Disclaimer: I'm afraid I've yet to acquire any ownership of the Potterverse. I did buy a new car this year so... there's that.

It was Ron's fault really, Harry would tell you.

Whatever happened to result in a cauldron of bubbling potion to be spilled all over, not only The Boy With Nine Lives and his friend, but also half of the potions room, Harry was positive it had nothing to do with him.

Regardless of it being, in his opinion, completely not his fault, he knew he was in for it when he noticed the cauldron the Professor was using also teetered and the usually stoic man was forced to grab the thing to steady it, his black eyes narrowing in on Harry.

Ron of course, had a different perspective. But then, Ronald Weasley always did have a varying point of view from a lot of people.

He thought stealing his father's flying car was a brilliant plan, far less risky than being a little tardy, for instance.

He thought following Harry into the great unknown, tent camping alone with only two other wilderness amateurs with very little food and in the middle of a war, was smart for a teenage boy.

He had decided wondering away from those friends, in the middle of the Forest of Dean, because he was in a snit, seemed like a reasonable response.

And he thought Hermione Granger was a pretty girl before anyone else really did.

Some of his opinions, like the last, catch on eventually. Regardless of the popularity of his opinions, he was sure the spill had been caused by Harry who should have noticed Ron was moving away from the table at the same time Harry decided to return to the stores for more doxie wing. He gulps when he noticed Snape's eyes turn to him.

Unfortunately for them both, Severus Snape does not know nor particularly care what had caused the accident. All he knows is that his two least favourite students are standing in the middle of it when the, both proverbial and literal, smoke clears.

Regardless of his loyalties or his lost love, Snape still has sincere difficulty stomaching the cocky offspring of James Potter and his red-headed side kick with his terrible table manners and face that just begs to be punched. Sometimes, in the years before and during the war, being a spy had been hard. There were days he had to pretend he didn't care about the fate of muggleborns or the evil wrought by the Dark Lord. There were moments he wretched, remembering Charity's face while a snake ate her whole. But then there were days he was able to take ridiculous house points from this bumbling pair in the name of keeping pretenses. Sometimes he longed for those days. Sometimes, no pretense is required.

"You two... incompetent... if you do not clear yourself from my sight in twenty seconds I will make my punishment so swift and sure you will regret you were not born a squib. I reserve my right to inflict more punishment at a later date but for now one hundred points each from your house and DID YOU NOT HEAR ME WHEN I TOLD YOU TO LEAVE?!"

Harry and Ron scramble to grab their books and race out the door, widely side stepping a nearly vibrating Professor Snape, snaking around the table holding the cauldron with his own pet project.

No one was particularly sure why Snape also brewed in his class but it seemed he always had something in process and, by his reaction, it must be incredibly important.

No one notices the slick black hair drift from Harry's shoulder into the brew as he slides around it in his bid to flee the room.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXx

Later, Snape will carry the brew, portioned into single dose serving vials, to the private rooms of a young man on the fourth floor, just off the south wing.

"I was almost concerned. This was my last dose you know."

Severus gives him a withering look. "When have I ever been less than prompt in my duties? To anyone?"

The boy shrugs at him, dark hair flopping across his brow, and says 'thank you' as he closes the door. Across his room, he places the glass containers in a careful row on his desk. Seven vials for seven days. He read a poem once, about measuring your life in coffee spoons. Looking at each single serving, he understands what that means. Each week until this year ends, lined up like soldiers.

Draco Malfoy mock salutes his desk and then falls into bed, grateful for another day finished without anyone knowing who he is or berating him for what he's done.

A/N

Hello again! Welcome to a new multi-chapter. This one is post-war and has no evil wizards; no Dark Arts. Just a little teenage melodrama with some magic to make it interesting. This one is all romance, ladies and gentlemen.

The poetic reference about coffee spoons is from T.S. Eliot and is one of my favorite poems of all time. Do you know it? I referenced that same poem as the title to my last one shot featuring Mr. Filch as a heartbroken little boy.

This story title is a nod to Fight Club for any fellow Palahniuk fans out there. I am Kyonomiko's Fangirling Squeal.

As always, nothing makes my heart sing like faves, follows, and reviews!