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“Thank you for what?”
“For staying out of your hair,” Harry said. “I don’t mean to annoy you, you know.”
Snape’s eyes narrowed.
“Well, most of the time,” Harry emended.
“So you chose to annoy other staff members for a change?”
“Hey, I was minding my own business when Aidan came up and offered me chocolate frogs,” Harry protested. Then he realized how that sounded. “Um, by the way, don’t you think you should take a look at your arm?”
“I flatter myself I would know if it were seriously damaged, Mr. Potter.” Snape worked it a little, winced. “No doubt it’ll be black and blue tomorrow, but nothing is broken.”
“If you say so…” Harry muttered dubiously.
“I do say so,” Snape said. “Is there a reason for your awkward change of subject?”
“Huh?”
“I believe we were talking about Professor Muir,” Snape said airily.
Harry kept a straight face but he was grinning inside. Snape would rather be Avada Kedavra’d than admit to jealousy, but that was what this sounded like to Harry. Then he wondered if he was only hearing what he wanted to hear. That wiped the inner smile away.
“Professor Muir,” Harry said. “Right. He seems like a decent chap.”
Snape snorted.
Harry asked, “How is he at defense against the Dark Arts?”
“How should I know?”
“I’d be willing to bet you have a pretty good idea,” Harry said.
“I know little of the man save his reputation. And his fondness for sweets.”
Harry snickered.
“He came here from Crowhaven Academy in the United States. Prior to that he taught in Ireland. His record is good, he has written one adequate book on the subject of the Dark Arts—”
“Has he?” Harry said, more interested in Snape’s opinion of the book than the book itself.
“It’s in my rooms. You may borrow it if you are interested.”
Harry said carefully, “I’d like to read it if you consider it to be worth reading.”
Snape didn’t answer, so Harry returned to his visual inventory of the shelves. After a while, grinning, he said idly:
“Poison, poison, poison, lemonade, poison...”
He heard Snape’s snort of repressed laughter behind him.
Harry stopped at one jar, its contents a particularly repulsive green, and said, “And this?”
Snape glanced up. “Split pea soup.”
Harry laughed. Snape didn’t raise his eyes this time, only one brow. “Smell it.”
Harry picked up the jar, opened it and took a cautious sniff. “I’ll be damned.”
“Despite what your childhood chums –” Snape’s tone conjured the image of bloodied fish guts rather than of Harry’s friends – “may have believed, Mr. Potter, I neither dangle upside-down from my ceiling, nor lie in a coffin during daylight hours; nor do I drink the blood of my students, though I am regularly—” this through clenched teeth— “tempted to spill it. But I do eat.”
Harry looked at him. “Then may I buy you dinner?”
The pen stopped. Snape looked up slowly.
“To thank you,” Harry said.
“I’ve not cured you yet,” Snape said. Harry put an exasperated look on his face and crossed his arms over his chest, knowing it made his biceps look particularly good (Hermione had told him so; since then he’d been too self-conscious to do it in front of anyone else deliberately – until now).
“Caligula’s?” Harry named one of the finer restaurants in Diagon Alley. “If you like Italian food.”
“Why on earth would you wish to dine with me?” Snape asked, leaning back in his chair, eyes narrowed as if expecting a trick. “Not to mention throwing away your hard-earned galleons for the privilege of spending even more time in my company?”
Harry smiled. “The usual reason. What do you say?”
Snape looked at his desk. His eyebrows rose as he himself rose to what he evidently perceived as a challenge. “Well. I do have to eat.” He looked up at Harry, clearly expecting him to change his mind.
“Do you want to change?” Harry said.
Snape got up. “Perhaps you should as well.”
Harry glanced down at himself, at the rumpled grass-stained Muggle clothes he’d been slouching about in all day. “Oh. I forgot.” He chuckled. “Shall I meet you at the gates in an hour, sir?”
Snape nodded. Harry left, forbearing to whoop until he was far enough away that Snape couldn’t hear him.
* * *
Fifty-five minutes later Harry was at the gates in his best robes, trying not to pace back and forth like a dog begging to be let out.
When a sliver of light from the castle indicated the front door had been opened, he instantly slouched in pretend disinterest against the wrought-iron and watched Snape stride in his usual smooth, ground-eating pace across the grass. His robes glimmered softly in the moonlight; when he reached the gates, Harry realized the fabric was velvet.
“Wow.” He automatically reached out to stroke the front of Snape’s robe, then stopped, anticipating Snape’s glare at his effrontery. “Beautiful.” Then he realized – Snape hadn’t glared at him.
The man wasn’t even looking at him. He straightened his own robes with a small, slightly awkward shrug and said:
“Thank you. I see that you have finally managed to learn the rudiments of appropriate dress yourself.”
But the words lacked sting, and Harry wondered if he was imagining that Snape was a little uneasy. Maybe nervous.
