical submission—a ruined, unidentifiable lump—and silently awarded it a zero on the spot.
Snape was not, in truth, difficult to manage. Being a Slytherin got you halfway there; demonstrating genuine aptitude in his subject did the rest. Whatever harshness he reserved for others never quite reached the students who met that bar.
It was the others who suffered. The Gryffindors especially. And of those, Potter and Longbottom in particular seemed to draw his most withering contempt.
The Longbottom situation Draco could understand, after a fashion—a careless student was a genuine liability in a subject where precision was everything. But Hermione? She answered every question correctly, produced meticulous work, and received nothing but sarcasm in return. Every time he watched her flush with indignation after an undeserved remark cost Gryffindor points, Draco felt the distinct and inconvenient sensation that it wasn't right.
The draught was ready.
Professor Snape examined the cauldron with quiet satisfaction as Draco extinguished the flame beneath it. After a moment, Snape asked, almost idly, "I've observed that you've been spending rather more time in the company of Potter recently."
"Yes, Professor."
"Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger as well, I presume," Snape said.
"Yes, Professor." Draco kept his eyes on the cauldron.
Snape never raised a subject without purpose. He was either implying something, or testing something—perhaps both.
"I had believed you more discerning in your choice of associations." When it came to Potter and his circle, Snape's tone took on a particular edge—precise, venomous, final.
"With respect, Professor—wouldn't you say Miss Granger is among the strongest academic students in our year?" Draco replied, evenly.
"She transcribes the textbook with impressive fidelity," Snape said, with dismissive precision.
"Not everyone possesses your particular gifts, Professor," Draco said carefully. "By the standard of her peers, she is genuinely exceptional."
Snape made a sound of cold disdain.
"As for Potter and Weasley—they have a remarkable talent for finding trouble, I won't argue with that—" He watched Snape's expression, gauging it. "But they are not bad people. They've been decent enough to me."
"A Slytherin of any worth reads the room and avoids unnecessary entanglements," Snape said, quietly.
"Naturally, Professor." Draco paused. "Though I've come to think that even the most cunning Slytherin benefits from one or two genuine allies."
"What I observe is an ignorant, arrogant, reckless dunderhead with no capacity for forethought," Snape said, his gaze moving to the now-still surface of the draught.
Draco said nothing. He had more sense than to argue with Snape directly—it would gain him nothing.
Yet something in the evening made him press on—perhaps because Snape's displeasure had been less fierce than expected, or perhaps because the satisfaction of a well-brewed potion had loosened something in him slightly. "Do you know where I first met Potter?"
"I cannot imagine why you think that interests me," Snape said, frowning as he turned away to return the remaining plantain to the cabinet.
Draco ignored him and continued tidying the workbench. "Madam Malkin's. He was wearing Muggle clothes that were three sizes too large, watching the measuring tape as though he'd never seen a magical object in his life. He didn't know how many houses Hogwarts had. He'd never eaten a Chocolate Frog."
He caught the brief, quickly suppressed shadow that crossed Snape's face.
An odd reaction. Draco didn't have time to examine it. "Ignorant—yes, I'll grant you that. He is the most famous name in the wizarding world, yet he knows nothing of his own history. He doesn't even own a photograph of his mother."
Snape's wand stilled for just a moment.
"Are you pitying him?" he asked, his tone precisely neutral.
"No. I'm saying his ignorance has a cause. He doesn't understand the wizarding world or its dangers because no one ever taught him. His recklessness comes from the same place." Draco chose his words with care. "I've been around him for two years now. That's my honest assessment."
He glanced toward Snape, who appeared to be somewhere else entirely for a moment. "The Potter family is one of the oldest wizarding lineages we have. Their only heir grew up without any of that. I find it...sad. I try to point him in the right direction occasionally—before he blunders somewhere he can't get back from."
"It is remarkable," Snape said slowly, enunciating each word, "that a Slytherin should feel so charitable."
Draco gave an awkward half-laugh and let it drop.
He had said enough. Knowing when to stop with Snape was its own kind of skill.
"A Slytherin may, of course, choose his own companions. What he may not do is bring disgrace upon his house, or court unnecessary trouble." Snape's expression gave nothing away. "You're dismissed."
Draco gave a short, respectful bow and walked briskly from the underground classroom, pulling the heavy dungeon door shut behind him.
He did not see the expression that settled over that severe face the instant the door closed—something complicated, and very quiet, that had no name he would have known to give it.
---
The door to the Headmaster's office opened without ceremony.
A figure in a billowing black robe swept through it, and the chill that followed him into the room was not entirely metaphorical. Snape came to a stop in the centre of the circular office, his dark eyes blazing, and said nothing. The air around him seemed to drop several degrees.
"Severus. You made excellent time." Dumbledore sat behind his desk in the great chair, as unruffled as ever, one hand resting on Fawkes's brilliant plumage as the phoenix regarded the new arrival.
Snape stood and radiated fury in silence.
"Well?" Dumbledore's blue eyes studied him through their half-moon spectacles with genuine curiosity, unmoved by the cold fury emanating from the carpet where Snape stood. Fawkes tilted his head in the same direction, as if conducting his own assessment.
"I find myself wondering," Snape said, his voice a low and dangerous murmur, "why that bird hasn't gone bald yet."
Fawkes let out a sharp, indignant cry.
"I take it the conversation did not go as you hoped," Dumbledore said, with the mildness of a man who has already guessed the answer.
"The opposite, in fact. Our young Mr. Malfoy considers Potter a friend," Snape said, biting each word off with barely-contained disgust.
A flicker of genuine surprise crossed Dumbledore's face—there and gone in an instant. He composed himself and said, almost warmly, "As I have always maintained: never underestimate a Slytherin. They occasionally produce the most unexpected loyalties."
"Perhaps I should have shown less confidence in Gryffindor!" The measured cadence of Snape's speech cracked open; the words came faster, harder. "What was it you promised me? You would take care of him. You would take care of Lily's child. And what has come of that? Bullied by Muggles. Ignorant of his own world. Ignorant of himself. You call that care?"
"We were in agreement from the beginning," Dumbledore said, quite calmly. "Premature fame—the weight of legend before he had the means to carry it—would have destroyed him. Given everything, it was the best choice available."
"Protecting him from fame is not the same thing as leaving him to grow up in complete ignorance of magic, of his family, of everything he is!" Snape's voice rose sharply in the quiet room. "No wonder he couldn't answer a single question I put to him at the start of term! I assumed laziness. I should have known better. How could Lily's son be lazy—" He stopped himself. "He doesn't even know what she looked like. He has no picture. That's what your protection has amounted to."
A rare shadow moved through Dumbledore's eyes. He stayed seated, still, but his smile did not return. "That was a failure of my own. I confess I had not anticipated the depth of his aunt's... aversion. Or that she would go so far as to blame the boy himself for Lily's death."
"Don't offer me explanations. I told you years ago what Petunia Evans was—"
"He was alive. He was protected by blood magic. At the time, that was not nothing," Dumbledore said, steadily.
"Alive!" Snape's mouth twisted. "Like a creature in a box—alive, and knowing nothing. Splendid."
"Severus." Dumbledore rubbed his temples and pressed his eyes shut, briefly. "You know how things stood then. The Dark Lord's most devoted servants had not yet been apprehended. Half the wizarding world believed he would return within the year. That any of us were still standing was fortunate."
Snape turned away from him. He fixed his gaze on the dark grounds below the Headmaster's window, his jaw set, saying nothing.
"And I fear," Dumbledore said, rising and moving slowly about the room, "that we cannot afford to look only backwards. Voldemort is stirring. You'll remember last year—Quirrell, the possession, the fragment of soul that remained when the body failed. We've yet to find a reliable means of containing something like that once the host is gone.
"This year's incident follows the same hand. The diary—a vessel, a memory given terrible life—was almost certainly a Horcrux. We may be looking at more than one." He touched the charred and blistered remains of the diary on his desk—he had been studying it for weeks. "According to Harry's account, the version of Voldemort that emerged from it sought immediately to kill him. If other Horcruxes remain, their first instinct, when roused, will be the same."
Snape's pale face went still. He turned back from the window. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that for as long as Voldemort is not truly finished, Harry will never be wholly safe. What lies ahead will be more dangerous than anything before it." Dumbledore looked at him with quiet gravity. "He needs people around him. Friends, not obstacles. Mr. Malfoy included—and Mr. Weasley, and Miss Granger. They are not incidental to this. They matter."
Snape's expression registered something unpleasant, but he did not speak.
"In the coming months, I intend to dedicate the greater part of my time to investigating Voldemort's remaining Horcruxes. It will be a considerable undertaking—I cannot watch the school as I once did. In my absence, Harry will need protection. I am asking you to provide it. As a teacher. And as someone who knew Lily."
A long pause.
"Like a nursemaid," Snape said flatly.
"If you like," Dumbledore replied. His blue eyes were steady, unhurried. He already knew the answer.
"Tell no one." Snape's face was stone. He said it once, turned on his heel, and was gone—his robes sweeping the floor behind him as the door swung shut.
---
On the last evening of the Easter holiday, the boy about to receive Snape's particular attention was tucked into a corner of the library, conducting a whispered negotiation with his two best friends.
"Hermione, please," Ron said, the picture of desperation. "Just let us have a quick look—" Harry, beside him, watched her with the expression of someone hoping for a miracle.
"No. Write it yourselves. That is the entire point of the assignment," Hermione said firmly.
"I'm still eight inches short! Who on earth can write three feet on the History of Magic?" Ron demanded.
"I wrote four feet seven," Hermione said, with quiet satisfaction, and held up the densely covered parchment where they could see—but not reach—it.
Harry noted that her handwriting was also considerably smaller than Ron's.
Ron lunged for the parchment; Hermione pulled it smoothly out of reach.
"I think you two need space to work through this independently." She frowned at them, tucked the essay under her arm with a decisive rustle, and gathered her towering stack of books in the other. "I'm going to find Draco."
Harry and Ron watched her go, then looked at each other.
"I genuinely don't understand," Ron said, staring mournfully at his parchment, "why we have homework when there aren't even end-of-term exams this year."
The other teachers—Defense Against the Dark Arts excepted—had returned from the disruption of the Chamber of Secrets incident with renewed vigour, assigning work at a rate that seemed designed to compensate for lost time.
Professor McGonagall had described this as a demonstration of "responsibility towards her students."
"Hermione said it's preparation for OWLs," Harry said, scratching the back of his neck.
"OWLs! We've got years yet!" Ron looked genuinely horrified.
"At least we're not sitting finals this term," Harry offered.
"Fat comfort when the essays keep getting longer!" Ron pulled his parchment toward him, glowering.
"Come on, let's see what we can cobble together." Harry opened his textbook, and Ron leaned across to join him in the grim work of making three feet of medieval wizarding history sound as though it had been written with genuine enthusiasm.
They were so absorbed in the task—picking through accounts of the Warlock's Convention of 1289 in search of anything vaguely interesting—that neither of them noticed the figure lurking in the shelving nearby.
Madam Pince had positioned herself behind a row of oversized volumes on the History of Magic, skirts lifted slightly at the hem to avoid the tell-tale swish of fabric against the floor. She moved on her toes—with, it had to be said, considerable stealth for a woman of her years—in the wake of Hermione Granger.
Past the enormous history tomes. Round the corner at the Charms section. Along the aisle of Ancient Runes dictionaries. She watched, with growing excitement, as Hermione—still carrying her impractical stack of books—passed through the entrance to the Restricted Section, continued through the adjacent salvage room piled with broken and confiscated magical equipment, and disappeared.
Madam Pince knew precisely what lay beyond. A private study area, maintained by the school governors. Currently reserved for the exclusive use of the young Malfoy heir.
A deep and delighted flush rose on her thin, pale cheeks.
She ducked behind a row of Banned Books, slipped the small hand mirror from her sleeve, and breathed, "Bobby. Bobby, you were right. I've found their secret meeting place."
From the mirror came Madam Pomfrey's voice, smug and immediate: "Of course I was right! I have never once been wrong about these things—"
"Oh, do be quiet, you insufferable woman." Madam Pince tucked the mirror back into her pocket, and—humming a bar of a Celestina Warbeck melody with barely-concealed glee—resumed her vigilant dusting of the nearest shelf.