Chapter Text
Gregory rested his forehead in his palm, staring blankly down at that morning’s Daily Prophet where it was spread out on his desk. He was having a horrible day. A horrible week. A horrible few weeks, really. Everything had been pretty horrible since he’d taken Kingsley’s godforsaken job offer, in fact.
First there had been the ungodly slog of clearing all the personnel for active duty. Then, just when he had the chance to get some good PR for the department with the Malfoy arrest, there was that humiliating break-in. Then the humiliating meeting at Hogwarts, and his humiliating forced recusal from the Malfoy case, and the humiliating dressing-down by the Minister in front of one of his most senior Aurors. And then what, you ask? Then he’d capped off his streak of humiliation by having nine doors slammed in his face over two consecutive days. Nine. Nine Hogwarts Governors had survived the war, and all nine had refused to give him a statement. Though, he supposed, only about three of them had actually slammed anything. One of them had closed the door quite slowly when he attempted to tell her what he was after, and then proceeded to pretend not to be home, while another had actually just left his own house, apparently by floo.
But not one - not a single one - had been willing to speak to him about Severus Snape. A man whom they had allowed Albus to hire despite his record, and they had let teach children for seventeen years, and they had let go with a slap on the wrist for what was obviously a taboo relationship of the most despicable kind. And Gregory was the Head of the DMLE, anyway. You couldn’t just… slam the door.
But apparently the self-serving cowards that oversaw Hogwarts did not get that memo, and when, frustrated, he’d knocked again, one of them even had the audacity to slip him a note under the door that just said, ‘do you think I’m an idiot?’
And no, he did not think that, though he was starting to change his mind.
Sighing, he accio’d the bottle he kept in the cabinet against the far wall. He didn’t like to drink in defeat - particularly not at noon - and generally he preferred to save his good brandy for triumphs, but… there he was, and he had to stay to receive Perkin and Whitestone, and the good brandy was what he had in his office. And he wasn’t planning on getting drunk, anyway. Just… relaxed.
He poured himself two fingers.
After the reception his Aurors had received at Andromeda Tonks’ house, that avenue would have to wait for the proper legal machinery to grind out a subpoena, which he was pretty sure he could manage if he set it out as related to the Malfoy trials. Remus Lupin killed Narcissa Malfoy’s sister, and lived with her other sister, after all. He was relevant, and so Gregory was confident he’d be able to get him into an interview, at least, without raising the hackles of the Minister. Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt, who was clearly in Snape’s pocket, though whether that was due to some misguided wartime loyalty, or blackmail, or something else, he did not know.
He tossed back his brandy and poured himself another.
It didn’t matter. He could handle it, whatever ‘it’ was specifically. Kingsley had still been in the academy - practically a child - when Gregory took up Head Aurorship, and Gregory could take care of him. It was just… surprising… how many other people seemed to be in Snape’s pocket, too. It stretched all credulity. Severus Snape was abrasive, rude, pretentious, and unattractive, and that execution had been gruesome, and he was obviously a sexual predator, and preying on the most beloved figure in all the Wizarding World. So, why were so many people standing by him?
It was mad, though he supposed it should have occurred to him that the Governors would be too frightened of reprisal to speak. Bureaucrats always were. But Gregory Cephous Philip Wagner Gareg the Fourth was not a Bureaucrat at heart. He was a field officer, and he was not afraid. Not of political unpopularity, or Severus Snape himself, or his fiery little reality-bending catamite, and certainly not the bloody Werewolf that tossed Perkin out on his arse.
He was not afraid. He just needed one person to tell the truth. That was all. Just one, and if the Governors would not cooperate, he just had to wait for his emissaries to return from their outings. Whitestone from Hogwarts, and Perkin from the Weasley’s. Molly Weasley had been the only other reporting party during that fumbled disciplinary hearing, and though she’d spoken in defense of the brewing perversion between Snape and her apparently adopted son, she couldn’t possibly feel the same way now. Not when it was so clear that she’d been wrong, and Harry Potter was being sodomized right under her nose.
Surely she would be grateful for the chance to-
Tap tap.
Gregory looked up at the light knock, startled. He hadn’t expected anyone so soon. Maybe things had gone better than expected?
“Enter.”
The door creaked open, and Perkin stepped inside, his back ramrod straight and his eye swollen shut.
“What in Merlin’s name happened to you?” Gregory demanded, and Perkin very carefully closed the door behind him before making his way stiffly to one of the chairs.
“Molly Weasley,” he began, settling himself gingerly down. “Has a lot of sons.”
***
Upstairs in their bedroom, Severus found that in his mere moments alone, Harry had rearranged all of the furniture. He’d moved the bed and side-tables against the walls, clearing the floor, and had conjured a pair of very familiar-looking floor cushions, though he was not sitting on either of them. He was laying on the rug, annotating his list with a pencil.
“How’d it go?” Harry asked, scratching away.
“Quite well,” Severus answered. He’d heard Draco crying from the landing, but certainly wouldn’t say that. He’d stopped over in the kitchen to let Narcissa know, and that was enough. Anything more would be a violation of privacy, and that, at the very least, Draco had earned. Particularly now that he seemed to have clawed his way at least partially out of the trough he’d sunk into. Or maybe he’d been lifted out. By folded paper and white chocolate. “He seemed relieved to have a task, at least as far as I could tell.”
“Yeah, I bet,” Harry said, punctuated the last line, and sat up. “How’s that?” He held out the paper, and Severus took it from him to see a number of new additions in Harry’s untidy scrawl. It startled him, for though he’d read reams and reams of Harry’s writing before, somehow he’d taken to thinking of the delicate script of the bracelet as coming from Harry’s hand. But it didn’t. That was magic, and this…
“This is chicken-scratch,” he laughed. “D.”
“D?” Harry demanded. “Don’t grade my handwriting. Read it for Merlin’s sake. I’m trying to do what we’re doing.”
“Alright, alright,” Severus said placatingly. “Let’s see.”
He looked down at the list. To number one, ‘Severus received three letters,’ Harry had added, ‘Hermione, Rosmerta, ???’
To number two, ‘Severus very suspiciously wrote five letters while I was in the shower,’ he’d added, ‘letters to: Hermione, Rosmerta, ???, Potions Shop, Mysterious Hermit (?)’
To number three, the blank book, he’d added nothing. Number four and five he’d crossed out, apparently having decided that he knew why Severus had gone to see Rosmerta, and now had as much information about where else Severus had gone as he was ever going to have.
Number six, the annoying errand, was crossed out as well, with the addendum: ‘Honeydukes.’
“Very thorough,” Severus said, and conjured a quill, adding, a ‘VII,’ with, ‘Mysterious Hermit, 15/5/98 2pm,’ beside it.
“So… was I right?” Harry asked, sitting up on his knees. “Those were the letters?”
“Yes,” Severus answered. “Shall I make a separate line for your question marks? They are, in fact, the same secret.”
“Yeah, ok,” Harry said, and watched as Severus wrote, ‘VIII: Letter out, letter in, meeting to acquire gift.’ And then, after a moment’s thought, he moved down a line, and added one more. ‘IX: Severus received a letter from the Minister.’ He held it back out, and Harry took it, and read.
“I saw you get that letter,” he said cautiously. “Didn’t I?”
“You did,” Severus answered. “But you didn’t read it, and I think perhaps you should. I didn’t intend to keep it from you, but alas, old habits.” He retrieved the letter in question from his bedside table, where it was laying underneath a blank, secret book, and replaced it with the golden trinkets from his pocket. But he didn’t hand the letter over right away. Instead, he pointed to one of the cushions, and Harry obediently sat himself on it. “You say that you’re confident in your newfound ability to control your magic, and would like to demonstrate,” he began, settling himself on the second cushion, and waiting for a nod. “Well, I would very much like to see it. And I would like you to see this.” He held up the parchment, with the blank side facing out. “But I think it will upset you. So.” He offered it up. “Care to be upset?”
“Oh,” Harry said slowly, taking the paper from him. “Sure. I just… I thought you’d probably do what you did before. You know… pull up something bad on purpose, and do it that way. That's sort of what I did to myself when I…” Severus raised his eyebrows, and Harry trailed off, and blushed. “Except… you said never again. Right. Sorry.” He shook his head a little, and looked at his lap. “No more lies.”
“No,” Severus agreed. “Only secrets, and only ones on the list.” There was one that wasn’t on the list, but he’d add it when he figured out how. Severus is trying to learn to seek justice, not revenge, maybe. Secret number ten. “Oh, that reminds me. The forbidden book is in the top drawer of my bedside table, and I’d appreciate it if you would refrain from going in there at all until otherwise stated.”
Harry grinned crookedly. “Is that an order?” he asked.
“No,” Severus answered, and gestured to the letter. “Do proceed.”
“Ok,” Harry said, and was at once, without so much as a gesture, encased in a golden bubble of light. And yes, that was just the same shade he’d brought into brilliant life in Severus’ mind. Lovely and rich, like the first moments of sunset on a summer day. “So… I don’t think I really need the shield,” Harry was saying. “But I used it last time, just in case I couldn’t control it, so I figured… better be safe.” He looked up from the parchment and met Severus’ eyes through the shifting light, apparently seeking approval.
“Very logical,” Severus offered, and watched as Harry smiled, turned his attention back to Kingsley’s letter, and began to read. And then continued to read, and continued to read, and… nothing happened. No sudden outrage or twist of pain on his face. No reflexive hand to his chest. No crackle of energy around his fingers, or wisps of smoke from the paper. No disturbance of the shield, or damage to the floor. Nothing at all until Harry frowned and looked back up at him.
“Ok…” he said slowly. “But… you didn’t.”
Severus frowned then, too. “Didn’t what?”
“Didn’t do anything illegal to me. I mean, yeah, this is fucked up.” He twitched the paper. “And I’m really glad Kingsley warned us, but what’s the DMLE gonna do? No matter who talks, or what they say, they won’t find anything. Just sixteen-year-old me putting a ton of pressure on you, and you trying to get me to stop. The Gregorgon can take all the blood samples and interviews he wants. I was old enough, and clean as a whistle, and fucking begging for it. So, who cares? It’s not like you can get fired, and he has nothing, and there’s nothing to find. In fact…” The shield dissolved into the floor with a delicate, transient shimmer. “Maybe I should pay him a little visit. Give him what he thinks he wants, and see what he has to say for himself. I doubt he’ll be this obnoxious when I’m right in front of his face. What do you think?” He looked questioningly at Severus, and then cocked his head. “What?”
Severus opened his mouth, closed it again, and then said the only thing he could think of.
“I am… unspeakably proud of you.”
Harry’s eyes crinkled. “Getting better, eh?” he asked, and held out his hands. “No angry sparks.”
Marry me, Severus thought with a little shiver of impatience. “Any pain?” he asked.
“Not really,” Harry answered. “Didn’t feel anything except… you know. Normal-offended dislike-type bad feelings.” He twisted his mouth. “Guess it wasn’t enough, though. Should we try something else? I could think really hard about those DMLE pricks pointing their wands at you, or Draco in those bloody shackles. That might do the trick. Or… I can get out my stuff again. Didn’t even get to the note last time.”
“No,” Severus said. “No, I don’t think that’s necessary just now. Let’s move on to your testimony.”
He’d been worried that might result in a need to vent Harry’s magic by itself, though if the letter hadn’t done it, he had his doubts. After everything they’d been through, Severus’ theory as to what, exactly, caused Harry’s power to flare out of him had transformed from a desperate bit of wishful vanity into something closer to fact.
There was no way to know how he was capable of it, of course, but ‘why?’ Severus had known from the very beginning, really. From the moment Harry’s magic had decided that getting Lupin off of him was more important than preserving Harry’s own body. And despite the sheer unlikelihood of it all, data was data, and if Harry wasn’t instantly and fatally enraged by a letter that contained the phrases, ‘pedophile,’ ‘rapist,’ ‘aggressive vendetta,’ and, ‘will-bending potions,’ there was probably only one thing that could really make him explode, and Severus just wouldn’t do that again.
Simple.
“Do you feel comfortable having me close to you?” he asked. Harry squinted at him, and Severus sighed. “Let me rephrase. Do you feel that you can safely release your magic if needed while I’m within touching range? I will need to touch you to complete the extraction. With my wand, at least.”
“I mean… I think so,” Harry said. “I might shock you, though.”
“Oh, I doubt that.”
“No, as in literally shock you. With electricity.” He wiggled his fingers. “It comes out like that. Sort of… lightning.”
“Ah,” Severus said. “Out of your casting hand, or out of your body generally?”
“Casting hand. Seemed like the intuitive place.”
“And how badly did it burn you?”
“Not… that bad,” Harry answered shiftily, and then, at Severus’ expression: “I swear! I healed it straight away, and it only burned me when it came back. It sort of ricocheted around the shield and back to my hand. Didn’t hurt at all when it came out.”
“Fine,” Severus answered. “Then I might suggest you shield only that hand. Keep it contained, while allowing me free access to the rest of you until we know if the shield is really necessary. If your excess magic manifests the same way every time, I think it likely it will simply seek the ground in order to dissipate. Though I do appreciate your unwillingness to subject me to possible electrocution.”
“Well, yeah,” Harry scoffed. “That would really be a pain if I electrocuted you.” He flicked his fingers open, and a golden bubble about the size and shape of a hobby fishbowl popped into life around his right hand. He laughed. “Merlin, that looks stupid.” He held it up over his head. “I’m a lamp-post.”
“A light in the darkness, as you always have been,” Severus answered dryly. “Now, shall we continue?”
“Sorry,” Harry chuckled. “I’m focusing. Where do you want to start?”
Where to start.
That was the critical question, wasn’t it?
Severus had left Harry’s testimony for last in a calculated effort to reduce the number of events he would have to relive to as few as humanly possible, and he’d done a good job. He wasn’t going to pull a near-death by immolation, nor by killing curse, nor by grief. He wasn’t going to tear out any of his childhood, nor make Harry watch himself ask Severus to stay alive for Draco, nor any of the final battle. Severus had done that to the others, and from Harry, he was going to extract his release from the Malfoy’s cellar, his shielding of Draco in the Room of Requirement, Narcissa lying to the Dark Lord, and his healing of Draco’s arm. And that was absolutely it. Nothing else, and certainly not the worst of what he’d been forced to endure.
No one needed to see that - least of all the Wizengamot and the Press Corps - and if they ended up annoyed that they weren’t going to get a vat of Harry’s awful trauma, they could cry about it to God.
But there was something else he needed, too.
One last nail in Dolores Umbridge’s coffin, if he could get it without tipping his hand.
“I think it might behoove us to begin with a low-stakes trial memory,” he began carefully. “One that is associated with negative emotion, but not so strongly as to cause an extreme reaction. To acquaint you with the sensation of extraction.” That half-truth had worked very well on Ron Weasley, but, of course, Ron Weasley did not wield an intuition so powerful that it bordered on supernatural.
“Like what?” Harry asked. “Not more Lupin.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t think so,” Severus answered, his tone light and musing, treading carefully. “The purpose is not to upset you. Let’s see… How would you feel about one of your memories of Dolores’ detentions? That might be an appropriate mix of stress and distance, and if you respond poorly, I will know to proceed with care.”
Harry looked down at his be-globed hand and flexed his fingers. The words carved into his skin were still just visible, though time had sapped them of most of their color. Even since that morning in Number Twelve, when Severus had first seen them, they were noticeably faded. Nearly the silver they would someday become, as all scars lost their fury over time.
“Yeah, alright,” Harry said. “That’s a good idea.” But then he hesitated. “Is it gonna hurt? It hurt before, but… I was supposed to stop you. And… I’ve never had a memory pulled out before. Does it hurt?”
“It may feel strange,” Severus answered. “But if all goes well, it shouldn’t be painful, no. And certainly far less painful than Occlumency.” He withdrew his wand. “And at your word, I will stop. Your perspective is valuable, but not integral. If this cannot be done without harm, we will leave it alone, and depend on the testimony of others.” Waving his wand, he conjured a half dozen of his little stoppered bottles on the floor beside his cushion. “Let me know when you’re ready.”
Harry made to clasp his hands, but at the last moment remembered the shield, and rested them on his thighs instead, where they half-curled into fists.
“I just have to think of it?” he asked.
“Yes. Think back to the first detention, or whichever is clearest in your mind. It will likely be the first, as surprise can act as a clarifier, but whichever specific instance you choose, picture it in as much detail as you’re able, look into my eyes, and let me in.”
Harry’s forehead creased, and he blinked, and then lifted his gaze.
“Ok,” he said. “I’m ready.”
Severus bottled it. And he bottled the next one, and the next three, and then they were done.
No lightning, no fainting, no shaking, no trouble.
“Just four?” Harry asked, watching Severus mark the last bottle, ‘Potter, Harry: Heals D. Malfoy, invites to sit with allies along with mother.’ That one had been the hardest to capture by far - stretched and fluid in some places, and choppy and compressed in others, and oddly grey like a photo incorrectly developed - but even so, it had been like plucking ripe fruit from a tree. Like Harry’s mind wasn’t troubled at all that Severus was trespassing there, and only wanted to offer up what was requested.
Severus hadn’t ever experienced anything quite like it before, and in drawing out Harry’s thoughts like spun silk, he wondered at his own fear that pointing his wand between Harry’s eyes might feel the way it had before. Back when he’d done it on Albus’ orders - forcing and violating and tearing open - dragging out fear and humiliation and despair in an ill-advised bid to make Harry strong enough to resist the Dark Lord. Back when Severus did not understand that Harry was already as strong as cruelty could ever make him. Back when he could look at a muddled mess of memory and think incompetence instead of trauma.
Back before.
He should have known it wouldn’t feel that way, now. He should have known that running his fingers over Harry’s mind would feel just like touching any other part of Harry’s body.
Welcome. Invited.
Home.
“Just four,” he answered, and Harry looked back at him for a long moment without speaking, his expression pensive like he was trying to tease out a puzzle. But then he smiled, and let the shield vanish from his hand. It had not, after all, been needed.
“I promise never to tell,” he said.
“Tell what?”
Harry leaned back on his hands on the brocade cushion, regarding Severus from under the mad cascade of his hair. “How kind you are.”
“Kind?” Severus asked back. “No need to keep that a secret, Mr. Potter. No one would ever believe you.”
Harry just laughed, stood up, and bent over to kiss the part in Severus’ hair. “You go ahead and tell yourself that,” he said, and then lifted Severus’ chin to kiss him on the mouth. “Thank you. I was scared, too.”
Severus searched his eyes, wondering if what he’d felt while contemplating drawing and quartering Harry’s mind for Draco’s benefit had been fear, and decided it had been. But before he could think of what to say about that, there was a gentle rap on the door, and Narcissa’s low, musical voice from out in the hall.
“Gentlemen? Do you have a moment?”
They looked around, and Severus answered, “come in,” just as Harry said, “we’re decent,” and Narcissa poked her head inside.
“Excellent. You’ve a-” she stopped short, apparently at the arrangement of the room. Or, perhaps, at the sight of Severus sitting cross-legged on a decorative pouf with Harry standing over him. “...Fire-call in the parlor. Shall I… tell them to try again later?”
“No, we’ve just finished,” Severus answered, making no move to rearrange himself, but instead curling one hand around Harry’s calf, urging him a bit closer. “Who is it, the Minister?”
“No, it’s Bill Weasley.”
“Oh, is it for me?” Harry asked, sliding his fingertips up the back of Severus’ neck, over the scratches, and into his hair. The touch was casual - comfortable - and goosebumps cascaded down Severus’ back like they’d been dragged out of his very soul.
He rested his temple against Harry’s side.
“For the pair of you,” Narcissa clarified. “He told me it’s important, but not urgent.” The corner of her mouth twitched, and she clasped her hands. “I can let him know you’re… indisposed. He seemed rather prepared for that. In fact, when I told him you were upstairs, his exact words were, ‘oh, mercy, I’ll come back in two hours, shall I?’”
Severus rolled his eyes and lifted his head. “Tell him five.”
***
“Well, what a delightful surprise,” Severus began, sweeping into the parlor to see Bill Weasley’s disembodied head hovering in Harry’s fireplace. Bill Weasley’s very handsome, very un-mutilated head. “My, look at you. The return of prince charming.”
“Yeah, I’m still getting used to it,” Bill said, turning his still rather lop-sided smile onto Harry. “Hullo, Harry.”
“Hey,” Harry answered. “Everything ok?”
“Everything’s fine. Mind if I come through?”
“‘Course not. Come on in.”
“Great. Can’t stand kneeling on the bloody floor. Just a mo’.” The head disappeared with a flash of green flames, and Severus turned towards Narcissa.
“Warn Draco there’s a visitor, will you?” he asked, and when she nodded and departed, looked back to Harry. “Be aware that this may be about Remus.”
“Remus?” Harry asked. “Why?”
“Bill might have-”
“‘Preciate it,” Bill announced, striding out onto the carpet and brushing a small cloud of ashes off of his clothes. “Merlin. Got any scotch open? I just knocked the teeth out of a plain-clothes Auror.”
There was a silence.
“Preference for age?” Severus asked.
“How many teeth?” Harry asked.
***
Two teeth, and right in the front. But the Ministry Healing Staff could take care of that in a trice, which was precisely what Gregory told Perkin when he sent him to the infirmary to get cleaned up. That, and that there was no need to file any charges, or make any reports, or create a paper trail of any kind. And it was Perkin’s fault, anyway. He was an experienced Auror, and he’d taken the job laterally from the Hit Wizards, and he should have known better. Should have been more cautious in his phrasing. No one dared assault a uniformed officer, but ‘off-duty,’ and, ‘not appearing in any official capacity,’ he was just a Wizard, and one violating a direct order from the Minister. And, apparently, violating the strongly-held opinions of the Weasley family. And that, Gregory had not been prepared for.
The Weasley’s were all Gryffindors - every single one of them - and Snape had personally disfigured one of their sons, and had been wanted for the murder of the matriarch’s brothers back in eighty-one. He’d terrorized them. But somehow Snape had either earned or stolen their protection, just like he had with the Minister. And based on Perkin’s face, Gregory was leaning towards ‘earned,’ though he couldn’t imagine how.
Fear? Fine.
He touched the scars on his face. Two fingers, as was his habit - the index and middle - as they fit perfectly into the furrows. Just perfectly, like he’d been clawed by a demon.
Fear was logical, and Gregory could understand it. Severus Snape was an intimidating man, and was associated with a veritable laundry list of homicides that either had not stuck, or were swept under the rug. Not that Gregory was intimidated, of course. Because he wasn’t. But, ‘fuck with Snape and Harry again and you’ll regret it,’ coming from a twenty-eight year old Gryffindor war vet? ‘Come back with a warrant, or a fucking Imperio,’ from the widower who’d personally tried to get Snape arrested less than two years prior? Or, Merlin help him, that statement from Albus back during the first war: ‘Is Severus Snape a Deatheater? Goodness, no. I’d stake my life on it, and have done, and will again.’ And that bloody twinkle, like even he knew it was bullshit.
That wasn’t fear. That was loyalty, and it didn’t matter if it was justifiable or not. If it was strong enough to knock out Perkin’s teeth, he had to let it go.
Just let it go, and focus on Whitestone. She was due back from Hogwarts any moment, and she’d always been a surer bet, anyway. She was smarter and more polished than Perkin, and Minerva McGonagall was certain to be sympathetic.
Yes. Minerva.
She must feel terribly guilty, allowing such a thing to happen to a student right under her nose. Surely she had no allegiance to the kind of disgusting, immoral lunatic that would return from a circle of Deatheaters and straight to the little boy in his bed. Surely she would cooperate. Surely she was speaking right at that moment - ushering his emissary into the Hogwarts potions laboratories - opening doors, and turning out documents. Surely Whitestone would return any second with a ream of evidence. Yes, there was no other possibility, and once she’d returned, he’d know how to proceed.
He just needed some good news. Any good news. Any open door. Any lead that led anywhere but a brick fucking wall.
And surely, one was imminent.
Surely.
***
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN SHE ASKED FOR A WARRANT?”