"And has it not occurred to you that that circumstance makes his behavior all the more reprehensible? If he genuinely thought you were being... assaulted down here, his invective would be more understandable. As his sole motive appears to be jealousy, however--"
"Jealousy!" Harry gasped. "But he's got a family all ready! What he's got to be jealous of?"
Snape's dark gaze sought his out. "That you might now have loyalty to someone besides your clique of Gryffindors?"
Harry laced his fingers together. "Not might, Professor. I mean..." He swallowed. "Severus. But that just sounds so wrong to me... I mean, I feel like I'm being disrespectful! What kind of son calls his father by his first name? And I know, I know, Professor is just ridiculous sounding, but I've never called anyone Father, and when I try I feel like I've been slammed down into an old-fashioned Muggle novel or something, it just doesn't feel natural--"
"Breathe, Harry," Snape dryly advised. "I think you're putting yourself under too much pressure over the whole matter. Or perhaps it's Draco who's applying the pressure. For my part, I care little what you wish to call me. Other things are of far more import."
"But you said to call you Severus," Harry weakly pointed out.
"I said to consider it," Snape corrected. "It was never my intention for the issue to torment you. I think if you merely give yourself more time, you will find that it resolves itself. A Muggle saying might be apropos... Thebes wasn't built in a day."
"I think that was Rome," Harry murmured.
"Ah. Yes, perhaps."
"Okay," Harry said, feeling more relaxed. Snape was right. He hadn't even been adopted a month yet, so it was probably completely normal not to have it all figured out. "About these ten thousand lines you've assigned Ron, then--"
"Harry," the man interrupted. "Cast your memory back to Christmas day. I believe we are experiencing one of those times we discussed, when we disagree about the best course of action. You have a definite opinion, but with my superior experience, I know precisely what will best instruct Mr. Weasley. I intend to proceed accordingly."
"Yeah, but ten thousand times? Come on! Don't you think five thousand would get the point across? Or two thousand, even? And did you have to assign him such a long, smarmy sentence?"
"It's not up for debate," Snape told him, his tone stern. "I suggest you drop the matter, now." Then, his voice a tad more contemplative, the man continued, "Perhaps we should discuss instead another issue that's been on your mind. Namely, arrangements for what you termed an 'allowance'?"
Harry narrowed his eyes. "Oh, that's very Slytherin. You were saving that, weren't you, for a time just like this, when you wanted to change the subject!"
"Is it so very wrong not to wish to argue with my son?"
Put that way, Harry supposed it wasn't.
"How much money do you feel a rational amount for a young man your age?" Snape pressed.
Slytherin was right... definitely right.
"Oh, fine," Harry gave in. "Let's discuss an allowance."
He could always bring up Ron's punishment again later, he decided. After all, his father wasn't the only one in this family with a Slytherin sense of timing.
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Coming Soon in A Year Like None Other:
Chapter Fifty-Two: Firechat
Comments very welcome,
Aspen in the Sunlight
Chapter 52: Firechat
http://archive.skyehawke.com/story.php?no=5036&chapter=52
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A Year Like None Other
by Aspen in the Sunlight
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Chapter Fifty-Two: Firechat
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With ten thousand lines to complete, Ron had to come down to the dungeons night after night after night. The first few evenings remained as strained as the first. Draco managed not to hex Ron into oblivion, but only by hiding out in his room. After about a week of that, though, the Slytherin boy grew tired of his self-imposed imprisonment. He came out and joined the family, so to speak, doing his lessons at the table right alongside Harry... though he acted like Ron nearby was nothing more than a patch of thin air.
With the school term well underway, Harry's evenings fell into a familiar pattern.
Dinner first, usually with Snape but occasionally alone with Draco. Before Christmas, they'd almost always ordered whatever suits from the kitchens. Now, with some new spirit of camaraderie seemed to be growing between them, Draco suggested they take turns "setting the menu," as he put it. Harry couldn't decide if it was a way for Draco to make sure that Harry was actively practicing what little magic he could--as the Floo had continued to work for him--or if the Slytherin boy was making some other kind of point. Like... he was trying to be less of a complete snob? He wanted to seem accepting of Harry's Muggle background? Harry couldn't be sure. For all he knew, Draco was just in the mood to try a few new foods.
It was sort of interesting to watch his reaction to Harry's picks. For instance, Draco absolutely detested meatloaf. One bite, and he was claiming, complete with theatrical little shudder, that whoever decided steak tartare would be better off cooked should be sentenced to life in Azkaban. On the other hand, he liked pot roast so much that Harry wouldn't be surprised if Draco got it the next time they asked for whatever suits. For his part, Harry found out that gigot d'agneau ‡ la provenÃale was actually pretty good stuff. Escargot, on the other hand, was awful, and not just because it involved eating snails. The things were tough and rubbery, and doused in too much garlic. Harry tried just one that night, and then discreetly hid the others under his salad.
"No subtlety at all," Draco had lamented. "And such a waste of fine escargot."
"You can have them," Harry had offered.
"It's not quite the done thing to help yourself to unwanted food from a dining companion's plate," Draco had explained with a soft laugh at the very idea.
So much for Draco Malfoy trying to be less of a complete snob.
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Even when Snape ate in the Great Hall --at least Harry hoped he was eating there and not skipping meals again-- he arrived home in shortly after dinner. Sitting at the table with Harry and Draco, he would steadily revise all their lessons with them. On most evenings, Ron arrived while they were still doing this. He would sit down at the table without a word, drag out a long scroll of parchment, and taking up the quill Snape left out, get straight to work. After the first few evenings, he no longer bothered to bang his materials around or glare. He just sat there and wrote.
And wrote, and wrote, and wrote.
And wrote wrote wrote wrote wrote.
The same long sentence, over and over, until Harry could hardly stand the sound of that quill scratching along. He couldn't even imagine how Ron must feel.
Sometimes during the evening Harry would glance at Ron out of the corner of his eye to check just what number he had gotten to. Two thousand sixty one... then several nights later it was four thousand five hundred and three...
He'd taken the matter up with Snape again, of course. More than once. The Potions Master hadn't gotten angry with Harry's attempts to interfere --in fact he seemed to tolerate them with fairly good humor, for Snape-- but neither did he budge. Not one inch. Harry couldn't even talk Snape down to say, nine thousand five hundred lines.