I'd Die for You

Is any of this yours?

The night before the students arrived, Harry had terrible dreams.

The first dream featured Professor Potter in front of a classroom of students and any time one of them raised their hand, Harry was filled with hope that they wanted to answer questions about the Dark Arts. But every time he called on one of them, they had questions they wanted him to answer about his personal life or the war. Tell us how you found the last Horcrux. Does your scar still hurt sometimes? When are you going to marry Ginny Weasley?

The next dream was about Snape. It was a memory, actually. Holding Snape's open neck in his hands, his blood spilling through Harry's fingers like sand, Snape's desperate wish. Look at me.

In the morning, McGonagall gave them assigned seats at the head table and briskly informed Harry with a no-nonsense look over her glasses that the Defense teacher's traditional place was beside the Potion Master's.

When Snape arrived late and took his seat, Harry just wanted to watch him. Watch him breathe, examine the way his scars closed. He felt worried for Snape as if Nagini had bit him last night instead of five years ago.

"Feeling alright?" Harry mumbled and he immediately regretted opening his mouth.

Snape put down the kettle for tea and turned to look at Harry. "Are you alright, Mr. Potter?" He had that indent between his brows that meant he was dealing with stupidity.

"Professor Potter," Harry correct under his breath.

The hours between breakfast and dinner passed much too quickly for Harry's liking and he felt completely unprepared as he was sat down in the Great Hall again with actual students flooding in. He'd spent weeks reading everything Hermione had found for him to read, planning out his entire first week of lessons, carefully thinking about assignments to make them interesting instead of typical essay tasks. But nothing he found in a book could tell him how to dodge the kinds of questions he heard students asking him in his dreams.

Before long, he found himself whispering furtively behind Snape's back to Neville, who was seated on Snape's other side.

"What do you do when they ask questions about the war?"

"Sometimes it's good to just throw them a bone and answer one or two," Neville said, leaning too far into Snape's personal space. Snape glared at the top of Neville's head like he was trying to set his hair on fire. "But then get straight back to the topic at hand, shows you're cool but also not going to let them run the show."

"Of course, why didn't I think of that?" Harry said, truly feeling stupid, and leaning fully back into his own chair.

But there was one other thing he was really afraid of.

"What if," Harry said leaning back behind Snape to talk to Neville this time, because Snape looked at him warningly when he tried the first way again. "What if they say mean things? Like to your face or behind your back and you find out somehow?"

Neville laughed. "You're Harry. Bloody. Potter. They're not going to."

"Alright," Harry said, small.

"Really," assured Neville. "And besides you've always known how to give it right back to them."

"Right," Harry said. "Still, my feelings would be hurt."

Neville laughed at him again. "The Boy Who Lived, ladies and gentleman," he said.

The Sorting Ceremony was seamless. One Gryffindor first year tripped endearingly on his way down from the hat and his house elders came and carried him to the table, which was cheering him on. When the feast began, the energy was as good as Harry remembered it and briefly, he forgot his worries.