Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The Harry Potter world and characters are the sole property of JK Rowling, Scholastic, Bloomsbury, and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros, Inc. I make no money from writing fanfiction.

A/N: This fic was translated from the original French by RaeWhit and submitted with the author's permission. "Les jolis pitits dessins" par Lychee. Thanks to my betas Cyrianne (French text) and Amandr (English translation). This is a five-chapter fic that has been completely translated.

Reviews submitted here on HP Fandom are forwarded on to Lychee by the translator.

Harry reread the assignment one more time.

"On the effect of Yokho hair in the development of Japanese potions of the seventeenth century. You will address specifically their use in curative potions, utilizing a precise and carefully chosen example."

Yeaaaaaaahhhh. Yet another instance where he wasn't even going to get half-marks.

He glanced around distractedly. Snape, much like the captain of a pirate vessel, minus the whip, watching over the pitiable slaves chained to the oars, walked to and fro among the students, who stared despairingly at their papers as if attempting to hypnotize them, who knows, but without apparent success. Only Hermione scratched away at great speed. Malfoy wrote with hesitation, throwing an occasional glance at the bastard of a Potions professor.

Arselicker. Nice arse, but still an arselicker. Harry shook his head.

Have to stop thinking about Malfoy's arse. Harry, my boy, I remind you that not only is he your vile, sworn enemy, but that you're going to take your N.E.W.T.'s in a few months. Hmmm?

The Slytherin's behavior, however, was revolting. A good little dog waiting for a bone. The picture dropped a penny in the Supreme Boy Who Lived. Malfoy, sitting up to beg, his tongue hanging out, and Snape, a bone in one hand and a whip in the other.

He stifled a howl of laughter, then bent attentively over his paper when Snape frowned in his direction. Malfoy, on his knees and…. He tried wildly to chase the idea out of his head. Impossible, he decided with a gleeful smile. Malfoy jumping through flaming hoops, standing on his hind feet, all under the whip of the grreeeaaat Tamer Snape, who…. "Ladies and Gentlemen, after having searched the world over for these dangerous Slytherin specimens, here they are right before your eyes this evening, especially for you, in an exceptional spectacle! Your applause, Ladies and Gentlemen, THE GREAT TAMER SNAPE AND HIS PERFORMING SLYTHERIN MALFOY! THE ONLY ACT OF ITS KIND IN THE WORLD!"

BOOM.

Harry fell off his chair. This rather nasty contact with the floor, and the cold, quiet voice of his Potions professor brought him back to earth.

"Even being entirely cognizant of your sizeable gaps of knowledge in the subject matter that I have the great displeasure to attempt to teach you, Mister Potter, I doubt that the mere reading of the assignment was able to make you lose consciousness Twenty points from Gryffindor for acting the clown during an assignment."

Yes, Professor," Harry replied passively as he got up, shooting a dark look at Malfoy, who was sniggering loudly.

Just you wait…

He promptly grabbed a sheet of scrap paper and started to doodle the Slytherin as he had been imagining him, tongue sticking out in front of a Snape pointing at him with a whip. Hmmm. A Snape in a leather outfit, he corrected. Yeah. Not bad.

He wrote the title, "Tamer Snape and his Performing Slytherin", then went on to the next drawing, a wicked smile on his face. Let's see, Crabbe and Goyle on top of each other. Who to put on top? Doesn't matter. He didn't really know which one was which anyway. He titled it, "Study on the Mating of Mountain Trolls", then took a third sheet.

He should have thought of this sooner. He resolved to circulate them post-haste throughout the entire school.

Malfoy Senior and Malfoy Junior curled up at the feet of a Voldie in a pink nightie. He scrutinized his drawing with a critical eye. Hmmm. No doubt this one would be less pleasing; after all, Voldemort had only been dead for two months. All the same, he inscribed the title, "The Price of Power", then took out a fourth sheet of paper.

Malfoy again, hmmm. Harry let his fantasies run wild a little. Malfoy…nude, of course…with…. He wracked his brains. Crabbe, Goyle, yuck. Umbridge? No, he hated Umbridge. That would be too ugly. Why not…Marcus Flint? Yeah. This guy had the mug of a flobberworm, honestly, but great pecs. It would work to just cut off his head a little, and most of the horror could be avoided, but you would still know the subject. This fourth work of art was, of course, entitled, "Intensive Quidditch Training".

He availed himself of a fifth sheet, glancing distractedly at his watch—4:32 PM. Okay. He took up his quill again, thinking of a new way to exploit Malfoy—and especially in which position to exploit him. So, if….

Wait a minute.

4:32 PM??!!

Shi-te. Shi-te. Shi-te. A little over twenty-eight—no, twenty-seven minutes. Shiiiite!

When the bell rang twenty-six minutes and forty-six seconds later, he had barely scribbled out a hasty two sides of a paper. He put down his quill despondently, ran a hand through his hair, then smiled. He gave up rereading it. What's to reread? He put together the measly fruits of his meager work, slid it in with the topic paper, then quickly threw the rest of his stuff into his bag. He tossed his assignment on Snape's desk as he passed by, then followed Ron and Hermioine, heading off with them in the direction of the kitchens to snag something to eat.

***

Three hours later, he was hesitating between hanging himself from the chandelier in the Great Hall or jumping from the Astronomy Tower

Shite. Shite. Shite. SHITE.

He turned his bag inside out for the seventeenth time, searching in vain for three of his four scribblings. Gone.

"Problem?" Ron asked, coming over to him.

"No, not at all," Harry replied in a shaky voice. "Just that Snape has in his hands a couple of dirty sketches I did during the assignment. That's all."

Hermione, Lavender, and Parvati, who were discussing the approaching N.E.W.T.'s with Neville, Dean, and Seamus, all stopped suddenly and turned to them.

"You what?!" exclaimed Ron, incredulous.

"I…drew…some drawings…dirty…especially…of Slytherins…and…they…somehow…got…put…in…my…class notebook," he slowly stated in a stunned voice.

There was a long silence.

The others exploded with laughter while Harry collapsed onto the table.

***

Snape inscribed a large "F" on Neville Longbottom's assignment…at least it wasn't a "Zero"…then sighed as he took up the next one. Who had ever dared to claim that the Gryffindors had brains and knew how to use them? Although, to be honest, the Slytherins were right behind them in this Party of Blunders. But he would have never admitted this to anyone else.

Ah. Potter. He smiled a little. Reluctantly, he opened the notebook and took up the first sheet, noting with astonishment that, for the first time, the brat had managed to write a second, even a third, it would seem. Perhaps he's finally decided to apply himself to his work. It only took scanning through several lines to notice that, No, blah, blah more blah blah. All the same, he took up the second—perhaps he might find an even remotely intelligent remark.

He stared and blinked his eyes. What the..?

The dungeons were witness to an extraordinary event, to say the least. Snape burst out in laughter.

***

It'll all be okay. It'll all be okay. It'll all be okay. It'll all be okay. It'll all be okay. It'll all be okay. It'll all be okay. It'll all be okay. It'll all be okay. It'll all be okay. IT—WILL—ALL—BE—OKAAAAAAY—LORD—I—AM—IN—DEEP—SHITE—HEELLLLP MEEE!

***

It was the end of potions class, and Snape calmly handed back last week's assignments. Harry had not been able to keep his teeth from chattering for the past two hours, and his potion, which should have taken on a delicate, grey-blue tint, instead had displayed an astonishing array of colors. But contrary to what he'd expected, Snape hadn't been any more disagreeable that usual, contenting himself with making life miserable only for the span of time it took to take thirty-nine points from Gryffindor.

At least he didn't get the drawing of himself with Malfoy, Harry thought feebly. That's better than nothing. He shuddered. Only Merlin knew what would have happened if…

"Potter."

PLOP.

His notebook landed with a small smack on the table. He put it away without opening it, not surprising to anyone, as students generally were not in a hurry to acquaint themselves with their dear Potions Master's comments. Three minutes later, the bell rang, and Harry rushed outside, quasi-delirious with relief that Snape had not signaled him to remain.

"Hey! Wait up!" cried Seamus, running after him.

The whole group of seventh-year Gryffindors rushed up to him.

"So? What did he say?" Lavender stomped her foot.

Harry looked at them, sank down on the step, then slowly pulled out his notebook and opened it cautiously. He briefly glanced at his "real" assignment—"F+", oh well, that was better than usual—then grabbed the three remaining sheets.

"He gave them back to you?" exclaimed Dean, perplexed, while the others scrambled for the papers, howling with laughter.

Harry nodded distractedly, scanning rapidly the few lines that graced the fourth sheet.

"Despite a certain talent and a rather appreciable choice of subject matter, it is impossible to deny that your work remains rather sloppy, Mister Potter. Special award for the titles, all in all, judiciously chosen.

"S.S.
"PS: Correction attached."

To the side was marked a large "D".

He seized the fifth and final sheet, and held back a shriek: Snape had drawn it: Harry holding court, an arrogant smile on his face, in the midst of a troupe of animals that had gathered around—a family of bizarrely red-headed weasels, one of which was hugging a beaver with huge teeth, and a cat with square markings around the eyes that Harry recognized right away, along with a purple goat with a looooong snow-white beard and half-moon glasses. The title was simply, "The King and his Barnyard."

"ARSEHOLE OF A…!"

The others all jumped and turned to him with a start.

"What?" asked Hermione curiously.

"Nothing. Nothing at all," he replied, quickly folding the sheet, admitting to himself that Snape was incredibly talented at drawing. "Er…could I have them back? It wouldn't be a good idea to pass them around now that Snape has seen them."

They all reluctantly returned the sheets, making him promise to draw others.

Of which he had every intention.

***

Snape watched absently as students piled up their notebooks on his desk before leaving the dungeon. He should have kept the drawings. They were really quite good.

Well, too bad. He only hoped Potter had experienced the humiliation of his life, and that from here on out he'd concern himself a little more with his class work.

He was quickly disenchanted. Ten minutes later, to be precise. After opening the brat's notebook.

The assignment in itself was as uninteresting as those he had handed in for over six years. The rest less so. He grabbed the first sheet.

"Dear Professor,

"Allow me first to respectfully thank you for having taken some of your precious time to advise such a beginner as me. However, I'd like to point out to you that I did not have the means at my disposal to color my work, and I managed to produce three drawings—four, in fact—I'm sending you the last one that I'm sure you'll like—in a limited time period, while you had practically a whole week at your disposal to draw a scrawny scribbling that, excuse me, while it shows a certain skill of the pencil, is profoundly lacking in quality and audacity of subject. Consequently, I will not be able to go higher than an "D+".

"Sincerely,

"Your student,
"H.P."

Astonished, Snape scrutinized the three drawings that portrayed him. Him.

1. In a half-burlesque, half-sadomasochist position with Draco Malfoy.

2. In a chambermaid's costume, adoringly polishing the boots of Voldemort, who was reading a newspaper.

3. Nude, in bed, with Sirius Black and Remus Lupin.

It took him a few moments to regain complete control of his faculties. To be sure, the drawings themselves were not very risqué. He could count himself fortunate that at least he was still decent, noting in the third that a well placed blanket covered all three of them—yuck—yuck—yuck—up to their waists. But all the same, in the name of God, THE SUBJECTS!!

He thought straight away of taking three trillion points from Gryffindor, then realized that he would have to explain the reason for this severe, although fair, punishment, and then display the drawings, so decided to handle it differently

In a chambermaid's…. Potter was going to pay.

War had been declared.

***

"OH—MY—GOD!!!"

Harry clapped his hand over his mouth, refusing to believe his eyes. He thanked the heavens or whoever was on high that he was sitting alone in the common room—firstly because it had kept him from falling to the floor, and then because there was no risk that anyone would be surprised by the brick-red flush slowly but surely spreading out over his face. It would seem, ultimately, that waiting until 2AM to be entirely alone had been a good idea.

Snape, too, had sent him three drawings: in the first, Harry was obviously having a very good time in between the Weasley twins, done in a very pretty golden-brown tint; the cute little ham sandwich drawn to the side of the caption, "Weasley Sandwich Shop—patrons served in ten minutes flat—left no doubt as to the situation. The young Gryffindor felt himself blushing as red as the drapes in the room. Snape, unlike himself, had concealed nothing. The role that Fred, or George's, mouth played in this story was one of the more disturbing features. He changed position in his armchair, suddenly uncomfortable.

The second, a drawing of Ron and him in the shower, only pulled a sigh out of him, and a prayer that his friend would never see it. He realized that it had never even occurred to him to trash the drawings, and justified this by admitting that Snape really drew quite well, and with great imagination. It would be a shame to...well...okay, whatever.

As for the third, the scene unfolded in the disorder of the Quidditch locker room, inclusive of Oliver Wood, a Golden Snitch, a broom handle, and himself, Harry Potter. Literally choking with embarrassment, he turned the drawing every which way, trying to tell the top from the bottom, wondering idly if certain parts of Oliver's anatomy really looked the way Snape had drawn them, or if they had come directly from the man's imagination. In the first case, he'd prefer not to know from where Snape had gotten his information.

Of course, a little note accompanied the drawings.

"Dear Mister Potter,

"I was pleased to see that, following my advice, you applied yourself to your technique. I'm gratified to inform you that, unlike Potions, you seemed destined for great progress. The choice of subjects, on the other hand, was found to be rather limited—but perhaps this is my own personal point of view—despite an entertaining, though somewhat classic fantasy. Thus I am unable to award higher than a "C", desiring all the same to compliment you on the attention you have accorded to detail: in the second, the lace on the petticoat is exquisite."

Harry snickered.

"Following your advice, modesty a sine qua non of art, I take up for my turn more 'audacious' themes, in your words. I dare to hope that these attempts will bring you some satisfaction, even if the subjects therein remain totally unrealistic. (Honestly, Potter, I doubt you've passed the stage of the chaste, blushing kiss; but chastity is a virtue, it would seem.)

"Sarcastically yours,
"S.S."

"Bastard," Harry murmured.

But he smiled outright.

He carefully put the drawings and note away in the pouch with the others, and went up to bed, already mulling over other possible subjects, including of course, Snape himself. Despite his late night hours, he slept poorly, dreaming of dozens of sandwiches and brooms dancing round him, while very unorthodox things were being done to him from behind.

He got up early to carry his soiled sheets to the laundry.

***

Tap tap tap.

With a sigh, Snape abandoned his book to get up and open the window, noticing with surprise the snow-white owl impatiently holding out a leg, apparently in a hurry to find shelter form the torrential downpour outside. He courteously moved to the side.

"If you please."

The owl jumped inside unceremoniously, then forcefully flapped its wings before once again offering the roll of parchment. Curious, he took hold of it—he rarely received mail—and broke open the seal.

Several sheets unfurled, which looked notably like drawings. He smiled slightly.

"No reply. Thank you."

The owl snapped its beak, and flew out the window, while he settled himself comfortably in his armchair.

"Dear Professor,

"Thank you for the drawings. The idea of a broomstick handle remains classic as ever, but I have never personally imagined such use of a Golden Snitch—without a doubt this subject would merit a more detailed study."

Snape's lips curled.

"Without any intention of offending you, I can only praise your drawing talent, an aptitude that I admittedly did not expect to find in you. But this exciting and amazing demonstration has proved to me the contrary.

"Of course, I'm attaching to this letter several of my own efforts. What's more, I would like to ask your opinion of the third—I have numbered them for convenience. Do you think that L.M's hand could physically find itself in the place where I drew it? Speaking from a positional point of view?

"Best wishes,
"H.P.
"PS: My real sex life if none of your business."

Snape took hold of this famous third drawing, glanced at it, dropped it, picked it back up, took a deep breath, then examined it more closely. Hmmm. The question was rather pertinent and required some thought. After five minutes of complicated calculation, and having removed his jacket, as it was suddenly very hot in the room, he concluded that it was possible. But only with much practice. He was already stripped to the waist by the time he laid the second drawing aside. The third finally convinced him, as a matter of great urgency, to go and take a long, ice-cold shower.

***

Harry yawned for the 162nd time that hour, letting his attention drift to the window. Binns was his usual, captivating self.

Scratch scratch.

A crow, as black as night, perched on the ledge and scratched discreetly on the window-pane. Surprised, Harry rapidly verified that everyone was dozing peacefully, then quickly opened the window situated luckily at the back of the room. The crow extended the scroll it was carrying in its beak, let out a little "croooaaakk" of complicity, then flew off.

The letter was addressed to him. Weird. It was the first time he'd ever seen the bird. And why hadn't it come at breakfast with the rest of the mail?

He unrolled the message, careful not to wake Ron beside him, then smiled when he recognized the scarlet ink. His smile faded, and his jaw smacked onto the desk when he started to admire the drawings. Oh my God. Oh my God. What in the world was Snape thinking in sending this to him in class? He tried to calm down, took a deep breath, gathering up the pages that were scattered everywhere—all it would take was for a student to get a hold of one, and Harry would never dare show himself again—then studied them in greater detail.

God. Oh God. Where had Snape gotten such ideas? Personal experience? Harry felt a strong, sudden attraction for a career in Education. Oh my God.

He felt a perverted sense of embarrassment as heat and blood rushed to his pelvis, and his trousers tightened painfully. Damn him Snape. Why would he send this to him now?

You weren't forced to look at them now, murmured the small, still, ironic voice of his conscience.

He told his conscience to go to hell, and put the parchments in his bag, trying not to think any more of Malfoy doing…while he…. How the devil was this bastard able to so aptly sketch the emotion of orgasm?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

"Sir, can I leave for five minutes?"

"Go on, go on," Binns mumbled while the other students gave him sleepy glance.

Harry rushed for the toilets, putting off reading the note to a little later.