The Path Chosen

by darsfanfics7

Summary:

SEQUEL to Two Weeks! With the knowledge of his fate weighing heavily on his chest, Harry is struggling to cope with his latest revelations as he is plunged into his sixth year at Hogwarts. Meanwhile, a certain Potions Master, now Defense Professor, is hellbent on finding a solution. The two wizards had never seen eye-to-eye, but that is coming to a change as the two must co-work and conspire against more than just the Dark Lord now. But with both of them burdened with their past mistakes and trauma, the path they have chosen will not prove easy.

But maybe they will not have to venture it alone. At least, not anymore.

So, it begs the question: will they succeed? Will they overcome the many obstacles thrown in their way by this damned war, where the battlefield is a chess board, and they are two mere pawns, played by the two most feared and powerful wizards of the century?

Will they find life and solace in their mere existence?

Chapter 1: Some Days

Notes:

Well, here it is! The sequel to Two Weeks!!! If you haven’t read Two Weeks, not much of this will make any sense, so go and check that out if you’re completely new here. Additional information is that this story will PROBABLY cover HBP and DH (yes, Snape WILL live, dw. Who do you think I am?).

With all that said, I really hope you like it and stick around:))) Enjoy the first two chapters:D

 

August, 1996.

 

The Quaffle soared; it sailed a hair out of Fred’s reach and right through one of the goalposts, which had been erected earlier this morning. 

 

“Six-three!” cat-called Ginny triumphantly, soaring overhead. But she was rudely interrupted by a Bludger coming within inches of her. Seconds later, Ron appeared. He swung his club and scored a bit of a clumsy hit on the savage ball. 

 

Harry dodged it with a slight swerve on his broom. His eyes were still seeking out that illusive Snitch — easier said than done against the harsh sunlight, that is.

 

They’d been at this since lunch, a game of pseudo Quidditch. Consisting of only two Beaters/Keepers (the twins), two chasers (Ron and Ginny), and a Seeker — Harry (of course), the game was quite wonky. They’d had to find a workaround for the small snag of the lack of a second Seeker. Ron had proposed that Harry just swap teams every few rounds, while George had suggested dropping the Snitch from the game altogether and for him to be an extra player on just one of the teams.

 

They’d ultimately settled on Ginny’s idea, though, that Harry remain Seeker, but switch to whichever team scored a goal last. Harry thought it was brilliant.

 

Currently, he was on George-Ron’s team.

 

The country-side air smelled of late-August heat, though the temperature was bearable with the wind raving against the body as Harry and the others soared on their brooms. Below the game sat Hermione, engrossed in a book in a tree’s shade. Just to the right of Harry stood a crooked house of many levels in all of its glory. The Burrow. Life at the Burrow was great. And Harry had missed it with all of his soul. He had missed this. All of this.

 

Today was a rather typical day. A Sunday, when the twins were off work in their shop and could contribute to a game. But lately, all days felt typical to Harry, often without change and yet each always different. It didn't make the slightest bit of sense, so Harry couldn’t explain it even if he tried. Some days, it felt like the time passed in a breeze, spent outside in a game of quidditch. 

 

Much like now… 

 

“Ron, do you know how to aim or did Auntie Muriel pass down her vision to you!?”

 

Harry was snapped out of his thoughts. While Ginny and the twins were roaring it up with laughter, Ron was quickly turning a fantastic shade of scarlet that matched his hair almost impeccably. 

 

“Oi! Not my fault it’s so bloody sunny—!”

 

“—Language, Ronnie-kins!” chided one of the twins, grinning. “Wouldn’t do to let mum hear you using such unfriendly words.”

 

Ron made a particular hand gesture at them.

 

…However, some days, it felt like minutes lasted hours and hours days. On such days, Harry avoided any interaction and sought solitude.

 

Most days passed relatively alright. But then there were some… some nights when Harry felt like he was locked in a suffocating room. Sharing one with Ron with Harry’s nightmares was an experience. Thankfully, that Silentium Locus spell he’d discovered earlier this summer was a very versatile spell, for Harry could cast it over an area around his sleeping mattress, not just the entire room. It was, perhaps, his only salvation now. 

 

It didn’t used to be like this though — before, Harry had had that potion that repelled bad thoughts and memories to the back of the mind, the one Snape had given him. It was supposed to last him until the end of summer, except Harry had doubled-down on it and started drinking it throughout the day, too. 

 

It went without saying that that flask of potion now lay empty.

 

He knew he shouldn’t have, but he had succumbed to the temptation anyway. Thoughts often plagued him, the same monotonous ones, ever-persisting. They resurged every time he sat down to breakfast, lunch, to dine with the others, or whenever his mind had nothing else to pick at. They resurged every time he was caught laughing or enjoying himself, or merely holding conversation with anyone — in these rare moments, seldom as they came, he was forced to put up a pretense. A mask to mask this constant feeling… this same, dark, oppressing thought that sprouted all other thoughts…

 

It was the fact that his body was not his own, but a vessel. The fact that every time he ate, that unspeakable thing inside him feasted. That every time he laughed, the monster inside him knew it ; that it could sense it . A shard… A fragment…

 

His actions could not even be considered his own. Nor were the breaths he drew every second to keep himself alive. 

 

So long as he lived, the fragment lived. Voldemort lived.

 

He was contaminated.

 

It was times like this when he wished Snape hadn’t told him anything. Perhaps he would’ve been better off ignorant of the truth.

 

And as if that wasn’t bad enough, just… everything in general, particularly gatherings like meals, often felt oddly strange to Harry. 

 

The entire Burrow always gathered at the table, three times a day, in convivial conversation over Mrs. Weasley’s scrumptious cooking. Of course, Harry was also always there, but that was contradictory to how he felt. Physically, he was there, but just not… It was difficult to describe.

 

He felt like an unwanted burden, having nothing rooting him to anyone. A missfit. Hermione had her parents; the Weasleys had one another…

 

Meanwhile, Sirius was dead and the Dursleys had disowned him. Dumbledore was his legal guardian now, but that was but a formality.

 

Harry oftentimes caught himself on these mundane thoughts, and even told himself that they were just ridiculous. Even the Weasleys had assured him:

 

“You no longer have to go back to the Dursleys?” Ron had exclaimed in all his excitement. “That’s brilliant, Harry! You’ll just live with us from now on!”

 

“Oh, that he will,” Mrs. Weasley had asserted, setting down a large pot of stew on the table. She’d wiped her hands on her apron and walked over to Harry, cupping his face gingerly in her hands. “To do such a thing to such a lovely boy… Those Dursleys are just cruel people. They didn’t deserve you anyway. Well, don’t you worry, dear. We’ll take good care of you.”

 

Hermione had also piped up. “But that was a very smart move on Dumbledore’s part, Harry. If he’s your official legal guardian, the Ministry will definitely think twice before trying anything. The Death Eaters, too.”

 

“It’s just a formality though,” Harry had shrugged indifferently.

 

Those kind words meant the world to Harry, and yet, they just didn’t seem enough, and it felt as if nothing ever would be. He still felt like an outcast, and he hated the feeling —  as if he were a piece of kelp, unanchored to anything or anyone — a home or family — and drifting wherever. 

 

Consequently, there were nights where sleep simply eluded him like the plague, or these thoughts roused him from an uneasy sleep. As of yet, he hadn’t woken Ron up with his stirring, but that was due to two factors: one — Harry always made sure to cast Silencio on himself every night before bed; two — Ron slept like a log. It was actually hard to wake him, not the other way around.

 

So, these nights, when Harry found himself restless, he silently snuck out of the house in nothing but his pajamas and trod his way to that little hill just beyond the wards, situated at the very edge of a small tree growth.

 

He sat there for however long it took for his trembles and hitched breathing to subside. What was more pathetic was that he sometimes closed his eyes and envisioned the few times Snape had found him during one of his fits and how he’d helped him through his wretched state. It was beyond weird, Harry knew. But strangely enough, those memories, the sound of Snape’s deep, monotonous, smooth voice, paired with his attempts at doing those Occlumency exercises, always sufficed to calm him at least marginally.

 

And eventually, his trembles subsided.

 

They always did with the promissory break of dawn. A relief. Some mornings, the tranquil silence of the early morning found the Gryffindor sitting on the small hilltop overlooking the Fields and the crooked house a little later into the morning. It was just slightly beyond the wards’ reach, so Harry assumed it was relatively safe… No one knew, all slumbering still, and they never would… But every time, he was still diligent enough to head back inside before anyone woke and announced him missing.

 

Though some mornings on that hilltop, Harry couldn't even stand the silence that seemed to amplify his thoughts. 

 

It was really such a hit-or-miss at this point — like a slumbering, temperamental dragon.

 

Some days, he, Ron, and Hermione endeavored to do their homework, which worked as a swell distraction. It was all involuntary work, of course, as Hermione always pressured them into it, saying, “You will be cramming that essay in five minutes before arriving at Hogwarts, and I doubt Professor McGonagall will appreciate deplorable penmanship”.

 

Ron half-assed his essays as much as humanly possible, but also not too much, so that it met Hermione’s standards when she proofread it.

 

Surprisingly, one evening, Hermione had deemed his Charms essay acceptable on her first check, only pointing out a few grammatical mistakes. This was unusual, for it usually took Ron several attempts before Hermione approved of his work. When the girl had handed back his essay, she’d only said, “It’s actually quite well-written, Ron.”

 

Ron had beamed smugly and shrugged innocently. Later that evening, he’d whispered to Harry, “I’ve learned Hermione’s writing style. She’s more likely to approve of writing that’s similar to her own. Bloody smart, ‘ey?”

 

Harry never took such days for granted.

 

Though some days, the relative ‘peace’ was shattered by new issues of the Daily Prophet, delivering more grim news in the headlines of the havoc the Death Eaters continued to wreak, such as stories of disappearances and death. Sometimes, they even knew of the news before it had yet even reached the Daily Prophet, courtesy of Mr. Wealsey and Bill, sometimes Remus Lupin — with whom Harry exchanged scarcely any conversation.

 

It was not that Remus was withdrawn from or cold-mannered towards him, but rather that Harry felt this constant thick fog between them — his very own fog of guilt over Sirius’ death. He and Remus had yet to bring up the topic, which both seemed to be avoiding. 

 

“There have been another couple of dementor attacks,” the werewolf had announced on a day of visit. “And they’ve found Igor Karkaroff’s body in a shack up north. The Dark Mark had been set over it — well, frankly, I’m surprised he stayed alive for even a year after deserting the Death Eaters; Sirius’ brother, Regulus, only managed a few days as far as I can remember.” 

 

This news had made an uncomfortable pit settle in Harry’s stomach. An unbidden thought of Snape swam to mind — a hypothetical scenario wherein in Karkroff’s stead was the professor’s head, discovered of his double-role and spying. He couldn’t help but wonder about it with dread sometimes, oftentimes an anxious hand squeezing his stomach. It was an unsettling thought that, every day, the man was putting his life at risk, lying and deceiving Voldemort.   

 

He often thought of the professor, of all that had happened in those two torturous weeks, and of what was to come. He wondered if he’d started looking for a potential solution, or even started researching Harry's… problem yet…. He also wondered if there had been another Death Eater meeting, and if Snape was… well, whole . At that unpleasant thought and memory of an unconscious Snape prone on the floor, Harry always swallowed uncomfortably. His only measure of solace was that he hadn't had a vision of any Death Eater activity yet, so it was most likely just his paranoia.

 

Though it honestly felt like the calm that always came before and after the storm…

 

But on such thoughts, he knew better than to dwell.

 

Then there was also Mad-Eye Moody and his weekly dueling lessons.

 

Special wards had been set up around the Burrow by Dumbledore to conceal underrage magic usage. So, twice a week, Harry and Mad-Eye went out into the orchard and practiced dueling for a few hours. 

 

Things weren't too bad, Harry would say.

 

Matter of fact, he found it a relief that his magic had more or less normalized. He could perform standard spells alright again. It fluctuated at times, however. Harry felt like his magic was riding some kind of roller coaster — after a particularly nasty nightmare or stress, his magic always visibly regressed, and this, consequently, showed in his dueling performance later on.

 

Though Mad-Eye never said much on the subject.

 

“Ay. Need to sleep better, is all, Potter... It’s the wretched heat, that’s what it is… Gotta keep your head sharp. But you’ve got good potential, there, boy. Aspiring Auror indeed.”  

 

He was extremely grateful that Dumbledore hadn’t told the Wealsey’s about his magic’s regression over the summer. Harry preferred that it remained that way. There would only be more questions he would have to prevaricate. It was already enough that Ron and Hermione still sometimes tried to pry answers out of him about what had happened to him over the summer, even with seemingly innocent and nonchalant questions. Even after Harry had told them several times that he wasn't allowed to say.

 

But despite these occasional snags in his magic, Harry rather enjoyed these one-on-one magic lessons with the retired Auror. Whenever they weren’t dueling, Moody was showing him tricks and tactics, even trying to teach him a few useful spells. 

 

…

 

Harry and the others continued to play their pseudo Quidditch until sunset, when Mrs. Weasley called dinner. Hours later that same evening, Harry was ruminating on all of this sitting on the windowsill, chin and cheek resting on his knees and vision unfocused. Stars above twinkled brightly… His thumb and index finger were absently twirling his glasses by one of the temples. 

 

They would be off to Hogwarts within a bit over a week; but first, Harry and the Weasleys would go to Diagon Alley to buy supplies and, more excitingly, visit the Weasley twins’ Wizarding Wheezes. Harry had never been. By what little news the Twins had told them (“Wouldn't want to spoil it for you, would we?”), it was clear to anyone that business was booming and that they’d hit the ground running with it.

 

Harry yawned, stifling it so as not to wake Ron (though he doubted it would be heard over the sound of his snores anyway). His eyes were stinging, yet he had no wish to go to sleep. 

 

Though he knew he had to, lest he wished to be a zombie tomorrow.

 

Harry glanced at his mattress on the floor, then back up at the clear night sky. His heart nearly skipped a beat when his eyes made out the Sirius constellation. It ached with longing, with that same bitter hollowness...

 

Indeed, grief still trailed after him, following in his wake like an ever-present shadow that felt like they could unnaturally form even from the small flames burning on candle wicks. Grief… It was a suffocating feeling; a punch in the gut, constricting his chest and knocking the breath out of him every time a reminder sprang to his mind. 

 

Some days were a struggle, some a relief. Some days passed quickly, others stretching on for longer than twenty-four hours.

 

Harry was eagerly anticipating the return to Hogwarts, perhaps in the hopes of distracting himself with mounds of homework and studying… And perhaps something else he was looking forward to. A familiar face, perhaps to talk to; to discuss the heavy burden that continued to plague him, making his insides and body feel contaminated. 

 

Frankly, that person was the only one he could discuss this problem with.

 

Had Snape yet found a way to remove Volddemort’s soul from Harry?

 

Had he abandoned the quest?

 

Did he ca… did he still care?

 

These thoughts eventually put Harry into an uneasy sleep. 

 

~***~

 

A heavy tome fell with a dull thump against the wood. The whole desk trembled. Severus hunched over it on his palms, his fingers curling in, scraping the polished surface.

 

Nothing .

 

Nothing in Age of Darkness of the XVI Century or in The Soul Merging of the Great Barnabacus , nor in any of the other tomes Severus had already scrounged through for information. Nothing. A void. Not a single inkling or mention of anything even relatively   close to what he was looking for. 

 

It had been nearly a month .

 

Defeat clashed with frustration. Severus abhorred this feeling of helplessness. Useless. Incompetent. He should have been able to find something by now, yet to no avail…

 

Every day felt the same to him, the same monotonous, fruitless search for something so unprecedented as this… 

 

Some days passed in the blink of an eye, some stretching on for endless hours.

 

Some days, Severus didn’t leave his study, finding himself engrossed in discarded tome after discarded tome.

 

Some days, he brewed Hogwarts Infirmary orders. On other days, he composed and planned DADA lessons, pouring over the Ministry’s curriculum mandates…

 

Some days were a struggle where he felt like he could pull his own hair out, the wretched state that he felt he was in. No solution — not one — for that soul fragment residing in the boy. 

 

But he adamantly refused to despair, for that was for the weak; he refused to accept that there was no other solution than for the boy to…

 

But what else was he left to do?

 

Severus had already tried searching the Malfoy library at the manor, had been through some of the rare texts and tomes that the Dark Lord treasured. It went without saying that he’d already been through the Hogwarts library’s Restricted Section, too, though he hadn’t looked with much hope. After all, what were the chances of him finding something in a school library when there had been nothing even in entire archives of ancient and illegal books on dark magic at Malfoy Manor?

 

Potter’s case was an even bigger enigma than Severus had imagined it to be going into all this research.

 

He’d mostly concentrated his search on souls and dark rituals. He’d even researched the bloody dementors, given their soul-sucking capabilities.

 

Nothing.

 

You aren’t trying hard enough, swam a voice through his head. Lily’s voice. Severus’ eyes sprang open in startlement.

 

Failure… Incompetent…Swore to protect…

 

Those words continued to plague Severus’ mind, day and night, night and day. Often in the form of nightmares. Peaceful sleep came seldom these days, and Severus had had to double down on the potion he’d brewed for Potter during his stay here. He hadn’t had a name for it before, but the potion that repelled unsavory thoughts and memories to the back of one’s mind was now called ‘Celarium Umbras’. 

 

Severus’ mind, consequently, strayed to the bespectacled, green-eyed predicament. 

 

Genuinely, he wondered how he was coping. He wondered if the Celarium Umbras potion he’d given him was proving effective, or if the boy had had any more visions since his departure. He wondered how his magic training was going… 

 

Some days, more often than he would’ve liked to admit, the Slytherin’s mind strayed to the boy, mulling over that strange fortnight they’d spent together. 

 

Some days, it felt like time was escaping him — like morning turned to evening and night compensated for the lost afternoon, dragging on for endless hours. Often, he even anticipated the distinct sharp burn of the Dark Mark, — there hadn’t been one since some few weeks ago. Another should be on the days now… 

 

Each day, he dreaded it. It felt something akin to watching a blade that was promised to fall, his neck placed on the execution bench. His body felt contaminated with the tattoo’s dark presence. As if there was a dirt stain he just couldn’t seem to wash off. This connection to the Dark Lord — a constant reminder. 

 

The fact that he’d chosen such an unchangeable path felt suffocating.

 

Some days, he felt like he had no purpose. What use was he? A failure, if he was unable to save Potter… Harry… Lily’s son… the boy— whoever the teen was anymore... It was driving him insane. These thoughts, these ruminations, these what-ifs.

 

On such days, he felt like he was drowning, failing to keep his head above the rising water.

 

Severus heaved a heavy, tired sigh and rubbed his eyes with his fingers, still leaning on his desk. He’d be if he hadn’t yet exhausted every book he owned on the Dark Arts… Throwing a shrewd glare at the heavy, dark leather-bound tome lying on his study desk (one would have thought the book had committed an unforgivable offense against him), Severus sank into his high-backed chair. It groaned. With a complicated wand gesture and incantation, he summoned a dark-gray journal from one of the drawers. The man pursued its pages, the other hand’s fingers tracing mindlessly over his lower lip in thought. 

 

Soul fragment… Dark Lord… Potter… The Killing Curse… Sacrificial magic…

 

Mind maps, notes, suggestions and random spurs of epiphanies and ideas were all scrawled in this research journal of his. Some days, he sat here and stared at its scribbled pages, the ink on his quill drying as his eyes searched for something that wasn’t there on the pages. Much like they were now.

 

But he had to persevere. He had to prevail. There had to be something out there that would solve this predicament. Even if it were some dark ritual or magic, Severus would make do of it. He would research the magic, look for ways to alter it — he only needed something to go off of.

 

The man suddenly rose and approached the window, curtained but the monotonous neighborhood street outside visible through a small slit.

 

Hogwarts would be back in session in a few days.  

 

He’d come to the conclusion that he would need to conduct research, possibly even ‘experiments’ on the boy, possibly through means of assigning him ‘detentions’. Such a feat should not prove difficult — it would only benefit Severus’ cover. 

 

Severus felt a heavy weight in his chest, as though one of those oppressing clouds overhead had accumulated in it. This weight was pressing him, urging him to move; to find a breakthrough. To see results, to see that his efforts were not in vain, that Lily’s son would not share the same fate as his mother had — a willing sacrifice.

 

A sheet of cold caressed itself against his body at the thought.

 

This year, Sevrrus could tell, would be his last at Hogwarts. He was no deluded fool. Dumbledore had less than a year to live, and when Severus would carry out that deed… Well, it was evident that he would not be returning to teaching Second Years Defensive spells the following September.

 

A sudden sound— thunder rolling in the distance. A storm was coming. It was only a matter of when it would strike.

 

One could only estimate such an unpredictable thing… 

 

And the Slytherin knew he had to hurry before it did.

 

Because time was of the essence.

Notes:

This chapter was a bit of a summary/overview of everything, just to establish the starting point of the story and everything that’s been going on. I dont want to focus too much on the rest of Harry’s summer, as i feel like there’s been enough of that, haha. With that said, we’ll be off to Hogwarts soon enough;)

Updates are going to be pretty inconsistent, as I have school and stuff and a beta reader now. I mostly work on this when I’m in bed, pretty much until my eyes droop shut of their own acord, heh. And on the weekends… Some chapters are going to be pretty small, some bigger. But I like the idea of smaller chapters (≈4k words) because they are easier to write, follow, and more enjoyable (at least in my opinion). Some chapters might even be under 2k words. Idk, honestly.

But I do guarantee updates until the story is finished, so you don’t have to worry about me disappearing into nothingness. Some updates might be a few days apart, some weeks. Really can’t say. But I do value quality over quantity and my love and psychological need for severitus is here to stay, so yeah:)

Another thing…. Yes, this fic will have romance in it, but only what’s canon. I will be expanding on the canon pairings a bit though (Ron/Hermione will be in the background, but Harry and Ginny will be a bit more of a focus, though still in the background). I want to add that I don’t like it when it’s severitus but all of a sudden there’s such a strong focus on other relationships that it doesn’t even feel like severitus anymore, so that won’t be the case here. Harry/Ginny will be a side-plot kinda thing, but the main focus WILL REMAIN ON SEVERITUS. Also, movie-Ginny had 0 personality while book-Ginny was 100 personality, so Ima expand on book-Ginny. Personally, I’ve always liked Ginny and Harry as a couple. They’re very good for each other.

Also, I gotta practice writing romance cuz I’ve never written it before and I am currently planning my original book, so yeah. Don’t worry, though, there won’t be ANY smut here. Nothing graphic or anything… well, you get the idea.

Another thing: I had to reference the HBP book several times to ensure that everything was aligned with canon and even had to copy and paste some dialogue/content here and there, just so you know. Same thin with the movie script,, since this canon will be a book-movie combo thing. This will be the case for future chapters btw, but like 98% of this fic will be my writing:)

Another thanks. Share your thoughts. Stay safe!

Chapter 2: Shady Alleys

August, 1996.

 

Everyone sat gathered at the dining table painted golden with the morning rays of light streaming through three windows. amiable chatter filled up the empty matter in the room. It wasn’t too crowded this morning — the twins, Bill, and Mr. Wealsey had already left for work, and Charlie had already returned to Romania —, and Harry preferred it that way. 

 

Unfortunately, since Percy had fallen out with his family and was now considered ‘the biggest prat who ever lived’, he, too, was absent.

 

Cutlery clattered, bacon sizzled on the frying pans. Everyone looked preoccupied, though that wasn’t to say all were happy. Ginny, for instance, was sitting opposite Fleur Delacour, who was (to her visible dismay) staying at the Burrow because of a part-time job at Gringotts. The veela was currently comparing Mrs. Weasley’s enchanted roses growing in the garden to those they had in France (“Zey are much bigger, almost double ze size. Ze secret iz to give zem Bicorn Hair supplements.”). 

 

Mrs. Weasley, over at the counters, it went without saying, looked not the least bit happy, either. 

 

Meanwhile, Ron was busy piling pancakes onto his plate (with pumpkin cream, his favorite), and sitting beside Harry was Hermione, curling and uncurling locks of her hair around her fingers, sometimes straightening them out. Harry had never before, this summer, seen her this worried, perhaps only during the exam months. And though barely decipherable, he could hear occasional mumbles escaping her lips…

 

“I know I messed up Ancient Runes,” she was saying feverishly — this was after Mr. Weasley, prior to leaving, had informed them that the exam results should be arriving this morning. “I definitely made at least one serious mistranslation. And the Defense Against the Dark Arts practical was no good at all. I thought Transfiguration went all right at the time, but looking back —” 

 

“Hermione, will you shut up, you’re not the only one who’s nervous!” barked Ron, resting his pancake-speared fork. “And when you’ve got your ten ‘Outstanding’ O.W.L.s . . .” 

 

“Don’t, don’t, don’t!” said Hermione, flapping her hands hysterically. “I know I’ve failed everything!”

 

Harry leaned back in his chair, drawing patterns in the egg grease with his fork. Thoughts overtook him again, this time a new topic he had yet to mentally exhaust… His O.W.L results. He knew he’d flopped his History of Magic exam, but felt pretty confident with all the other subjects. Except one…

 

Potions.

 

Snape’s subject.

 

If Harry wanted to become an Auror, he would need a Potions N.E.W.T., for which he would need to take Snape’s Newt classes, for which he would need to have scraped at least an O on his exam… Harry couldn't help the premonition in his gut that the grade in his O.W.L results wouldn't match that of his hopes.

 

Suddenly, there was a scream. For a split second, Harry’s hand had flown to his holstered wand, ready to draw it, but he calmed when he realized that the cause of all the commotion were three black specs in the sky, visible through the kitchen window. Moments later, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were untying the envelopes from each of the respective tawny owl’s right leg.

 

Fingers donning a slight tremble, everything apart from his own letter faded into the background like white noise. Harry swallowed and slid a finger under the unmistakable wax Hogwarts seal. From within, he pulled out the parchment:

 

ORDINARY WIZARDING LEVEL RESULTS 

Harry James Potter has achieved:

Potions: E

Divination: P

Transfiguration: E

Charms: E

Herbology: E

History of Magic: D

Defense Against the Dark Arts: O

Care of Magical Creatures: E

Astronomy: A

 

Harry breathed a sigh of exhausted relief. It was alright. He’d always known he’d fail Divination (not that he really needed it), and History of Magic was a no-brainer either, given that he’d collapsed halfway through the examination. 

 

The one thing that left a lump of disappointment and regret in his chest was the Potions O.W.L, for Snape far from accepted E students into his N.E.W.T Potions Class. Now he wouldn’t be able to become an Auror. There went that ambition… 

 

He looked around. Hermione had her back to him and her head bent, but Ron was looking delighted. 

 

“Only failed Divination and History of Magic, and who cares about them?” he said happily to Harry. “Here— swap —” 

 

Harry glanced down at Ron's grades: There were no ‘Outstandings’ there. . . . 

 

“Knew you’d be top at Defense Against the Dark Arts,” said Ron, punching Harry on the shoulder. “We’ve done all right, haven’t we?” 

 

“Well done!” said Mrs. Weasley proudly, ruffling Ron’s hair. “Seven O.W.L.s, that’s more than Fred and George got together!” 

 

“Hermione?” said Ginny tentatively, for Hermione still hadn’t turned around. “How did you do?” 

 

“I— Not bad,” said Hermione in a small voice.

 

“Oh, come off it,” said Ron, striding over to her and whipping her results out of her hand. “Yep — nine ‘Outstandings’ and one ‘Exceeds Expectations’ at Defense Against the Dark Arts.” He looked down at her, half-amused, half-exasperated. “You’re actually disappointed, aren’t you?” 

 

Hermione shook her head, but Harry laughed. 

 

“Well, we’re N.E.W.T. students now!” grinned Ron.

 

“Hey— Hold on…” Something had caught Harry's eye. It was a second piece of parchment that was sticking out of his envelope. It was a wonder he hadn't noticed it before. Carefully, he unfolded the paper (upon which it magically straightened out its crease). His eyes ran over the few lines of writing there… Then they returned to the start and re-read the entire thing twice.

 

He couldn’t believe it —!

 

At that moment, Ron leaned over to him. “Wha’s tha’?” he asked, mouth full.

 

“I’ve been made Quidditch captain,” Harry announced, unintentionally a bit too loudly. Everyone hushed and turned their heads to him in surprise.

 

“Harry’s that’s brilliant!” cried Hermione happily. “That gives you equal status with prefects! You can use our special bathroom now and everything!” 

 

The letter was suddenly plucked out of Harry’s fingers by Ron (thankfully with his clean hand). 

 

“Wow, I remember when Charlie wore one of these,” he said, examining the badge with glee. “Harry, this is so cool, you’re my Captain — if you let me back on the team, I suppose, ha ha… Mum, are there any more sausages?”

 

Breakfast resumed in a gail atmosphere, discussions and prophecies of what the N.E.W.T. classes would have in store for them flying around the table. And then just a few days later, everyone’s book lists arrived from Hogwarts. 

 

“Well, I don’t suppose we can put off a trip to Diagon Alley much longer now you’ve got these,” sighed Mrs. Weasley, looking down Ron’s booklist. “We’ll go on Saturday as long as your father doesn’t have to go into work again. I’m not going there without him...” 

 

“Mum, d’you honestly think You-Know-Who’s going to be hiding behind a bookshelf in Flourish and Blotts?” sniggered Ron. 

 

“Fortescue and Ollivander went on holiday, did they?” said Mrs. Weasley, firing up at once as she swiveled her head around sharply. “If you think security’s a laughing matter you can stay behind and I’ll get your things myself—” 

 

“No, I wanna come, I want to see Fred and George’s shop!” said Ron hastily.  “Blimey . . . you can’t even make a joke round here anymore. . .”

 

And sure enough, when that Saturday was finally upon them, a quite overcast day, a Ministry car was sent to transport them to Diagon Alley. Harry, Hermione, Ron, Ginny and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley all squeezed in there, Bill and Fleur (much to Ginny’s and Hermione’s pleasure) waving from the kitchen window as they drove off. 

 

It was yet another safety precaution — yet another appearance of that sly voice in Harry’s head: all because of you. Because you have a target painted on your forehead. 

 

Mr. Weasley had only, unintentionally, confirmed this.

 

“Don’t get used to it, it’s only because of Harry. He’s been given top-grade security status. And we’ll be joining up with additional security at the Leaky Cauldron too.”

 

Of course it was.

 

The drive was quick and incidentless, and before Harry knew it they were standing outside the Leaky Cauldron. They were only waiting for said security now. Harry was far from stoked with the idea of doing his shopping while surrounded by a battalion of Aurors. He’d brought his Invisibility Cloak with him, which felt good enough for him, but he doubted the Ministry would agree… Now that he thought about it, he doubted the Ministry knew about his Cloak…

 

“I’m to wait for you, any idea how long you’ll be?” the Ministry car driver was saying. 

 

“A couple of hours, I expect,” replied Mr. Weasley. “Ah, good, he’s here!”

 

Harry imitated Mr. Weasley and peered through the window; his heart leapt. There were no Aurors waiting outside the inn, but instead the gigantic, black-bearded form of Rubeus Hagrid, wearing a long beaver skin coat, beaming at the sight of Harry’s face and oblivious to the startled stares of passing Muggles.

 

And thus the group entered Diagon Alley.

 

~***~

“Step up! Step up!” 

 

“We’ve got Fainting Fancy…” 

 

“Nosebleed Nougats…” 

 

“And just in time for school… Puking Pastilles!” 

 

A boy chewing something suddenly stopped upon turning a sickly pale. The two redheads meticulously timed placing a cauldron right in front of him to prevent spillage.

 

“Into the cauldron, handsome.”

 

Needless to say, the Wizarding Wheezes store was booming in business.There were hundreds of strange contraptions to captivate the eye, fascinate the mind. A stand of multicolored flasks and vials, or even one enchanted puppet (in a hideous pink outfit) balancing a unicycle on a tightrope hung from one end of the shop to the other, crying out ‘I will have order!’. 

 

Of all the shops still open in the now-deserted Diagon Alley, Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes was possibly the only one with its kind of atmosphere. Most businesses and storefronts had closed down, most due to their owners having mysteriously disappeared… But here, the lights shone bright still, the sounds of people laughing and conversing a sound for sore ears. 

 

Harry was just eyeing a display of black lumps that strongly reminded him of a cross between amethyst and obsidian. Right at that moment, Fred and George appeared on either side of him.

 

“Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder?” read Harry. 

 

“A real money spinner that,” Fred replied. “Handy if you need to make a quick escape… Hello, ladies!” He dropped one of the lumps in Harry’s hand, and he and his brother turned to Ginny and Hermione, who were pursuing a display of “Wonder Witch Love Potions.”

 

“Yes, they do really work,” asserted George, casually leaning against the display.. 

 

“Then again,” commented Fred, “the way we hear it, sis, you’re doing just fine on your own.”

 

“Meaning?”

 

“Are you not currently dating Dean Thomas?”

 

Harry, turned a quarter’s way to the potions display, pretending to consider a rack of ‘Ten-Second Pimple Vanisher’, but within him something was flaring up. He felt as if he’d just eaten something spicy and his stomach was refusing to digest it properly. In his periphery, he spied Ginny’s red hair.

 

“None of your business,” she scoffed dismissively.

 

“These are adorable!” Hermione’s voice suddenly exclaimed. Not being able to help his curiosity, Harry turned around a bit more to see a cage, inside which small round… balls of fluff (?) were rolling about, squeaking. 

 

“Aren’t they now,” replied Fred. “Pygmy Puffs. These are the leftovers, though.” 

 

Ginny approached the cage with interest, smiling at the strange creatures. And not too far from him, Harry noticed Ron leaning over the exposed staircase, holding something up that Harry couldn’t make out.

 

“How much for this?” he called down to the twins.

 

“Five Galleons,” they chorused. 

 

“How much for me?”

 

”Five Galleons.”

 

”But I’m your brother!” 

 

“Ten Galleons.” 

 

While Harry was trying and failing to smother his amusement, a visibly unhappy Ron stomped his way down the stairs, put the item he’d been interested in on a random shelf, and muttered to Harry: “C’mon. Let’s go.” Hermione must have also witnessed the spectacle, for she followed after them.

 

The trio squeezed out of the shop and instantly felt the contrast between its bright atmosphere and the street’s oppressing one. Diagon Alley looked unrecognizable — grim and deserted. Many of the shop windows were empty and boarded up, that or they were plastered by Ministry of Magic posters displaying faces of wanted prisoners and Death Eaters. Not only that, but it seemed that fear was in the air; it was nearly palpable. Shoppers, seldom as they came, were seen scurrying by only in groups; they would exchange fearful glances over their hunched shoulders as they passed.

 

“How are Fred and George still doing it? Half the alley’s closed down,” muttered Hermione, rubbing her arms as they slowly made their way down the street. 

 

“Fred reckons people need a laugh these days,” replied Ron. 

 

“Reckon he’s right…” agreed Harry, just as his eyes caught a poster of Bellatrix, flashing her mocking half-smile. He was so distracted by it for a moment that he nearly ended up bumping into Hermione when she suddenly stopped in her tracks.

 

“Oh no. Look….” 

 

Harry and Ron followed her gaze to the wreck that was Ollivander’s Wand Shop. A pit settled in Harry’s stomach at the devastating sight that met them. The windows were utterly shattered, glass shards littering the ground. It was dark inside. The walls were decorated in large scorches, and bits of curled up wallpaper and ashes were scattered about. 

 

“But everyone got their wands from Ollivander. Young. Old…”

 

“...Good. Bad,” Harry muttered. Then, suddenly, something caught his eye. “Speaking of which…”

 

It was unmistakable — Across the avenue, two figures paused. Malfoy and Narcissa. They glanced around as if they were on the verge of being attacked by chimeras, then slipped quickly down an alley. It was by a miracle that the pair hadn’t noticed the trio, for they were somewhat concealed in the doorway.

 

“Is it just me,” whispered Ron, “Or do Draco and Mummy look like two people who don’t want to be followed?”

 

“Definitely not just you,” Harry mumbled back. He paused, pressing his lips in deep thought. Snape’s words sprang to his mind…

“…It is imperative that you do not, in any way or sense, try to meddle or interfere with Mr. Malfoy’s mission… Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong… Not to meddle in affairs that are not your own or do not concern you. I am asking you t o trust me… ”

Still, his gut was screaming at him to ignore those words. There was no way Malfoy was just shopping for a new wand and cauldron here. He had already been branded — Harry knew as much from that vision he’d received during his stay with Snape. What if he was up to something?

Dumb question — it was Malfoy; he was always up to something.

So what on earth was he and Mummy up to?

“Let’s go.”

He would just be extra careful. He had his Cloak on him, after all.

Hermione’s hushed chidings and protests were ignored as the three tailed the two figures, moving through dark alleyways of drunks and rubbish. The farther they progressed, the more aware Harry became of the fact that they were headed straight into Knockturn Alley. An unsettling premonition settled in Harry’s gut. He’d always hoped that the first time he’d been here had been his last. 

Eventually, they hunched to a stop inside a shop front. At the end of the shadowy alley, a single shop glimmered dully, one that Harry, to his dread, saw was Borgin & Burkes. Eyes narrowed, he watched Narcissa knock. Moments later, a stooped man emerged from within, grunting out a greeting and pointing inside. The Malfoy’s entered, the door swinging shut behind them.

Harry wasn’t about to give up so easily.

“Come,” he beckoned. Before either Ron or Hermione could peep out a word, he was already on the move. Intuition taking the wheel, Harry discovered an old, fenced-off fire escape, and moments later the three of them found themselves lying flat on the roof, peering over the summit and straight into one of the sketchy shop’s windows.

Draco and Mummy weren’t the only company present, as it turned out. Several more figures stood there, one of which Harry recognized as Greyback… Malfoy was walking to a lacquered cabinet. He played his long, pale fingers against its glassy surface…. Narcissa suddenly spoke, and the blond turned to find Borgin holding the curtain to what appeared to be a back room aside. Draco seemed to hesitate, then followed his mother through.

“What’re they playing at?” whispered Ron. 

“Dunno. Let’s get closer. There’s got to be another window…”

“Duck!”

 

As if on a tripwire, he and Ron abided by Hermione’s command. Greyback had been slowly turning his head in their direction… They held their breaths, concealed and daring not to move an inch. The wait might have lasted hours… At last, the sound of the blinds rolling shut reached their ears, and the trio relaxed.

 

“That was utterly senseless, Harry!” chided Hermione in a harsh whisper. “We could have been seen.”

 

“Malfoy’s up to something. Something bad — I know it.”

 

She bit her lip. “I don’t know… We can’t be sure of anything at this point, Harry. What if he was just—?”

 

“Reckon he was browsing for new furniture? Doubt it.”

 

“... Oi, let’s head back,” urged Ron. “Mum ought to have noticed we’re missing by now. Dunno about you two, but I’m not getting in trouble on bloody Malfoy’s account.”

 

Tacit concordance passed between them. Harry threw one last suspicious glance at the shop window, and he, Ron, and Hermione hastily fled.

 

But the entire way back to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, a strange sensation accompanied Harry. He just couldn’t shake the feeling they were being watched… followed… observed. A feeling of deja vu that he couldn’t really explain… What was worse, he couldn’t decide if it was his mind playing tricks on him or not. For every time he’d throw an arbitrary glance over his shoulder, he would see nothing but the deserted street or alleyway they’d just left behind.

 

It was right when the Griffindors caught sight of a certain group of redheads (one of them charging their way and demanding explanations) that a certain dark-cloaked figure narrowed his eyes and relaxed marginally. He retreated back behind the corner, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose both in relief and exasperation.

 

What, in Circe’s name, had those three been doing in Knockturn Alley?

Notes:

Hope you've enjoyed! These first few chapters are a bit lacking in the severitus interaction department, but we're getting there. ALSO! Huge, ginormous, special thanks to my beta reader, Val. She's amazing.

Stay tuned for the next update and share your thoughts!

Chapter 3: The Train Detour

Notes:

Chapter 3 - hope you enjoy!

1 September, 1996.

 

Harry’s eyes tracked the barren moors of Northern England that seemed to stretch on to no vanishing point. Sunshine was scarce today; the Hogwarts Express was churning furiously on this overcast, drizzly first of September, though the sound of the engine didn’t quite reach his ears… Harry, Ron, and Hermione were sitting in a compartment they’d been lucky enough to hunt out. 

 

Ron and Hermione had had to carry out their Prefect duties upon departure and had only joined Harry later. For a while, there had been seldom conversation exchanged. Hermione was currently indulging herself in her thick Advanced Rune Translation tome, and Ron was mindlessly playing his fingers through Harry’s Invisibility Cloak… Until Harry suddenly dropped the non-sequitur he’d been mulling over for the last three hours.

 

“Don’t you see, it was a ceremony. An initiation.” 

 

Hermione didn’t even bother looking up, turning a page. “Stop, Harry, I know where you’re going with this —”

 

“It’s happened. He’s one of them.” 

 

“Huh? One of what?” Ron stirred.

 

“Harry is under the impression that Draco Malfoy is now a Death Eater.” 

 

Ron straightened up, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. “You’re barking. What would You Know-Who want with a sod like Malfoy?” 

 

“So what’s he doing in Borgin and Burkes? Browsing for furniture?” said Harry dryly, only for Ron to shrug. 

 

“It’s a creepy shop. He’s a creepy bloke.”

 

“ Look . His father’s a Death Eater. It only makes sense—”

 

There was a sudden, dull snap as Hermione closed her book. “Oh, for goodness sake, Harry, not this again! We’ve been over this — we don’t know what we saw. You can’t just jump to such conclusions.”

 

Harry was actually starting to feel indignant. He already knew that Malfoy was a Death Eater, but he hadn’t told anyone how he’d come to know it. He didn’t think it would be wise to mention the whole vision incident, and moreover it was his irrational fear that his friends might get creeped out or start worrying if they knew his mind had slipped into Voldemort’s earlier this summer.

 

So, he was trying to prove to them that Malfoy was a Death Eater in a different way. Unfortunately, both Ron and Hermione were just as unwilling to listen as they had been whenever he’d brought up the topic over the remainder of the summer.

 

At least he’d mentioned his suspicions to Mr. Weasely before boarding the Hogwarts Express. He could find solace in that.

 

“I’m not,” argued Harry stubbornly. “But really, Hermione, you can’t tell me whatever Malfoy was doing there wasn’t dodgy. Besides, it wasn’t only him there. There were other Death Eaters there, too—”

 

“Harry! Will. You. Stop. It!” cried Hermione indignantly, emphasizing every word by hitting her book against her lap. “Yes, I agree that it was ‘dodgy’ and that he was probably up to no good… But it’s not our job to investigate this. I think…” She visibly bit her bottom lip. It took her a moment, then she looked into his eyes warily. “I think… you may be a little obsessed with this…”

 

Harry suddenly rose and gathered his Cloak from Ron’s hands. 

 

“Oh, Harry, don’t take it like that…”

 

“I need some air.”

 

The compartment door had just shut closed behind him when Ron’s voice emanated from inside, going, “‘Don’t take it like that’? Sure is something…”

 

“Well, it’s true,” rang Hermione’s curt reply. 

 

But however their conversation continued, Harry didn’t stick around to find out. In fact, he was intent on going to find an empty compartment to think. He was just about to swing his Cloak around his shoulders— when he suddenly felt something bump into him, nearly knocking him off his feet.

 

“S— Sorry—” said a breathless Third-Year girl. Harry quickly helped her off the floor, assuring her there was no harm done. Once she’d regained her breath, she held out a scroll of parchment tied with violet ribbon. “I’m supposed to deliver this to Harry Po— Potter,” she stuttered out. There was quite a prominent blush on her cheeks as she met his eyes, then quickly averted her own.

 

“Oh. Uh… Thanks,” said Harry, taking the letter. No sooner had he accepted it than the girl nodded awkwardly and fled down the narrow corridor. 

 

Curious and perplexed at the same time, Harry unfurled the scroll.

 

Harry, 

I would be delighted if you would join me for a bite of lunch in compartment C. 

Sincerely, 

Professor H.E.F. Slughorn

 

~***~

 

 “Ah, you know Bertie and Rufus too?” beamed Slughorn, now offering around a small tray of pies. “Now tell me . . .” 

 

Whatever Harry had been expecting to find upon Slughorn’s letter, it was far from what he could only describe as a fan club. He, along with Ginny, Blaise Zabini, Marcus Belby, and Cormac McLaggen, were sitting in Slughorn’s rather spacious compartment. Everyone here seemed to have been invited because they were connected to somebody well-known or influential — everyone except Ginny. 

 

Zabini, who had been interrogated after McLaggen, turned out to have a famously beautiful witch for a mother (from what Harry could make out, she had been married seven times, each of her husbands dying mysteriously and leaving her mounds of gold). 

 

As for Neville — it had been a very uncomfortable ten minutes while Slughorn had ranted about his parents, well-known Aurors, who had been tortured into insanity by Bellatrix Lestrange and a couple of other Death Eaters. At the end of Neville’s interview, Harry had had the impression that Slughorn was reserving judgment on Neville, yet to see whether he had any of his parents’ flair.

 

Harry sat tensely. He knew and dreaded his turn, which he knew was impending, like a ticking time-bomb. Unfortunately, leaving politely didn’t really seem possible… 

 

The sky outside was slowly turning to dusk, a pretty pink-orange gradient fading into the horizon as the clouds had cleared up, so he knew he’d been here for some time…  Sitting right across from him was Ginny; from the resting look on her face, he thought it perfectly conveyed that she would rather be listening to Professor Binns droning on about goblin riots than to be here. 

 

At precisely that moment, her hazel eyes darted to meet his, Slughorn still ranting in the background. Ginny pressed her lips together and gave him a small, bored shrug. Harry didn’t know why, but this caught him a bit off-guard, and for a moment he struggled to react. But at that very moment, Slughorn’s voice redirected his attention.

 

“And now,” he began grandiosely, shifting massively in his seat with the air of a compere introducing his star act, “Harry Potter! Where to begin? I feel I barely scratched the surface when we met over the summer!” He contemplated Harry for a moment as though he was a particularly large and succulent piece of pheasant, then said, “‘The Chosen One,’ they’re calling you now!” 

 

Harry said nothing. Belby, McLaggen, and Zabini were all staring at him. 

 

“Of course,” said Slughorn, watching the boy closely, “there have been rumors for years. . . I remember when — well — after that terrible night — Lily — James — and you survived — and the word was that you must have powers beyond the ordinary—” 

 

Zabini gave a tiny little cough that was clearly supposed to indicate amused skepticism. But then, an angry voice burst. 

 

“Yeah, Zabini, because you’re so talented . . . at posing. . . .” 

 

“Oh dear!” chuckled Slughorn comfortably, looking around at Ginny, who was glaring at Zabini around Slughorn’s great belly. “You want to be careful, Blaise! I saw this young lady perform the most marvelous Bat-Bogey Hex as I was passing her carriage! I wouldn’t cross her!” 

 

This seemed to shut the Slytherin up, thankfully, who merely looked contemptuous with quite a flush. Harry tried to smother his sudden urge to snigger.

 

“Anyway,” said Slughorn, turning back to Harry. “ Such rumors this summer. Of course, one doesn’t know what to believe; the Prophet has been known to print inaccuracies, make mistakes — but there seems little doubt, given the number of witnesses, that there was quite a disturbance at the Ministry and that you were there in the thick of it all!” 

 

Harry, who could not see any way out of this without flatly lying, nodded but still said nothing. Slughorn beamed at him. 

 

“So modest, so modest, no wonder Dumbledore is so fond — you were there, then? But the rest of the stories — so sensational, of course, one doesn’t know quite what to believe — this fabled prophecy, for instance —” 

 

“We never heard a prophecy,” said Neville, turning geranium pink as he said it. 

 

“That’s right,” said Ginny staunchly. “Neville and I were both there too, and all this ‘Chosen One’ rubbish is just the Prophet making things up as usual.” 

 

“You were both there too, were you?” said Slughorn with great interest, looking from Ginny to Neville, but both of them sat clamlike before his encouraging smile. “Yes . . . well . . . it is true that the Prophet often exaggerates, of course. . . .” Slughorn said, sounding a little disappointed. “I remember dear Gwenog telling me (Gwenog Jones, I mean, of course, Captain of the Holyhead Harpies) —” 

 

He meandered off into a long-winded reminiscence, but Harry had the distinct impression that Slughorn had not finished with him, and that he had not been convinced by Neville and Ginny (towards whom Harry felt great pride and gratitude swelling in his chest.)

 

The late afternoon wore on with more anecdotes about illustrious wizards Slughorn had taught, all of whom had been delighted to join what he called the “Slug Club” at Hogwarts. And though Harry, technically, hadn’t joined yet, he hoped he never would.

 

Finally the train emerged from yet another long, misty stretch of forest and onto a tall bridge stretching over a ravine, giving view of the now dark-red sunset over the black tree-top outlines. Slughorn looked around, blinking in the twilight. 

 

“Good gracious, it’s getting dark already! I didn’t notice that they’d lit the lamps! You’d better go and change into your robes, all of you. McLaggen, you must drop by and borrow that book on nogtails. Harry, Blaise — any time you’re passing. Same goes for you, miss,” he twinkled at Ginny, who in turn gave him a quick, polite smile. 

 

“Well, off you go, off you go!” 

 

Harry wasted not a moment in rising, but apparently he wasn’t the only one eager to leave. As Zabini pushed past him into the darkening corridor, the Slytherin shot him a filthy look that Harry returned with interest. And now along with Ginny and Neville, they went a separate way back along the train. 

 

“I’m glad that’s over,” muttered Neville, expelling a gust of air. “Strange man, isn’t he?” 

 

“Yeah, he is a bit,” said Harry. “How come you ended up in there, Ginny?” 

 

Were it not so dark, he would have sworn he saw a trace of a smirk on her face. “Oh, yeah. He saw me hex Zacharias Smith,” said Ginny. “You remember that idiot from Hufflepuff who was in the D.A.? He kept on and on asking about what happened at the Ministry and in the end he annoyed me so much I hexed him — when Slughorn came in I thought I was going to get detention, but he just thought it was a really good hex and invited me to lunch! Mad, eh?” 

 

“Better reason for inviting someone than because their mother’s famous,” said Harry darkly, scowling at the thought of Zabini, “or because their uncle —” But he broke off. An idea had just occurred to him, a reckless but potentially wonderful idea. . . . 

 

In a minute’s time, Zabini was going to reenter the Slytherin sixth-year compartment and Malfoy would be sitting there, thinking himself unheard by anybody except fellow Slytherins. . . . If Harry could only enter, unseen, behind him, what might he not see or hear? True, there was little of the journey left — Hogsmeade Station had to be less than half an hour away, judging by the wildness of the scenery flashing by the windows —

 

But it was Malfoy. He was up to something; it was clear as day! What would it hurt to discover something potentially useful?

 

Though his conscience had different plans. It replayed Snape’s words in his head, perfectly on cue. The exact same ones he’d remembered in Diagon Alley:

“…It is imperative that you do not, in any way or sense, try to meddle or interfere with Mr. Malfoy’s mission… Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong… Not to meddle in affairs that are not your own or do not concern you. I am asking you to trust me… ”

But had Harry directly promised Snape?

No. His exact words to Snape had been ‘I’ll try’.

So, damn his conscience. He’d already gone to Knockturn Alley — from that, who wasn’t to assume the blond might be bringing some cursed artefact or other forbidden toy or plan with him to Hogwarts? Harry couldn’t miss out on this opportunity. This could be invaluable information for the Order, for all he knew.

“I’ll see you two later,” said Harry under his breath, pulling out his Invisibility Cloak and flinging it over himself. 

 

“But what’re you — ?” asked Neville. 

 

“Later!” he whispered, darting down the opposite direction after Zabini as quietly as possible, though the rattling of the train made such caution almost pointless. Fortunately, the corridors were almost completely empty now. Nearly every one had returned to their carriages to change into their school robes and pack up their possessions… He emerged in a carriage with no separate compartments, only seats, and spotted out Malfoy’s and Zabini’s heads straight away. Only problem was — he had no way of getting closer without increasing his chances of getting exposed.

 

Unless…

 

Moments later, chaos erupted. The carriage became enshrouded in thick, black smoke. Students started coughing, crying out — but no one was the wiser of the Lion amongst the Snakes, deftly pulling himself up onto a baggage shelf right above Zabini’s head.

 

“Relax, boys,” said a girl Harry recognized as Pansy Parkinson. “The lights went out, is all. Come, Draco. You won’t have time to change. We’ll be at Hogwarts before you know it.” 

 

Malfoy was on his feet, cynically looking around with his wand clutched in his hand. Harry thought he looked like he was preparing himself to duel… Parkinson patted his seat encouragingly. But before the blond plopped himself back down, his eyes briefly darted to the bag right beside Harry’s foot. 

 

“Hogwarts. What a pathetic excuse for a school. I think I’d pitch myself off the Astronomy Tower if I thought I had to continue on for another two years,” Malfoy muttered while Parkinson was stroking his hair, gently twisting one of his locks. She suddenly stopped.

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“Let’s just say I don’t think you’ll be seeing me wasting my time in Charms Class next year.”

 

Harry watched a confused Parkinson glance at Blaise, who snorted derisively. 

 

“Amused, Blaise? We’ll see just who’s laughing in the end…” 

 

Blaise shook his head, smiling as he looked out the window at the darkness. Just then, to the concealed Gryffindor’s horror, he felt his foot accidentally collide against a bag. Malfoy’s eyes played over it, narrowing just slightly…

 

Not before long, the Hogwarts Express was pulling to a stop, sending the engine wheezing. Zabini and Parkinson rose to leave along with the other students slowly filing out, but to Harry's confusion and surprise, Malfoy took down a bag from the rack above him, gripping the handle thoughtfully, but seemed to be refusing to leave.

 

“You two go on. I want to check something,” he said. 

 

Harry dared not to breathe. He only prayed that, by some Merlin-sent miracle—

 

Malfoy slid shut the door to the carriage once everyone had filed out. He next let the blinds down… A beat—  

 

“Didn’t Mummy ever tell you it’s bad manners to eavesdrop, Potter? Petrificus Totalus!” The blond wheeled around, pointing his wand at the luggage rack. His hand only halfway to his holstered wand, Harry felt his body go rigid, and then the world was spinning, ending with a loud and painful thump . 

 

The Invisibility Cloak was stripped off him. Paralyzed on the floor, Harry stared into Malfoy’s cold, grey eyes. And meanwhile, the Slytherin grinned.

 

”Oh, right, she was dead before you could wipe the drool off your chin.”

 

Crunch.

 

Fire-hot pain seared from Harry’s nose to his skull. For a moment, he saw fireworks sparking in his vision. Now, something warm and irony was oozing down the side of his face.

 

Malfoy was already snatching up the Invisibility Cloak and pitching it over Harry. 

 

“That’s for my father. Enjoy the ride back to London.”

 

~***~

 

As they annually did, the students began to spill into the Great Hall, taking their seats amongst their peers at their respective tables. From the teachers’ podium, Severus’ eyes scrupulously scanned over the sea of heads, mainly searching out two particular ones…

 

Something about this year felt different… odd… A feeling that left Severus on-edge. It was a forbidding feeling; one, he noticed, that seemed to have settled not only over him, but over the whole Hall, shared and palpable. Many students were glancing around with unmistakable concern, others with curiosity and suspicion. Severus spotted many keeping to groups; it uncannily reminded him of Diagon Alley. From Albus Dumbledore’s report, many students’ parents had decided to withdraw their children from attending this year — a testament of this were the several empty seats at each table when practically everyone was already seated..

 

Fools if they think they are safer in their homes than here. 

 

And just then, something caught Severus’ eye — there he was: Draco, walking through the heavy oak doors just as they were being shut. Though curiously enough, he wasn’t accompanied by any of his close Slytherin peers. Parkinson and Zabini spotted him and beckoned him an invite with their heads, both already seated. As the blond trudged his way to them, his grey eyes met Severus’. It was a fleeting moment…

 

But one that left quite an impression on Severus. He’d tried to use Legilimency on the boy, but it had failed… Perhaps due to the distance. 

 

He would brood on his suspicions later.

 

Severus’ gaze next quickly darted over to the Gryffindor table. As expected, there was that usual mass of redheads bunched together, paired with Granger’s bushy hair…

 

But no Potter.

 

Scanning the rest of the Great Hall, the bespectacled boy was nowhere to be seen. The last students filing in were quickly taking their seats, and just then the massive oak doors were closed shut.

 

A premonition settled in Severus’ gut, churning within uncomfortably. He looked back at Weasley and Granger, who were turning their heads, evident confusion — and in Granger’s case, concern — written on their faces.

 

Severus glanced at Dumbledore. Their eyes met, and between them a tacit message passed. He was already halfway out of his seat— when suddenly, a small orb of pale-blue light appeared. Unmistakably, it was a Patronus, fortunately not big enough to draw any of the chattering students’ attention. The orb floated to the Headmaster, and once it had diminished, Severus approached, ignoring the curious stares of the other professors.

 

“Severus. Miss Tonks is with Harry down by the gates. Do be so kind as to escort him here,” said the aged wizard quietly. 

 

Severus needed no further instruction. He left the Great Hall through the back door and strode through the castle outside, mind brooding.

 

What on earth had Potter gotten himself into now? Utterly foolish, reckless— First Severus had seen him wandering near Knockturn Alley ( indubitably the three Gryffindors had gone in there! ), and now this, with Merlin-knew-what having happened. Severus’ mind was reeling with a myriad of potential possibilities: a dark artefact that had been smuggled onto the train by a student? A fight? An attack? Draco Malfoy’s doing?

 

It was a long fifteen-minute walk down to the gates. Or so it felt like, at least. The entire way down, his chest felt oddly constricted, that same feeling of a premonition having returned… Only when he spotted two figures on the other side of the gates, one shorter than the other, did his ribcage somehow feel lighter. 

 

Meanwhile, Harry internally blanched once he realized who the dark figure approaching them was. Dressed in his dark-purple suit and cloak, Snape stood before them on the other side of the gate, greasy hair, hooked nose, and all. His eyes immediately fell on Harry. And though it was dark and it was hard to tell, Harry could have sworn the man was taking in his appearance, studying him as if trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle. There was a glimmer of something in his tunnel-like eyes. Something akin to worry.

 

Well, considering Harry’s face was covered in his own blood and his nose was still searing (Tonks had just been about to fix it for him), it was a no-brainer as to why.

 

“Well, well, well,” sneered Snape, taking out his wand and tapping the padlock once, so that the chains snaked backward and the gates creaked open. “Nice of you to turn up, Potter, although you have evidently decided that the wearing of school robes would detract from your appearance.” 

 

“I couldn’t change, I didn’t have my —” Harry began, but Snape cut across him. 

 

“There is no need to wait, Nymphadora, Potter is quite — ah — safe in my hands.” 

 

“I meant Hagrid to get the message,” said Tonks, frowning. 

 

“As it stands, Hagrid is late for the start-of-term feast, just like Potter here, and the Headmaster asked me to take it instead,” said Snape factly, standing back to allow Harry to pass him. He shut the gates in her face with a loud clang and tapped the chains with his wand again, so that they slithered, clinking, back into place. Without a single glance back, he spun on his heel and started down the path leading up to the castle, his long robes fluttering in his wake. Harry gave Tonks a fleeting glance back — she looked a tad flustered. 

 

“Good night,” Harry called to her over his shoulder, as he began the walk up to the school with Snape. “Thanks for . . . everything.” 

 

“See you, Harry.” 

 

…

 

Snape did not speak for a minute or so. Neither of them did...

 

Until they covered some distance from the gates, enshrouded in the pines’ darkness. And then, suddenly, Snape brandished his wand once again. An orb of light appeared at its tip. And before Harry had time to register that properly, he was suddenly being spun around by the shoulders. His eyes immediately met Snape’s dark ones, which were calculatingly scanning over his face with a definite note of turbulence in them. 

 

Harry held his breath. Snape’s lips thinned into a tight line, and his pupils dilated.

 

“Why is it you are always covered in blood?” he asked sufferingly. Snape was adjusting his grip over his ebony wand’s handle. Meanwhile, Harry stood a but confounded, caught off-guard by the question. It sounded so absurd that he could have laughed. 

 

Could have.

 

Meanwhile, Snape was still scrutinizing his face almost clinically… Harry’s green eyes tracked the wand cautiously.

 

“W— What are you—?”

 

“Hold still… Episkey !”

 

Crack!

 

“ —Augh!”

 

Stars and fireworks danced in his vision again, pain radiating throughout his skull. Keeled over, Harry tried to regain his composure.

 

“A warning would have been nice,” he grunted, voice thin.

 

“And a smidgen more conscientiousness from you,” remarked the professor’s taut voice, which then turned darker and colder. ”Where were you?”

 

Harry flippantly shrugged as he straightened up. So, it was back to ‘Potter’. He’d almost forgotten how much he hated it . 

 

“It’s a lovely evening, sir, thought I would explore the grounds,” he threw out casually.

 

Snape hummed. “How delightful . And I suppose you ran into a bit of a — ah — complication en-route?” 

 

“Suppose so, sir.”

 

“Insufficient answer. Try again.”

 

Something ugly settled in Harry’s stomach, a feeling of discomfort and regret. Anything he said could exacerbate matters, and he certainly didn’t want to start a whole debate about sodding Malfoy or anything here and now. It already sucked enough that his skull was on fire (though at least it felt fixed), and now his and Snape’s first interaction, after their last conversation a month ago, was already so… terse. 

 

Yes, off to a brilliant start.

 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. The civil relationship he and Snape had somehow established over those two weeks was already fragile, and now it just felt like it was being held together by hair-thin tendrils.

 

What was more: ‘Potter’ — It was back to ‘Potter’. Snape was definitely pissed.

 

Classes hadn’t even started, and already things were off to a bad start.

 

“Really, sir. The feast is about to start, and I wouldn’t want to miss Professor Dumbledore’s speech…”

 

Harry had started hedging his way around Snape, but unfortunately made it only a few steps before a hand caught a fistfull of his sweater’s sleeve. 

 

“ Not so fast,” the Slytherin drawled smoothly. He looked at Harry calculatingly again, his brows knitted together. “We shall discuss this at a more opportune time, Potter. Have no doubt about it.”

 

Fan-bloody-tastic. But Harry didn’t pause to ponder his feelings; instead, the Gryffindor tried his best to clear his face of all emotion and jerkily nodded. Snape’s hand loosened its grip on him only then.

 

“Come. And don that Cloak of yours, provided you have it on you.”

 

Those were the last words spoken between them as they trudged back up to the castle. The walk was a deafeningly-silent fifteen minutes, but in the meantime Harry’s thoughts were elsewhere. He was brooding on everything that had transpired — so much so that, before he knew it, they were standing at the closed doors of the Great Hall.

 

But again, before Harry could go in, Snape’s hand landed on his concealed shoulder — this time, surprisingly enough, with a softer touch. Harry let the cloak fall off his head. Now, the wizard was glancing round them at the empty corridors, and only then raised his ebony wand again to mutter:

 

“Tergio!”

 

Harry hadn’t even realized there had been stiff, dried blood covering his face until it was gone.

 

“Thanks— Thank you,” Harry corrected himself. Snape’s expression was rather unreadable at that moment, however; he was already spinning around and pushing the oak doors open, entering first and leaving Harry to follow after.

 

A blast of heavenly smells immediately punched Harry’s nose. The four tables set along the middle were loaded with all kinds of foods, mostly dessert now, indicating just how royally late he was. A few students had turned to look towards the entrance upon the two arrivals, but the interest quickly died out. Approaching the Gryffindor table, Harry quickly spotted his friends. It amused him to witness Hermione hitting her book against Ron’s shoulder (whose hands were occupied with turkey legs).

 

“... You— Stop— Eating!? Your best friend is missing!” 

 

“Oi— turn around, you lunatic. He’s right there!”

 

Ginny and Nevile, who were also sitting beside them, turned to look as well, for Harry had finally taken off his Cloak. Only now did his appreciation for that scourgify fully sink in; he could only imagine the sight his bloody face would have caused. 

 

“Where’ve you been, Harry? What happened? We were worried…” said Hermione, scooching aside to give Harry room to sit.

 

“Later. What’ve I missed? Hat say anything interesting?”

 

Across from him, Ron shrugged, still eating. “Sorting Hat urged us all to be brave and strong in these troubled times — easy for it to say — it’s a hat, isn’t it? First Years seemed to enjoy it, though. Wankers.”

 

“Dumbledore mention Voldemort at all?” asked Harry, taking a piece of treacle tart. 

 

“Not yet, but he always saves his proper speech for after the feast, doesn’t he? It can’t be long now.” 

 

“Snape said Hagrid was late for the feast —” 

 

“You’ve seen Snape? How come?” said Ron between frenzied mouthfuls of gateau. 

 

“Bumped into him,” said Harry evasively. 

 

“Hagrid was a few minutes late,” confirmed Hermione. “But he’s here now. Look, he’s waving at you, Harry.” 

 

Waving from the staff table, Hagrid was beaming at Harry and his friends, who all waved back convivially.

 

“You’ve blood on your face. Why is it you’re always covered in blood?”

 

Harry’s head whipped around at Ginny’s voice, his hand automatically flying to his face. Hadn’t Snape scourgified everything? Maybe he’d missed…

 

“Harry,” repeated Hermione in a stern voice, “ what happened ?”

 

“I said later , Hermione. It’s fine. Alive, aren’t I?”

 

Harry reached for a serviette and a pitcher of water, wetting the thing and trying to locate the alleged blood stain in the pitcher’s reflection. He heard a ‘pfft’.

 

“Not even close, genius. Let me.”

 

The serviette was plucked out of his hand, and before Harry knew what was happening, Ginny, sitting on his other side, started dabbing at the side of his face.

 

“Thanks…” said Harry, feeling his face attaining a bit of a flush.

 

Just then, the light in the Hall began to gently dim and all eyes turned to Dumbledore, now standing at the top of the Hall, his ashen hand raised to the enchanted ceiling, where clouds were responding to his gestures and shrouded the gleaming full moon.

 

A few curious whispers broke out at the sight. 

 

“What’s happened to his hand?” whispered Hermione with a nauseated expression.”It looks as if it’s died…”

 

“The very best of evenings to you! First off, please join me in welcoming the newest member of our staff, Horace Slughorn.”

 

While a round of mild applause ensued, Harry only clapped perfunctorily, his eyes drifting to the entrance of the Hall as a pair of Aurors stationed themselves to flank it…

 

“That’s the new Defense bloke you told us about, right, Harry?” piped up Ron. Harry nodded his head distractedly.

 

Little was he prepared Dumbledore’s next words.

 

“...Professor Slughorn, I’m happy to say, has agreed to resume his old post of Potions master. Meanwhile the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts will be assumed by Professor Snape.” 

 

“ What !?”

 

Amidst the spur of surprise amongst the students, Harry’s voice rang loudest, causing many heads to turn in his direction. The boy didn’t care; he was staring at the staff table, utterly befuddled. For a moment, he met Snape’s dark eyes, which narrowed slightly at him — perhaps in warning — before then quickly looking away.

 

“But, Harry, you said that Slughorn was going to be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts!” said Hermione. 

 

“I thought he was!” replied Harry, racking his brains to remember when Dumbledore had told him this, but now that he came to think of it, he was unable to recall Dumbledore or Snape ever telling him what Slughorn would be teaching. 

 

Over at the staff table, Snape, who was sitting on Dumbledore’s right, did not stand up at the mention of his name. He merely raised a hand in lazy acknowledgment of the applause from the Slytherin table, yet Harry was sure he could detect a look of triumph on his features.

 

Dumbledore raised both his hands for silence, and continued. But now, his tone was darker: grim. It bore such a note that it gave Harry a chilling feeling.

 

“Now, as you know, each and every one of you was searched upon your arrival tonight. You have a right to know why… Once there was a young man who, like you, sat in this very Hall, walked this castle’s corridors, slept beneath its roof. He seemed, to all the world, a student like any other. His name? Tom Riddle.”

 

His words cast a dead silence over the Hall like a veil. 

 

“Today, of course, the world knows him by another name,” he continued knowingly. “Which is why, as I stand looking out upon you all tonight, I am reminded of a sobering fact. Each day, every hour, this very minute perhaps, dark forces attempt to penetrate this castle. But in the end, their greatest weapon remains... you.” 

 

Seen on the other end of the Hall, Harry eyed Malfoy, slouched low, lazily levitating a fork with his wand, as if Dumbledore were unworthy of attention.

 

“...Just something to keep in mind. Now, off to bed. Pip pip!” 

 

Not many were willing to speak after the Headmaster’s speech, his words having left an indent in the air. Scarcely a word was exchanged between anyone, only seldom a few whispers passed (“That was cheerful,” Ron muttered), as the students gradually began filing out of the Great Hall. 

 

It was later that evening in bed, the room dark, that Harry lay staring up at the ceiling of his four-poster bed, mind reeling with all that had happened in such little time. 

 

Malfoy was up to something. Something big. 

 

Snape now taught Defense.

 

And a storm was coming.

Notes:

Message for those early readers: so when I posted the first two chapters last week, there was a mix-up with the end-of-chapter notes and not all of them were there. There's quite a bit of info and insight there about this fic and my uploading schedule, so if that interests you - head to chapter 1.

Other than that, I'll only say that I'm very excited about the upcoming chapters, mainly because of the Harry and Sev interaction we're gonna get (because let's be real, that's the only reason why we're all here).

See you in the next chapter; share your thoughts!

PS: thank you all SO MUCH for your wonderful comments on the last two chapters. I highly appreciate them and they fr make my day, even the smallest ones. Appreciate you all!

Chapter 4: Property of the Half-Blood Prince

2 September, 1996.

 

The sunlit castle halls and corridors were teeming with masses of students as they fought their way to classes on the first day of term. Harry and Ron were sitting upon a ledge. Their view — a spectacularly amusing show of the hustle and bustle below, complete with rather clueless First-Years trying to navigate their way through the castle. And in the midst of it all stood McGonagall, tall and stern.

 

“History of Magic is up, ladies, not down. Mr. Davies— that’s the girl’s toilet…”

 

One could have mistaken her for a traffic cop. 

 

Unfortunately, their fun came to an end when the professor’s eyes fell on the both of them

 

“Potter!”

 

Harry’s smile drooped as McGonagall beckoned at them with a finger.

 

“This can’t be good…” 

 

Ron merely grinned and patted him on the back, Harry hopping off the ledge and trudged his way ‘upstream’ to his Head of House.

 

“Enjoying ourselves, are we?” she said with a dry smirk.

 

“Well, you see, I’ve got an open period this morning, Professor”

 

“So I noticed. I would think you’d want to fill it with Potions. Or is it no longer your ambition to become an Auror?”

 

“It is. Or was . But I was told I had to get an Outstanding in my O.W.L….”

 

“And so you did when Professor Snape was teaching Potions. However, Professor Slughorn is perfectly happy to accept N.E.W.T. students with ‘Exceeds Expectations’,” she informed him matter of factly.

 

“Really? Well... brilliant. I’ll head there straight away. 

 

McGonagall nodded her head, consulting her parchment. “Good. Oh, by the way — twenty hopefuls have already put down their names for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. I shall pass the list to you in due course and you can fix up trials at your leisure.”

 

Harry had almost forgotten that he’d been made Quidditch Captain, what with the rest of the excitement.

 

“Right. I’ll keep that in mind, Professor. Thank you.”

 

“Potter, wait. Take Weasley with you. He looks far too happy over there,” the witch added, shaking her head exasperatedly in Ron’s direction.

 

“So? What’d McGonagall want?” asked Ron. Now it was Harry’s turn to pat him encouragingly — on the shoulder.

 

“Looks like we’re taking Potions this year after all, mate” he informed with grim encouragement, still patting his shoulder. By the way Ron’s face fell, one would only think the poor bloke needed emotional support.

 

“You’re barking, Harry. Please tell me you are…”

 

“Slughorn accepts ‘E’s. C’mon.”

 

The entire way down to the dungeons was brimmed with occasional mumbles of weak protest and complaints that would slip past the redhead’s lips as he trailed sluggishly after Harry. Harry paid him no mind, though. He was too busy thanking his lucky stars that he was able to take NEWT Potions class.

 

“...attention to detail in the preparation is the prerequisite of all planning…”

 

The late-comers’ footsteps echoed loudly against the stone, at which Slughorn stopped mid-speech and turned. His eyes immediately fell upon Harry, then Ron.

 

“Harry, m’boy! I was beginning to worry! And I see we’ve brought someone with us…?”

 

“Ron Weasley, sir. But I’m dead awful at Potions, a menace actually, so I probably should just be going—”

 

Harry deftly stepped in his friend’s way to thwart his attempt to make a run for it.

 

“Nonsense, we’ll sort you out,” exclaimed Slughorn easily. “Any friend of Harry’s is a friend of mine. Right then, books out.”

 

“Um, sorry, sir,” said Harry, ”but I haven’t got my book yet — nor’s Ron.”

 

“Not to worry. You can get what you need from the cupboard,” the man replied dismissively. “Now, as I was saying, I’ve prepared a few concoctions this morning. Any ideas what these might be? Yes, Miss...?”

 

“Granger, sir. That one there is Veritaserum. And that would be Polyjuice Potion. And that…” 

 

Over at the other end of the classroom, in a shabby old cupboard, a furious wrestling match ensued between two wizards, both hoping to land the newer and less shabby-looking textbook of Advanced Potion Making. The match was fierce. Elbows were shoved into ribs; bodies pushed—

 

And in the end, Harry was left with the shabby, worn, torn, and sad-looking textbook. His victor grinned at him. Harry smacked the flat side of his book against the redhead, and the two made their way over to the rest of the Slytherins and Gryffindors standing, listening intently to the lesson.

 

“... is Amortentia! The most powerful love potion in the world. It’s rumored to smell differently to each person, according to what attracts them. For example, I smell freshly mown grass and new parchment and spearmint toothpaste— ” a fierce blush suddenly overcame Hermione, stopping herself in her tracks and taking a delicate step back.

 

Slughorn regarded her curiously before speaking.

 

“Now, Amortentia doesn’t create actual love, of course. That’s impossible. But it does cause a powerful infatuation or obsession. For that reason, it is probably the most dangerous potion in this room.” He turned to find several girls with dreamy expressions leaning into the vapors, having been slowly approaching the cauldron the entire time. Instantly, he clanged a cover onto the cauldron, bringing them round. 

 

“Sir,” said Katie Bell, being one of those girls, “you haven’t told us what’s in that one,” she pointed. 

 

“Ah yes…” Slughorn took a step back to a small black cauldron. With visible care and precision, he ladled a bit of the liquid in it — a beautiful golden color — into a tiny vial. “What you see before you, ladies and gentlemen, is a curious little potion known as Felix Felicis. But it is more commonly referred to as—”

 

“ —Liquid luck,” Hermione piped up. This stirred a buzz through the class. In Harry’s periphery, he saw even Malfoy perk up.

 

“Yes, Miss Granger. Desperately tricky to make, disastrous should you get it wrong. But brewed correctly, as this has been, it has remarkable powers. One sip and you will find that all your endeavors succeed... at least until the effects wear off.”

 

Silence befell the room.

 

“So. This is what I offer each of you today. One tiny vial of liquid luck... to the student who, in the hour that remains, manages to brew an acceptable Draught of Living Death, the recipe for which can be found on page ten of your textbook. Good luck.”

 

No sooner had he said this than quite literally every student seized their books, flipping through the pages vigorously. 

 

For the next two hours, the students brewed. Tension was high, and every now and then, they would be either a small explosion or a frustrated string of colorful expletives.

 

To Harry’s initial dismay, his Potions textbook looked even worse on the inside than out. There were writings, notes, and scribblings filling the margins, sometimes even crossing out the printed text and providing hints or corrections right under them.

 

Apparently, this book had been the property of the ‘Half-Blood Prince’. Some eccentric bloke.

 

However, Harry’s said initial opinion quickly began to change once he’d had no choice but to listen to the mysterious writing’s advice, for the black ink covered the book text. The scribbled over text read:

 

“Crush two Sopophorous beans with edge of blade — releases juice better.” 

 

It worked. Miraculously, it somehow worked. While everyone else's beans were flying about the room (the others were trying to cut them), Harry was already adding in his procured juice into his cauldron. The red drops sizzled upon hitting the potion’s surface, turning it a lilac color.

 

“How did you do that?” demanded Hermione out of nowhere, slightly breathless. 

 

“Crush it. Don’t cut it.”

 

“No. The instructions specifically say to cut.” 

 

“No. Really.”

 

The brewing continued. Everyone was struggling; a cauldron overflowed. Hermione was growing more and more frustrated, her hair turning bushier in the steam rising from her cauldron. 

 

At long last, Harry was adding in his last ingredient and stepping back. He could feel Hermione, hair like Medea, glowering at him and that textbook of his as if they’d somehow deeply offended her. But Harry paid her no mind. His hands had a bit of a tremble to them in anticipation at the possibility of winning that vial of Felix Felicies. He held his breath, waiting for Slughorn to come round to judge his potion. The man was currently talking to Lavender Brown, whose cauldron was emitting light-lilac vapors. Judging by the looks on their faces, that wasn’t the Draught of the Living Death she’d meant to make.

 

“Ah, Harry, Harry! Finished, are we? Right on time, too,” greeted Slughorn. Harry scooched over to give the rotund man access to his small cauldron.

 

That was when Harry's eye caught sight of the old textbook still spread open on the workbench. He inconspicuously closed the cover and tried to push it out of the way a bit.

 

Meanwhile, Slughorn dropped a small, red leaf into Harry’s cauldron. A beat passed, and in the next it shriveled up.

 

“Merlin’s beard — It’s perfect!” exclaimed Slughorn. “So perfect I daresay one sip would kill us all! Your mother was a dab hand at potions, but this... My, my, what can’t you do, m’boy?”

 

And that was how Harry, feeling his cheeks red and chest funny with giddiness, found himself standing with the professor in front of the rest of the class, about to receive the vial of potion everyone was sullenly eyeing with poorly-contained envy, particularly Malfoy.

 

And Hermione. She was sporting quite a sour look as well, her eyes occasionally darting to the battered textbook she somehow knew Harry was clutching behind his back.

 

But all that was beside the point.

 

“Here you are then, as promised,” announced Slughorn proudly, handing Harry the grand prize. “One bottle of Felix Felicis. Use it well .”

 

~***~

 

The rest of the week passed, as Luna Lovegood had said at lunch one day, exceptionally ordinarily. Classes had only just started, and yet they (the sixth-years) were already being snowed under with homework assignments. So far, they’d had Transfiguration, Charms, and Herbology, Potions… All except for Defense. There were two Defense periods on Monday and two on Friday, but seeing as Classes had started only on Tuesday, they had yet to have DADA.

 

And it just so happened that today was a Friday morning. 

 

Harry was sitting at the Gryffindor table, picking at his toast and bacon with little enthusiasm while his eyes were glued to his class schedule. Defense — a double period first thing in the morning. Beside the class name was also the corresponding professor’s.

 

It was ridiculous. Why was Harry nervous? Why on earth? He had no reason to be. Snape would be his same old, bastard self — nothing had changed.

 

Except so much had.

 

Harry didn’t want to see that coldness in the man’s eyes directed at him, nor hear his scathing remarks and unfair jibes. But what made it worse was the following thoughts:

 

Would Snape be acting coldly towards Harry only for the sake of appearances, or because that was how he actually felt? Exactly how much had changed over those two weeks? They’d established somewhat of a tacit truce then, but this was now , a whole month later…

 

Maybe Snape had abandoned his idea of helping Harry with the whole Voldemort thing…

 

Voldemort. Soul fragment. 

 

Tainted. Contaminated. Unworthy…

 

Harry set his toast down onto his plate, all appetite having diminished into thin air. He muttered something to Ron and Hermione about going to the bathroom, snatched up his satchel, and left the Great Hall in somewhat of a haste.

 

His and Snape’s last interaction wouldn’t stop springing to his mind. Harry hated this… this uncomfortable feeling of… something heavy weighing on his conscience that he couldn’t quite pinpoint. It was like the aftertaste on the tongue after getting into a quarrel with someone.

 

But it wasn’t as if they’d had a row. Just… Snape had been visibly pissed to find Harry late to the Feast with a bloodied, broken-nosed face — so he had plausible reasons to be annoyed with Harry.

 

But that didn’t change that it had left Harry with an ugly, gnawing feeling ever since.

 

Harry was so far-gone in his thoughts that on rounding a corner, foreign footsteps and chatter somehow hadn’t registered with him. His body came into contact with something solid, and the next moment he was falling on his backside with a surprised grunt.

 

“Harry!”

 

Once the stars in his vision had diminished, Harry looked up to find Ginny with Dean Thomas. For the split of a second, his green eyes involuntarily darted to their interlocked hands, which dislodged when Dean made to offer Harry a hand up. 

 

“Sorry,” apologized Harry, on his feet now and dusting himself off. “Didn’t see you there.”

 

“Catching flies, huh?” commented Dean jokingly. “You’re gonna need to be more awake for Snape’s class, you are…”

 

“Alright, Harry? The floor isn’t exactly made of pillows, you know,” said Ginny. Harry caught her eyes, but then quickly averted them to Dean as well, on whom he locked them and refused to look at the girl again.

 

“Uh, yeah, thanks. Sorry. I gotta go…”

 

“Wait. Here, you dropped a book.”

 

He turned around to find Ginny proffering his old Potions textbook to him. Harry felt his cheeks reddening at the sight of the old thing a bit, and accepted it with a mumbled word of gratitude.

 

“See you guys around,” he bade them and took off once again, fumbling with his satchel to fit the tattered old thing inside.

 

Not much to Harry’s pleasure, he was the first student outside the Defense classroom. He leaned against the wall and took out the Potions textbook, examining to see if it had sustained any more damage from the fall. To his fortune, it hadn’t. He sighed in relief. 

 

This… This book was officially his favorite book now. This passing week, he’d spent most of his evenings flipping through the battered pages. There were inscriptions, notes, markings, and writings everywhere. But not just of potion-making tips, oh no. There were even spells , such as ‘Levicorpus’, and evident attempts at new spell creation. He’d never heard of the spells he’d found so far. 

 

Not that Harry was intent on trying them out… yet.

 

He had no way of knowing if they were ‘friendly’ spells or not.

 

Then again, this Prince bloke didn’t strike him as someone who’d invent murder curses… but that was just his guess. 

 

By now, the bustle of students was slowly starting to invade the corridor. Harry stared out of one of the tall windows on the other side. Trepidation was still squirming in his stomach.

 

His magic had improved only slightly since his last lesson with Mad-Eye at the Burrow, as he’d discovered in this first week of classes. In Transfiguration, where they’d started the conjuration module (creating objects out of thin air), he’d managed to create a feather only on his twentieth attempt. This was considered an average amount. Though it had even taken Hermione only about fifteen.

 

But now, a horrible feeling of deja vu was squirming in Harry. He still vividly remembered those few dueling lessons with Snape; how his magic had been slowly deteriorating then… 

 

Snape’s sneering and jeers, how Harry had never been able to get the upper hand, his wand malfunctioning…

 

He couldn’t help the premonition that history was about to repeat itself again. Only this time in front of a classroom full of Slytherins and Gryffindors. 

 

Again.

 

One by one, students from his year started lining up outside the classroom. Whispers passed, some expressing their rotten luck — those who had been hoping never to see Snape’s face again, having not scored an ‘O’ in their Potions O.W.L.

 

Hermione and Ron arrived with the majority from breakfast. But before the trio could exchange a word, the classroom door suddenly flung open, and Snape stepped into the corridor. Silence fell over the queue immediately.

 

“Inside,” he said curtly.

 

Entering the classroom, Harry looked around the classroom. He could see that Snape had already imposed his personality upon the space. The room looked a lot gloomier than usual, for the curtains were drawn over the tall windows — it was lit by candle light —, and new paintings adorned the walls. Many of the people there, moving, appeared to be in pain; one painting even depicted only a pair of hands, blood-stained, manacled together by some invisible force and being controlled like a puppet.

 

Nobody spoke as they settled down, including Harry, who had chosen to share a desk with Ron. Everyone seemed morbidly captured by the gruesome paintings.

 

“I have not asked you to take out your books,” Snape’s smooth voice drawled as he let the door swing shut. A loud banged resounded. It coincided with Hermione hastily dropping her copy of Confronting the Faceless back into her bag… Snape strode to the front of the classroom, his dark cloak flapping at his ankles, and stopped sharply to face the students. In the contrasting light and shadows, Harry noticed that the man’s facial features looked gaunter, more exhausted and lined…

 

“I wish to speak to you, and I want your fullest attention.” His black eyes roved over their upturned faces, lingering for a fraction of a second longer on Harry’s than anyone else’s. 

 

“You have had five teachers in this subject so far, I believe. Naturally, these teachers will all have had their own methods and priorities. Given this confusion I am surprised so many of you scraped an O.W.L. in this subject. I shall be even more surprised if all of you manage to keep up with the N.E.W.T. work, which will be much more advanced.” 

 

Snape set off around the edge of the room now, speaking now in a lower voice; the class craned their necks to keep him in view. 

 

“The Dark Arts,” continued Snape, “are many, varied, ever-changing, and eternal. Fighting them is like fighting a many-headed monster, which, each time a neck is severed, sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than before. You are fighting that which is unfixed, mutating, indestructible… Your defenses,” he then said, a little louder, “must therefore be as flexible and inventive as the arts you seek to undo. These pictures” — he indicated a few of them as he swept past — “give a fair representation of what happens to those who suffer, for instance, the Cruciatus Curse” — he waved a hand toward a witch who was clearly shrieking in agony — “feel the Dementor’s Kiss” — a wizard lying huddled and blank-eyed, slumped against a wall — “or provoke the aggression of the Inferius” — a bloody mass upon the ground. 

 

Someone tentatively raised their hand. “Has an Inferius been seen, then?” asked Parvati Patil in a high pitched voice. “Is it definite, is he using them?” 

 

“The Dark Lord has used Inferi in the past,” answered Snape, “which means you would be well-advised to assume he might use them again. Now . . .” He set off again around the other side of the classroom toward his desk, and again, the class watched him as he walked, his dark robes billowing behind him. “. . . you are, I believe, complete novices in the use of nonverbal spells. What is the advantage of a nonverbal spell?” 

 

Hermione’s hand shot into the air. Snape took his time looking around at everybody else, making sure he had no choice, before saying curtly, “Very well — Miss Granger?” 

 

“Your adversary has no warning about what kind of magic you’re about to perform,” said Hermione, “which gives you a split-second advantage.” 

 

“An answer copied almost word for word from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six ,” said Snape dismissively (over in the corner, Malfoy sniggered), “but correct in essentials. Yes, those who progress to using magic without shouting incantations gain an element of surprise in their spell-casting. Not all wizards can do this, of course; it is a question of concentration and mind power which some” — his gaze lingered upon Harry for a moment, before moving on — “ lack .” 

 

Oh, and Harry knew Snape was thinking of their disastrous Occlumency lessons of the previous year, and their little dueling lessons over the summer. He shifted a bit in his seat, narrowing his eyes at his cuticles. 

 

“You will now divide,” Snape went on, “into pairs. One partner will attempt to jinx the other without speaking. The other will attempt to repel the jinx in equal silence. Carry on.” 

 

The silence was broken with the scraping of chairs and low tones of discussion. Some, as Harry could tell, were a bit relieved. Although Snape did not know it, Harry had taught at least half the class (everyone who had been a member of the D.A.) how to perform a Shield Charm the previous year. 

 

However, none of them had ever cast the charm without speaking. So it was only understandable that a reasonable amount of cheating ensued. Many people were merely whispering the incantation instead of saying it aloud. Typically, ten minutes into the lesson Hermione managed to repel Neville’s muttered Jelly Legs Jinx without uttering a single word, a feat that would surely have earned her twenty points for Gryffindor from any reasonable teacher, but which Snape ignored. 

 

He swept between them as they practiced, looking just as much like an overgrown bat as ever. When the level of whispering got a margin louder, he hissed in warning… He lingered to watch the pairs work. Eventually, he reached Harry and Ron struggling with the task. 

 

Harry felt himself growing tense. Beads of sweat were popping up on his forehead.

 

It was still his turn. He’d been at it for over seven minutes, and yet he couldn’t seem to get his wand to comply. He’d always been rubbish at non-verbal spells to begin with, and with his magic not having been restored completely…

 

He was growing more tired with every effort.

 

“Let’s switch, Harry.” mumbled Ron. Harry didn’t argue, and the roles were now reversed.

 

But apparently, nonverbal spell-casting wasn’t Ron’s forte either. Three minutes in trying had the Gryffindor purple in the face, his lips tightly compressed to save himself from the temptation of muttering the incantation with Snape so nearby. Seeing all this, Harry’s defensive stance was growing more and more languid.

 

“Pathetic, Weasley,” sneered Snape after a while. “Here — let me show you —” He turned his wand on Harry so fast that Harry reacted instinctively; all thought of nonverbal spells fled from Harry’s mind.

 

“Protego!” 

 

By some miracle, it worked. 

 

His Shield Charm was so strong Snape was knocked off-balance and hit a desk. The whole class had looked around and now watched as Snape righted himself, scowling. His black eyes met those of Harry’s. 

 

“Do you remember me telling you we are practicing nonverbal spells, Potter?” 

 

“Yes,” he said stiffly. 

 

“Yes, sir .”

 

“There’s no need to call me ‘sir,’ Professor.” The words had escaped him before he knew what he was saying, those same ones he’d uttered on his first night in Spinner’s End. Harry’s mouth was dry. Several people gasped, including Hermione. Behind Snape, however, Ron, Dean, and Seamus grinned appreciatively. 

 

Snape’s eyes narrowed, but Harry also thought there was an inkling of triumph and satisfaction in them.

 

“Detention, Saturday night, seven o’ clock, my office,” he said silkily. “I do not take cheek from anyone, Potter . . . not even ‘the Chosen One.’”

 

Several beats of deafening silence followed. But then Snape whipped his head around (his greasy locks flying in the momentum) and glared icily at the rest of the class.

 

“Well? This is a lesson, not a spectacle. Get back to work.”

 

The rest of the lesson passed like a blur to Harry. For the next twenty minutes, he felt as if he were in a trance of some sort. He wasn’t exactly sure why, he just was. For the most of it, he was lost in his thoughts, wondering why Snape had pulled that move. It almost felt… deliberate in some way…

 

Before he knew it, class was dismissed.

 

“That was brilliant, Harry!” chortled Ron, once they were safely on their way to break. 

 

“You really shouldn’t have said it,” said Hermione, catching up to them and flanking Harry’s left, frowning at Ron. “What made you?” 

 

“He tried to jinx me, in case you didn’t notice,” said Harry. “I had enough of that during those Occlumency lessons. Why doesn’t he use another guinea pig for a change?”

 

Ron piped up here. “Sure makes you wonder what Dumbledore’s playing at, letting him teach Defense. Did you hear him talking about the Dark Arts? I once heard Mum talking about her favorite cooking spells like that! All that unfixed, indestructible stuff —” 

 

“Well,” interposed Hermione, “I thought he sounded a bit like Harry.” 

 

“Like me?” Harry goggled at her in surprise. 

 

“Yes, when you were telling us what it’s like to face Voldemort. You said it wasn’t just memorizing a bunch of spells, you said it was just you and your brains and your guts — well, wasn’t that what Snape was saying? That it really comes down to being brave and quick-thinking?” 

 

Harry was so disarmed that she had thought his words as well worth memorizing as The Standard Book of Spells that he did not argue. 

 

“Harry! Hey, Harry!” 

 

Harry looked around; Jack Sloper, one of the Beaters on last year’s Gryffindor Quidditch team, was hurrying toward him holding a roll of parchment. 

 

“For you,” panted Sloper. “Listen, I heard you’re the new Captain. When’re you holding trials?” 

 

“Um, I’m not sure yet,” said Harry, a tad awkwardly, as he accepted the paper. Privately, he was thinking that Sloper would be very lucky to get back on the team. “I’ll, umm… I’ll let you know.” 

 

“Oh, right. I was hoping it’d be this weekend —” 

 

But the rest of Sloper’s rant fell on deaf ears. Harry had just recognized the thin, slanting writing on the parchment. Leaving Sloper in mid-sentence, he hurried away with Ron and Hermione, unrolling the parchment as he went. 

 

Dear Harry, I would like to see you in my office this Saturday. Kindly come along to my office at 8 P.M. I hope you are enjoying your first day back at school. Yours sincerely, Albus Dumbledore 

P.S. I enjoy Acid Pops.

 

~***~

 

Later that evening, Harry lay in bed pouring over his Potions textbook. Admittedly, he hadn’t really touched it since Tuesday, the matter having somehow slipped his mind… The fall the book had sustained earlier today hadn’t damaged it much. Harry thought it was a miracle (Merlin knew how much the old thing had already been through over the years).

 

Under his wandlight, Harry was silently flipping through its stained, yellowed pages. He kept finding new inscriptions, notes, markings, and writings everywhere.

 

There was something… strange about the book.Harry frowned to himself again. He couldn’t shake this strange feeling of deja vu. Not that he understood it, but something about it felt so… uncannily familiar. He couldn’t quite pinpoint it, though it felt as if it were just on the tip of his tongue, begging for the right brain cells to connect to figure it out…

 

Something about the handwriting… Where had he seen it before?

 

Then a wild thought struck him. Could it possibly have been his father’s?

 

No. Harry immediately dismissed that concept from his head. His father had been a pureblood.

 

With a twinge of disappointment, Harry shut the book, dropping it into his bag beside his bed, took off his rounded rims, and sought sleep.

Notes:

Notes on this and next chapter at the end of the next chapter:)

Chapter 5: The Thing About Trust

September, 1996.

 

The light of day was quickly fading with the sun pulling down dusk’s curtain over the sky, bathing it in lilac and periwinkle, which could be seen through the tall windows lining one side of the corridor. Silence lingered, for most students were curled up in their Common Room armchairs and enjoying their first Saturday of term. Not Harry, though. No, his footfalls against the ancient stone floor were the only sound to break this silence as he trudged his way to detention… internally swearing.

 

After five years of serving Snape’s detentions down in the dungeons, cutting up slugs or scrubbing cauldrons until he saw his own reflection in them, Harry had gotten so used to the route that his consciousness hadn’t even questioned his automated feet when he’d set out at promptly 19:55 to the dungeons. It had hit him only in the middle of his journey that Snape was no longer the Potions professor.

 

Harry’s colorful expletive had echoed loudly then.

 

Now, he was properly late and terribly out of breath, having had to run up at least five staircases, (missing out on two moving ones) to get to the second floor all the way down from the dungeons. This did not coincide well with the stupid butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

 

Breathless, when he finally skidded to a stop before the Defence Classroom there was an awful stitch in his side that felt like nails being screwed into him. To boot, Harry was sure his hip would be covered in bruises by morning from having had his satchel bouncing painfully against it in his run.

 

And he was loath to even think about how late he was. 

 

But Harry didn’t dawdle much longer. With a painful grunt, he pushed the heavy oak door open and entered the classroom. The interior was painted blue from the evening outside; there was only a single sliver of warm light spilling through a small slit in the door leading to the office at the front of the room. Harry readjusted his satchel’s strap and willed his feet to make the trek up the small staircase. His knuckles hesitated before the door, but before he had much of a chance to make up his mind, it was suddenly swung open.

 

And there sat Snape behind what was now his desk, positively scowling at Harry with his hands crossed over his chest.

 

“Late, Potter.”

 

“I, uh, forgot you don’t teach Potions anymore, sir,” Harry explained, still a little breathless. “Got a bit lost there.”

 

Walking in, Harry quickly surveyed the office that he’d been in so many times now. The interior hadn’t changed much from how it had been before Umbridge’s reign in it, except now a bit more of the walls were covered in a few new bookcases, each looking quite full. The shutters were closed over all the windows. And the dark-wood desk was littered with an organized mess of stacks of parchment rolls, books, and a few quills.

 

Sitting behind said desk, Snape was looking at him, clearly scrutinizing his disheveled appearance — all the while Harry was still standing in the doorway. He wasn’t wearing his school robes, only some jeans and his gray pullover. And no doubt that his hair was a crying mess; he could feel a bit of his bangs clinging to his forehead still.

 

Little did the boy realize that that was the least of which Severus’ focus was on.

 

Severus took notice of the boy’s face, still shallow and dark circles ever-present still under his eyes, though considerably smaller than he remembered them being… Then there was his near-emaciated figure. Although, again, the Weasley matriarch must have put in an effort, for the boy wasn’t as such a stick figure as he used to be.

 

And then there were those emerald-green eyes. Even still, guilt and regret pained him to meet them. Lily’s or Potter’s… Harry’s . They were still trapped behind those round spectacles, but at least the resemblance between this Potter and the late one was a lot less striking now then it had been a year or so ago.

 

Realizing a few awkward moments had passed, Severus gestured towards a high-backed chair in front of his desk. Potter, without protest, slipped his satchel off his shoulder, propping it up against the legs, and sat in it.

 

And suddenly, all words seemed to be eluding Severus, as unprecedented as it may have been. 

 

Where to even begin?

 

Another moment passed as he considered his words, seeking his usual composure.

 

“It would appear,” said Severus in a dry tone, “that despite disembarking the train with a broken nose, you have arrived in one piece after all. A hopeful omen indeed.”

 

Harry suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, but he said nothing in reply. He could have blurted out ‘I didn’t do it on purpose!’, but then he really would be lying. So he opted for silence, staring at his lap.

 

Meanwhile, Snape was staring at Harry again. He could feel it. It unnerved him. Harry was growing uncomfortable, but right then the man took out his wand and summoned a small tea service, consisting of two porcelain cups and a teapot, which magically began serving them both tea.

 

“How are you?”

 

Harry was caught so off-guard by the question that he could have goggled at the man. ‘ How are you? ’?

 

“I’m… alright,” Harry answered tentatively. He grew even more confused at this eccentricism and suddenly couldn’t stand it anymore.

 

“Sir, I’m not really here for a detention, am I…?” he blurted out. 

 

Snape looked at him bluntly. “No.” He pushed a cup of tea towards Harry. “Drink.”

 

Harry glanced down into the cup, steam wafting from it. A surge of nostalgia suddenly hit him — it was that same calming tea Snape would make him during his brief stay with him. He lifted it, blew on the surface, and took a timid sip. Silence reigned again.

 

“At least,” Snape began after a moment, “contrary to what every other soul in this castle is to know.”

 

A weak smile tugged at Harry’s lips at this, his chest feeling a little lighter. “Honestly, sir, I doubt anyone would believe if I told them I was having tea with you. I’d be sent straight to St. Mungo’s.”

 

To his surprise, a smirk ghosted the man’s lips. Yet just as quickly, it faded; he interlocked his fingers on his desk in front of him.

 

“Assigning you detention was the only means I saw of arranging for us to meet. Granted, it was no feat, though you should consider yourself fortunate that there are more pressing matters than doing lines for your display of blatant cheek… not to mention firing at a professor — which I have chosen to overlook,” the man drawled.

 

“Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly want to get jinxed by you. Sir,” said Harry more defensively. 

 

Snape’s lips thinned just a bit as he appraised Harry thoughtfully for a short moment. “I had predicted your reaction. It was a necessary move. You weren’t giving me many reasons to assign you detention, so I had to resort to more… provocative means.”

 

Harry’s eyes widened a bit. “So you wanted me to do that?”

 

A sly smirk played across Snaoe’s features. “ Perhaps . I assure you, I am not usually so easily knocked back by a Sixth-Year… Apropos of this, how is your magic?”

 

That earlier pebble returned to Harry’s stomach at the reminder of his predicament. In his lap, he fiddled with his fingers, avoiding the man’s gaze.

 

“It’s… better,” he said tentatively, growing more decisive towards the end. “I can cast spells more or less alright now. Dumbledore had Moody train me at the Burrow… sometimes my magic would act up; sometimes it wouldn’t, but I don’t think Dumbledore’s told anyone much about my ‘problem’, because Mad-Eye never brought it up, nor did the Weasleys. And I haven’t told anyone yet, either.”

 

Harry watched as Snape’s eyebrows contracted a bit, his lips thinning as he briefly glanced sideways, as if in deep thought. Were Harry to guess, he would say that this piece of news far from appealed to the man. It was no surprise, though; it was obvious to anyone who had ever seen the two wizards in the same room that Snape’s and Mad-Eye’s relationship was no better than Umbridge’s with decent morals.

 

“Let it remain this way. It is for the better,” replied Snape finally. “The less people know, the less exposed you are, so to speak.”

 

“I know that. But what if…” Harry’s voice dropped a bit. “What if it happens again? With my magic. What if it starts to get even worse? What would I tell—”

 

Snape held up a silencing hand, appearing calm. “That should not be an issue. I meant what I told you about supplying you with that potion I’d brewed for you — assuming you still require it and that it has proven substantive.”

 

Gratitude filled Harry, relief accompanying it. He missed peaceful rest. Rest. Such a privilege it seemed to him lately. He nodded his head appreciatively. “I’d like that, sir.”

 

The man nodded likewise. The air between them felt somehow lighter now, and Harry allowed his rigid poster to relax a little, reclining back in his chair. There was a relief of some of those earlier knots in his stomach. It felt as if part of a heavy weight had been lifted off his chest. 

 

“Professor, why am I really here?” he asked in curiosity, playing with the ear of his cup.

 

Snape tapped his desk with his finger, again appearing to be weighing something or other.

 

“There are several matters I believe it prudent we discuss. Starting with, for instance—” Snape’s gaze locked on Harry, set and hard — “what was your head, along with Granger’s and Weasley’s, doing in Knockturn Alley?”

 

Harry promptly choked a bit on his tea, having chosen then to take another sip. He stared in bemusement at Snape across the desk, dumbfounded, with tea dripping down his chin.

 

“How— How did you—?”

 

“Suffice to say, I happened to be in the area and spotted you and your friends hurrying from Knockturn Alley. So, pray tell, Mr. Potter,” said Snape cooly, leaning menacingly across the desk on his palms, “ what had you forgotten there?”

 

“What had you forgotten there?” Harry fired back. His chest jolted with instant regret at what had just escaped his mouth, however. Snape’s eyes narrowed in clear warning.

 

“My patience isn’t limitless; answer the question, Potter.”

 

The chair he was sitting on was suddenly the most uncomfortable thing Harry had ever sat on in his life. His mind went into overdrive, weighing furiously whether he should tell Snape what he’d seen or not. 

 

On one hand, this might be beneficial information to the Order.

 

On the other, there was a really big chance Snape would be even more pissed with him.

 

But the pros, he decided, outweighed the cons. He quickly decided on the former option. Malfoy was up to something, and Harry was willing to do whatever it took to stop him, that Death Eater.

 

“We followed Malfoy,” he blurted out. In his periphery, he noted Snape’s eyes narrowing, then growing wider. Regardless, Harry carried on. “We saw him and Mrs. Malfoy in Diagon Alley. They were looking all dodgy, so we decided to follow them. They went into Borgin and Burke’s. We saw through one of the windows other Death Eaters there, not just the Malfoys…”

 

“Do you realize,” Snape began in a low tone, ”just how exceedingly lucky you got? You could have been seen!”

 

“But we weren’t. We were careful. I — we had my Cloak,” Harry defended. In his periphery, he saw Snape pinch the bridge of his nose, giving his head a small shake. 

 

“Of all the foolish, idiotic things— Potter, and precisely what happened on the train?” 

 

“Uh—”

 

“ Harry. ”

 

His head involuntarily snapped up. Harry swallowed a thick wad of saliva, still feeling it in his throat. “I hid on one of the luggage racks, under my Cloak. When we arrived in Hogsmeade, Malfoy waited until the place was empty and, uh, stupefied me. Then he covered me with the cloak and left. Had it not been for Tonks...” Before Snape could butt in another reprimand, Harry took a bracing, mental breath at what he was about to confess next.

 

“I eavesdropped on Malfoy, Zabini, and Parkinson. Slipped into their compartment. Malfoy said he ‘won’t be seen wasting his time in Charms Class next year’.”

 

He wasn’t looking at Snape, only resolutely at his cup of the barely-touched tea. He was willing to admit that he was lacking the willpower to meet the other’s eyes.

 

“I suppose this is what led to your detour ? That bloody-nosed evening stroll of yours?”

 

Harry internally cringed. All he could do was shrug, though he also felt himself growing frustrated. Didn’t Snape care about what Malfoy was up to, or about what Harry had just told him? Who cared if his nose got broken by Malfoy’s boot? He was sitting there, waiting. He tried to straighten up his posture to look more confident, praying that Snape was considering Harry’s words pertaining to Malfoy… 

 

He felt something in his stomach sink at the look on Snape’s face. It practically shone with disapproval, his lips tight.

 

“You foolish boy, did I not tell you not to involve yourself? Has it not occurred to you that now Mr. Malfoy knows you are suspecting him?”

 

To this, Harry said nothing. His gaze only hardened stubbornly. “Malfoy’s up to something. Something big. Admit it: you don’t know what he was doing in Borgin and Burkes.”

 

“That is no concern of yours. You ought to learn to curb that insufferable hero complex of yours.”

 

“I don't have a hero complex—”

 

“Silence!” the man hissed.

 

Dead silence fell over them. Harry stilled; everything seemed to have.

 

He hated this. Everything: how everything was getting out of control, how it felt like Harry was watching whatever truce or civility the two of them had established over that fortnight crumbling, chipping away bit by bit.

 

And of all things— It seemed surreal, laughable even, that just shy of a month ago, this hooked-nosed man had been offering Harry help and guidance, even comfort at times.

 

And he had no one to blame for himself. Maybe there really was something deeply wrong with him. An insufferable, arongat trait so off-turning that…

 

Deep sadness touched down on Harry. Just like water, all the fight seeped out of him. Feeling his cheeks burning, he stared at his lap, wishing to leave and yet wishing Snape would say something… anything . 

 

Fortunately, Snape suddenly cleared his throat, allegedly to regain some composure. When he spoke again, his voice was significantly lower and somewhat affirming. “Professor Dumbledore and I are monitoring the situation closely. I do not wish for you to put yourself in unnecessary danger.” Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Snape deftly held up a halting hand. “On that note, this new information will be taken into account.”

 

Harry paused. There was something about Snape’s phrasing that had struck him.

 

“I do not wish for you to put yourself into unnecessary danger.”

 

…I do not wish…

 

Meanwhile, he nodded mechanically. If Snape would at least consider this information, it was better than nothing.

 

“Is that it, sir?” Harry asked hopefully.

 

Snape looked at him again, as if studying him. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately… Now, his posture seemed a bit tense.

 

“No,” he replied shortly. His head darted to his right, where nothing in particular lay, and Harry saw his lips tighten. “Pertaining to your… predicament… ” he slowly began. 

 

“You haven’t found anything, have you?” Harry inferred. 

 

Something deep flashed in the Slytherin’s dark eyes. It could have been remorse.

 

“Not as of yet, no.” Snapw sighed heavily, meanwhile the boy’s stomach plummeting with disappointment. “Your case is unprecedented, to say the least. It is not something to be found in books… For such a reason, I believe it prudent to attain a more… practical approach .I may need to conduct deeper research. Frankly, the only viable option is for me to occasionally assign you detention in order to do so, so as not to arouse suspicion.”

 

“Detention?” parroted Harry. “And what do you mean by ‘practical approach?” he asked suspiciously.

 

“It would appear that theory alone has not brought about, nor will, any substantive results. I have several potential ideas — for which I shall need to run tests—”

 

“So in other words, I’m going to be your lab-rat.”

 

Snape looked at him shrewdly. “I daresay not. Rats tend to be unreliable test subjects, moreover ,” he stressed on Harry opening his mouth, “I do not believe you have many other options.”

 

This far from satisfied Harry; he felt his jaw tightening, irritation sizzling in his chest. It was bad enough that everyone was constantly gawking at him and his scar in the corridors, and now he was going to be an experimental prototype, regardless of the reason.

 

And what if it all turned out to be a fruitless endeavor? Maybe he and Snape would just be wasting their time on something that wasn’t even possible… It felt pointless to Harry. If Dumbledore wasn’t able to find a solution — Dumbledore , as in the greatest Light wizard of the century — then what hope was there that Snape would?

 

A sudden feeling of defeat overcame Harry. It frustrated him to no end; he could practically feel his chest itching and burning with it as if it were some kind of nasty rash… 

 

At precisely that moment, there struck a perfect coincidence. Harry had just so happened to catch sight of an old clock hanging on the wall behind Snape. It read ten till eight.

 

Harry had to — wanted to — leave. 

 

“Uh, sir, I’ve gotta go. I have a meeting with Dum— Professor Dumbledore...”

 

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “Might I inquire as to why?”

 

There was a moment’s hesitation, but Harry eventually reached into his pocket for Dumbledore’s letter. Snape rose from his seat and took it, his eyes scanning over the short missive. A short moment later, he was handing the letter back to Harry, eyeing it somewhat cynically. Harry was just on the verge of leaving, but refrained at the look on Snape’s face. There seemed to be something the man wanted to say, though it remained impotent.

 

“Very well,” he nodded in the end. Harry nodded uncertainly and bent down for his satchel, then quickly turning to leave—

 

“Po— Harry, wait.”

 

The name caught him off guard. At the threshold and hand resting on the doorframe, the Gryffindor halted. He turned himself halfway to Snape, who was now standing behind his desk. For a beat, the man wore that same look as he’d had earlier, as if he couldn’t decide on the right words. He almost seemed reluctant to let him go. It reminded Harry of that look he’d worn when he’d been about to leave Spinner’s End.

 

His next words surprised him.

 

“...I need you to trust me.”

 

The words settled as heavily on Harry’s chest as sediment. 

 

To trust… 

 

Hadn’t Harry already told him that he’d try? Wasn’t that enough? 

 

To trust… 

 

The thing about trust was that it was a high-stakes investment. You could either gain, or you could lose everything and hit rock-bottom. 

 

What guarantee did he have that Snape wouldn’t wash his hands of Harry at his own convenience? What if he just changed his mind? He couldn’t afford to just put his trust into the man who had been belittling and bullying him since his First Year merely for looking like his father.

 

Though a part of him, buried deep down and hidden away in the most wistful recesses of his mind, he wanted to.

 

To trust… To trust someone like Ron trusted his parents. To trust like he’d wanted to trust Sirius.

 

So there Harry stood, his vocal chords contracting the speech that was stuck in his throat. Because he didn’t know what words to choose that wouldn’t jostle this precarious stack of cards that was their tenuous relationship. He could not bring himself to repeat his promise of trying, nor could he bring himself to promise the man that he would.

 

With an air of awkwardness, Harry bobbed his head once and hurried down the stairs from the office. He let his feet carry him in determined, though half-conscious, strides to the next fresh hell that awaited him tonight.

~***~

 

“Acid Pops.”

 

As custom, the ugly gargoyle, with a low grumble, leapt aside, the wall behind it sliding apart, and a moving spiral stone staircase being revealed. Harry stepped onto the first stair and automatically rightened his satchel’s strap over his shoulder. After the conversation with Snape, he felt strange. Tired, mostly. But he refused to ponder on that right now.

 

Because as of now, he was wondering what Dumbledore could possibly be summoning him for. For some inexplicable reason, Harry had the premonition that it had something to do with Dumbledore being Harry’s legal guardian now…

 

That fact was still a hard pill for Harry to swallow.

 

And it felt… so messed up. It was but a formality. Not only that, but the fact alone that Dumbledore was, essentially, preparing Harry like some… animal for slaughter… It left a bitter taste in Harry’s mouth; made his insides burn with an inexplicable emotion.

 

It hadn’t even occurred to Harry that he’d arrived at the door until several moments of him staring blankly at the brass knocker had passed.

 

The Gryffindor drew a deep breath. He took care to check that his face was as blank as he could get it to be before knocking thrice on the door. And at Dumbledore’s voice, he entered the circular office.

 

“Good evening, sir,” said Harry, walking in. 

 

“Ah, good evening, Harry. Sit down,” said Dumbledore, smiling. He was sitting behind his desk, hands clasped neatly in front of him. “I hope you’ve had an enjoyable first week back at school?” 

 

“Yes, thanks, sir,” replied Harry. He settled in his usual armchair opposite the headmaster.

 

Harry briefly glanced around the room with his eyes, a lump of guilt accompanied a tinge of shame on his cheeks. The delicate silver instruments stood on spindle-legged tables, puffing smoke and whirring; portraits of previous headmasters and headmistresses dozed in their frames, and Dumbledore’s magnificent phoenix, Fawkes, stood on his perch behind the door, watching Harry with bright interest… The last time he’d been here, he’d utterly trashed the whole place, destroying the now-fixed silver trinkets and artefacts sitting on the shelves or the desk.

 

That moment in time seemed so long ago, just not the feelings. No, to this day, Harry oftentimes still felt the grief he’d felt on that fateful day. It mostly resurged raw in his dreams and nightmares.

 

“You must have been busy, a detention under your belt already!” Dumbledore’s voice jostled Harry out of his thoughts.

 

“Er,” began Harry awkwardly, but Dumbledore did not look too stern; he seemed to have decided to spare him. 

 

“Ah. I understand it’s all the excitement of being back for another term. Forgive an old man’s curiosity, Harry… but dare I ask what happened?”

 

Harry could feel his cheeks coming on with a flush. So, apparently not completely spared.

 

“Well, we were practicing nonverbal disarming. When Sna— Professor Snape aimed his wand at me to demonstrate, I sort of… knocked him back.”

 

Dumbledore’s eyes grew large, twinkling. “Ah. I think the saying ‘the student has become the master’ is rather fitting here,” he said with an amused chuckle. Harry cracked a smile. But after a pause, the old wizard’s expression grew sterner. 

 

“Yes, apropos of this, how have you been finding your first week back, Harry? I am, primely, referring to your magic’s performance. Alastor Moody has reported to me that you have made progress.”

 

Harry nodded to confirm this.

 

“Excellent. And — I trust — you found those lessons enjoyable?”

 

“Uh, yeah— yes. He’s a good teacher. It’s only too bad he couldn’t have actually taught Defense…”

 

“Unfortunately so,” agreed Dumbledore. “Which is precisely why I think it best for you to continue training with him. I realize you must have a busy schedule as it is, but I am certain you will manage to allocate one hour per week for lessons with Alastor Moody. Though he’s gone on a trip for me and won’t return until later this month… Alas, that is not all. I should also like for us to hold— for want of a better word — lessons of our own, Harry. Though not the kind you probably have in mind right now.”

 

Harry’s interest immediately piqued at this. “What will you be teaching me, sir?”

 

“I have decided that it is time, now that you know what prompted Lord Voldemort to try and kill you fifteen years ago, for you to be given certain information.” 

 

A pause. Frustration churned in Harry’s stomach.

 

“You said, at the end of last term, you were going to tell me everything.” It was hard to keep a note of accusation from his voice. “Sir,” he added. 

 

“And so I did,” said Dumbledore placidly. “I told you everything I know. From this point forth, we shall be leaving the firm foundation of fact and journeying together through the murky marshes of memory into thickets of wildest guesswork. From here on in, Harry, I may be as woefully wrong as Humphrey Belcher, who believed the time was ripe for a cheese cauldron.” 

 

“But you think you’re right?” inferred Harry. 

 

“Naturally I do, but as I have already proven to you, I make mistakes like the next man. In fact, being — forgive me — rather cleverer than most men, my mistakes tend to be correspondingly larger.” 

 

“...Sir,” began Harry tentatively, fidgeting with a loose thread of his sleeve, “does what you’re going to tell me have anything to do with the prophecy? Will it help me . . . survive?” 

 

Dumbledore’s face donned a grimmer look. “It has a very great deal to do with the prophecy, and I certainly hope that it will help you to survive.” 

 

The old man rose to his feet and proceeded to walk around the desk, past Harry. He was now bending over the cabinet beside the door. When Dumbledore straightened back up, he was holding a familiar shallow stone basin etched with odd markings around its rim. 

 

He placed the Pensieve on the desk in front of Harry, but then stopped. Harry could feel his electric-blue gaze studying him, like a laser scanner raking over him. Harry surreptitiously avoided his eyes.

 

“You look worried,” the man observed.

 

Harry had indeed been eyeing the Pensieve with some apprehension. His previous experiences with the odd device that stored and revealed thoughts and memories, though highly instructive, had also been far less than pleasant. The last time he had disturbed its contents, he had seen much more than he would have wished, something which continued to plague his mind still. 

 

But to his surprise, and even slight annoyance, Dumbledore was smiling. “This time, you enter the Pensieve with me . . . and, even more unusually, with permission.” 

 

“Where are we going, sir?” 

 

“For a trip down Bob Ogden’s memory lane,” said Dumbledore, pulling from his pocket a crystal bottle containing a swirling silvery-white substance. 

 

“Who was Bob Ogden?” 

 

“He was employed by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He died some time ago, but not before I had tracked him down and persuaded him to confide these recollections to me. We are about to accompany him on a visit he made in the course of his duties. If you will stand, Harry . . .”

 

But Dumbledore was having difficulty pulling out the stopper of the crystal bottle: his injured hand seemed stiff and painful. 

 

“Shall — shall I, sir?” 

 

“No matter, Harry —” Dumbledore pointed his wand at the bottle and the cork flew out. 

 

“Sir — how did you injure your hand?” Harry asked again, looking at the blackened fingers with a mixture of revulsion and pity. 

 

“Now is not the moment for that story, Harry. I am afraid you shall have to wait a while longer. After all, it is such a thrilling tale, one I do not wish to spoil for you before the time is ripe. And now, we have an appointment with Bob Ogden.” 

 

Dumbledore tipped the silvery contents of the bottle into the Pensieve, where they swirled and shimmered mesmerizingly, neither liquid nor gas. 

 

“After you,” invited Dumbledore, gesturing toward the bowl. 

 

Harry bent forward, took a deep breath, and plunged his face into the silvery substance. 

Notes:

Apologies for such a delay, but tis the time of year - in other words, tests, homework, studying non-stop, cramming into deadlines, and going to bed super late and not having ANY time whatsoever for writing. Both I and my AMAZING beta reader have been incredibly busy... ANYWAY-

Hope you've enjoyed ch 4 and 5, as I decided to upload 2 chapters this time. I'm half asleep as I'm writing this. Also from this point on I'll be posting abt any delays/news/or even excerpts/sneak-peeks from upcoming chapters on my Tumblr: darsfanfics7, so there's that.

With that being said, I hope you've enjoyed these two new chapters and hope to hear your reviews/thoughts in the comments. Going to bed now. If I wrote some kind of nonsense here, my excuse is that my eyes are drooping shut. Goodnight👍

Chapter 6: Gathering Weight

September, 1991.

 

“Blimey, a love potion,” said Ron. “No wonder he’s turned out like that… Still, it’s hard to imagine Voldemort coming from, well, humans. I mean, you’d think he just crawled out of a snake’s egg or something.”

 

The Great Hall was abuzz with chatter this fine September morning, and the smells of breakfast sweetened the air with aromas of seasonal pumpkin-based foods. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were sitting a short distance away from Ginny and a few other Gryffindors. Harry had come here early, again pursuing the Half-Blood Prince’s textbook as a pastime, until Hermione and Ron had joined him. Harry had chosen then to tell them about what he’d learned at his meeting with Dumbledore the other day.

 

“That’s ridiculous, Ron,” Hermione scoffed. “It’s not as if he fell into existence out of a coconut tree.” She turned to Harry. “But this is truly fascinating that you get to learn about Voldemort’s past, Harry. It’s a big privilege. I imagine very few people, even his closest followers, know any of this… And Dumbledore said this information ought to help you defeat him?”

 

Harry slowly nodded in reply, poking his treacle tart with his fork. “Dumbledore just said it’s very important and that it has everything to do with the prophecy. But I guess it makes sense to know as much as possible about Voldemort’s past.”

 

“Yeah, but,” interrupted Ron, swallowing down a waffle with some juice, “there’s got to be a bigger picture to all this, right? I mean, just knowing the name of You-Know-Who’s mum and grandpa — or whatever — won’t exactly help you in a one-on-one duel with him… Unless you’d want to distract him with it,” he snickered. Harry thought he’d caught the corner of Hermione’s mouth twitching, but at that moment, she dove back into her textbook.

 

“You mentioned a ring, Harry,” she said thoughtfully, briefly glancing over at the staff table, specifically to where Dumbledore sat. “You said that Voldemort’s grandfather was wearing it… I wonder if…”

 

“If it’s what gave Dumbledore that blackened hand?” Harry supplied. “Dunno,” he shook his head. “He still hasn’t told me anything about what happened to his hand. Said it’s a story for later.”

 

Ron had just set down his goblet of pumpkin juice. “You think the ring was cursed? But wouldn’t Dumbledore have known? Why’d he put it on?”

 

“Ron’s got a point,” agreed Harry. “I’m pretty sure he would have recognized a cursed object.”

 

“But the Gaunts were Slytherin’s direct descendants,” argued Hermione. “Maybe that ring was an heirloom, and the curse was very well concealed. We’ve actually just started a module in Ancient Runes that—”

 

Ron set down his fork and looked dubiously at the girl. “Mione, d’you honestly think the Greatest Wizard of the century wouldn’t recognize a cursed artifact ?”

 

“Dumbledore can make mistakes — he said it himself,” interjected Harry knowingly.

 

“You should ask him during your next meeting, then. When is it?”

 

“Your guess is as good as mine, Ron,” shrugged the boy morosely again. “And I don’t think he’d tell me if I asked. He’s saving it for ‘when the time is ripe’, as he said it.”

 

“Strange bloke, Dumbledore. Feels like he’s keeping a lot from you again, mate,” threw in Ron, tackling another pancake and feeding himself a piece.

 

“I’m sure it’s not like that anymore,” Hermione tried to reason, a note of sympathy in her voice.

 

“Yeah. Now he’s telling me at least something ,” said Harry tartly.

 

The three of them continued breakfast in silence.

 

~***~

 

Mid-September, 1996.

 

“And around when is Voldemort planning to initiate this attack?”

 

A strike of searing pain quivered through the Death Eater’s left forearm, like a hot blade being pressed to his bare skin. He managed to keep himself still, however, having foreseen the use of the Dark Lord’s name. Predictable of the old coot. 

 

He was seated in one of the ugly armchairs opposite Dumbledore’s great mahogany desk, retelling tonight’s meeting that the Dark Lord had called for the first time in well over a month. Not many had attended — most of his numbers were still locked up behind Azkaban bars.

 

Hence the necessity of said meeting.

 

“He did not say,” answered Severus bluntly, his baritone voice resounding through the otherwise empty room. “However, I am assuming it will be some time early in the new year, as he is preparing to recruit the dementors in the process. He is waiting for them to breed in the winter.”

 

His eyes tracked Dumbledore as the old man slowly stood and crossed the room to stand at one of the tall windows. It was dark outside; the students were long since asleep. Severus was still surprised he’d found Dumbledore still awake at this late hour, donned in his violet and gold robes.

 

“He does not suspect you?” asked Dumbledore, back turned to him.

 

“Not as far as my knowledge goes. However, Lestrange is visibly wary of me still, the cynic .”

 

The old man nodded thoughtfully. “Voldemort may see this as a chance to test your loyalties, Severus. If few of his Death Eaters are aware of this attack, including yourself, it would be quite obvious who the ‘lion in snake’s skin’ is, which is why we are to expect this attack but not try to prevent it. Moreover , when Tom strikes, the Aurors will not amount to stop him; hence, it would be useless to even try. We will simply have to let things… unfold.”

 

“And the consequences?” asked Severus darkly, resisting the urge to clamp his hand over his left forearm. “You and I both know the potential dangers of the Dark Lord having an army of dementors at his disposal. Would it not be prudent to have the Ministry at least temporarily relocate them?”

 

“No. It should not appear as though we — or the Ministry — were expecting Voldemort’s attack. We cannot afford to jeopardize your cover, Severus. It is paramount to the war effort,” said Dumbledore firmly. He turned around now, looking at his spy with interest. “Has there been any mention of the Malfoy boy?”

 

Severus internally sighed. “Hardly. Only a flyaway comment to Narcissa, one which I fail to recall. But it was a trivial mention.”

 

The image of Narcissa Malfoy’s eyes straying to his face with a trusting, pleading look was still somewhere on the surface of his consciousness. That look in her eyes had added much weight onto his chest and conscience.

 

“I do hope you are keeping an eye on Mr. Malfoy, Severus? He may be feeling lost right now, desperate as to where to even begin with this mission Voldemort has burdened upon him. And you know as well as I, Severus ,” intoned Dumbledore meaningfully, ”that no decision made in desperation is ever a sensible one.”

 

Severus turned his head sideways. He couldn’t bear the old man’s piercing gaze, practically boring holes in him. 

 

“Draco has been avoiding me as of late, and he often skips my lessons. I have tried inquiring his peers, but they do not appear to know either. That being said, I do not think it wise for me to try to approach him yet. He does not trust me…”

 

“Perhaps there is hope that he will realize the full weight of what he is to do and turn to us for help, for guidance,” mused Dumbledore, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Draco Malfoy may have the exterior for it, but he does not have the heart to do what he must. But we must let him come to a decision on his own. Pressuring or nudging him will not work in our favor.”

 

“And if he doesn’t?”

 

A look of disappointment and regret flashed in the electric-blue eyes, which traveled down to a silver trinket on the desk. “...As the muggle saying goes, Severus, ‘one sleeps in the bed one made’,” was all he offered. “Either way, he will not have to kill me, for you will step in for him.”

 

Severus gritted his teeth, his hands, hidden in his robes, clenching. “Ah, yes, that one trifle you ask of me,” he sneered.

 

“What do you suggest, Severus? I am already a dying man—” He calmly raised his blackened hand to showcase — “Should Mr. Malfoy fail to have me dead by the end of the school year — regardless by whose hand —, he will suffer terribly for it. At the same time, his soul can yet be preserved. In such cases, one must weigh the lesser of the two evils. The Dark Mark on his hand is only that — a mark. His soul, however, is untouched, unlike Lord Voldemort’s.”

 

‘...And yours’ was left unsaid, though it hung tacitly and heavily in the air.

 

Severus gritted his teeth to ride out another flare of pain. For a brief moment, Dumbledore’s eyes had darted to his left wrist, but he said nothing in regard to it.

 

“It has been a long day, Severus, and an even longer evening. I suggest you get some rest,” sighed the Headmaster, retaking his seat at his desk. Fawkes suddenly took off from his perch and landed gracefully on the desk, crooning when the wizard’s aged fingers caressed its radiant feathers of red and gold. 

 

Severus wasn’t going to argue. He, admittedly, barely felt himself standing after the day he’d had…

 

He bowed his head in goodbye. “Good night, Headmaster.”

 

“Ah, and Severus—” said the man suddenly. Severus stilled, lifting an eyebrow.

 

“I plan on having Alastor Moody continue to train Harry here, at Hogwarts.”

 

This came to him as a surprise. A sneer tugged at the corners of Severus’ thin lips. “I fail to see how this illuminating information might concern me.”

 

“Oh, quite,” replied the Gryffindor mildly. “I am aware of your recent disputes with him. I hope this will, in no way, cause issues?”

 

“Are you referring to the brat or the retired pirate?”

 

Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed warningly at his sarcastic quip. “Both. Furthermore, I also plan on giving Harry private lessons of my own. And seeing as you have a notorious tendency of assigning the poor boy detention for the smallest of reasons, I must insist, Severus, that it does not get in the way of more crucial matters .”

 

“And what, might I ask, will you be endeavoring to teach him that Alastor supposedly can’t?”

 

“That I cannot say,” Dumbledore shook his head. “And now you must go. Rest. I shall see you in the morning.”

 

The thought of further probing briefly crossed Severus’ mind, but in a moment’s notice he abandoned the idea. With a final nod of his head, he rounded on his heel and strode out of the round office.

 

The journey down to the dungeons was long and uneventful. He caught no disobedient students dawdling about the dark, deserted corridors, and all seemed quiet. The only light lighting these corridors was his Lumos . This, the man greatly appreciated as he continued to descend deeper and deeper, and when at last the distinctive chill of the dungeons seeped through his cloak, he welcomed it. 

 

Despite having been appointed the Defense Professor, he was still Head of Slytherin House, hence why his quarters were still located down in the dungeons, near the Slytherin dorms. Of course, he no longer had the perk of having his classrooms so close to him (minimizing his outings), but he supposed it was how the time-old saying went — one had to lose to gain.

 

Severus finally arrived at an old, rather big painting of Salazar Slytherin. It was no sight for the eyes to behold: the paint was cracked and chipped in places, and the colors dulled from age. Severus raised his hand, palm out, and ghosted it over the surface in a pattern. A moment later, it swung aside to reveal a wooden door, which also opened, and he saw himself in.

 

Both the painting and door then audibly shut behind him. Darkness enveloped him. Only then did the man close his tired eyes and release a breath he’d unknowingly been holding. 

 

It had been a long day. After a day of teaching dunderheads disarming spells, attending an impromptu Death Eater meeting, and finally the conversation with Albus Dumbledore, he wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and forget about his own existence. He did not wish to think. No, he wished to Occlude. 

 

If he had the energy.

 

Severus waved his wand to turn the lights on. A modest-sized sitting room appeared before him, done in earthy tones of deep brown and green. Shrugging his dark cloak off himself, he was just crossing the sitting room when his eyes fell on his private potions lab, the door standing ajar. He slowly approached it and entered the room, waving his hand to turn the light on here as well. It didn’t differ from his laboratory in Cokeworth by much in looks, and the cupboards were linked, so he always had access to all of his ingredients regardless of where he was brewing. 

 

And there on the workbench in the middle of the room lay several sheets of parchment, some containing his spidery scrawl, a plethora of corked vials and test tubes, and a healthy amount of books stacked or piled on, some open.

 

His research.

 

Standing over it, Severus studied the mess of his efforts of the last month. It was all worthless, he knew. A sudden feeling of irritation overcame him, making his hands clench and unclench.

 

Those whispers appeared in his head again.

 

You aren’t trying hard enough… Failure… Incompetent…Swore to protect…

 

They were torment. Crippling.

 

Severus had meant it when he’d told Potter, almost two weeks ago, that theoretical research had gotten him no substantive results. Such was simply the case. But recently, Severus had been busying himself with a different approach to find a potential solution.

 

Caught up in the moment, Severus bent down to pick up some of his notes, leafing through them with a focused frown. Nearly two months of tireless research. And having realized that he could not rely on any potential ancient rituals or spells (unreliable and unpredictable), he’d turned to his area of expertise — Potion Making. Here, he’d already made extensive notes on a variety of ingredients that may potentially be useful in something as complex as an extraction elixir of sorts.

 

Granted, there were already several known potions that were capable of countering things like curses, but this was a different case. It wasn’t a curse that the boy had, but a fragment of the Dark Lord’s soul, embedded in him, which complicated matters significantly. 

 

Furthermore, elixirs were the most difficult and capricious to brew. And one to extract something specific, to make it target a specific thing in one’s body, especially if it was something as unheard of and complex as a piece of a foreign soul… It would be bordering on dark magic, something Severus wished to avoid at all costs…

 

Most costs. 

 

But it was all still a developing idea, an unsolidified concept based on speculation and guesswork. 

 

Although small, there remained a sliver of hope that he would manage to find something to rid the boy of the Dark Lord’s soul fragment. But there was only so much Severus could do with so little information pertaining to Potter’s case, hence why he needed to take up a more practical approach.

 

And he couldn’t help but think to himself at times:

 

Had he made the boy an empty promise? Had all those reassurances been nothing but empty words? A delusion? Had he sold the boy a lie?

 

That weight upon his shoulders felt to have multiplied. Those emerald-green eyes flashed before him; he wasn’t sure if they were Lily’s blank, unseeing ones or her son’s fearful ones. Either way, both variants were haunting.

 

Severus rested an elbow on his other arm and pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut and feeling them burning from the day’s exhaustion. And ridiculously enough, even though the Dark Lord hadn’t had any reason to punish Severus tonight, all of the man’s muscles ached. He waited a moment, simply standing there, and then gazed tiredly down upon the mess he’d left the previous evening to clean up this morning. 

   

Severus sneered to himself and turned sharply on his heel to leave the room.

 

~***~

 

The house was silent; it felt as if not another soul apart from Harry’s was present in it. The kitchen he found himself standing in, immaculate as always, was just barely lit by the moonlight spilling through the windows. Chilling, the atmosphere was. Harry rubbed his arms for warmth and found himself dressed in nothing but a thin shirt he recognized as Dudley’s outgrown one.

 

Suddenly, the wind picked up outside, causing Harry to startle.There was a premonition in the air. Harry found his fingers twitching nervously. Something — someone — was coming. He didn’t know how or from where he knew this, but he just did . He glanced around himself, wondering if it was something he’d done wrong…

 

A sound. It startled Harry out of his skin. While the frightened boy ducked behind the counter island, a large man with a walrus mustache and a huge belly came staggering into the kitchen, holding something in his hand that Harry couldn’t seem to discern…

 

That’s when his heart dipped in horror. It was Uncle Vernon, indubitably drunk and holding a sharp, broken bottle by the neck, which gleamed menacingly in the night’s light. 

 

He seemed unaware of Harry’s presence yet, but he was advancing deeper into the small kitchen. Unfortunately, Harry wasn’t quick enough to round the island corner — those beady eyes soon fell on his own green ones.

 

And to the boys’ utmost horror, Uncle Vernon began raising the sharp bottleneck, pointing it straight at Harry like some dagger. It was an unmistakable moment between the predator and its prey.

 

His breath got caught in his throat. Without thinking twice, harry turned to run— 

 

But his efforts were in vain. He tried to run — to move his legs—, but it seemed the harder he tried, the slower he went. His heart was beating out of his chest as the heavy, discoordinated footsteps kept getting closer, drunken and incoherent slurring resounding in loud bellows.

 

A large hand suddenly grasped the back of Harry’s shirt, yanking him back—

 

He sat up with a shudder. He didn’t know where he was or with whom, and was swiveling his head around to try to make sense of his surroundings. The first thing to register with him was the darkness of the dorm, then the distinctive sounds of soft, familiar snoring. Harry’s chest didn’t feel like his own. Heavy, damp, heaving up and down with the frantic rhythm of his heart as his mind tried to keep up with it. The surroundings took a moment to register with him, and only when they did did he let out a hitching exert of relief. 

 

Another nightmare.

 

Fortunately, this one hadn’t been too bad. The scenes he’d just witnessed swam back to his mind again, replaying. They brought about an intense feeling of discomfort, causing Harry’s thin frame to shudder again. It was an unpleasant feeling of exposure, of vulnerability. But it could have been worse — the boy was grateful it hadn’t been a full-blown nightmare.

 

Strangely, he hadn’t had any since the start of the school year, at the most an unpleasant dream every now and then… much like tonight.

 

Although it hadn’t been anything too horrifying, Harry still felt rather disgusted by it, the way his uncle had staggered into the immaculate kitchen, bringing the unmistakable stench of beer with him as well as holding the neck of a bottle, broken with the sharp edges glistening in the moonlight, the kitchen dark. And the moment his watery, beady eyes had fallen on him—

 

That malicious gleam in them, right before he’d raised the broken bottle, drawing it straight at Harry. Those sharp edges, looking sharp enough to sever steel… The nightmare had definitely been a bit of an exaggeration of that one incident… At least he hadn’t stuck around to find out what might have happened next.

 

Leaning back on his hands, the boy willed himself to try to calm his racing heart. He drew in a breath, then another, trying to track the intervals. Eventually, the frenzy of the moment diminished, and Harry was left with the restlessness that usually followed his nightmares. 

  

Harry sat there like this for a while. His shirt still clung to him uncomfortably, cold and damp, but he didn’t want to crawl back under the blankets. The idea sounded far from appealing to him. So instead Harry reached for his glasses and swung his legs over the edge to don his slippers. The mattress groaned a little, making him cringe and curse the old springs, but it seemed that those snores were enough to drown it out, so it was alright… Harry silently opened his trunk and began rummaging through it with utmost care. He mostly had spare school supplies like quills and parchment here, along with his valuables.

 

Like the Marauders’ Map.

 

Even in the feeble moonlight, the scroll of old parchment was unmistakable. 

 

Having decided how he would kill some time, Harry sat himself onto the spacious windowsill and unfurled the Map. He tapped it gently with his wand.

 

“I solemnly swear I am up to no good,” he whispered but softly cleared his throat when his voice came out shaky.

 

The ancient castle’s blueprints blossomed with ink on the hitherto empty parchment, painting hundreds of small names across it. Harry could just barely make anything out in the moonlight, but it was doable. He first located Filch and Mrs. Norris patrolling the third-floor corridor. His eyes followed the tag for a while… Suddenly, Filch sped up. To Harry's amusement, there was another tag coming just around the corner — he recognized the name belonged to a Second-Year Slytherin. 

 

Unfortunately (or not), there was a brief chase between Filch and the student before the squib’s tag caught up with the poor student’s.

 

Harry pressed his lips together in dry sympathy… then in thought.

 

Speaking of Slytherins…

 

His eyes travelled down the large map to the dungeons, where they eventually found a bunch of Slytherin student nametags. There was Zabini, Parkinson, Crabbe, Goyle…

 

And Malfoy. 

 

All in the Slytherin Common Room.

 

He’d better stay there… thought Harry menacingly.

 

For the last week or so, he’d scarcely seen a whiff of the blond’s head anywhere. What he found crossing all lines of ‘fishy’ was the fact that Malfoy had taken to skipping Defense. Ron and Hermione refused to speculate with him on the matter, however, and any attempts at discussing this topic were usually quickly thwarted by either of his friends’ exasperation.

 

It peeved Harry to no extent.

 

He’s up to something…

 

For several more minutes Harry studied the parchment. He was exploring it from top to bottom, left to right, and once he’d finally reached Dumbledore’s office… he stopped.

 

Next to ‘Albus Dumbledore’ there was Snape’s tag. Right there in his circular office. Harry didn’t know what hour it was, but it was pretty obvious it was extremely late. What could they possibly be talking about?

 

Harry observed the two names for a few minutes, until finally Snape’s left the office and set off in the dungeons’ direction. It finally settled at what Harry could only assume was the man’s living quarters.

 

It was strange. Harry had never really entertained the idea of where the professors lived in the castle. It seemed stupid now, but such a conversation topic had never really sprung up, somehow.

 

Harry rested his cheek on his knees and blankly stared at that nametag. For how long, he didn’t know. Why? He didn’t know that either. He just did. But eventually he got rather bored, so he reached down into his school satchel to pull out his potions textbook.

 

Or — rather to say — the Half-Blood Prince’s.

 

The boy sat upon the ledge, leafing through the old pages, until he came across something called ‘Levicorpus’. The word was squeezed in between two paragraphs of text. Beside it were several crossed-out failed attempts, as it seemed. Harry didn’t have the slightest clue as to what kind of spell it could be, but figured he could maybe ask Moody when their lessons started. 

 

Not that he needed to know exactly where Harry had found that spell.

Chapter 7: Lab Rat

Late-September, 1996.

 

The middle of September blew into late September with furious winds blasting in from the north, rustling the yellowing leaves on the trees. The school year was in full swing, and stacks of homework were only piling up, especially for the Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh-Years.  On top of all the homework and studying, there was also Quidditch practice, run by the newly appointed Gryffindor Captain — Harry himself.

 

The tryouts for the team had already taken place some weeks ago, and although Harry still thought that it could have gone smoother, he was still happy with his team.

 

The morning of the tryouts, half of Gryffindor House seemed to have turned up, from first years who had been nervously clutching a selection of the dreadful old school brooms to seventh years who had towered over the rest, looking coolly intimidating. Amongst the latter had also been a large, wiry-haired boy Harry had recognized immediately from the Hogwarts Express — Cormac McLaggen, the team’s Keeper, who, as it had turned out, had been expecting preferential treatment from Harry because they were both part of the Slug Club. 

 

After about two hours, many complaints, and several tantrums, one involving a crashed Comet Two Sixty and several broken teeth, Harry had found himself three Chasers: Katie Bell (having returned to the team after an excellent trial); a new find called Demelza Robins, who was particularly good at dodging Bludgers; and Ginny Weasley, who had outflown all the competition and scored seventeen goals to boot.

 

Harry had shouted himself hoarse at the many complainers and had had to endure a similar battle with the rejected Beaters. 

 

“That’s my final decision and if you don’t get out of the way for the Keepers I’ll hex you,” he’d bellowed. 

 

Looking back at his choices in hindsight, Harry was pleased, though neither of his chosen Beaters had the old brilliance of Fred and George. Still, Jimmy Peakes, a short but broad-chested third-year boy who had managed to raise a lump the size of an egg on the back of Harry’s head with a ferociously hit Bludger, and Ritchie Coote, who looked weedy but aimed well. 

 

Next had been the Keeker tryouts, which Harry had saved for last. To his delight (and a girl’s named Lavender Brown), Ron had saved one, two, three, four, five penalties in a row… McLaggen hadn’t taken the news well that he was no longer Seeker.

 

“His sister didn’t really try,” McLaggen had said menacingly, a vein pulsing in his temple like the one Harry had often admired in Uncle Vernon’s. “She gave him an easy save.” 

 

“Rubbish,” Harry had remarked coldly. “That was the one he nearly missed.” 

 

McLaggen had taken a step nearer Harry, who stood his ground this time. “Give me another go.” 

 

“No. You’ve had your go. You saved four. Ron saved five. Ron’s Keeper, he won it fair and square. Get out of my way.

 

Since then, Harry had been holding Quidditch practice a few times each week, really depending on the team’s class schedule and workload. Things were sailing smoothly now.

 

But then, another dilemma had arisen:

 

Since neither Harry, Ron, nor Hermione were taking Care of Magical Creatures this year, this had visibly upset Hagrid, who seemed to have been avoiding the trio lately, sometimes even ignoring them when greeted.

 

 “We’ve got to go and explain,” Hermione had said, looking up at Hagrid’s huge empty chair at the staff table one Saturday at breakfast. 

 

“We’ve got Quidditch tryouts this morning!” Ron had exclaimed. “And we’re supposed to be practicing that Aguamenti Charm from Flitwick! Anyway, explain what? How are we going to tell him we hated his stupid subject?” 

 

“We didn’t hate it!” 

 

“Speak for yourself, I haven’t forgotten the skrewts,” Ron had muttered darkly. “And I’m telling you now, we’ve had a narrow escape. You didn’t hear him going on about his gormless brother — we’d have been teaching Grawp how to tie his shoelaces if we’d stayed.” 

 

“I hate not talking to Hagrid,” Hermione had said, looking upset. 

 

“We’ll go down after Quidditch,” Harry had assured her. 

 

And so it had been settled.

 

Later that same day, the three of them had trudged down the grounds to Hagrid’s hut. They’d knocked, but to no avail, even though it had been evident that Hagrid had been in there. Harry had resorted to rather drastic measures and had threatened to blast open the door.

 

Spoiler, that hadn’t happened. But Hagrid had finally opened the door for them. There had been a lengthy conversation, but at least one that had resulted in reconciliation between the four.

 

Back in the present day, where everyone was sitting in the Great Hall at breakfast, Ginny suddenly slid into a seat beside Harry, plopping down her bag beside her. She’d brought what turned out to be the morning’s Daily Prophet with her.

 

“Have you guys seen the Prophet?” she asked without preamble. Harry groaned in his throat.

 

“Anything new?” he asked.

 

“A few things, actually. Dad’s in here. — he’s all right!” she added quickly, for Ron had looked around in alarm. “It just says he’s been to visit the Malfoys’ house. ‘This second search of the Death Eater’s residence does not seem to have yielded any results. Arthur Weasley of the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects said that his team had been acting upon a confidential tip-off.’” 

 

“Yeah, mine!” exclaimed Harry. “I told him at King’s Cross about Malfoy and that thing he was trying to get Borgin to fix! Well, if it’s not at their house, he must have brought whatever it is to Hogwarts with him —” 

 

“But how can he have done, Harry?” interrupted Hermione with a surprised look. “We were all searched when we arrived, weren’t we?” 

 

“Were you?” said Harry, taken aback. “I wasn’t!” 

 

“Oh no, of course you weren’t, I forgot you were late. . . . Well, Filch ran over all of us with Secrecy Sensors when we got into the entrance hall. Any Dark object would have been found, I know for a fact Crabbe had a shrunken head confiscated. So you see, Malfoy can’t have brought in anything dangerous!” 

 

Momentarily stymied, Harry reached for his goblet and broodingly drank. 

 

“Also,” said Ginny again, “did you hear? Mad-Eye’s coming to Hogwarts.”

 

Harry’s draught of pumpkin juice went down the wrong pipe. He promptly choked on it and broke into a coughing fit, cold liquid dripping down his chin. Someone was patting him on the back — he was acutely aware it wasn’t Hermione or Ron.

 

Having calmed, he mentally reeled back in shock. Moody’s coming here was supposed to have been a secret. How on earth had Ginny ‘heard’ about it? Harry had told Ron and Hermione not to tell anyone…

 

“What d’you mean?” asked Harry. He was trying to appear casually dubious.

 

“I overheard McGonagall and Snape talking about it on my way down here. Snape didn’t sound happy at all. Should have seen the look on his face.” The girl glanced around them and leaned in closer to the group. “They were talking about something that happened this summer. Something about a meeting. Sounded like Snape and Mad-Eye had had a row.”

 

Harry’s mind immediately flashed back to the two weeks he’d spent at Snape’s. He couldn’t help but wonder if this ‘meeting’ had happened then.

 

“Yeah, well,” commented Ron, “you can’t exactly put a hippogriff and a dragon into a cage and expect them to have tea, can you?”

 

“Wonder what Mad-Eye’s doing here… unless he’s going to give you more lessons, Harry?” asked Ginny, turning to the bespectacled boy.

 

Well, cat’s out of the bag now, he thought. But really, what would it hurt to tell Ginny?

 

“Uh, yeah. I actually have a lesson with him this evening… Just don’t tell anyone.”

 

“Oh, no. Well, there go my plans,” Ginny said, smiling dryly.

 

“Well, who knows?” interrupted Ron in much the same tone. “Since you and Dean seem to be so close these days—”

 

Harry watched Ginny’s cheeks flush and eyes narrow at her brother. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business. And I wouldn’t go tattling such important things to him — or anyone, you prat.”

 

Ron’s face turned the shade of his hair. “Oi—!”

 

“Oh, break it up, you two!” chided Hermione. Harry took this as his opportunity to make a quick escape. He gathered up his satchel, gulped down the rest of his juice, and rose from his seat.

 

“I think I’m gonna get to class early—”

 

“Let’s walk together? I actually wanted to ask you something,” Ginny interrupted; she’d also stood, tossing her bag over her shoulder. 

 

“Er, sure. No problem…” Harry gave Ron a small shrug and waved to him and Hermione as he followed the redhead out through the doors of the Great Hll. The loud chatter and tinkling of cutlery quickly faded; the pair was now making their way down an empty corridor.

 

“Have you received anything from Slughorn?” Ginny asked after a few moments.

 

“Slughorn? Uh, no. Wait… Oh, no, don’t tell me—”

 

In his periphery, she looked vaguely annoyed. “Well, he’s invited me to another dinner. Apparently, he was very impressed with my flying… Careful, you’re next.”

 

“Brilliant,” Harry grumbled. He knew that Slughorn was bound to invite him — his ‘crown jewel’. “He hasn’t told me anything yet, actually. But I have double-Potions later today. I doubt he’ll miss the opportu—”

 

His voice broke off at the sound of raised voices. He and Ginny exchanged a glance and sped up. At the end of the long corridor was a group of Second and Third-Years, cornered up against the wall. There was a Slytherin and two Hufflepuffs, judging by their badges and ties. Towering over them were two Slytherins, several years older than their prey. Harry recognized them as Fifth-Years.

 

“ —d traitor. What are you even doing in Slytherin? Defending such filth.” 

 

“The only filth here is your ugly mouth, Colles. Leave them alone—” cried the smaller Slytherin.

 

The older Slytherin bared his teeth. And to Harry’s horror, he drew his wand in a sharp movement. 

 

“Ugly, huh? I’ll show you—”

 

“Expelliarmus!”

 

The wand sailed right out of the boy’s hand. It clanked loudly against the stone, rolling away. All heads were trained on Harry and Ginny now. 

 

“Well, isn’t this something? Boy-Who-Lived’s come to save the day, ey?”

 

“Leave those students alone, Colle,” said Ginny. “They didn’t do anything to you. Or was McGonagall’s detention last week not enough to solve your little attitude problem?”

 

“Careful, Weasley . Aren’t you and your family already at the top of You-Know-Who’s filth hit-list?”

 

Wild, hot rage surged in Harry’s chest. In that moment, he wasn’t thinking straight. He was already training his wand at the slug—

 

Until it was his own wand flying out of his grasp.

 

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?”

 

Snape was striding towards the spectacle now, wearing a shrewd look on his shallow face that made him look curious, annoyed, and amused all at the same time. Harry’s stomach did an uncomfortable somersault.

 

“Potter attacked me,” spoke Colle at the first opportunity. He was pointing at his wand on the floor. 

 

“He disarmed you ,” corrected Ginny. “He wouldn’t have had to if you hadn’t been about to do something worse to those students.”

 

To Harry’s bemusement, Colle’s features relaxed. He gave an innocent shrug. “What students? I was just on my way to Potions Class.”

 

Harry realized then that the three students were nowhere to be seen. He assumed they must have scampered off when they’d had the chance. When he turned back to face Snape, the man’s dark eyes were scrutinizing the scene. They travelled between Colle, his wand, the spot where the students had been, and finally came to rest on Harry.

 

“Let us see… Five points from Gryffindor and a detention for Mr. Potter,” he said icily, “for instigating unprovoked attacks on students.”

 

The blood drained from Harry’s insides.

 

“But—”

 

But he stopped short when he felt Ginny tapping his heel with her foot. Instead, he heroically swallowed down his protests, which were left to simmer in his navel, pleading to burst out but rendered impotent.

 

“Yes?” the man drawled smoothly. “Something you wish to add?”

 

Harry clenched his fists tightly at his sides, feeling them trembling. “No. Sir.”

 

“Then I expect you at seven promptly in my office tomorrow.” Snape turned to Colle with a curt glance. “As you were, Mr. Colle.”

 

“Yes, Professor Snape.”

 

The boy bent down to pick up his wand and left, but not without brushing Harry with his shoulder as he passed, an unmistakable triumphant smirk on his smug face. Snape didn’t offer Harry or Ginny another glance. He pivoted on his heel after the retreating student, his cloak billowing in his wake.

 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” said Ginny after a moment. “You know how it is with Snape and his Slytherins.”

 

“Snape would have found an excuse to give me detention anyway,” said Harry. He went over to pick up his wand, turning it over to check for any damage. A bit more quietly, he added, “Besides, he insulted you… and your family.”

 

“Half the Slytherin House is like that, and Colle’s a right prat. But I don’t let it get to me too much.” She frowned as they continued walking down the corridor, which was quickly filling with students. “It’s sad that there’s so much prosecution going on because of blood status. It’s actually what the Sorting Hat warned us about during its song. It’s too bad you missed it…”

 

They had just reached an intersection, where students were quickly starting to fill the space as each tried to navigate their way to class. Ginny suddenly stopped in her tracks; she craned her head over the crowd and waved at someone that Harry couldn’t see.

 

“There’s Hannah Abbott. She’s a Hufflepuff Prefect. I’m gonna ask her to keep an eye out on Colle and talk to those two Hufflepuffs and Slytherin since Snape and his Prefects are pretty useless here. See you around, Harry.”

 

Harry watched her blend into the mass of students.

 

~***~

 

The rest of the day passed as normally as it could have, without any further mishaps. The morning’s events had been stuck in Harry’s head for the better part of the morning, but they had, fortunately, since faded to the back of his mind. 

 

Dinner had just ended, and all the students were filing out of the Great Hall to either find good library seats or head back to their dormitories. The same couldn’t be said for Harry, however. He was now waving to Ron and Hermione, his satchel swung over his shoulder, and setting out for the seventh floor.

 

He’d received a note from Dumbledore earlier that Moody could finally take up his lessons with Harry as early as Monday. This was quite a relief because Harry’s Monday evenings were hitherto free.

 

Dumbledore’s note had also included instructions on what to think about to gain entry to the Room of Requirement, where the lessons were to be held. Initially, Harry had been quite surprised at this, but he’d come to argue that the decision did make sense. Though it was rather ironic that it was where he’d held those DA lessons last year.

 

Harry finally stopped in front of an empty wall, his back facing the tapestry of Barnabas the Barby trying to teach trolls ballet. He took a moment to gather his thoughts and concentrate on what the note had told him to. And lo and behold, having passed the tapestry three times, in the ‘empty’ wall now stood a door. Harry readjusted the hold on his satchel and entered.

 

Inside he found an empty, classroom-sized room. There wasn’t much to look at, other than that there was a small sitting area on the far end, in some corners were a few dummies, and the floor was wooden instead of stone. Harry’s eyes quickly fell on Mad-Eye’s unmistakable form, rising out of an armchair and limping his way towards him.

 

“Ah. Potter. Good to see you,” he greeted in his gruff voice, proffering his hand to Harry, who shook it. 

 

“Good to see you, too, sir,” Harry smiled.

 

“Enjoying your classes? I know Snape’s Defense professor now — Want’cha to keep an eye on him. Barmy idea of Dumbledore’s, barmy !” The ex-Auror shook his head vigorously and took out a flask, unstoppered it, and took a swig. 

 

The sight dropped an unsettling pit in Harry’s stomach, a feeling of déjà vu, but the man must have caught the look on his face, for he quickly said, “Not to worry — it ain’t Polyjuice. Romanian Firewhiskey. Aged for over 700 years under a sleeping dragon’s belly. Got some as a souvenir on my recent trip… Want some, son? Though I ought to warn you, it’s got a kick.”

 

The Auror didn’t even bother waiting for Harry’s answer; he snuck the flask right under Harry’s nose. The scent of strong alcohol immediately pierced through Harry’s senses. He tried his best not to gag.

 

Yep, definitely not Polyjuice Potion. But nor was it pumpkin juice.

 

“You — Dumbledore said that you were on a mission… You went to Romania?”

 

The man re-stoppered the flask and tucked it away into his thick trench coat. “Aye. Had to help out Lupin with those werewolves — he got into a bit o’ trouble…”

 

“Trouble? What kind of trouble?”

 

Moody batted his hand. “Nothin’ you should worry about. He’s alright. But we’ve lost the werewolves to Voldemort’s side. I knew it all along, the ruddy dogs… Anyway, that’s Order business. We’re here so that you kill that monster and end all this rubbish once and for all. C’mon — wand out! Starting position!” he barked.

 

Harry tossed his satchel aside and drew his wand, tucked away securely in the wrist holster Snape had given him. He and Mad-Eye were several paces apart now.

 

Just like this summer, a duel commenced between the two wizards. No warning, no preamble. Moody fired off the first attack — a red jet of light. Harry sidestepped it and cried an Expelliarmus. Moody blocked it, of course, but at least the spell was successful on Harry’s part. Harry followed up with an Alarte Ascendare (which Moody had shown him a month ago). It collided with Moody’s own spell, who quickly sent another nonverbal spell at him. Harry blocked it, though somewhat clumsily… 

 

Seven minutes in, Harry could feel his body running on adrenaline, his clothes grossly damp. But he’d since started to notice that his attacks were growing weaker and more sluggish, his wand more often noncompliant with his command.

 

The duel commenced with a force knocking Harry backwards square in the stomach. He unceremoniously collapsed, his wand audibly rolling away. There he sat, panting.

 

“Not too shabby, Potter.”

 

Moody limped towards him and offered a hand, which Harry took, and then proceeded to conjure a goblet of water for him. Harry savored the cold relief soothing his throat. 

 

“Thanks… Sir, I wanted to ask… Have you ever heard of a spell called ‘Levicorpus’? It’s supposed to be nonverbal.”

 

He watched Moody’s face contort in a thoughtful grimace, his magical eye whirling in its socket. 

 

“Can’t say I have. I’m assuming you couldn’t find the answer in a book?”

 

Here, Harry hesitated. “Uh… Just heard it. Thought you’d know, sir,” he shrugged.

 

“Sounds pretty self-explanatory — to ‘levitate’ a ‘corpse’. But listen, kid, it don’ sound like a friendly spell to me. Nonverbal spells have usually been designed to catch enemies off-guard. I wouldn’t go trying it out, if I were you. Must be dark stuff… Then again…” the ex-Auror mussed with a bit of a mischievous smirk on his features, “I say the more you know, the better. It might require a special wand movement, but you go and give it a try anyway.”

 

Not really believing his luck, Harry stepped forward somewhat hesitatingly and trained his wand at a dummy. He concentrated on it and thought the incantation with all his might… But nothing happened. This silence stretched for a good minute.

 

“I suck at nonverbal spells.”

 

“Or the spell’s a fluke. Either way, don’t go trying it out on your own. And always watch your back. I don’t trust those Slytherins — bet you anything that spell came from them. Constant vigilance, Potter… Right then, let’s have another go.” 

 

The next half hour passed in much the same manner. By the time it was over, Harry felt positively drained of any energy he’d initially had. Mad-Eye didn't keep him much longer and called it a day.

 

~***~

 

The following day dragged on quite agonizingly for Harry. He’d acquired a few bruises from Mad-Eye’s lesson yesterday, which had also left him with sore muscles in the morning. Regardless, he pressed on through the day, even through Quidditch practice, and eventually he found himself standing, yet again, in front of Snape’s office door.

 

Harry’s journey from Gryffindor Tower to here had felt far too short. His mind had been consumed with something in the meantime. A question. A request. One that he was at a crossroads about.

 

The Nightmares — they had only gotten worse, and he was still out of that pseudo-Dreamless Sleep Snape had brewed him. This was a problem.

 

But could he ask Snape for more? Even though the man had explicitly told Harry he would brew him more, should he need it… it somehow felt fake. Too good to be true. And their relationship had been nothing but rough ends as of late — or, at least that's how it felt to him.

 

But he really needed that potion…

 

Harry finally, somehow, forced himself to surface back to the present and rapped his knuckles on the wooden door. Almost immediately, it flew open. On entering, Harry found Snape sitting at his desk, a most condescending look on his features.

 

“Cutting it close, Potter. Or could you not find your way again? After six years of education here, I find it most concerning,” he said with a voice colder than the air. Something in Harry’s chest twinged, then jolted at the sound of the door banging shut behind him.

 

Then, to his further confusion, Snape’s face seemed to lose some of its hardness no sooner than it happened. His eyes relaxed a bit as he indicated for Harry to sit in the wooden chair in front of his desk. Harry sat, the entire time observing Snape as though he were a time bomb. Interestingly enough, the man also appeared to be observing Harry with a strange, thoughtful expression.

 

“...So is it going to be lines or scrubbing something, Professor , or are you going to offer me more tea?”

 

It was hard to keep a note of sarcasm out of his tone. Just like a few weeks ago, Snape eyed him evenly. Harry was still internally fuming about the way Snape had handled that incident earlier this morning.

 

“Neither,” was Snape’s blunt reply. Harry couldn’t help but notice his tense posture and the accentuated tired lines that the torchlight carved on his face. The man rose out of his chair and beckoned Harry to follow him back out into the corridor. The two wizards strode down at a businesslike pace. With each step, Harry was becoming acutely aware that they were descending to the dungeons and eventually heading in the Slytherin Dorm’s direction. Consequently, with each step, Harry’s heart rate began speeding up a bit, a million scenarios rushing about in his head…

 

At last, Snape came to a halt in front of a big painting of Salazar Slytherin. The oil paint looked dry and brittle on the canvas — it gave it the appearance of something Harry would find in an attic. He watched as Snape raised his hand, palm out, and ghosted it over the surface in a complex pattern. A bit of time passed. To Harry’s surprise, it swung aside to reveal a wooden door, which also opened. Snape glanced to the left and right of the corridor with narrow eyes and entered. Harry quickly followed.

 

Where he found himself was a comfortably sized sitting room with a lit fireplace and a small seating area in front of it, very similar to how it was in Snape’s home in Spinner’s End. There was the same unhealthy amount of bookcases lining the walls, and a small kitchenette alcove could be seen on the other end of the room. Other than that, Harry saw only three other doors (excluding the entrance).

 

This was where Snape lived?

 

“Potter!”

 

The voice called from an open room. Harry entered it to find a decent-sized lab that looked just like any other, with a workbench stretching through the middle and counters and cabinets lining the walls, stacked with flasks, jars, vials, pots, and anything else one would expect there to be. A herbal scent was wafting through here. It smelled of lavender and something more foreign. In the background, a few cauldrons were simmering softly.

 

A stool slid out from under the workbench of its own accord. Harry took it as his invite to sit. He did so, only tentatively. Meanwhile, Snape’s back was turned to him, the man rummaging through the cabinets and gathering supplies, which were hovering to set themselves down upon the wooden surface in front of Harry. The boy felt himself tensing with every second that passed. He eyed the pipettes, vials, some kind of test tubes, and what looked like a knife in a protective sleeve.

 

“Humor me, Potter, what do you know about Elixirs?”

 

Harry’s head snapped up in Snape’s direction, but the man was still busy at the counters. Elixirs…?

 

“Well… They’re the hardest magical substance to make,” he answered slowly.

 

“To ‘brew’,” Snape corrected. “But in essence, yes.” A pause. “Is that where your knowledge reaches its peak?”

 

Harry rubbed the back of his head in thought, trying to envision his Potion OWL notes. He even remembered the page’s number; only the writing was all blurry.

 

“Elixirs give the drinker long-term effects, unlike potions or draughts… Professor, is this relevant to… something…?” he finally asked. Snape turned around to look at him.

 

“It is.”

 

The Slytherin leaned back against the counter on his palms. In the torchlight, he looked even more tired, like a man who hadn’t slept in days. He was looking at Harry thoughtfully, considering something, as he usually did. This did not alleviate Harry’s feeling of apprehension.

 

“Apart from those main qualities you’ve just named, elixirs are also considered to be the most potent and powerful type of magical substance. Take into example, as I am sure you may recall—” he twitched a dry eyebrow at Harry, “ —the Elixir of Life, extracted from the Sorcerer’s Stone. Elixirs also have the ability to acutely target specific things. Throughout History, they were mainly brewed for ritualistic purposes and processions, often to extract supposedly irrevocable curses.”

 

A beat of silence followed this informative spiel. Harry connected the dots, eyes shifting from the supplies to Snape, whose gaze had never left Harry this entire time.

 

“You want to extract Volde— the soul fragment with an elixir?” he said.

 

Snape nodded slightly. “It would require me altering a curse-extraction elixir. I will make no promises of guarantee, know this. However, some variation of it may work. As for the main reason for your presence here, I will need to take samples of your blood.”

 

Harry’s eyes darted to the sleeved knife of their own volition, and something of a lump appeared in his throat.

 

“My blood,” he parroted blankly.

 

“For tests, yes. Alongside information. I will not be able to brew anything without conducting substantial research or having a deep enough knowledge of the subject in question. So, yes.”

 

Snape slid out a stool and sat onto it beside Harry, facing him. Without preamble, he reached over and grasped Harry’s wrist and pulled it so that it lay palm up on the surface and rolled up the sleeve. There they both saw the long, faded scar left by the ritual of Voldemort’s resurrection that night in the graveyard, and just below that the scar left by the Basilisk’s fang. Harry was well used to the sight, but Snape, apparently, wasn’t. His face closed off at the sight, eyes seeming to darken in deep disapproval.

 

But he offered no comment. It took him a moment to probe out a vein, and next he drew his wand. He pressed its ebony tip firmly to his skin and murmured a string of Latin. Harry watched in curious wonder as a dark-red liquid began traveling up the wand in a lazy spiral, whereupon reaching its end, the blood was flowing into a test tube.

 

The whole procedure lasted no more than ten seconds. The wand was removed, and Harry internally breathed a small sigh of relief.

 

It was short-lived, however, for, to his horror, Snape next reached for the knife. He took off its protective sleeve to reveal a sharp blade of probably the thinnest sheet of glass Harry had ever seen. Its edge was slightly jagged, and the leather hilt was decorated in a similar design with small, encrusted red and black gemstones. Even to the naked eye, there was something just so sinister and beautifully captivating about it. And given the way Snape was holding it — as if it were made of spider silk —, made Harry want to back away from it.

 

“This is a Blood Knife,” Snape explained, his voice deep and resonating. “Its main purpose is to extract blood with a recorded history of its change throughout one’s entire life.”

 

“You mean you could have a sample of my blood as it was even five years ago?” asked harry.

 

“Even fifteen years ago, before the Dark Lord’s fragment had embedded itself into you, yes. Although doubtful that your blood will be an indicator of anything, as it is a soul fragment, not a physical one, it may — for lack of better words — open some doors.”

 

Snape reached over to grab Harry’s arm again, which the boy hadn’t even noticed he’d put back into his lap. When the man’s hand grasped his wrist again to tug it closer, Harry tensed and nearly drew it away from him in hesitation, but quickly caught himself and forced it to relax.

 

The blade — it shone bright orange in the firelight…

 

…The small man approached with an almost mad gleam in his watery eyes, raising his crooked knife and ruthlessly slashing Harry’s arm open with it. It flashed before him. For a moment, he felt no pain, but then his entire arm was burning as if someone were pressing hot rods against it…

 

…The bottle. His eyes were glued with terror to its shattered, jagged edges that looked sharp enough to sever steel, the obese man staggering over…  

 

“ —tter. Harry .”

 

Harry blinked himself back into the present. Snape was gazing at him intently with an emotion Harry had seen only a few times before. He noticed that he wasn’t holding the knife anymore.

 

“Are you quite alright?”

 

“Sorry, sir,” Harry blushed, “It’s just been a long day.”

 

Snape’s lips thinned at him a bit, but thankfully he said nothing more on the matter. With an inquiring eyebrow, he looked at Harry’s hand. “May I?”

 

The request surprised the Gryffindor. Without a word, Harry laid his arm in front of him. Snape first slid a clean tea towel under it and then reached for his wand again. He was slowly ghosting it over the vein area, which Harry assumed was for sterilizing purposes. Next he grabbed the knife again. His movements in everything were slow, precise, clinical. 

 

No, Snape was no Gilderoy Lockhart. 

 

The blade was placed at a precise angle so that the steel was barely touching the skin. Harry tensed, not knowing what to expect. Then with an abrupt movement, the blade drew a straight slash along his arm. As in the graveyard, there first was no pain; there was even no color of blood until a few moments had passed, and the line was quickly becoming more and more visible as it turned red, bringing with it a burning sensation.

 

Snape was acting quickly. He began squeezing Harry’s arm to gather the blood-red with the edge of the blade, which he then let drip into a nearby test tube. The pain wasn’t unbearable, but with every squeeze a jolt would quiver through his body. Harry just pressed his lips firmly against it. But in the corner of his eye, he could have sworn he saw an apologetic gleam in Snape’s eyes.

 

The procedure took much longer than Harry had anticipated. It had surely been well over five minutes. Most of his arm was stained red, as was the once-clean towel under it. Meanwhile, the test tube was nearly filled to the brim now. Snape, at long last, set the knife down and reached for his wand to clean away all the blood. He then drew its tip over the cut so that it began weaving itself close, and once that was done, the Slytherin reached over his shoulder for a small jar. Harry discovered it was a salve that looked vaguely familiar, like the one Snape had tried to remove the Blood-Quill’s scar with in the summer. He scooped up a healthy amount and began carefully smearing it over the wound.

 

“That should prevent any scarring. I am quite certain you’ve enough already,” he spoke at last, capping the jar. “Drink this. Quickly.”

 

Harry took the proffered vial of Blood-Replenisher. He swallowed the thing in a few draughts, tasting iron, and felt himself losing some of the fatigue he hadn’t even realized he’d felt.

 

Meanwhile, Snape was already at the counters with his back turned to the boy as before. Faint chinks of glass sounded. Unknowing what he should do in the meantime, Harry continued to sit at the stool, waiting for… something. He tried craning his head to see what Snape was up to but couldn’t see much, and when he tried to get a look at what he had brewing in those cauldrons of his, he saw nothing of particular interest.

 

But then Harry’s eyes fell on a small, slightly messy pile of books and parchment. There lay an open journal, alas too far from him for Harry to make out anything.

 

“Potter.”

 

“Sir?”

 

“I need as much information as possible pertaining to your connection with the Dark Lord. Particularly what you feel or experience when your mind slips into his own.”

 

Harry frowned and examined the bench’s wood pattern. Recalling all of his past experiences with Voldemort was probably the last thing that would help him with his nightmares. A moment drew as he thought for a minute. 

 

“Well, when I first started seeing into his mind — or rather Nagini’s —, it always felt like a very realistic dream. I could feel what he or the snake was. It really felt like I was them…”

 

Back still turned, Snape nodded his head. Now the chopping of a knife against a board could be heard. “And would you say you share more of a connection with the snake or the Dark Lord?”

 

“...What do you mean? Sir.”

 

“I shall reiterate: do you see clearer through the Snake’s eyes or the Dark Lords? With whom would you say you feel more connected? Whose emotions, thoughts, or through whose form does the experience feel more life-like?”

 

An involuntary shudder passed through Harry. He’d never really considered this question before. The automatic answer that had initially sprung to mind was ‘Voldemort’, but then hesitation caught him. 

 

“... I think… both? It’s hard to say. There’s not much of a difference, really. When I see — saw — through the Snake’s eyes that one time, I felt and thought everything it did. Same with You-Know-Who,” Harry answered slowly, rubbing a hand along his arm. “Why do you ask? Sir,” he added.

 

Snape was still preoccupied over at the counters, but for a moment, Harry caught a glimpse of the side of his face; he could have sworn there was a disturbed look in his eyes, the man’s expression thoughtful. “It is curious that you were able to see through the snake in the first place.”

 

“Dumbledore said it was because V— You-Know-Who was possessing Nagini,” interrupted Harry.

 

“Yes, but even so, there seems to be a connection,” Snape went on. “Even in the Dark Arts, animal or creature possession is extremely rare. Even with my limited knowledge, it is granted that there is an inordinate connection between the Dark Lord and that wretched snake — a connection, I believe, of souls.”

 

“A connection like… like the soul fragment inside me?” asked the boy quietly.

 

“Precisely.”

 

“But the Snake wasn’t there when Voldemort went to— to murder my parents, was it? So a fragment of HIS soul couldn’t have…”

 

“Precisely again, Potter. The Dark Lord didn’t have a snake in possession when he disappeared for thirteen years.”

 

Harry huffed. “Well, then it doesn’t make any sense, does it? How could a piece of HIS soul have gotten inside the snake?”

 

“A question we would both like the answer to, I am afraid,” Snape said with a low sigh, his voice bearing what sounded like regret and weariness. The Professor set something down and leaned heavily forward on his palms on the counter, his greasy locks curtaining his face. The silence stretched for a moment, then two. Harry took to fidgeting with his hands. Both seemed to be lost in deep rumination.

 

“...When I see through his eyes, it feels… I… I feel such deep hatred and— and I genuinely want to hurt. When I saw him, uh, torturing you, it just made me so happy . But it was like I still had my own thoughts, but I was also trapped in his mind. It’s… hard to explain. It’s… not a nice feeling.”

 

There was a low, soft sigh. “No, it is not. The Dark Lord’s mind is unlike any other. He is corrupted by dark magic; it is not even entirely human.” Snape finally turned around to look at Harry. He was observing him intently, but his face was unreadable. Harry avoided meeting his eyes, instead opting for studying the spine of a random book. 

 

“So in those instances you were aware of your own person?”

 

“Well, more or less. I think it depended on how weak or strong my mental shields were at the time,” Harry half-guessed. “It hasn’t happened in a while, though. But I always feel like it will… that I… Sir, what if I’m—?” 

 

Harry opened his mouth, but suddenly stopped himself. It was a stupid thing that he’d just been about to say. He wasn’t even sure what had made him loosen his tongue so much to begin with.

 

“Go on, Potter,” Snape prompted. “Despite my abilities, I will not be endeavoring to read your mind for your lack of verbal expression.”

 

This did not prompt Harry in any way. 

 

Snape observed him intently for another moment; Harry could feel his dark gaze on himself while he gazed down at his hands. Then the man took a few steps to sit himself before the boy. This time, his voice was several notches softer. “‘What if you are what , Potter?”

 

Harry didn’t say anything. He’d simply realized in that moment that, of all people, Snape had had a lot of experience with Voldemort’s mind too, so to speak. He had to use Legilimency to ward and conceal specific memories while Voldemort rummaged through his mind for information and potential deceit.

 

“How do you do it, sir? Block him out, I mean, when he looks into your mind,” Harry asked quietly.

 

There was a soft sigh.

 

“I believe you already know the answer to that. Granted, it is no walk in the park.”

 

“Sir—” Harry blurted out. “What if this connection I have with him is making me… What if it’s affecting me somehow? In a really bad way? I’m just… I always feel that, since I have a part of him inside me, I might hurt someone. What if it’s making me…?” he whispered. 

He did not draw his gaze upward. He remembered telling Sirius the same concern, but with the time having passed since then and with everything he’d discovered recently… These droplets of doubt couldn’t help seeping through into his mind.

 

There was a soft scoff. “I highly doubt seeing into the Dark Lord’s mind predetermines your fate as the next mass murderer.”

 

“But if there’s literally a part of him inside me—?”

 

Snape held up a halting hand. They locked eyes, the man’s gaze careful. “Potter. I am no therapist, nor am I Merlin himself. That said, I hope you understand I am... not the right person for you to consult about this, Potter.”

 

There was an awkward silence. It felt as if a heavy stone had been dropped into Harry’s stomach.

 

“I wasn’t… I just thought… You aren’t…”

 

“As it so happens, I do understand. However, that does not make me any more suitable to take up the role of a confidant for you. I suggest consulting one of your friends, or perhaps the werewolf. I am far from a fitting candidate.”

 

Harry’s insides felt as though they were lined with lead at those words. It was a punch to his gut, so unforeseen, yet there, and for the life of him, he could give no explanation as to why. Betrayal.

 

What had he been expecting?

 

He doesn’t need to deal with your whining or your problems. Why would he? Think he needs any of this? Think he cares?

 

“...‘Care’ is not a term I can throw around on a whim, Potter… I care that you live; I care that you survive the war; I care that you do not lose your magic; and I care that you are not used and sacrificed like a chess piece in this damned war, like I have been….” 

 

Snape had never mentioned he cared to any greater extent than that.

 

He’ll just wash his hands of you when he has had enough of you and your problems.

 

Trust… There went all that trust. And Harry’s pseudo Dreamless Sleep potion.

 

“Yes, sir.” In a spontaneous decision, he decided to change the subject. “Sir, how much do you know about You-Know-Who’s past?”

 

Snape tilted his head just slightly. “As much as he has divulged to any of his Death Eaters. Why?”

 

“Well, Dumbledore’s shown me these memories he’d gotten from some Ministry bloke — Od… Ogden? He’d gone to see the Gaunts — the last living descendants of Salazar Slytherin and you-Know-Who’s grandfather, uncle, and mother.”

 

Harry took rewarded pleasure in seeing Snape’s eyes widening. 

 

“His mother was Merope Gaunt. She fell in love with a muggle — Tom Riddle —, but she wasn’t allowed to see him because of her father’s pureblood mania. But when her brother and father got arrested, she ran away and fed Tom love potion. She stopped when she got pregnant, hoping Tom wouldn’t leave her and her baby, but he did.”

 

Snape appeared truly dumbfounded at that moment. He couldn’t seem to decide on what to say… “Was this when the Headmaster requested you meet with him a fortnight ago?” he asked.

 

“Yeah— Yes. He said that knowing You-Know-Who’s backstory will help me win against him. That it has everything to do with the prophecy.”

 

The Potions Master flourished his wand and silently summoned a journal closer to him. There he hastened to jot down something in a messy scrawl. 

 

“He is correct in that regard, yes,” Snape commented.

 

“You think it could help us— you brew that elixir or something?”

 

“It may. There is no such thing as excess knowledge,” said the man rather cryptically. He then rested the journal on the workbench again. “I appreciate you bringing this information to light. It is paramount that you should find out as much as possible.”

 

Harry nodded. “I know. Dumbledore said they’re going to be ‘lessons’ of some sort.”

 

Snape nodded in acknowledgment and rose. There seemed nothing else for him to say on the topic. 

 

“I believe it is time for you to go. It will be curfew soon. As such,” he added dryly, “you should not expect a note from me if you are caught.”

 

“Right…”

 

Time had completely escaped Harry’s notice. If he’d been down here for over an hour, he had no doubt his friends were already thinking what might have become of him. The thought, admittedly, rather amused him. Nevertheless, Harry also rose and swung his satchel over his shoulder and followed Snape out of the lab and through his quarters. 

 

They paused before the front door. Snape proffered something to him, a flask of a familiar dark-blue shade potion. 

 

“Assuming that you are in need of it?”

 

Harry took it carefully by the neck and stared at the improved Dreamless Sleep potion, his salvation, then back up at Snape.  

 

“I— Thank you, sir,” he breathed with gratitude, not really sure what else to say. 

 

“I am a man of my word, Mr. Potter. Should you have further need for it, I will be amenable to supplying it for you only on the condition that you do not overdose on it. A maximum of two mouthfuls per night… It is called Celarium Umbras.”

 

Harry committed the name to memory.

 

Snape opened the door for Harry. Immediately, the dungeon corridor’s chill seeped through Harry’s pullover and trousers.

 

“Oh, and, Potter,” Snape said, making Harry stop and turn his head. The words that then poured out of Snape’s mouth were ones Harry had never thought he’d hear unless he were high. 

 

“Ten points to Gryffindor for discouraging peer violence.”

 

Harry opened his mouth, dumbfounded, then closed it again. He feared saying anything would ruin everything. But then… perhaps nothing needed to be said in this case. Snape had merely found an excuse to give Harry detention to meet with him, and that scene with the Slytherin in the corridor had merely presented itself to him at an opportune time.

 

So, had Snape just compensated for his unfair approach this morning?

 

Somehow, the chill of the dungeons wasn’t as cold as it had just been. Harry offered him a tentative smile. “Goodnight, sir.”

 

The door closed.

Notes:

Hey, guys! Wishing you a Merry Christmas, happy holidays, and a happy New Year (unless I manage to upload another chapter before then(?))!!!!! Stay safe, wishing you all good health, wealth, happiness, and a great holiday break of reading Severitus. I decided to upload two chapters today, as a lil Christmas present🎁✨️🎄

On a different note, not much to say on these two chapters other than that it's all slowly coming along. Hope you've enjoyed them and hope to hear your thoughts🥰😊

Chapter 8: This Fear...

Early October, 1996.

 

Term had finally tipped into October, some would say rather sluggishly. Everyone was getting so snowed under with midterm tests and homework, that there was scarcely any time for socializing or lounging about. Watching the Seventh-years studying for their NEWTs alone was exhausting, and as Ron had put it: ‘bloody terrifying’.

 

Harry actually had no clue how Hermione was managing with all of her studies when he, with Quidditch training and Moody’s weekly lessons, could barely keep up. Not to mention his latest… predicament.

 

And he was tired.

 

The same dreams and nightmares continued to persecute him, consequently scuffing his chances at sleep. These nightmares weren’t letting him live. At night, they showed up and then followed him throughout the day until a new nightmare came to haunt the following night. It was the same cycle over and over again. A vinyl stuck on loop.

 

And he was exhausted — mentally and physically. 

 

No longer was sleep an opportunity to escape reality — it used to be like that when Harry had had that potion, his sweet salvation. Now, he dreaded sleep. Because he always knew beforehand the visions he’d see… Of Sirius, of Cedric, even of his parents.

 

That Celarium Umbras Potion Snape had given him? Gone. Harry was ashamed to admit it, but the entire flask had lasted him barely a week. And he couldn’t go and ask Snape for more — for several reasons.

 

Because he didn’t want to listen to the man’s spiel on how ‘foolish and irresponsible it was of him’.

 

Because he feared Snape would send Harry away, telling him not to waste his time and that it was his loss that he had rationed it out so poorly.

 

Because he didn’t want Snape to be… mad? Disappointed in him? 

 

It was hard to pinpoint what it was exactly that was holding him back from asking Snape for more of that potion. But the bottom line was that the professor wasn’t an option.

 

Harry was getting desperate.

 

The following week showed no improvement. Ron and Hermione had actually asked him if he was alright at breakfast one day, and even Ginny and Neville had exchanged skeptical glances with one another. It had been getting even worse now that they had tipped into October and talk of Halloween had sprung up amongst the students. Harry had never celebrated Halloween, for very obvious reasons at that, and had no intention to ever. Why would he celebrate the anniversary of the day his life had changed for the worse?

 

The nearing occasion, as it did every year, elicited thoughts of the late Potters to surface. Harry found himself brooding over his photo album more and more often, often in a state of melancholy. His friends, particularly Ron and Hermione, had since noticed his drift in mood, but only ever exchanged concerned but knowing glances. Harry knew they knew. But they seemed reluctant to bring it up, for which Harry was eternally grateful.

 

It was on a Friday that Harry found himself fidgeting with his quill in Charms Class. Flitwick was going off about the disillusionment charms module they would be starting soon. The tension in the class was palpable as everyone was awaiting the last bell of the day. Everyone was spent from another week of homework and tests and just wanted to escape as quickly as possible — beside Harry, Ron had had his bag packed since ten minutes ago, the boy sitting on the edge of his seat, while Hermione, sitting at the desk in front of theirs, was furiously taking notes. Harry watched the spare quill sticking out of her hair with drooping eyes.

 

“...Fairly difficult to grasp material, so I’d suggest you start reading up on this branch of charms. There will be a big test on the module in January, but don’t underestimate the time you have until then—”

 

The bell clanged. Desks and chairs scraped as everyone shuffled off for the door. Harry regrouped with Ron and Hermione in the crowd, but he and Ron soon parted with the girl as they mselves set off for Quidditch practice. 

 

It was some time past four when they had changed into their Quidditch uniforms and his team was assembling out on the pitch. Harry shuddered as he left the changing room. This year’s October seemed particularly chilly; it reminded Harry of the dementors’ cold auras. The air was misty, the surrounding mountains barely visible, and an unpleasant drizzle was carried by the wind. Harry was sure that everyone else present here wanted nothing more than to curl up in front of the Common Room fireplace, like him, but as Quidditch Captain and with the year’s first game quickly approaching, it wouldn’t do to let his team slack off.

 

“Alright, quiet, please!” Harry yelled over the chatter. 

 

“Oi, Potter!” cried Jimmy Peakes, a Beater, “It’s monkeys out here. And wet.”

 

The entire team promptly chimed in protest, and Harry’s voice was lost within theirs.

 

“SHUT IT!” Ginny, at Harry’s side, suddenly bellowed. The crowd instantly quieted down. Harry glanced at her with an appreciative look.

 

“If we want to beat Slytherin, that’s no excuse for slacking off,” Harry addressed the crowd. He was trying to keep his voice encouraging. “If we fly well, we’ll end practice early, alright? Come on, then. On your brooms.”

 

He pointedly ignored the protests and grumbling that followed this. While everyone was mounting their brooms, Harry strode over to the chest with the Quidditch balls. He only needed to unlock it now… Drawing his wand, Harry took a deep breath and prayed to Merlin his wand would work.

 

“Alohomora!”

 

The latch budged a little but didn’t open.

 

“Alohomora!”

 

Again, nothing. A wave of nervous sweat washed over Harry. He was no longer cold. The weight of his team’s eyes was on his back.

 

“Alohomora! Alohomora— Bloody thing!”

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

It was Ginny. Harry straightened up at once, thinking fast and shrugging nonchalantly. 

 

“The thing won’t budge. Dunno, maybe it’s broken.”

 

Ginny drew her own wand and approached the trunk with a frown. Harry heard her mutter the spell, and in the next moment there was an audible click, and the hood swung open, the bludgers struggling and snarling against the chains holding them down.

 

“Seems fine to me,” she said. Then she looked at Harry, and he could have sworn he saw concern in her eyes. “Are you okay? Like really okay?”

 

“Why is everyone suddenly asking me the same bloody thing? Yes, I’m fine, Ginny.”

 

“No need to use that tone with me,” said Ginny right back. “We’re just worried—”

 

“Thanks. But I’m fine. Really,” replied Harry with a bit less bite. He released the latch holding the bludgers and quaffle, and snatched up the Snitch within a deft move.  

 

“Hey, what’s taking so long!?” cried a voice overhead. Harry threw a leg over his broom, kicked off from the ground, and released the Snitch, signaling with his hand the start of the game.

 

The mock game went on for a good twenty minutes. He watched closely as his players skillfully ducked and avoided the savage bludgers and scored hits on the quaffle. Ron had come a long way since the tryouts a few weeks ago, but Harry noted that confidence was not his strong suit — it was clear in the way the redhead kept awkwardly trying to apologize whenever he’d miss a hit on the quaffle or accidentally hit someone with his club. He wasn’t a bad player; Harry knew it was only the peer pressure.

 

Though he worried how Ron would play in front of the entire school.

 

It was almost completely dark now and still drizzling, but the field was lit up by several bright Lumos Maxima spells. Harry could feel his eyes drooping despite the constant moving of his broom. He just couldn’t seem to locate that elusive golden Snitch, so he’d kind of given up on it and was simply spectating the players from above.

 

Some minutes later, Harry called the end of practice. No one needed a special invitation; everyone shot for the changing rooms.

 

Harry and Ron stayed behind to store the balls away. It took him and his friend another good ten minutes to finally catch that Snitch (they laughed about their victory), and then locked it up with the rest of the balls.

 

By the time both of them were heading back up to Gryffindor Tower, Harry felt like he could hibernate until next Friday, or even the first game of the year. His eyes stung, and he was practically dragging his feet behind himself.

 

He was, again, craving sleep. Rest. But then the thought of those nightmares reappeared, and he suddenly felt sick in the stomach.

 

Ron had just reached the landing in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady when he turned around to find his mate painstakingly making his way up the staircase, using the railing. Maybe it was the torchlight, but the bags under his eyes unnerved Ron. His face also seemed to have attained an unhealthy pallor.

 

“Mate—”

 

“ —I’m fine,” Harry ground out irritably. He straightened up, strode past Ron, and gave the Fat Lady the password.

 

“Abstinence.”

 

She swung aside without complaint. But before he could walk through, a hand caught his wrist.

 

“Yeah, right,” said Ron. “You look like you’re about to fall over. My Great Aunt Tesssie’s nearing a hundred, and she doesn’t look nearly as if death’s warmed over as you—”

 

“I just need some sleep, Ron. It’s been a long week. Let me go.”

 

“That’s rubbish, Harry. I know you don’t sleep.”

 

Harry stilled and turned around. Ron loosened his grip.

 

“Yeah, that’s right. I know you’re using silencing spells on yourself.”

 

Harry swallowed, his mouth suddenly feeling dry and his face going red. “How— How did you find out?”

 

“Dunno. Just woke up for no reason one night. Saw you thrashing like mad,” Ron answered.

 

“But… why didn’t you say anything?”

 

The redhead rubbed the back of his head uncomfortably. “I just guessed you wouldn’t want me to bring it up. I also thought it was a one-time thing… I haven’t told anyone, but…” Ron sighed. “Harry, I think you should tell McGonagall.”

 

Harry immediately shook his head. “No. It was a one-time thing, Ron,” he lied. But when Ron didn’t look convinced, an absurd but plausible idea sprang to Harry’s mind. “Listen. If it keeps happening, I'll go to Madam Pomfrey. Alright?”

 

Ron was still looking rather skeptically at him, but eventually nodded his head slowly. Together, they finally walked through the passage and into the welcoming warmth of the red-gold Common Room.

 

Later that same night, Harry lay in bed, staring dead up at the ceiling of his four-poster bed with his hands under his head. His ears occasionally picked up Neville’s and Ron’s light snoring; other than those sounds, everything was quiet.

 

Except for the warring thoughts running through Harry’s head. 

 

Should he really do it?

 

What if he got caught? What if… what if it was Snape’s shift tonight?

 

But what other choice did Harry have? He would never get more than one small vial of Dreamless Sleep from Madame Pomfrey, and going to Snape was, again, absurdly out of the question.

 

No… No, it was ridiculous. Harry wasn’t a thief.

 

He turned over onto his side, the sheets rustling softly.

 

But he couldn’t sleep. Was every night to be like this? His friends had already since started asking him if he was alright, and Ron had even seen him once… For how much longer could this go on?

 

Mind suddenly made up, Harry carefully swung his feet over his bed and gathered his glasses and wand. It took him a moment to locate his Cloak and the Marauder’s Map in his trunk, and then he was padding down the staircase down to the Common Room. There, the hearth was just barely still lit, nearly dead but bright enough for Harry to unfurl the map and make out that the coast outside the Tower was clear. And yes, there was Snape, down in the dungeons, but he wasn’t patrolling the halls. Harry could only see McGonagall, but she was near the Great Hall. 

 

As quietly as he could, Harry climbed out through the portrait hall and swung his trusty Cloak over his shoulders in one swift, practiced move. He didn’t light his wand with a feeble Lumos and set off for the Infirmary.

 

The trek down to the Fourth Floor was much shorter than Harry remembered it to be. It seemed no time had passed before he was standing in front of the big doors leading inside. He knew the place was never locked at night, for which he was eternally grateful. Ever so slowly, he opened the door wider and wider, until he eventually slipped in. No one seemed there; all was quiet, and the beds empty. Harry made a beeline straight for the cabinet he knew stored all kinds of potions. 

 

Guilt was stabbing painfully at his conscience, but he swallowed it down. Now it was too late to turn back. He upended the cabinet doors and scanned the bottles and flasks for that one potion…

 

At last, he found what he was looking for. Dreamless sleep. There were about seven big flasks full of the potion, but they weren’t perfectly lined up, so it gave off a bit of a disorganized look. This was perfect, as it lowered the chances of Madame Pomfrey noticing…

 

With a shaky breath, Harry snuck one flask out, closed the cabinet softly, and fled the scene. 

 

~***~ 

 

Mid-October, 1996.

 

A shuddering gasp rattled his lungs. Severus shot upright in his bed, leaning back on his elbows and gazing into the darkness that surrounded him. It took him a moment to establish where he was; his eyes soon adjusted to the bare amount of light coming in from the artificial window. With every exertion, his chest rose and fell with gusto, but it soon began evening out. 

 

Severus sighed and ran a hand over his face, covering it for several long moments. But it seemed no matter how hard he tried to fight it, those images kept coming back, shifting and warping in vile and crippling ways that were then projected in his sleep. The same images of the same faces, of those many days and nights that he was so ashamed of that he kept them hidden in the very recesses of his mind with Occlumency, and yet they were still there.

 

No, it seemed there was no sleep for him. 

 

Tonight had been, by far, the worst in several weeks. He’d dreamt of that night in Godric’s Hollow — that night of genocide executed by the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters. Only this time, it hadn't’ been Severus feeding those victims the Strangulatus Potion — it had been the other way around. 

 

Another involuntary shudder rocked his body, this one at the thought of the voice of the woman who had been standing over him — the very same one he’d subjected to the potion’s torture in real life. Her voice, her loathsome expression, her words… 

 

That night, along with countless others, was still engraved in Severus’ head. They warped and morphed into such projections that Severus dreaded sleep these nights. Not even Occlumency seemed to be working as much as it used to, and that Celarium Umbras potion was nowhere in sight, unbrewed. 

 

Because maybe Severus didn’t deserve relief from these thoughts that continued to plague him. Maybe this was the kind of punishment he deserved for his past, for his crimes, for his sins… It all felt suffocating, like a windowless shed with no escape. 

 

It mattered not that it was his duty as spy — to kill, to torture, to lie —, because the fact of the deed remained, and it stained. His hands felt stained with this filth, this blood, covering them that he could not wash off. It was like his Dark Mark, only invisible yet palpable to him.

 

Deciding any attempts at sleep would be in vain, Severus threw back the tangled covers, reached for his wand tucked under his pillow, donned his night robe, and staggered out of his bedroom. He had no clue what this ungodly hour was, but neither was he interested to find out.

 

The torches lining the walls flared at a simple, vague flick of his wrist. The Slytherin, despite having lived down here for nearly fifteen years, was still not used to the cold of the dungeons. He pulled his robe tighter around himself with a contained shudder.

 

Entering his private potion lab, the torches flared here as well. Severus ghosted his eyes and hand over his research journals and parchments, all covered in either scribbled-out or crammed spidery writing.

 

Another few weeks had passed…

 

Another fortnight bearing no results.

 

Severus lowered himself onto a stool and picked up one of the test tubes he’d been studying — containing the boy’s blood. He’d segregated the initial sample to ration it. For this one, he’d infused it with essence of pitleaf oil and left it to commingle, but the substance had turned out a dull purple instead of the expected deep magenta. So this was a failed trial.

 

Much the same had happened with the other five tests. The only one still undergoing testing was the Blood Knife blood one. Severus had split the amount into two tests — one to show what Potter’s blood had looked like before he’d been hit with the Killing Curse, and one after. So far, there was no difference, so that was as good as a dead end.

 

Said test tubes were sitting on the counter on the other side of the lab. Severus watched them. His gaze was unfocused. The tapping of his finger against the workbench was unregistered with him. His thoughts slowly strayed to these last few weeks.

 

Nothing noteworthy had happened, for which Severus was thankful. There had only been that one meeting the Dark Lord had called some time ago. Draco had been mentioned; the Dark Lord was expecting him to fail — that was obvious, but it was the torture he was most interrested in: watching the boy suffer for his father’s mistakes. 

 

Draco had been completely avoiding Severus as of late, and there was nothing he could do about this. This matter was beyond mere class attendance. Severus knew it would only be counterproductive to assign the boy detentions for not attending his classes or pointedly ignoring him. No, Severus simply chose to overlook this because he was no blind imbecile.

 

And, admittedly, he was at sea as to what he should do about this predicament. He knew the boy was struggling as well as planning something. Severus had tried offering his assistance to him, yet to no avail. He had been shrugged off every time.

 

And then there was Severus’ other predicament: Potter.

 

Severus’ strange habit of observing the boy had only grown. He found the Gryffindor’s behavior rather strange as of late. During meals, he appeared to lack appetite, due to which he looked quite emaciated. His face was also gaunter, more drawn, and he always seemed jumpy and distracted. These symptoms set off bells in Severus’ mind, but their cause seemed very unlikely. He doubted the boy had access to Dreamless Sleep, as Poppy Pomfrey never condoned its prolonged use, let alone that he was overdosing on it.

 

So then, what was the matter with the boy?

 

This line of thought brought him back to their last conversation. Even now, weeks since, he was still unable to shake it out of his head.

 

The boy was looking to confide in him. Or rather, he was looking for a confidant. 

 

 He was looking for understanding from Severus.

 

“... do you do it, sir? Block him out, I mean, when he looks into your mind…”

 

“...I hope you understand I am the right person for you to consult about this, Potter…”

 

“...I wasn’t… I just thought… that you’d…”

 

Potter had thought Severus understood. It was plain as day that now, with his mutt of a godfather dead, he had scarcely anyone to confide in. Severus inwardly cursed Black’s stupidity in having gone to that Merlin-forsaken Ministry and died , leaving his godson practically an emotional wreck. Talk of responsibility! And if that wasn’t bad enough, the werewolf was away on that mission for Dumbledore and the Weasleys’ sentimentalities would offer little to nothing to the boy.

 

And with the truth pertaining to the Prophecy and Dumbledore having come to light, the boy no longer held the old man in his good graces any more, as far as Severus assumed.

 

Thus, it left Potter with few options. The boy was growing desperate.

 

But what could Severus offer him? Of all people in this castle, he was the least qualified for such a position. In light of what he’d done, the damage he’d caused, the years of prejudice and torment he’d shown towards the boy, and what with his less-than-commendable life decisions… No, Severus could not see himself offering Potter more than his help in extricating that soul fragment and perhaps some guidance, protection granted. 

 

Even though he longed to somehow help him in more ways than just this. He knew what it was like to feel the Dark Lord invade his mind, what it was like to feel him ruthlessly riffle through his thoughts and memories — Severus knew this feeling of disgust, of contamination. He’d lived it so many times before, and it never got easier.

 

But again, who was he to play the boy’s confidant? The thought of it was quite laughable. He had a role to play in this war, and he had to do it professionally. Growing close — growing to care — had been an unanticipated turn of events — it was already bad enough. 

 

Care… The word still sounded so strange to Severus. Such words had seldom crossed his mind. He could practically hear his drunkard father’s manic laughter if he knew… Severus Snape? Care? And for the Potter spawn, of all people?

 

And yet, he did. He would be a fool to try to deny it. And now, he was terrified of the boy’s fate should he fail to extract the Dark Lord’s soul fragment in him before it was too late. 

 

But would this fear be enough? After all, he’d been terrified for Lily’s life; that fear had been his drive to try to do whatever it took to preserve her life, and yet it hadn’t been enough. Lily had died. Severus hadn’t done enough. His fear-driven efforts hadn’t been enough.

 

And that was what terrified him even more now. He feared history repeating itself, as it was so notoriously known for.

 

A strangled, bitter laugh erupted from Severus as he tiredly rubbed the corners of his eyes. Even still, these thoughts running through his head made him sound delirious, for never in a million years would he have thought that he would ever be terrified of losing the boy.

 

The boy isn’t even mine…

 

He didn’t know why, but that thought drove a knife through his heart. Perhaps from the regret, from the thought of what might have been... 

 

It did not do to dwell on dreams.

Notes:

Hi hi hi!!! Happy New Year, my dear, fellow readers (from me and my amazing beta reader - Val)!!! Wow, 2025! Hope you enjoyed this chapter - it's shorter than the last one, but it is one nevertheless. Not sure when I'll next upload. Have school starting soon. And I have a ton of stuff going on rn, ngl. NOT that you should constitute this as 'I'm gonna stop uploading' or anth like that. Nah, this fic still has a long way to go to being finished. I have too much planned for it to abandon.

Just sayin.

Anyway, hope you all have a brilliant 2025! And, let's be real, we've all got a pretty similar - let's say - common ground/understanding as to why we're here, reading Severitus, so I wish you all healing and happiness... Not quite sure what else to say on this topic, so... yeah. If I sound cheesy, blame it on the champagne.

See you all in 2025, and hoping to read your thoughts on the chapter/plot so far😊

PS: I write so informally in the author's note, as opposed to in the story. I find it so funny. But also humane😌

Chapter 9: Caught, But Not Dead

Mid-October, 1996.

 

Another very habitual morning found Severus seated at the staff table in the Great Hall. Breakfast. Another typical day. He was leaning back in his chair and disinterestedly sipping on a cup of tea, his eyes raking over the four long tables of chattering students. 

 

Particularly the two tables on opposite ends of the Hall interested him. 

 

His gaze, again, managed to seek out Draco Malfoy. Nothing noteworthy appeared about him, except for his slight pallor… His face was guarded. It always appeared to be. Severus had tried to peer into his mind several times but hadn’t been very successful. It had always felt as if there was some kind of blockade — and that, admittedly, concerned the man, giving him much for consideration.

 

In any case, the boy was engrossed in conversation with his peers: Miss Parkinson and Mr. Zabini. The trio was sitting huddled together at the far end of the table. It almost gave off the appearance of a group of vultures. Crabbe and Goyle, as it appeared, were excluded from said conversation… 

 

Severus kept his gaze inconspicuous as he studied the three Snakes. He’d surmised that they weren’t arguing, but both Zabini and Parkinson wore perplexed expressions. Draco was explaining something, gesticulating with his hands.

 

Severus internally sighed. Nothing had changed from the way things had been since the start of term. The boy was still avoiding him, up to Merlin-knew-what, and to say it was frustrating would be an understatement.

 

His eyes then strayed over to the Gryffindor table — it was routine by now. 

 

And there sat Potter with his friends, rather predictably. Severus paused on him… But for some strange reason, his attention was drawn to the boy’s plate. Either he had already had his fill, or the single piece of toast and apple were the only foods on his otherwise clean plate from the start… 

 

When he shifted his gaze, Severus couldn’t help noting the prominent dark circles decorating the boy’s under-eyes, his face having become shallower. He also appeared slightly thinner…

 

What was going on with the boy? He looked malnourished. Or did he simply have no appetite? But from what?

 

Could he be suffering from insomnia? 

 

But that wasn’t possible — not with the Celarium Umbras potion Severus had given him… 

 

The chatter in the hall was quickly abating now, and students were beginning to leave for their first class of the day. Severus gladly followed suit. He didn’t have any first-period classes today, but he didn’t wish to stick around here any longer than necessary. Downing the rest of his tea, he slipped out through the back entrance of the Great Hall.

 

He was crossing a corridor when he heard voices from just around the bend.

 

“... don’t believe it! Nearly half of my Dreamless Sleep stock gone within one— no, two weeks! Not many students have come asking for it, and you know I would never prescribe a use of more than is allowed…”

 

“Students? Stealing Dreamless Sleep?” Severus heard Horace Slughorn’s bewildered voice. Curious now, he slowed in his stride to listen. 

 

“Well, it’s the only plausible explanation,” went on Poppy, exasperated.

 

“Merlin’s beard… Ooh-oh, well, you know how easily it is to get carried away with it. Yes. Especially if it’s a youngster — a First- or Second-Year…. It’s like that, you know: one shot of Rosmerta’s Golden, and before you know it — the whole bottle’s gone, and you end up on an island in Greece!…”

 

The man paused a moment, seemingly to recompose himself.

 

“Very well, very well. I’ll have brewed more Dreamless Sleep by Friday, Poppy,” Horace promised. “And we’ll see about that culprit, too. I shall have a word with Severus — it is his shift tonight, after all. Though if he does manage to catch the student, I rue to think… Well, I don’t think any sleeping potion will help them…”

 

The witch and wizard parted ways, but Severus remained hidden until he could hear no more footsteps. A hunch had settled itself within his stomach, one that churned uncomfortably. 

 

He was mentally toying with the puzzle pieces he’d gathered so far…

 

But surely not…?

 

No. It was a far stretch of things. Potter wouldn’t do something as utterly foolish as…

 

But the longer he ruminated on it, the more the possibility made sense. Severus mentally recited the boy’s — the idiot boy’s — symptoms. He chronically looked fatigued, lacked appetite, and the shadows under his eyes that were actually dark circles—

 

How had Severus been this blind ?

 

Blast that Invisibility Cloak of his!

 

Severus pivoted on his heel and stalked off. Deep rage had settled within him, simmering and boiling at the thought of the audacious brat strutting the castle halls, stealing potions from the Infirmary in the dead of night—  

 

This burning sensation in his stomach, acid-like, followed him through the Entrance Hall and down the narrow, descending staircase.

 

Halfway down, Severus recognized a hefty portion of said anger was concern for the idiot, clenching and unclenching his gut.

 

But it wasn’t until he reached his office, now sitting at his desk, that he realized those were not the dominant emotions storming through his body and mind.

 

It was disappointment.

 

All driven by one thought. Just one. 

 

And it tasted like a bitter potion.

 

The boy didn’t trust him. He’d rather resort to thievery than consult Severus.

 

Perhaps some part of Severus had been expecting the boy to approach him with such a problem, given all that had transpired this past summer. Perhaps he’d been hoping for a sliver of trust from the boy… 

 

Then again, what reason would Potter have to approach him?

 

Severus sighed, his gaze unfixed on his shelves. Maybe it was to have been expected. After all, he and Potter hadn’t contacted each other since their meeting in his lab back in September, and in class Severus was just as hostile towards him as ever.

 

Feeling sentimental, Severus? 

 

A classic sneer overcame him. 

 

Perhaps it was for the better this way.

 

But Severus had sworn to protect him…

 

If there was anything Severus knew about the Gryffindor, it was that the boy would never admit his problems to anyone unless he were on death’s doorstep. He would, no doubt, pass it off as ‘I’m fine’. 

 

An image of Potter’s mental breakdown this summer played out in his mind. Next, the boy’s bloodied hands…

 

Severus hadn’t even realized how hard he’d clenched his fists until they started to turn numb and cold. 

 

He had to come to a decision about how to approach this… predicament ? 

 

If it really was Potter nicking the Dreamless Sleep, he was clearly desperate. Had he used up the Celarium Umbras potion, or was it just not helping him sleep? 

 

It is possible that prolonged use has made the boy develop immunity to it…

 

Severus leaned forward on his desk and massaged his temples. How was he to approach this? This delicate matter? He thought back to what Horace had said on ‘catching the culprit’. Indeed, it was Severus’ turn to patrol the castle tonight. The chances were, of course, slim, but… 

 

But he very well could catch this anonymous student red-handed.

 

~***~

 

The Fat Lady stirred slightly with a snore, but fortunately continued with her slumber shortly after her portrait had swung open and closed again. Standing in the deserted darkness, Harry breathed a shaky sigh of relief and unfurled the Marauder’s Map again.

 

It was Snape’s shift tonight.

 

The fact did little to please Harry, but it really didn’t matter, as he seemed to be preoccupied with stalking near the library. And Harry was out of Dreamless Sleep. Again. He’d stored away his fourth empty flask (each serving about three doses) just last night. 

 

He shouldn’t do it. Harry knew this. Hundreds of heavy anchors felt chained to his conscience. He hated doing this… But what other options were there? For the last two weeks, he’d actually been sleeping, and to boot, his magic had improved. And he needed sleep. This potion was the only thing that let him shut off for at least a few hours each night, the only thing keeping everything in his mind at bay… The only major downside was that he felt more tired throughout the day, and everything he did felt slower, sluggish…

 

But there was always a price to pay. For everything. A trade. It all simply came down to choosing the lesser of the two evils.

 

Swinging the Invisibility Cloak over his shoulders in one precise move, Harry tucked away the Map, lit a low Lumos charm, and started down the dark, stone corridor.

 

The trek was the usual, and his feet were moving practically of their own accord while his thoughts were preoccupied by his inner battle with his conscience — his heavy, heavy conscience. 

 

A particular chill was wafting through the castle tonight, or maybe it was this inexplicable unease, this disquiet in his chest…

 

It seemed no time at all had passed before he found himself standing, yet again, before the large oak doors of the Infirmary. As usual, he pushed one door open, peeked in, and only then fully entered. Inside were only a few students slumbering in the beds (one, with whom Harry sympathized, had been a victim of one of Peeves' recent ‘pranks’)... 

 

The cabinet… The rows of vials and flasks… The flasks labeled ‘Dreamless Sleep’... Harry took one this time, in the process the hood of the Cloak slipping off to his shoulders. It weighed the same as ten. He pocketed it into his pullover, closed the cabinet doors, and a moment later — the large oak ones.

 

All was silent and deserted as ever. He breathed a sigh of relief.

 

His hand was just leaving the door handle when long, cold fingers latched around his wrist, causing him to cry out in surprise.

 

“Thievery, Mr. Potter? I may vomit.”

 

Harry felt all blood draining from his face and body. Snape’s voice could have cut steel; his gaze even more so. He looked livid . The Gryffindor couldn’t reply; his mouth had gone dry. Snape briefly tightened his grip on Harry’s wrist, then let go.

 

“Don your Cloak. Follow me,” he said tautly. 

 

Harry didn’t know where he was being led; he felt numb. His heart was threatening to drum itself out of his ribcage... They were descending, deeper and deeper into the castle, past the floor of the Defense Classroom, where Harry had assumed he was being taken. Now, however, the distinct chill of the dungeons was beginning to seep through his thin pajamas. 

 

When the pair stopped, it was at that same old painting of Salazar Slytherin. Moments later, it swung open, and Snape gestured with his head for Harry to follow through, who was now shaking and trembling, though not from the cold alone.

 

The boy, letting his Cloak slip off his shoulders and into his hands, looked around the dimly-lit sitting room. Confusion stole over him.

 

Why had Snape brought him here, of all places?

 

Harry started when Snape’s dark figure strode past him. The man sat down in an armchair and, with a hard gaze, wordlessly indicated for him to sit on the couch. Barely feeling his legs, Harry sat on the edge of the couch, posture as stiff and straight as though he were a plank. And he waited.

 

Snape was going to murder him. At this moment, Harry wished for nothing more or less than for the floor to swallow him whole, burying him along with his shame and mortification at this turn of events — nay, everything . He would rather McGonagall had caught him, or even Filch with his stupid cat — Merlin, anyone would have been better than Snape.

 

And the professor was studying him carefully, all the worse. The way he always did. Harry could practically feel Snape’s eyes boring holes into him. 

 

This further unnerved Harry. 

 

Why wasn’t he saying anything? Where was the usual barrage of reprimands, comments about his swine of a father or his spiel about what a presumptuous prince Harry was? Where were the insults, the snide remarks, the satisfaction, the tone of vindication—?

 

In reality, the silence stretched for only a dozen or so seconds, whereas to Harry, it felt like minutes had passed. But just when Harry thought he could take no more, Snape spoke, his voice quiet but indubitably outraged.

 

“What were you thinking?” 

 

It was a rhetorical question.

 

“Do you have any idea how serious this is? Stealing from the Infirmary stores? Not to mention the bullheadedness of that quest alone , it is an entirely separate matter of what you have been stealing — Yes, Potter, have been … I should report you to your Head of House or the Headmaster, and believe me, were the circumstances different, you would be packing your bags as early as the morning .”

 

Harry’s muscles went rigid; it felt as if he’d been plunged into frigid water. Heart thumping loudly in his ears, he privately cringed at Snape’s words, although continuing to stare at his cold, clasped hands.

 

“Are you going to, then, sir? Report me, I mean,” asked Harry quietly.

 

Dead silence. 

 

Then, a scoff.

 

“While tempting, expelling the ‘Chosen One’ from school is hardly in the Headmaster’s interests, or mine. There are—”

 

Again, that bloody title. Harry was privileged because of his title.

 

“ —Right,” Harry gritted out. “So what will it be, then? Detention? Lines? Scrubbing cauldrons?”

 

“ There are ,” Snape continued strongly, “more paramount matters at hand, Mr. Potter. This is about more than merely breaking school rules. It is about the danger you’d put yourself into. A mere detention will not rectify your dependence on Dreamless Sleep . You must realize this,” he hissed.

 

Harry finally looked up, gaping at Snape in horror. 

 

“How— How did you…?”

 

Snape pinned Harry with his gaze. Sharp, pointed… But then, an underlying emotion appeared that Harry couldn’t quite pinpoint. Something almost seemed to have… softened.

 

“I know you haven’t been sleeping, Harry.”

 

The low, composed tone threw Harry completely off-guard. 

 

“You don’t know anything,” he deflected automatically.

 

“Oh, but I do,” Snape asserted grimly. “I know that to have resorted to such measures as stealing from the Infirmary stores , you ought to have been desperate .” He leaned in closer. “My only question, Mr. Potter, is why you refused to seek help and knowingly developed a dependence on Dreamless Sleep.”

 

“I don’t have a dependence,” refuted Harry angrily, clenching his fists tightly. “I can stop. If I want.”

 

“Will you?”

 

“…”

 

“And yes, you have a dependence. Your visual appearance speaks volumes, you foolish boy . You are extremely fortunate that said dependence is only in its beginning stages. A while longer and your classmates just might have found you in a coma one morning.”

 

Harry found himself momentarily dumbstruck.

 

“I just… I didn’t have any other option,” he argued, though he knew it was weak. 

 

In all truth, he felt defeated. And tired — beyond expression. He was tired of everything.

 

It didn’t even feel like Harry was living anymore. No — he was surviving . Living off of that Dreamless Sleep. Like some rat scrounging the streets for sustenance.

 

What did it matter if the sustenance was a bit dirty? Or stale? Or having been walked on? What did it matter if the potion was a bit addictive? If it had certain side effects?

 

The silence was broken by Snape’s baritone voice.

 

“There is always another option, Potter. The worst choices, however, are always taken through acts of desperation.” Snape had said this with a note of reflection, softly. 

 

Potter mumbled something under his breath.

 

“I beg your pardon?” asked Severus.

 

“I said: what’s anything matter? Nothing else works. That potion you gave me? I ran out. It was working worse and worse until it stopped doing anything at all. Dreamless Sleep worked fine. Sure, I was tired all day…” And my head’s been hurting like shit… “But at least… Well, it was better then, with Dreamless Sleep… Now, it’s like I don’t even have that,” Harry confessed despondently. He shamefully hung his head. “I just… I don’t know what to do.”

 

Severus refused to let his gaze soften, despite it internally thawing a bit. “I would have expected you to come to me upon any such problems arising — with the potion or anything of the like. I could have helped you , offered you some alternative or another... I am assuming you had started overdosing on the Celarium potion, too? It is no wonder your body no longer reacts to it — it is used to it.”

 

“What do you want me to do, then?”

 

The defeat was blatant in the boy’s voice, and surprising was his giving in. Severus was still looking at the hunched-over figure with a heaviness in his chest that he couldn’t quite decipher. He quietly sighed. The vulnerability in Lily’s eyes — Harry’s eyes —... It made it difficult to meet them.

 

“Quite obviously, desist stealing potions from the Infirmary and poisoning yourself. Pertaining to your nightmares…”

 

“They always come,” the boy croaked out, addressing his interlocked fingers. “At night. If I don’t take Dreamless Sleep. It’s always either Cedric, or Sirius, or… or…” 

 

He worried his bottom lip. 

 

“Professor, what if they never go away?” he asked genuinely, fearfully, and this time he raised his pained, emerald-green eyes to meet Severus’ dark ones. Severus swallowed.

 

“It is as I had told you, Potter; nightmares are projections of our fixations, that include fears and unpleasant memories. So long as you have them, no potion will ever help you to your content… Have you been practicing the Occlumency exercises I had shown you?”

 

The boy visibly hesitated.

 

“I try to do those,” he sighed, “but it’s not—” The boy let his hands drop to his lap as he bent over his knees. “It’s not working. Nothing is. It’s all the same. I can’t just shut off my feelings or emotions on a whim like you .” The boy’s eyes were glossier than Severus recalled. “I— I don’t know how you do it, but I can’t.”

 

“It is alright to feel , Potter; it is not alright to let it consume you… ” Severus watched him closely for a beat. “..You are still grieving,” he observed softly.

 

At this, the boy tried to snort softly. Something sharp jolted Severus’ chest when it came out a bit choked, and the boy turned his head away. 

 

“Thought you said you weren’t a therapist, sir.”

 

Those words, admittedly, struck Severus’ chest. Hard. Though he wasn’t sure why.

 

“I am not . I am merely explaining the rudimentary to you… Unless you’d prefer I didn’t?” Severus inquired with a raised brow, privately despising himself for his lack of tact. 

 

Potter paused, opening and closing his mouth a few times.

 

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck as he cleared his throat. “I just… You said that I should’ve come to you. But why would you help me with this? Maybe you have your reasons for trying to remove that fragment out of me. Fine. But what’s it to you if I have bad dreams? Why burden yourself with this? Why would you…?”

 

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. “Potter, not this again—” He heaved a sigh. Hadn’t they discussed this ad nauseam? “I would have assumed it was blatantly clear. Your well-being determines everything, that being the outcome of this war. But this reason does not even begin to justify why I would provide you with my help. I am not inhumane . This is not a burden. And neither are you a burden. You are a complication, yes… but not a burden… Not to me.”

 

On the last words, both lapsed into silence. They seemed to hang in the air. In that moment, neither could come up with anything to say… 

 

But to Harry… Those words meant more than even he, in that moment, could comprehend. It felt like an invaluable artifact to hold. He strangely wanted to hear them again.

 

That’s when the grandfather clock decided to chime in the background. Harry didn’t need to look to know that it was an ungodly hour of the night — nay, early morning. 

 

“We shall continue this discussion tomorrow,” said Snape in a closing manner, rising from his armchair. He held out his hand, palm out. “I believe you have something I should like returned?”

 

Harry needed no explanation. Flushing, he fished around in his pullover for the flask of midnight-blue liquid and surrendered it, hesitating only a bit.

 

Snape observed the potion in his hand for a moment. 

 

“Wait here.” 

 

Severus suddenly pivoted on his heel. He strode into his lab and, setting down the flask of Dreamless Sleep on one of the counters, began rifling through his cabinets, gathering the ingredients running through his mind.

 

Dried nettle, baneberries, essence of asphodel … In deft and precise movements, Severus lit a fire under a small, bronze cauldron and filled it with the Dreamless Sleep potion. While that was left to softly simmer, he set to mincing and cutting up his assortment of ingredients. He was at the task for a good fifteen minutes before he was able to pour the final product into a clean flask.

 

He’d succeeded in muting the strength of the most detrimental concentrates of the potion, but it was a very makeshift solution. Still, he felt he could not leave the boy with nothing. Notwithstanding everything, it would be cruel of him to let the boy off to continue to deal with his nightly demons. 

 

Also because, though he didn’t wish to outwardly admit it, he wanted to earn the boy’s trust, if only marginally.

 

But when Severus re-entered his sitting room and rounded the couch, he found himself stopping dead at the sight that met him: 

 

The boy was now slumped sideways against the back cushions, his mouth slightly ajar and eyes closed. The rhythm of his chest rising and falling was even, and his face looked more at ease than Severus had seen it in a while.

 

It was… a tranquil sight to behold.

 

Severus stood there, looking down at the slumbering figure in somewhat of a befuddled state, unknowing what the surging warmth in his chest was and still clutching the flask… 

 

Something in the Slytherin just couldn’t bring him to wake the boy. Not now. Not tonight. Even if some part of him was trying to reason with him that he should send the boy back to his Tower.

 

But, well, it was some time past two in the morning. It wouldn’t do to send the boy back up to his dormitory, a many several stories above here.

 

Let him stay…

 

Exerting a breath, Severus summoned a spare blanket and let it drape over the boy, then removed his round glasses. He was, again, met with just a shallow face that had never resembled his childhood nemesis less than it did in that moment… But that’s when something caught his eye.

 

It was a roll of parchment sticking out of the pocket of the boy’s pullover. Severus carefully pulled it out and unfurled it, only to find it blank. Confusion filled him — why would he need this?

 

But something about it was ringing bells in his head. The circumstances were… too familiar.

 

Then, he was suddenly plunged into that one night three years ago, when he’d caught thirteen-year-old Harry Potter with the same blank parchment. A ‘Zonko’s product’, as Lupin had passed it off…

 

This was either a coincidence, or it was far from a mere ‘Zonko’s product’ or a harmless piece of parchment.

 

Severus contemplated what to do with it but ultimately set it down on the coffee table. He would ask Potter about it later. For now, let him sleep.

 

Sleep… Such a wistful thought now, for the both of them, it seemed. He glanced down at the sleeping figure one last time, feeling his brows crinkling together as he watched the even rhythm of his chest. There was something strangely calming about it… 

 

Alive.

 

For now…

 

His insides grew cold at that thought; a shiver travelled down his spine. 

 

Over my dead body.

 

With the resolute vow, Severus dimmed the light and retreated to bed.

 

~***~

 

Harry awoke to an unexpected sight. 

 

With dawning consciousness, he slowly turned over onto this side and that before propping himself up on his elbows and rubbing the sleep out of his bleary eyes. When he opened them, he was expecting to find himself in the Gryffindor dormitory. But, instead, was greeted with the surroundings of Snape’s sitting room. Memories flowed back to his head of the previous night.

 

Merlin…

 

Harry tiredly rubbed his face with his hand. When he made to swing his legs over the edge, he discovered a soft, brown blanket covering him, half of it pooled on the floor. He blinked at it for a moment, running his hand over it and thinking.

 

He must have fallen asleep… But why hadn’t Snape woken him? He’d let Harry stay? Even after what had happened?

 

It heavily reminded Harry of that time he’d fallen asleep on the couch in Spinner’s End… Snape had also covered him with a blanket then… 

 

His mind automatically jumped to Aunt Petunia doting over Duddykins, a most tender expression on her face. Harry could still acutely remember jealousy’s ugly head rearing itself into sight back then… 

 

Harry’s line of thought was unexpectedly interrupted by a sweet smell of herbal tea. It was wafting through what he assumed was the kitchen alcove, on the other side of the room. Too bad he couldn’t see a clock anywhere, for he had no idea what hour it was.

 

To Harry’s relief, he found his round frames, wand, and Invisibility Cloak all resting neatly on the coffee table. He tucked his wand and Cloak away in his pullover, donned his glasses, and quickly glanced down at himself. He was still wearing his striped pajamas, with only his pullover over his shirt. He was fairly certain it went without saying that he looked a right mess.

 

Following his intuition, Harry slowly made his way over to where some sounds were coming from. They led him to the small kitchen alcove. There, at a small dining table, sat Snape, dressed in his usual black suit and cradling a steaming mug while perusing a paper. The scene looked uncannily familiar to all those mornings spent at Spinner’s End…

 

On Harry’s entering, he looked up, raising an eyebrow, and his scowl diminished into a frown.

 

“Uh, morning, sir,” said Harry awkwardly. “Erm, sorry I fell asleep. Didn’t mean to…”

 

“Well, that much is obvious,” drawled Snape, though his tone hardly brooked any bite. Harry was left there to stand for a few lasting seconds until Snape gestured for him to take a seat. Harry did. Almost immediately, a small assortment of breakfast foods appeared, as well as a clean plate and goblet.

 

“Eat, Harry.”

 

Harry . Harry liked it when the man called him by his first name, seldom as it came. He reached for a piece of toast and began buttering it.

 

“Sir, what time is it?” he asked after a moment. All he knew was that it was Saturday (thank Merlin).

 

“A quarter past eight. That said, you should not linger here. Your friends will be wondering about your absence, and, technically, it is not permitted for students to be let into teacher quarters. You will have to come up with an alibi.”

 

Harry thought on this issue while he chewed another bite. “I’ll make something up,” he said easily. Then he cleared his throat and sat up a bit straighter. “Um, sir. About last night…”

 

A silencing hand stopped him. “This one time, and one time only, Potter, I will show leniency and let you off the hook. I daresay last night has left quite an impression on you... I trust you’ve taken away something from the, ah, experience?”

 

“Not to go stealing potions in the middle of the night,” recited Harry, hands clasped between his knees and eyes glued to the porcelain teapot. 

 

Reality, it seemed, had sunken in only then. He suddenly found himself dumbstruck at the implications this posed. It was back to the sleepless nights, ridden with nightmares and insomnia galore… 

 

But he had no one to blame but himself for having gotten caught. He should have known that temporary bliss wouldn’t last. And now, to make matters worse, he had no alternative. No way out. He’d hit a dead end, and he would be heading back empty-handed and embarrassed.

 

He realized only now how tense his body was. A subconscious deed. In his periphery, Snape, too, had completely stilled, and his dark gaze was trained directly on him. There were these several beats of silence that hung in the air between them. Again . Harry didn’t know what he’d said wrong.

 

“ To consult responsible adults instead of resorting to such desperate and inadequate ventures,” Snape intoned. “This speaks of your non-existent sense of self-preservation. I could not think of a more foolish and senseless thing than to wander the castle in the dead of night, breaking and entering, and committing theft . And believe me, should I find you doing such inane things as stealing potions to then drug yourself into a potential coma, you will be very sorry indeed.”

 

“It wasn’t senseless. I didn’t exactly have many options. Sir ,” Harry gritted out.

 

“So you’d already said. That still does not justify the poor option you’d acted on.”

 

Harry wanted to argue — he really did . But he felt too tired at this point… A moment passed, and there was a low sigh, then a mug being set down.

 

“That being said, you are not leaving empty-handed,” the man continued, though his voice was now a degree calmer. “I am giving you a potion. Reversing your dependence on Dreamless Sleep will be twice as time-consuming  — for your body to get unused from the daily dosage of drugs, that is.” 

 

Harry’s face fell a bit. Admittedly, he’d been expecting… something else. But Snape must have been reading along similar lines of thought, for he added:

 

“As for your nightmares, we shall discuss it later. For the time being, however, the surplus of Dreamless Sleep still in your system should have lasting effects on you for a few days.”

 

“Oh…”

 

Snape then held out a flask of murky, olive-colored liquid, which Harry took. “The antidote. A draught after every meal should suffice. It is designed to counteract the effects of Dreamless Sleep’s concentration with a different one, but overdosage may lead to organ burning…”

 

Harry did a double-take at this last bit. “What?”

 

Snape smirked. “So you are making use of those ears. And should you be diligent enough, it should not be the case with you… Now, eat. And take the first dose.”

 

The rest of breakfast passed in silence, with Harry managing another slice of toast with jam and washing it down with tea. The potion Snape’d given him tasted like grass, he discovered, but at least it was tolerable.

 

The whole time, he couldn’t stop thinking how out-of-place he felt here, yet at the same time how similar the current setting was to their meals at Spinner’s End. In all honesty, Harry found this a nice change from the usual loud chatter and clatter of the Dining Hall. And the present company wasn’t too bad, either.

 

Eventually, Harry was making his way up to Gryffindor Tower, concealed under his Invisibility Cloak per Snape’s request. The portrait of the Fat Lady regarded him with suspicion when he muttered the password to her, but let him pass without complaint. 

 

But no sooner had the portrait hole swung open than—

 

“ —he possibly be?”

 

“Relax, Mione. I’m sure he’s alive.”

 

“Oh, you think it’s funny, do you, Ron? No one’s seen him since last night, and Neville said Harry’s bed was empty when he woke up. And now, he wasn’t at breakfast.”

 

Ron and Hermione were just ascending the moving staircase behind Harry, both dressed comfortably in jumpers and jeans. It took both of them a double take to realize their ‘missing’ friend was standing right there, clad in his striped pajama pants and pullover with his cloak draped over one arm.

 

“Harry James Potter, where have you been!” demanded Hermione, storming towards him. “You sneaked out, didn’t you? You know it’s not safe… Oh, no… Did something happen?”

 

“No! Nothing happened. I just… Uhh, you guys maybe wanna go somewhere less… obvious?” Harry asked. But he did not wait, already climbing through the portrait hole. The Common Room. Thankfully, it appeared empty.

 

“So?” asked Ron.

 

“So: I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d clear my head a bit, but I ended up dozing off near the library,” Harry explained. He’d rehearsed this alibi on his way up from the dungeons. 

 

Hermione pursed her lips in visible concern. Ron didn’t look too pleased either.

 

“Mate, remember what we talked ab—?”

 

“I didn’t have any nightmares, Ron. Was just restless.”

 

“You’ve been having nightmares?” repeated Hermione. “Harry, they—” She lowered her voice a notch. “They aren’t visions… are they?”

 

“No. Of course not. Forget it. Honestly, it’s not that big a deal, guys.”

 

Hermione heaved a great sigh. “Do you know how much trouble you could have gotten into, Harry?” she said exasperatedly. “Security’s been tightened for a reason, you know.”

 

“Relax, Hermione. I had my wand, Cloak, and Map on me.”

 

“That doesn’t justify your breaking at least three school rules!” she bristled.

 

“What, going to report me to Snape or McGonagall, are you now?”

 

“Weeeeell,” drawled Ron wryly, “we are Prefects…”

 

“Oi, piss off ,” Harry laughed, punching his arm. 

 

He took off up to the boys’ dormitory to change and put away his things, with potential plans of a shower in mind. He neatly folded his Invisibility Cloak, temporarily tucked away his green potion, and—

 

A sudden realization washed over him in an ice-cold chill. A sudden, horrible, horrible realization.

 

He’d forgotten the Marauder’s Map.

Notes:

Hi! Things have been insanely hectic lately. Have been struggling with my mental health lately. And school. Literally my only two excuses for not uploading for over two weeks. Test after test after test IN A FOREIGN LANGUAGE that I barely speak (shoot me). On top of that, I have projects due. I come home and don't have time for anything anymore, not even to write or draw. It's horrible. I'm sure many of you can relate... For this reason, updates are going to come a bit slower:( Sucks, I know. But just bear with me.

Notwithstanding this, my passion for Severitus/this story has not lessened one bit. This chapter has finally been beta-ed and posted. With that being said, I really hope you enjoyed it. I think it's safe to say that Sev's and Harry's relationship is making some leaps and bounds, more of which are to come in the near-future chapters😊

As always, thank you all so much for all of you comments/feedback on the previous chapters, and I'm hoping to hear your reviews on this one:) Until next time!

Chapter 10: The Parchment and the Blade

Late October, 1996.

 

“... core difference between Lazarus’ theory of interchangeable defensive…”

 

For all of Saturday and Sunday, one thought — and one thought only — had lain at the forefront of his mind. It was gnawing at him. When he was studying, eating, talking to his friends, and even when he’d been leading Quidditch practice the other day, — the thought was an ever-present, nail-biting dilemma that was always there.

 

“...ile many charms are deemed adequate for such situations, they are not necessarily the most convenient…”

 

Snape’s droning voice was playing somewhere in the background, fading in and out… Should he go to Snape to get his map back or not? 

 

Harry would go, but it would seem far too suspicious if he suddenly showed up asking something like if Snape had seen a piece of clean parchment he’d left behind the other night. Snape was far from dumb; he would immediately grow suspicious as to why Harry had said ‘parchment’ with him when he’d been out after curfew in the first place.

 

But what if something happened to the Marauders’ Map? What if Snape found it and used it as he would any other spare parchment? Harry would never forgive himself if anything ever happened to the Map. He needed it back.

 

But how would he get it back? He’d left it in Snape’s quarters. And even considering using his Cloak to sneak in there was laughable.

 

So what was he left to do?

 

Tap… Tap… Tap…

 

Holding his quill loosely between two fingers, he let the tip softly bounce against the desk, its ink dry.

 

“...crucial in nonverbal casting…”

 

He had to get the Map back — it was an invaluable artifact created by the Marauders. This was such an obvious thing that it was even needless to say.

 

But how would he do it? How would he get the map back? Harry was fairly certain he wasn’t getting invited there for a second visit any time soon.

 

“... requires exact wand movements… Classified as a curse…”

 

Harry was at sea as to what to do. His quill kept bouncing, the parchment in his vision blurry and unregistered with him.

 

“...May prove a challenge to some of you, specifically those who blatantly lack the ability to pay attention for five minutes!”

 

Harry surfaced at a nudge from his right. He blinked and looked up to find Snape’s dark-clad figure towering over him, that classic sneer twisting his face.

 

“Hmm, yes, it would appear Mr. Potter has impeccably exemplified for us yet again. I suppose you expect your enemies to also wait for you to finish your daydreams before firing at you.”

 

A few Slytherins from across the room snickered. Harry didn’t pay them mind, though, nor to Snape’s jibes.

 

“Well, if they’re polite enough, sir...” he shrugged. Beside him, Ron had to clamp a hand over his mouth to smother a snort. Several people around them laughed, but Snape’s expression only hardened.

 

“ Quiet, ” drawled his voice softly. The class instantly fell silent. The man turned back to the boy. “Detention, Mr. Potter. Eight o’clock, my office. I am sure you will tell me all about your ingenious defensive strategies that us mere mortals cannot comprehend .”

 

He moved on along the aisle with a deft sweep of his cloak.

 

Meanwhile, Harry’s heart was beating at an inordinate pace. So it was settled. He’d just made his decision.

 

~***~

 

Later that same day, promptly, the Gryffindor was standing at Snape’s door. His knuckles rapped on the dark wood. Internally, he startled at his own action. But it was already done. There was no turning back. A deep drawl sounded, telling him to enter. So he did.

 

Snape’s back was turned to him. He appeared to be browsing his shelves for a book, tracing a long finger over the spines, though when he went to sit at his desk, he didn’t take anything with him. He didn’t immediately look at Harry. Instead, he reached into a drawer and pulled something out.

 

It was the Marauder’s Map. Harry’s heart skipped a beat at the sight.

 

“You’d left something in my quarters the other night… A rather interesting thing to carry around with you in the middle of the night, is it not?” asked the professor a little too innocently, holding it aloft. He was looking directly at Harry, who was still standing.

 

“Spare parchment, professor?” asked Harry. “There aren’t any rules against carrying spare parchment around with me, are there?”

 

“Certainly not. However, the circumstances are suspicious.” Snape’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Was it not three years ago that you were strutting about the castle after curfew with ‘spare parchment’ as well? Lupin, if I recall correctly, claimed it was a Zonko’s product.”

 

The memory played out in Harry’s head. Yes, he remembered that scene quite well. He doubted he — either of them — would ever forget the Map’s message to Snape.

 

“Well, it’s mine, so I’d appreciate it if I could have it back,” Harry replied more firmly.

 

“And you will. But I would like to know what it really is.”

 

Silence. Dead silence as the two stared at one another.

 

“It’s just—”

 

“Drop the pretenses, Potter. I am no idiot. What is it?”

 

Another silent moment stretched between them. This one tenser. Eventually, Snape visibly relaxed and leaned forward on his elbows, interlocking his fingers in front of him on his desk. The map now lay beside him. 

 

“A trade, perhaps? You tell me what this is, and I will return it to you.”

 

“Sounds like an ultimatum to me. What if I don’t want to?”

 

For a moment, Harry could have sworn he saw some bit of emotion flashing in his eyes, but it was gone as soon as it had appeared.

 

“I am not your enemy.”

 

And he really wasn’t, Harry knew this. Not anymore, at least. They were on one side, now in more ways than just on the Light side of this whole war. But was it worth telling Snape about the Map? What if he confiscated it? What would Harry be losing if he told him the truth?

 

It all came down to that one question: whether he could trust Snape or not.

 

But Snape had already done so much for him. And after the way he’d treated Harry the other night? That potion he’d given him? Couldn't Harry trust him?

 

Couldn’t he?

 

Trust… To trust Snape with this secret…

 

Well, it wasn’t as if there was any way out of this — without making a mess, anyway . Snape was far from an idiot, as he’d said; it was blatantly clear that he knew this wasn’t everyday spare parchment from Zonko’s.

 

“It’s… a map. Of Hogwarts.”

 

Both of Severus’ brows rose at this in intrigue. Hesitatingly, Harry leaned in to unfurl the roll so it lay flat before reaching for his wand, his heart pounding and screaming at him. Drawing a small, bracing breath, he said, “I solemnly swear I am up to no good.”

 

And as promised, the castle’s entire plan blossomed before them both on the once-blank parchment. Both wizards were observing the many moving dots, labeled with their respective names. There were McGonagall and Flitwick in Dumbledore’s office, the Patil twins in the Hospital Wing, a small group of students traveling across a corridor…

 

Harry had never thought he’d see such awe and astonishment on Snape’s face.

 

“Where did you get this?”

 

Harry, still standing, was rubbing his arm with his hand. “Fred and George found it a few years ago. They gave it to me in Third-Year. Nicked it from Filch… But, uh, technically it belonged to…”

 

Snape glanced up when Harry hesitated, voice dying off mid-sentence.

 

“Yes?”

 

“It’s called the Marauders’ Map.”

 

Harry watched with trepidation as Snape blanched. He looked as if he’d just been submerged into a bucket of ice. His face first wore disbelief, which then morphed into a repugnant sneer. Meanwhile, Harry's heart was beating a mile an hour, wondering how big of a mistake he’d just made.

 

Would Snape tear the map? Would he keep it or return it to Harry? Or would he lash out?”

 

“So that is how…” came a soft, marveling mutter, as if he’d just finally solved a most obvious puzzle. Otherwise, there was a stretch of silence while the man continued to observe the magical object. “Sit,” he mumbled blankly. Harry automatically abided.

 

Eventually, a faint smirk appeared on his face. “So this has been your key to nighttime prowling… Yes, it makes sense for Lupin to have recognized it. I had always wondered about Potter’s and Black’s obsession with this parchment — they often seemed to guard it more than their lives —” He glanced up at Harry shrewdly. “A trait that’s been passed down to you.”

 

Harry’s mouth was still dry. “...Are you going to let me keep it?” he choked out.

 

“I am tempted not to. However ,” Snape thoughtfully tapped it with the tip of his finger. “I would like you to have this with you at all times, likewise your wand and that infernal Invisibility Cloak — provided you won’t use it to further endanger yourself with this privilege.”

 

“I’m not gonna go around prosecuting First or Second-Years, if that’s what you’re implying,” Harry bristled, his tone rather accusing.

 

Snape’s eyes narrowed at him. “Perhaps you aren’t as below that as your father and his sidekicks were, but you certainly don’t appear below trespassing and theft, Potter.”

 

“I—” Harry reddened, now drenched in shame and anger. “I told you, I didn’t have a choice. Sir .”

 

“We are not going in circles over this topic again, Potter,” Snape said shortly, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment. “Bottom line: do not let me catch you with it without a plausible excuse, or I will confiscate more than the map.”

 

Harry gladly gathered up his Map and satchel and promptly rose for the door…

 

“Unless I am suffering from amnesia, which I do not believe I am, I do not think I have ever dismissed you. You are here for detention, are you not?”

 

“Ah… Right.”

 

Harry dropped his bag back down and retook his seat. He’d completely forgotten about that.

 

“What will I be doing, sir?” he asked.

 

“Lines.”

 

Snape brandished his wand, gave it a flourish, and out of thin air appeared some parchment and a self-inking quill. They floated over to rest on a spare little desk in the corner of the office. Harry silently accepted his fate and transferred himself there. The instructions, he noticed, were pre-written at the top of the paper.

 

Without another word exchanged, Harry began to write. But behind him, he could sense the man moving around, occasionally browsing his bookshelves or jotting something down.

 

An hour or so had passed when Harry finally finished writing the excruciating set of 200 lines. His eyes felt on fire from the sedative glow of the candlelight, and his wrist was sore. He deposited the paper onto Snape’s desk…

 

And his eyes paused. He was now beholding a sight of a bedlam that hadn’t been there an hour ago. Books, parchment, journals… Research. The title of a chapter in one of the opened books read ‘Soul-Eating’, another ‘Embedded Curses and Magics’.

 

The man’s greasy hair was slightly frazzled, and exhaustion shone clearly on his face. But not just physical exhaustion.

 

Harry awkwardly cleared his throat. “I’ve finished, sir.”

 

Snape didn’t glance up at him, only nodded as he continued to write. 

 

“Dismissed.”

 

But a sudden thought suddenly made him pause. A beat passed, and then a non-sequitur escaped his lips.

 

“Sir, you… That elixir you said you wanted to brew… You haven’t found anything yet — from those, uh, samples, I mean —, have you?”

 

It was curious. Harry watched the man’s head snap up at him as if there had just been a loud explosion. He suddenly looked a few years older.

 

“Perhaps… It is a lead, at any rate, but this is neither the time nor place…” He tapped the long feather of his quill against the parchment in thought. “I am assigning you another detention . Tomorrow. Same time and place as before. I shall need to take more samples, possibly even conduct more… extensive research.”

 

The muscles in Harry’s body felt to have gone rigid, and yet his heart, prematurely, soared with hope. About a dozen questions were suddenly swimming through his head, and he couldn’t seem to focus on a single one.

 

A lead… Had Snape really found something? Had he cracked the problem? What had those blood samples shown him?  

 

Harry realized he’d zoned out for a moment. Snape was observing him with a strange expression. With a jerky nod, he finally left.

~***~

 

The walled torches were a mere blur in his periphery as Harry ran down corridors, passed classrooms, and vaulted several stairs at once. His loud footsteps echoed loudly. An occasional student would glance at him curiously, but he daren’t slow down, ignoring the painful thumps of his satchel against his hip and the growing stitch in his side.

 

Late. Late. LATE. He was so late, and Snape would kill him.

 

It was one thing to be three or five minutes late — fifteen minutes was another.

 

At long last, he’d arrived at Snape’s classroom. He unceremoniously burst through the door and raced up the few steps to the man’s office, where the door stood ajar. But before he was able to crash through it, it was being swung fully open. Snape met him with a most annoyed look on his face.

 

“Sixteen minutes. Do you prefer the term fashionably or royally late?”

 

Harry leaned against the doorframe tiredly and breathlessly, seeking composure. “I’m— sorry. Was with— Professor Moody— Lost track…”

 

Snape appeared to bite his inner lip as his mouth thinned on one side. His displeasure was palpable… But eventually, he sighed and beckoned with his head to follow him out.

 

Neither spoke for the several long minutes it took them to reach the dungeons (Harry under his Cloak). The same procedure was followed as Snape saw them into his quarters . Only once the portrait swung shut behind them did Harry reappear again. And as before, the pair entered Snape’s laboratory.

 

“How is your magic faring?” Snape asked without preamble, stopping at a workbench and facing Harry. 

 

“Um… alright?”

 

He hummed. “A most articulate question .”

 

Harry sighed. He folded his arms over his chest, really starting to feel the dungeon’s chill creeping through his sweater now. “It’s… been worse. I struggled a bit in Moody’s lesson today. We were practicing nonverbal shields.”

 

“Did he inquire as to why?”

 

“I just told him I was tired, is all,” Harry shrugged… He suddenly went quiet. Only now had he noticed a very familiar-looking object that Snape had just put there in front of him. Alongside it stood a few clean vials and a clean flannel. Harry’s stomach did an uncomfortable flip. The two wizards met each other’s eyes, and a tense second passed between them.

 

“...I require more samples.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Harry said nothing more to this and simply rolled up his right sleeve to lay his hand out on the table. He watched Snape draw his ebony wand and follow the familiar procedure as before, pressing the tip to his skin to make a small stream of blood travel up the wand and into the small vials. Harry opted to watch the process curiously.

 

Once that was set aside, Harry’s eyes fell back on the sleeved Blood Knife. They tracked it as Snape removed the leather casing to reveal the clear, ice-thin blade, illuminated orange by the torchlight. There was the sharp edge, jagged. Sharp . Uneven . Shattered … dangerous. One swing from a drunken daze was all it would take…

 

A sudden clank pulled him back out of his brief daze. Harry blinked to find Snape staring at him with an indecipherable expression.

 

“Out with it.”

 

“What?”

 

“Something is clearly bothering you. It is not the first time, nor is it the second.”

 

Harry shrugged as if to jerk away an irritable fly. “It’s nothing. Sir.”

 

Snape straightened up on his stool, still looking him squarely in the eyes with an utmost serious expression.

 

“Potter, you have faced a dragon, a Basilisk, Death Eaters, and the Dark Lord himself — I highly doubt you would be this troubled by a knife — under safe supervision — were it really ‘nothing’.”

 

The Gryffindor averted his gaze. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not important.”

 

“It is important. Do not discredit yourself by discrediting something that is visibly troubling you… Earlier in the summer, you had the same reaction to when that vase had shattered. Why?”

 

It genuinely took Harry a dumb moment to even remember the incident to which Snape was referring, when they’d been practicing his magic and Harry had caused Snape’s vase to shatter. So — Snape had noticed that.

 

Deep silence. Snape was visibly brooding, having halted in taking those samples.

 

“It’s dumb. Just something that happened a long time ago… Can we just get on with it already? Sir?” Harry asked almost pleadingly.

 

“You are aware that I will not hurt you, Harry?”

 

His head snapped up. Snape’s face bore utmost seriousness.

 

“Well— Yes. I know that.”

 

“Then why were you—”

 

“ —I don’t know!” Harry snapped suddenly, impatiently, fists clenched. “I’m fine. It just reminded me of something, but so what? I’m not going to cry about it, am I now?”

 

A beat passed, and Harry was increasingly becoming certain that he’d, yet again, ruined everything and that Snape would come back with the same snark and coldness… But to his surprise, the man didn’t. Only his gaze hardened, and he reached for Harry’s wrist without much warning. The sudden movement had Harry unforeseeably reeling back on his stool and nearly toppling backwards. He would have fallen, had it not been for Snape’s grip.

 

“Mmm, yes, the picture of perfect physique.”

 

Harry felt himself flushing fifty shades of red as he rightened himself on his stool, but this time silently and willingly offering the man his forearm.

 

The bloody hell is wrong with me…?

 

Neither of them spoke as Snape sanitized Harry’s forearm with his wand and then placed the clean flannel right under it. Meanwhile, Harry kept his head slightly averted, exploring the cabinets and shelves with his gaze… He felt the knife’s small incision. It didn’t hurt much, just a slight tingle, which then progressed into a mild burn as the blood was carefully being collected by the edge of the cool blade...

 

“It was a nightmare,” Harry suddenly blurted out. He didn’t know why, but it was out. The Slytherin paused for a moment. “But it’s… dumb.”

 

Snape resumed his work, but Harry sensed in his slower movements that he was carefully considering his next words.

 

“Nightmares are most often depictions of real events or fears. Hyperfixations.”

 

“I’m not afraid of my Unc—” Harry quickly shut his trap, realizing what he’d nearly said. But it didn’t seem to have escaped Snape; the man stilled statuesquely this time, looking up at Harry.

 

“Your uncle…”

 

The boy inwardly sighed, resigned. What was the point anymore?

 

“He, uh, was drunk this one time. He had a broken bottle, and he… wanted to attack me with it… The knife, it reminded me of it.”

 

An involuntary shudder rocked through him, and Harry reddened, if possible, even more as the words emerging from his mouth registered with his ears. Mortification and horror continued to build up in him. Why had he said that? No one was supposed to know. Ever. And yet, here he was, exposing his past to Snape. He refused to meet Snape’s eyes, willing for the man to just drop the topic altogether.

 

Apparently not.

 

“Was he often inebriated?”

 

His voice was taut, strained. He sounded as if a Gryffindor had just walked over his shoes, but Harry somehow realized that it wasn’t directed at him. Harry was now watching small droplets of dark-red dripping into the small bottle necks from the clear, jagged blade.

 

“...Sometimes,” he answered uncertainly. “Mostly when things would go bad at work. But that time was the worst of it. He— he just had a really bad day—”

 

“Do not defend him!” Snape growled.

 

“I’m not! People get drunk. It happens.”

 

“Not to the extent where one is inclined to physically harm a child . Specifically, one placed in their care,” hissed Snape sharply.

 

Harry drew a deep breath. “Just— Forget I said anything. Sir.”

 

Snape, to this, did not verbally reply. In Harry’s periphery, he merely tightened his pale lips and continued to transport the blood. His movements were still careful, but his face told a different story. There was this uncomfortable silence stretched as the minutes ticked by, but eventually the procedure was over, and Snape quickly handed Harry a Blood Replenisher. He made quick work of rubbing on the anti-scarring salve and collected the vials. Next, he stood and moved to the counters, back to the boy, and appeared to be collecting ingredients.

 

“Carlsberg, wasn’t it?”

 

“What?”

 

Snape lightly turned his head in Harry’s direction. “ The beer , Potter. The one your uncle was drinking. I assume it was usual in the house?”

 

“I— I guess,” Harry stuttered, nonplussed. “How… did you know?”

 

Though the man’s face was partially shadowed, he thought he saw him smirk bitterly, an expression ridden with poorly concealed disgust. “I saw it in one of your memories…” His voice dropped to a low undertone. “Do not assume you are the only one with knowledge of drunkard bastards, Potter. Amusing, isn’t it, how they all drink the same poison they spew?”

 

Harry opened his mouth but quickly shut it. The last line sounded almost too specific… To whom was Snape referring? What did he mean by ‘knowledge of…’? But despite his mind teeming with curiosity, he wasn’t even sure what to ask, afraid he’d overstep some line. So, instead, a few seconds of silence ticked by, which were broken only by the soft clinking of glass.

 

“I need the calsburry roots finely chopped.”

 

And thankful for the reprieve, Harry hopped to it.

 

Snape stepped aside to reveal a small, wooden bowl of pale, weirdly-shaped roots, where beside it a knife was resting on a cutting board. Harry picked it up.

 

“And for Merlin’s sake, Potter, be careful with it. I’ve ample blood from you as it is.”

 

Harry wasn’t too sure why, but that quip amused him rather than irritated. He nodded and set to the task.

 

“What are you making, sir?” he asked after a moment.

 

“Six years, and you’ve yet to learn that potions are brewed, ” drawled the professor dryly. He was currently using a pipette, measuring out drops of yellow liquid into a row of vials. Beside him, a cauldron was steaming. A charmed stirring-stick was waltzing circles in it. When he was done, setting everything down, he turned to address Harry in a serious tone. 

 

“I will attempt to brew an extraction elixir that, in theory, should target any foreign presence in your body. It requires a blood base — a crucial element that should prevent your immune system from reacting to the elixir; wherefore, I needed more blood from you.”

 

“So it’ll target the soul fragment? But…” Harry bit his lip, setting the knife aside. “I don’t get it. If the fragment isn’t a physical thing in me — if it’s like a soul piece —, how can a potion target it? I remember reading that potions often don’t work for anything that’s, uh… soul-related.”

 

“Beckerly’s Theory,” Snape nodded. “In essence, yes. However, everything depends on the potion itself. Elixirs, specifically, are the most potent, and blood bases only enhance their properties.”

 

Harry nodded slowly. “Do you really think it’ll work, sir?”

 

For a long moment, Snape stopped talking. His gaze, while directed at the countertop, was unseeing, as if deep rumination had stolen him. Harry didn’t dare to speak… Eventually, there was a slow, soft exhale, and Snape once again turned to the younger wizard. There was an emotion that Harry had seldom ever seen in his dark eyes: uncertainty.

 

“As I said before, I give you no guarantee. This may fail. I do not know. It may take months, if not years, to achieve something of this quandary.”

 

A wad of thick saliva got stuck in Harry’s throat. He swallowed. Hope… he could feel his hope diminishing, like a small candle flame dwindling in a draft. Months, if not years …

 

Maybe he really was destined to die, and trying to prevent it was pointless. Again those thoughts penetrated his mind: if Dumbledore, the brightest wizard of the century, hadn’t been able to come up with anything that could spare Harry’s life, what hope was there that Snape would?

 

Wouldn’t you be willing to die for the people you love, Harry? — whispered a soft voice in his head. It always did. Was always there, at the back of Harry’s consciousness.

 

Severus noticed the way the boy’s face had dropped at his words. Of course he did. Alas, what could he do about it? He’d told him the truth — no, he would not lie or sugarcoat. What good would it do? It was not something that the boy needed.

 

What would you know what he needs? Yes, you’re certainly fit to be in that position…

 

Guilt stabbed Severus’ conscience. Again. It felt like a gritty potion unwilling to go down his throat. But he resisted the sudden urge to close his eyes, just for a moment, regardless of how much he wanted to, and refocused his thoughts on the task at hand. 

 

This stretch of silence stretched for a long minute. Then another. The only sounds were the soft plunking of the knife against the wooden board, coinciding with the soft bubbling of the cauldrons in the background. Both wizards worked in silence, lost in thought.

 

“Is this alright, sir?” Potter spoke eventually. He was holding the bowl of, indeed, finely chopped roots.

 

“Adequate. You may add those into that copper cauldron there— slowly. Lest you want second-degree burns. Then stir.”

 

The boy rounded him while Severus was busy poring over the notes in his journal, but even still he couldn’t help inconspicuously monitoring Potter as he added the ingredient in.

 

Severus suddenly smirked lightly. “Horace Slughorn tells me you are a Potions prodigy. One may only wonder where you uncovered such prowess,” he drawled. Had he turned to look, he would have seen the Gryffindor going a bright scarlet.

 

“Oh. Did he?”

 

An amused hum. “It is often one of his favorite topics… amongst many others.”

 

“Let me guess,” Potter said dryly, still stirring the potion, “Whether I’m really the Chosen One…  When my autobiography is coming out… Oh, and when I’m free to attend his Slug Club dinner parties.”

 

Snape rolled his eyes. “Oh, the price of fame. I may vomit.” 

 

The Gryffindor chortled. Snape’s tone held no bite to it. It was dry and sarcastic, and Harry even found a smile cracking on his face. The air around them became noticeably lighter.

 

“You’ve no idea, Professor. It’s exhausting. ”

 

“Mmm, one can only begin to imagine… Stir ten times counterclockwise.”

 

Soft, purple steam began rising from the cauldron, smelling of old tires. Harry was still stirring when Snape moved in to tip a vial of translucent liquid into the potion. Harry watched it turn a darker shade.

 

“Ten,” he informed him. Snape nodded and plucked the stick out of his hand, setting it on the table. Then he adjusted the heat with the tip of his wand and finally turned to look at Harry. His dark eyes lingered on his forehead for a few seconds.

 

“The base for this elixir is essentially ready. It needs to chill. I will need to run a test with it on you to see how it reacts to your scar and my Dark Mark.”

 

“And… how is it supposed to react, sir?”

 

“According to my speculation, if it reacts passively, the blood base is impotent against the piece of the Dark Lord inside you. If it does elicit a reaction — I am assuming an aggravation of sorts —, then we may be on to a promising lead.”

 

Harry didn’t really like the sound of either of those possible outcomes. If the base proved potent, what would it do to him? An aggravation of sorts… Harry could only imagine what that meant.

 

“Sir? If I feel something, do you think HE will feel it too?” Harry asked slowly.

 

Snape gazed at him for a lengthy moment, thinking. “I do not know. I am not excluding such a possibility,” he answered slowly. “How are your nightmares?”

 

The abrupt change of topic caught Harry completely off guard. He pocketed his hands in his trousers and considered his answer for a moment. “Well… not terrible. I still have them, but it depends on what kind. Sometimes…” He sighed, looked up, and couldn’t help the note of accusation that had suddenly slipped into his tone. “It was better when I had Dreamless Sleep.”

 

“Yes. When you were well underway to working yourself into a coma, Potter, do not forget,” said the man, but then he briefly closed his eyes and shook his head. “That is beside the topic now. My point is that you will not be subjected to continuing to endure them. But since you claim that the Celarium Umbras potion is no longer potent for you, this complicates matters.”

 

“Couldn’t…” Harry hesitated. “Couldn’t you make the potion stronger? Adjust it somehow?”

 

“That is one of the options. However, you will inevitably develop the same kind of immunity to it sooner than later, so it would not bring you long-term results.”

 

This revelation made a pit drop in Harry’s gut, and his levels of hope plummeted. Fantastic. “Sir, you said options? As in plural?”

 

“The second one is more promising. Occlumency. Real Occlumency, Potter. It would train your mind, allowing you to adequately clear it and have better control over it and your thoughts.”

 

No… Those didn’t even sound like options — they sounded more like ‘pick the lesser of the two evils’. A potion wouldn’t work, and starting Occlumency lessons with Snape? Again ? How was this not the definition of being stuck between a rock and a hard place? 

 

Severus took notice of the way the boy’s muscles tensed at the dreaded word. He could see the conflict drenching his face in even deeper shadows. He had thought long and hard about what to do apropos of his nightmares, and giving him Occlumency lessons was the only plausible option he saw. And yes, he was willing to train, to guide him, regardless of what the past held.

 

He genuinely wished to help the boy.

 

Potter opened his mouth to speak, closed it, opened it , then closed it again, looking at sea.

 

“You need not decide now—”

 

“Yes, I do— I— I…” 

 

It was as if a weight had crashed down on him. Potter leaned forward on his palms, staring at his fingers with an almost manic look in his large eyes. His fingers curled in convulsively. The nails were now biting into the wood. He hung his head while his eyes remained closed as he was visibly trying to reel in his chest’s rapid rising and falling. For a long moment, neither said anything, and Severus stood there, silently watching his internal struggle.

 

The child was desperate. And Severus chose his next words scrupulously.

 

“No decision made out of desperation is ever a wise one.”

 

“I keep having them,” he whispered, voice strangled, tired. “Every night, Professor. I… I just don’t know what to do anymore.”

 

Severus sighed softly through his nose.

 

“A temporary solution would be for you to take calming draughts before bed, but it would not aid you long or well.”

 

“I— I’ll compensate for them—” Potter began, but Severus raised a halting hand.

 

“For the last time, you will not pay me a Knut , Potter. It is easily arranged, and even a third-year can brew it. But that is far from my point.” He sighed again. “The Calming Draught is merely the next best alternative for the Celebriujm potion. It is a mild potion; therefore, it will not bring you substantive results, thus why I suggest taking up Occlumency.”

 

Potter had straightened up by now and was rubbing his arm with his other hand, gazing down and weighing his words. “I… Don’t know…”

 

“As I said, you needn’t decide now. I will provide you with the Calming Draught regardless. So long as you do not overdose on it.”

 

Just to prove his integrity, Severus stood and reached into the cabinet above, rummaged in it for a moment, and lowered himself back onto his stool with three vials in his hands, each of a pale-lavender shade.

 

Then he mentally paused. Why did he suddenly feel he had to prove anything to Potter? The only ‘proving himself’ he ever did was before the Dark Lord, and even that was a mien. Dumbledore… That was an entirely different topic. 

 

So why Potter?

 

Lily’s son, whispered that familiar voice. But it was fainter than usual. More like an automatic answer.

 

But he was far from going to withdraw, so he proffered the vials to Potter, who took them somewhat tentatively, as if expecting some kind of trick. Severus wasn’t entirely sure what he felt in that moment. Maybe it was confusion, maybe it was even concern… No, neither. He really couldn't place his finger on it, this tightness in his chest.

 

The boy looked up at him gratefully then. “Thank you, sir. I’ll sleep on it — the Occlumency offer, I mean. But…” He bit his inner lip in thought. “What if I refuse…?”

 

“I am no magic genie or an all-knowing seer, you do realize that? Whether you take up on my offer is entirely up to you. It is not as if I am enraptured by the prospect of attempting to teach you the Mind Arts again.”

 

The man turned around to get a glimpse of the brewing base and apparently deemed it satisfactory, for he then consulted his many cupboards yet again and began pulling out an array of more vials — these ones, Harry recognized, were pain-relievers, blood-replenishers, and other colors and textures he remembered seeing or taking in the Infirmary. This turned his stomach over with unease.

 

Snape turned down the heat under the cauldron to a feeble flame and ladled out half into two empty vials. Harry silently took the proffered vial. He rotated it between his fingers for a moment, studying its deep wine color, before peering up at the professor again, who was also looking at it a bit uncertainly… or so Harry thought.

 

Harry did a meek salute gesture before downing the contents in one go. It tasted like rot and iron — it twisted his face. He felt his accelerated heart rate in his ears, waiting as tension hung in the air…

 

A minute. Then another.

 

Nothing.

 

He saw Snape’s lips thinning into a line.

 

“Perhaps…” The man approached him and poured a few drops of the potion onto his fingers, then began to raise his hand but stopped no later than when Harry had taken a timid step back. “Your scar. May I?”

 

Harry nodded and pinned up his bangs with one hand, eyes tracking Snape’s hand as it drew nearer. He felt the same lukewarm liquid being pressed to his forehead, where it was spread. Snape next drew his wand and held it at Harry’s scar. He began an incantation. His tone was low and deep, almost a mumble, but Harry didn't recognize the language; it certainly wasn’t Latin…

 

Snape, after several moments, drew back, bearing that same pinched expression of disappointment, and the pair exchanged a look.

 

“It would appear,” he said slowly, “this attempt has been a fail.”

Notes:

Hope you all enjoyed this new chapter! I know, I know - it's been almost a month. ALMOST. Have been busy. YES, YES, AGAIN. Was going to upload this sooner, but something had unexpectedly come up... But I'm finally home with all the time in the world, so I'm going to get a lot of writing done:D Super excited.

BTW, no hate on Carlsberg beer, guys. Just a random, popular beer based in the UK I found on the internet. I have no personal beef with it that I chose it for this story. Just sayin.

Also, go and follow my Tumblr (darsfanfics7) if you wanna be updated on my uploading schedule/ other news pertaining to this story:)

That's everything for now. Share your thoughts in the comments😊

Chapter 11: Closure

31 October, 1996.

 

A hefty stack of parchment fell on the low table with a loud snap.

 

“I can’t believe it! A two-foot essay from Transfiguration and another one from Snape on those bloody Inferi — all for tomorrow!”

 

Hermione, sitting in an armchair with a book and Crookshanks in her lap, peered up at the raving redhead shrewdly.

 

“Maybe if you didn’t procrastinate so much, Ron—”

 

“Oi, Quidditch isn’t procrastinating. It’s just as important,” Ron refuted sharply, plopping down on the sofa beside Harry. “The first game’s soon, against Slytherin. Got to focus… But bloody hell, Mione, how do you do it? You’ve got twice as much work as us, and you barely look like you’re about to bend over.”

 

“You’ve been asking the same question for years, mate,” remarked Harry dryly. He, too, had books and parchment strewn all over and around himself. He and Hermione had decided to make use of the Common Room, since all the library spots were taken. “And you’d better get started on Snape’s essay first. But let’s do it together, it’s a lot of material.”

 

Ron groaned and reached into his bag to rummage for a paper and quill. 

 

“Can’t wait till we’re out of school. Bet Fred and George are having more fun. You know, they wanted to send some of their limited-edition products. Made a whole new line just for Halloween, they did. Sales are going through the roof with their Popping Pumpkins and Acid Hippogriff Toffee… But they couldn’t ‘cause security’s gotten tighter…”

 

Harry looked up suddenly. “It has?”

 

Hermione answered him, her tone low. “It’s Halloween, Harry. The Ministry probably doesn’t want to take any chances with You-Know-Who. Like when he attacked Godric’s Hollow in the summer, merely because of something that happened hundreds of years ago? Who knows what he’s got planned next, and for when .”

 

Disgruntled by the news, Harry sank back against the cushion, his book now flat on his lap, forgotten. His stomach clenched uncomfortably at the thought of Voldemort trying something tonight.

 

“…Hey, uh, Harry?” said Ron after a stretch of silence. “You’re coming to the Feast later, aren’t you?”

 

Harry far from appreciated the bitter reminder of what day it was. Today marked the fifteenth anniversary of the deaths of Lily and James Potter. The anniversary of that fateful day.

 

For the better half of his life, Harry had believed his parents had died in a car crash as nothing but a pair of drunks. He hadn’t even known the date of their deaths! On Halloween, he’d always watched Dudley and his friends dress up and go stupid on their buckets of candy. It was needless to say that it wasn’t an activity his aunt and uncle had ever permitted him to do. So the holiday had always been just another ordinary day for him.

 

That had changed on discovering the truth, however. 

 

So, no, Harry did not want to attend the Halloween Feast. Feasts were for celebrations. People there laughed, joked, ate themselves stupid, exchanged sweets, and pulled pranks and tricks. It was sickening. What did Harry have to celebrate about this day? The night his parents were murdered? The night he’d lost everything? The night his life had changed for the worse forever? The night he’d been marked as a sadist’s equal?

 

Every year, Harry attended the Feast. He wasn’t really sure why: maybe because the boys in his dorm would’ve always dragged him along. But this year he was finally drawing the line — a line that was very much overdue.

 

This day had been in the back of Harry’s mind since the beginning of October, always there, ever-present. It was a gnawing feeling, one that tightened his chest when it squeezed the air out of it. It was suffocating, to realize time and time again that today was that day. The day it all changed. A punch in the gut; a hand stealing his breath. 

 

This year, Harry wanted to commemorate his parents. Properly. He wished he could go see their graves in Godric’s Hollow, but that seemed pretty impossible at the moment. He couldn’t ask Dumbledore or anyone else to take him for more reasons than not… But even still, he wanted to do something. Maybe to even commemorate Sirius’ death too, since there had never been a funeral.

 

Precisely these thoughts had been plaguing Harry’s mind for the last couple of days. And he was running out of time — it was nearing late evening.

 

“ —arry? Mate?”

 

Harry blinked. “Huh?”

 

Ron was looking at him all funny. “You alright? I asked if you were coming to the Feast later.”

 

“Uh, no,” he answered quickly.

 

“Why? You did last year.”

 

“I have a lot to study,” Harry replied shortly. 

 

“You’ve been studying for hours, and you’ve gotta eat. Don’t tell me you’re skipping over some dumb essay Snape’s gonna fail you for anyway!”

 

Harry shook his head. “Really, Ron, I’d rather stay. Maybe save me a slice of treacle tart, will you?”

 

The redhead sighed through his nose and shrugged. “I suppose. But Hermione and I have to be there. Prefects,” he solemnly patted his chest over his heart, where his Prefect badge was proudly pinned. He always wore it, even though it wasn’t obligatory. Even Hermione’s wasn’t on her, for the record. 

 

“You go ahead, then.”

 

“We’ll tell you if Dumbledore says anything important, Harry,” said Hermione. “Now, come on, I bet we can cram in a few more minutes of studying before Ron and I have to start patrol duty. I dread to imagine what Peeves’s got planned for tonight.

 

The three of them did, indeed, manage to cram in another half an hour of studying before the Gryffindor Common Room began filling with students returning from their late classes or study sessions in the library. Ron and Hermione took this as cue to leave for their Prefect duties while Harry was left on the couch still with his books. 

 

Neville, Ginny, and Luna stopped by to ask whether he was coming, which of course earned a few curious glances at him from passersby, but luckily no one really questioned him. That was a relief. Harry supposed all the study material still scattered around him spoke for him.

 

Eventually, all the students had filed out, and Harry was left alone. It was quiet. Only the hearth of the large fireplace still sizzled and crackled occasionally. Harry snapped the Half-Blood Prince’s book shut, manually gathered up his things, and then left for the dormitory. There, he tucked everything away and instead got out the Marauders’ Map and Cloak.

 

Holding the two items in his hands, he paused. Uncertainty was warring in his stomach for a moment, then another two… But he eventually shook his head and swung the silky fabric around himself.

 

~***~

 

Silence occupied the corridors. Only the torch flames flickered. An occasional enchanted carved pumpkin would sometimes hover by. Everyone was in the Great Hall, no doubt stuffing their mouths with food and playing Exploding Snap. Harry briefly wondered if Dumbledore was even there — no one had seen much of the man as of late, and neither had Harry.

 

It was a cold, cynical feeling. Was he being kept in the dark again?

 

Harry didn’t know where his feet were taking him, but he trusted his instincts. Consulting the map from time to time, he knew these corridors were desolate of people. His shoes echoed audibly against the stone, sometimes marble, as he roamed up and down moving staircases and rounded corners, looking, searching for someplace…

 

He suddenly halted, doing a double take. A classroom door stood ajar; Harry recognized it as the unused classroom that was used as a storage space, littered with desks and different antiques. It was better known as the ‘Room of Unrequirement’ among some of the DA members, which Harry had always found amusing… In any case, he carefully peeked inside before entering it. 

 

The room wasn’t big at all. It smelled strongly of must, and all the dust made his nostrils tingle. There, in a corner, stood a lone Victorian wardrobe, and the rest was old furniture. On the far side of the room was a single window. The sill was quite spacious. 

 

Harry took a deep breath before slowly pulling off his cloak. He glanced around for a moment and then peeled off a few chunks of wood from an old desk, which he then placed on the sill. Raising his wand, he closed his eyes, concentrated, and gave it a curt swish and flick . The wood twitched… And a moment later stood three wax candles. 

 

They weren’t anything too pretty to look at. In fact, all of them were different sizes and a bit disfigured, but it was as good as it was going to get, so Harry accepted it. He pulled himself up to sit against the wall on the sill. The cold of the store sent a momentary shiver up his spine. Everything about tonight felt cold. Cold and disconsolate. 

 

Hoping to change that, Harry tapped the candle wicks one by one with the tip of his wand, uttering “Incendio!”. Thankfully the spellwork didn’t give him much grief this time. And now, the low flames were bathing a small area in orange. Harry pulled his knees up to his chest for warmth, resting his cheek on them.

 

Beyond this, he wasn’t sure what else he could do in commemoration. It still felt like the bare minimum or a lack of trying. But, alas, what more could be done?

 

It was pathetic. The Boy-Who-Lived, acknowledging his parents’ and godfather’s deaths with three transfigured candles in an old, musty, unused classroom. In secret. 

 

While everyone else feasted.

 

The thought made him sick. 

 

Looking at the soft candle flames, Harry let his thoughts run wild. He imagined what his life could have looked like, had it not been for Pettigrew. He envisioned his parents’ faces, their complexions, even their clothes — all of which he treasured in his mind from the few photographs he had of them. Harry imagined receiving his Hogwarts Acceptance Letter, learning magic (charms, maybe?) from his mother, and how to ride a broomstick from his father. 

 

The smile that graced his lips at that moment came at a price. Harry’s chest felt tight with emotion. Guilt and grief. These two emotions, Harry knew well by now. It was torment. But it wasn’t such blatant grief…

 

He was still grieving Sirius’ death, as well as Cedric’s, and that grief was raw and obvious to him. But the grief he felt for his parents… there was almost something empty about it. Wasn’t it strange to feel grief over people he’d never really known? All Harry had of Lily and James were a couple pictures and fond recollections about them from other people.  

 

That fact was still a very bitter pill to swallow. A gritty potion that just couldn’t seem to go down his throat.

 

Sirius… Harry imagined him and Remus coming over for the holidays or on the weekends. Like a family gathering… But for some unknown reason, when Harry tried to concentrate on Sirius’ face, his features, his robes, facial hair, and eye color… the image in his mind came out strangely blurry. Which was ridiculous, since Harry knew what his late godfather looked like.

 

That was an unsettling something.

 

…

 

The sound of footfalls. Harry stilled, as did every cell in his body, and held his breath. He could hear them echoing in the corridor outside.

 

A pause. Then, the door creaked, a stripe of light coloring the floor and Harry. Just from the familiar, dark silhouette, Harry knew who it was. He couldn’t see his face, but his eyes were locked on it anyway.

 

A beat, then two, passed as the two wizards stared at each other, dread flooding Harry’s stomach while his heart pounded loudly in his ears…

 

At last, Snape let the door slowly swing shut behind him as he himself approached Harry at a slow pace. The boy just followed him with his eyes. There almost seemed to be a hint of hesitation in his step… Only when the man was close enough could Harry read the note of emotion his typically-statuesque expression bore, his dark orbs dancing between the three candles and Harry as if it were some puzzle.

 

Harry mentally braced himself. For what, he didn’t know. 

 

“You aren’t at the Feast,” Snape said. His tone confused Harry — it was low, impassive…

 

“Why should I be? Not like I’ve anything to celebrate,” muttered Harry with a small shrug. There was a pause again, longer. All the while, Snape never took his gaze off of him.

 

Then he vaguely gestured at the sill with his chin. “May I?”

 

The request took Harry by surprise, but he didn’t decline it. He nodded.

 

“Why… How did you find me, sir?”

 

“You were not at the Feast.” Snape had said this as if it were self-explanatory. He was perched on the sill now.

 

Harry groaned in his throat. “Can’t the Boy-Who-Lived ever catch some peace and quiet? There isn’t a rule that would forbid me not to come to a stupid feast.”

 

A smirk tugged at Snape’s lips. “I do not believe those words fit with your track record,” he drawled.

 

Harry frowned and turned to stare back out of the grimy window, nesting his arms on his knees. “I’m not going to the Feast,” he informed. 

 

“I do not intend to make you. Your… reasons are perfectly understandable.”

 

Green eyes snapped to the black ones. But the black ones were fixed on the only source of light in the room.

 

“For your parents and godfather, I presume?” Snape asked, tone impassive.

 

“It… felt like the right thing to do. I just wasn’t sure what else I could do for them, other than this.”

 

“I see…”

 

There ensued a pregnant pause, and Harry was growing increasingly uncomfortable with the tense silence. He wasn’t sure what was next — rather, what to expect. Snape could be… unpredictable sometimes. 

 

“You have never visited their graves.”

 

It was posed as something between a statement and a question. Regardless of what it really was, it knocked the wind out of Harry. His green eyes met the dark ones out of startlement, and with shame he said, “No, sir.”

 

“Would you like to?” Snape asked slowly, as if weighing every letter of the offer.

 

“You would take me? Now?” Harry asked, his heart pounding in his chest with a mix of hope and dread.

 

“If you so wish.”

 

Harry wetted his dry lips. “But won’t Dumbl— Professor Dumbledore know—?”

 

“He is away.”

 

Another pause, this one longer. Snape sat, apparently, awaiting his answer. This unusual patience unnerved the Gryffindor. For several long minutes, he seemed unable to answer, be it to take up Snape’s offer or not… But ultimately, he gave a nod with his head, hoping it was enough.

 

It was. An emotion flashed in Snape’s eyes at this, Harry could’ve sworn, but he couldn’t decipher it. Then the man stood. Harry followed suit, feeling his legs asleep.

 

“Then put on your Cloak.”

 

~***~

 

The momentum of the Apparition nearly sent Harry rocketing to the ground, but he managed to find his footing seconds before it was too late. The late October’s chill grazed his face. He straightened up and gazed about, only to find himself and Snape standing in the middle of a cobblestone road. 

 

It looked like a neighborhood. Many lamp posts were on, casting warm light over the many piles of leaves littering the cobbled street. It was pretty desolate of people, however, and the silence was broken only by the rustle of dead, dry leaves on those sinister branches, strong gusts of wind occasionally aggravating them. Harry pulled the Invisibility Cloak off his head.

 

He almost couldn’t believe it. 

 

Godric’s Hollow.

 

This was the place it had all happened — when it had all started. Fifteen years ago, on this very fateful night. So many emotions were coursing through his body at this moment that they were all in dissonance with each other. Harry was home… Or, where it was supposed to have been.

 

This was where Voldemort had attacked a few months ago, leaving countless dead, mourning, or homeless.

 

“Potter.”

 

Snape was already beckoning at him to follow, who appeared almost restless. But Harry didn’t question it and re-donned his cloak. 

 

As Snape led the way, Harry had to keep his head bent against the howling wind. He could feel the chill creeping under his two-layered sweaters, and it acutely reminded him of that feeling of discomfort he so hated. Like no amount of clothes he put on would ever suffice to keep the cold out. 

 

The hopeless kind of feeling.

 

Looking around, one wouldn’t be able to tell that the place had been burned and in shambles a few months ago. The Ministry really had compensated for the damage.

 

Not the lives, though — the bitter, chilling thought drifted through Harry’s mind. Lives… Lives can’t be compensated.  

 

They emerged at a crossing that appeared to be the center of the town. In the center was a small bench area, in the middle of which stood a war memorial. Initially, Harry thought nothing of it… until it shifted in his periphery. The memorial, he saw in the orange glow of a nearby street lamp, was of three people. 

 

A beautiful woman with long, wavy hair, standing beside a tall, handsome man wearing rectangular frames, his hair a mess. In the woman’s arms was a bundle. 

 

Harry’s mouth was dry as he unknowingly approached it.

 

But up close, the stone Lily and James Potter looked slightly off from the photos Harry had. 

 

The sight… The sight was bitter, painful — it constricted Harry’s chest. He might as well have been eleven again, peering into the Mirror of Erised… Aside from that, it felt strange, seeing himself represented in stone, a happy baby without a scar on his forehead…

 

Meanwhile, from a little ways from him, Severus’s mouth was equally dry. Guilt… The guilt was once more resurging, tenfold more than it ever had. It felt as though he were finally facing some kind of unidentified, haunting demon.

 

And he knew this was only the beginning.

 

The man said nothing for as long as the boy stood there, still as the statue before him. But eventually, they continued on. How or when — it all seemed a blur.

 

And as Severus led the way, his every step felt heavier and heavier.

 

Harry was pulled out of his thoughts when his feet stopped dead before a wooden fence gate. Looking up, he recognized he and Snape had arrived at a small church, and that just behind it stretched a cemetery.

 

When Snape’s voice registered within his head, the words sounded as though they were spoken through a long tunnel.

 

“…I am not forcing you. Should you wish to return—”

 

“No,” Harry immediately shook his head. “No, I want… this. I have to do this. It’s… I can’t run from it.”

 

Snape nodded at this in what seemed like understanding and tapped the gate with his wand. It swung open, and the two walked inside.

 

Rows upon rows of graves stretched… One of those flagstones was the one Harry was looking for with dread. His green eyes raked over the vast selection… But then, Snape began to lead him. The pair wove through stones and plaques for a bit, looking for two specific names under Severus' lit Lumos. Piles of fallen leaves rustled beneath their feet, often squelching from the earlier downpour. It wasn't as dark as the street, though — many candles had been set up and lit, casting a warming glow over the morbid place. 

 

Unfortunately, the journey consumed much less time than Harry would have liked. And at last, his eyes fixated, and he seemed to have lost all movement of his body. 

 

 James Potter, born 27 March 1960, died 31 October 1981 

Lily Potter, born 30 January 1960, died 31 October 1981 

The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.

 

It was made of simple white marble, but it was beautiful in its own way. Countless wreaths of flowers decorated it alongside candles and lanterns left by other people. It was both a breathtaking and heart-wrenching sight to behold. 

 

White noise had filled Harry’s ears. He stared down at the resting place of his parents, and he was torn at what he was supposed to feel.

 

Grief? He’d never even known them.

 

Regret?

 

Oh, there were so many things he regretted…

 

But guilt?

 

Its hands were slowly closing around his chest. Cold hands. Guilt’s movements were immaculate, surgical, knowing exactly where to probe and prod… They proceeded to his throat, where they now threatened to choke him.

 

Harry wasn’t fully aware of what he was doing. He wasn’t even sure at what point his Cloak had slipped off him. He knelt down. The wet leaves squelched beneath his knees — the cold and wet seeped through his fabric, its acute chill piercing his skin… Harry brushed away a few of the fallen leaves off the grave.

 

He was at quite a loss for what he should do. Thoughts were running through his head. Those same, earlier thoughts. Thoughts of what might have been, thoughts of that fateful, green-filled night. Thoughts of Sirius — how Harry had predictably assumed that his own godfather had betrayed the Potters and killed Pettigrew…

 

Bellatrix's cackles rang in the back of his mind. 

 

He wished there had been a burial for Sirius. He should have been buried here.

 

But Harry had been ripped of even that. It seemed any time he had a chance at family, it was ripped, torn away from him by one fate or another, as easily as silk. 

 

Harry tried to envision Sirius’ kind features, his mischievous smile, the radiant warmth and mirth in his eyes, his long, wavy hair… But the face in his mind was blurry… disfigured… as though he were trying to read without his glasses. He couldn’t seem to remember; the image in his head…

 

Another mental blow.

 

No longer could Harry feel the night’s chill biting its fangs into his face. He was vaguely aware of the hot streams of salty water leaking out of his eyes. But even though his throat had closed up, even despite the rage and grief pent up in his chest, begging to burst—

 

He kept perfectly silent. As he’d been conditioned to his whole childhood.

 

Severus stood a little ways away, staring uselessly. Even still, he had to wonder why he’d done this — why he’d brought the boy here. Obligation? Redemption? Guilt? His own will? No, surely not. This was torment for the Death Eater, far greater than torture by the Dark Lord’s hand. 

 

It was penance. It was torment. Because Lily’s son was at her grave. It was torment, because both of them were where they were because of Severus.

 

For a while, Severus continued to watch the boy, feeling like he was intruding on something very personal. He continued awaiting… something. Severus was simply staring at the tombstone, the inscription, kneeling and back turned to the Death Eater. The body appeared statuesque. Severus said not a word.

 

Until, Potter finally uttered his first two.

 

“I’m sorry,” the boy choked out, his voice thick.

 

It felt as if something heavy had crashed down on him. Those two words were crippling; they nearly undid the man. The breath was knocked out of his lungs, and acidic bile rose in Severus’ throat. He swallowed hard, feeling lightheaded. Something was constricting his chest and conscience — unmistakable quilt and remorse — catching him in a paralyzed chokehold as he registered the meaning behind the apology.

 

How could the boy be apologizing? For what? If anyone, Severus should be the one uttering those words, begging for forgiveness—

 

“…The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies...“

 

Sybil Trelawney’s voice echoed in his head in a mantra. It never failed not to on this night.

 

However, there was another voice in his head. It was telling him to send a hateful remark, a scathing comment at the boy. Potter was the cause of his torment, his agony, was he not? The voice was screaming at him, louder and louder: to hate him again, to eject this source of pain out of his life—

 

But he couldn’t. Severus quickly buried the voice. Indeed, life had been easier when he’d hated the boy — or, that is, what he’d symbolized. 

 

But now…? That vitriol had gone somewhere, long since , replaced with an emotional tangent that he could not quite unravel. 

 

Eventually, the Gryffindor rose on visibly shaky feet. He did not turn around, nor did he say anything. Aside from the whistling wind, silence reigned… Severus slowly drew his wand, gave it a slight flourish, and the pair of them watched beautiful white lilies grow, weaving elegantly around the marble stone. Severus did this every year.

 

That’s when he noticed the boy’s hunched shoulders trembling. Something in Severus shattered. Harry’s head was bent, arms wrapped around himself, and he continued to stand there, not a sound emerging from him — that, or his voice was simply lost in the whistling wind.

 

Severus didn’t give his next action much thought. Though still hesitantly, he carefully laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder, stepping a bit closer. He was half-expecting the boy to shrug him away or flinch, but instead was surprised when he felt him leaning into the ostensibly comforting touch…

 

Severus was unfamiliar with those. But what else could he possibly offer the boy? 

 

Did he even deserve to touch him, to try to comfort him, when it was his actions that had caused his pain and settled his fate fifteen years ago?

 

Merlin and Great Circe, what was he doing ?

 

How do you live with yourself? ...

 

What if he knew…? 

 

Severus’ eyes internally widened at the last thought. No. No, the boy — Harry — could never know. It would cripple Severus. He could never know the truth. Ever.

 

You fear… You fear his rejection.

 

And though he would not admit it aloud, he feared it almost more than death itself.

 

But here he was now, his long, slender hand still planted on the scrawny shoulder. Severus wasn’t entirely sure how, or when, but he and Harry were now standing shoulder to shoulder, almost but not quite in a half-embrace. Or maybe the boy was just cold? He didn’t appear dressed too warmly…

 

Severus wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Harry’s breath was hitching, him taking large gulps of air in an attempt to regain control of himself… But when, eventually, Harry’s trembling subsided, Severus cautiously cleared his throat.

 

“They did not die in vain,” he offered — a quiet mumble.

 

Gruffly, Harry stubbornly replied, “Maybe they did.”

 

“They did not… In fact, they… they would be proud of you. Do not discredit their deaths by assuming otherwise. You are doing them a great disservice.”

 

The boy didn’t say anything more to this. He was busy wiping any traces of tears with the back of his sleeve, averting his head in shame.

 

Grief was lingering in the air still, vacuuming it out. As it would for a while. For one, it felt suffocating — like a collar strapped too tight…

 

Lily… The Prophecy…

 

For the other — the grief felt misplaced, confusing.

 

He’d never truly even known them… They had died for him. 

 

Harry finally stepped away from Severus, though with slight reluctance.

 

“The… The flowers are a nice touch,” he mumbled quietly to Severus. A brief pause… “The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death,” he read aloud, frowning. “Isn’t that a… a Death Eater idea? Why is that there?”

 

Severus cast his gaze upon the inscription the boy was referring to, the one he’d pondered for some years now. He could see why Harry would think that.

 

“It does not mean defeating death in the way the Death Eaters mean it,” Severus explained, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “It means you live beyond death. Living after death.”

 

And like before, Harry offered no reply, only a meek, somewhat dissatisfied shrug. 

 

There they stood, a pair of lost souls. Neither further spoke. Perhaps because there was something tacit in the air, tying them to this spot, this place, this night. It was almost melancholic, almost palpable. So unspoken, and yet it felt like no words were necessary.

 

The ground on which they both stood was a common ground.

 

The pair remained as they were for another few minutes — in them, it seemed so many unspoken words passed between them, understood words, yet they were somehow cryptic still… Eventually, however, the professor led them away, back the way they came through the rows of headstones and through the gate, all until they disapparated into the night.

 

The rest of the journey into the castle seemed a blur to the both of them. Harry was back under his cloak, just a step behind Snape. Both were quiet; both were consumed by their thoughts… And then, they’d arrived at a corridor that branched off in the general directions of the dungeons and Gryffindor Tower.

 

“This is where I leave you,” Severus informed, certain that the coast was clear. “I trust you not to wander the corridors at ungodly hours. Should anyone ask…”

 

“I know, sir… Professor?” the green eyes locked solemnly with his dark ones. “Thank you. I’m glad I finally visited them… Was, uh… pretty overdue.”

 

“No gratitude required…” Severus replied, and studied him closely. “Do you require a Calming Draught?”

 

Harry shook his head, feeling strangely warm at the offer. For a moment, he thought there was concern in Snape’s eyes. But again, he was tired. “No. I’m fine. Goodnight, sir.”

 

“To you as well,” Severus nodded. 

 

He did not take his eyes off of the retreating figure until it disappeared under the Invisibility Cloak, musing over a single thought:

 

Maybe this night had given at least one of them a measure of closure.

Notes:

Woo. What a heavy chapter. Hope you enjoyed that:) Apologies for the delay - I have no excuses. Shameful, ik, ik.

On another note, on writing this chapter, I had actually made a very difficult decision - to delete my one shot 'Closure'. I didn't really like it that much, thought it was a bit cringe, BUT- I recycled it here in this chapter. Hope no one's gonna be out for my head now😅 To allay any of your worries - I will not be doing that to any of my other works, especially Two Weeks and this fic - I am too passionate about them.

Honestly, it's been really hectic for me - this time mentally, emotionally. I don't have as much schoolwork anymore, but I still have a lot on my plate, but despite all of that, I do still try to write as much as I can. Sitting down to continue this story brings me so much joy, and I will not stop until it's completed😊 I have so much planned for it - fr, we're still only in the beginning of the story.

That said, let me know your thoughts on this chapter. Always a joy to read them. And another shout-out to Val, my beta-reader!

Chapter 12: Torment

Early November, 1996.

 

Phantom shadows followed him.

 

They had followed him from that graveyard, prosecuting him at every corner, every bend.

 

Their fingers would caress his consciousness every so often; they sent shivers down the man’s spine. Every time he closed his eyes, the haunting orbs of emerald would blink. It varied whether they belonged to a pale woman, her gaze as blank as parchment, or her son, whose same eyes were trapped behind a pair of round frames.

 

It was torment.

 

That wretched Halloween night continued for Severus, so it seemed.

 

These recent days, he could not walk the stone corridors, teach classes, grade papers, or dine in the Great Hall without the ghost of grief peering over his shoulder.

 

Everyone had moved on from that night. The Halloween decor had come and gone, replaced with the usual holiday tinsel, mistletoe, and wreaths — to the point of ad nauseam… And yet, Severus felt stuck. Stuck in time; stuck in a continuous, vicious cycle. Stuck in that one moment, wherein he’d stood before that headstone with her son.  

 

Was it absurd that he could not move on, even after so many years? That that night, over fifteen years ago, continued to plague him so, to the point where it was a haunting? Was it absurd that he was still rewinding back to the ‘happy days’, when he and Lily had been friends, blissfully innocent and young?

 

Was it absurd that those memories were some of the few things keeping him sane, anchored to this existence?

 

It really was. Severus could answer that himself.

 

And yet, the fact did not allay the grief and remorse that continued to linger still. It was pure torment, an agonizing weight that lay on his chest, his mind, his conscience.

 

…How did one move on?

 

Things only increased for him in difficulty every time he saw Potter… Harry… the boy — the boy’s eyes . The eyes were everything. Evermore, they felt crippling to peer into. Severus was always expecting to find them narrowed at him with scorn, with judgment, with unrelenting unforgiveness, bitterness, resentment, hatred—

 

And then, that sound. The shattering sound of the boy’s lamentation that night. And his words — words of apology .

 

Over Severus’ sin. His mistake. His fault.

 

Why had he even brought the boy along that night? Why had he chosen to put himself through all this torment? This self-inflicted torment… 

 

Perhaps it was penance.

 

And now, admittedly, he’d taken to avoiding the boy. Coward , the word rang in his mind. 

 

Potter’s gaze, his sight, his person — in class, Harry Potter turned invisible to Severus, faded from the picture. Nothing more than a phantom. It didn’t even happen out of Severus’ own accord, more like a defensive mechanism of the mind. Still, it was easier this way, ignoring him. 

 

It, of course, came at the cost of showing slightly less malevolence towards Potter. Severus had even passed up on two highly plausible opportunities to assign him actual detention over the last few days. 

 

When was it even ‘Potter’, or ‘Harry’, or ‘boy’? The meanings those names carried all varied so drastically.

 

It had been ‘Harry’ in the graveyard. It had been Harry suffering the aftermath of his visions or nightmares. It was ‘Harry’ Severus was trying to extract that fragment from.

 

But it was Potter in class, the halls, in Severus’ brooding thoughts. It was Potter Sr.’s face that flickered behind those rounded spectacles at times.

 

‘Boy’ uncannily reminded Severus of his own unsavory childhood. He didn’t wish to draw a line of relation between that and the bo— Lily’s son… But it was the most neutral of the three variants.

 

Alas, as much as Severus wished to, he could not avoid Harry Potter forever. He had a task at hand. Failure was not an option. 

 

The fragment.

 

There was somewhat of a breakthrough in Severus’ attempts, though it was a blurred outline on the horizon. He had been… experimenting.

 

Since a blood base hadn’t had any effect, Severus had scrapped the idea and started anew. A new, different approach to the extraction elixir. He’d definitely found something — an ingredient, at that: highly potent, but just as rare and difficult to acquire. 

 

For which he would need Harry.

 

Some week following Halloween, Severus finally had no choice but to finally assign the Gryffindor a detention. The hardest part hadn’t been finding a reason (he had, conveniently, been having trouble performing a nonverbal disillusionment charm on Longbottom), but returning the boy’s glare — an infuriating sight that he did not wish to see again. 

 

But anyway, whatever was new in that?

 

So the boy came to his office the next day. This time, they did not traverse down to the dungeons. Instead, there the Gryffindor now stood before Severus’ mahogany desk, shuffling his feet as he so-often did. Severus conjured a chair and gesticulated for him to sit. 

 

So the boy did.

Heavy tension hung between them. They hadn’t spoken since Halloween. Not even in class. 

 

He did not meet those green eyes.

 

But Severus refused to let that deter them. Without preamble, he opened a big, worn tome to the right page and pushed it towards the boy. There was an inked illustration of a small fungus, droplets of slime oozing off its knobbly cap.

 

“Barabaculous fungi,” Severus began in his lecture-like tone. “A particularly scarce and valuable ingredient in Potions-Making. Their properties are highly potent, and their extract is an indispensable component of elixirs.”

 

Potter glanced up at him. ‘Potter’, this time around. 

 

“Can’t say I’ve heard of it, sir,” he replied. “You want to use it to brew the extraction elixir?”

 

Severus nodded. “Unfortunately, it is not an everyday ingredient even I carry. Neither do apothecaries. The Barabaculous fungus is a capricious thing to harvest: the predetermined consumer must be the one to pick them, under specific conditions, else its extract will be lethal.”

 

“You mean… I have to harvest it?”

 

Severus pressed his lips together for a moment. “Yes.” He then slid a long finger along a strip of text in the book. “The Barbaculous fungus is native to Northern England, to temperate deciduous forestation… In other words, the Forbidden Forest. It must be picked at Witching Hour.”

 

“That’s three AM, isn’t it… So, you’re saying I’ll have to—”

 

“ We , Potter,” Sverus corrected, stressing the word with a pointed look. “Yes, you and I shall have to go into the Forbidden Forest and search for the fungus. I do not think it should be too jarring an experience for you, with your… history ,” he drawled, adding a raised eyebrow. “To both of our dismay, there is no other alternative. A work-around for this ingredient could cost months.”

 

“...And this fungus is supposed to help remove Vol… the fragment out of me?”

 

Severus couldn’t help but avert his gaze even more so from Harry when he answered, rubbing his concealed hands in his lap. “There is no guarantee of anything. In theory, yes. It is merely a crucial ingredient in any complex elixir such as this one.”

 

“So, guesswork?” Potter said, a twinge of disappointment lining his tone. “That’s what Dumbledore said… About You-Know-Who. Seems that everything is…”

 

Severus offered no reply. He had none. He already knew that guesswork was all he had to offer and that it might not be enough. He didn’t need a reminder, nor the heavy sediment that had settled on the seabed of his chest with it.

 

A beat passed. This time, it was ‘Harry’ who was nodding his head slowly. 

 

“Well, let’s give it a go, sir,” he decided at last.

 

Severus’ eyes snapped back to him and considered him for a moment. He could tell the boy was desperate to rid himself of the fragment, having complied with such ease… Severus knew the feeling. He could relate. For years, he’d tried to erase the filth upon his forearm — even with the Barbaculous fungus —, but to no avail. 

 

Only, for the boy sitting in front of him, the circumstances were far more dire, the consequences proportionately severe in failure’s event. 

 

“...Very well,” he slowly said. “The next full moon just so happens to be tomorrow. No one can know, Potter. Speak to no one about this. We must not be seen… You will slip out at midnight with that Cloak, Map, and wand of yours, and we shall meet near the Greenhouses.”

 

Potter shook his head. “What if my friends won’t be asleep yet?” 

 

“Then you will make something up,” Severus growled. “Use the imagination you were so blessed with. It should not prove to be that difficult. The difficulty will be in harvesting the fungus , as it can be… rather dangerous.”

 

“Dangerous, how?” Potter asked mistrustfully.

 

Severus deftly slid the book back to himself, turning it around and casting a perfunctory gaze over it. He pressed his lips together, still looking down at the ancient pages. “This specific fungus is part of the Cyniclistic fungal family, meaning it is highly adept at protecting itself against potential harm…” Severus paused here, giving a moment’s thought. He tapped a finger against the desk. “It is a broad subject. In essence, timing is crucial, else the consequences be… unsavory.”

 

Potter leaned back in his chair, hands in his lap, a somewhat blank expression on his face that Severus wasn’t quite sure how to interpret. For a minute, it appeared as if there was an impotent question trapped behind his lips, but something was holding it back. 

 

“Something on your mind?” Severus prompted. The boy startled slightly, but shook his head. 

 

“Uh, no, sir. I’ve got to get going…”

 

He was hiding something. Something was troubling him.

 

But who was Severus to press?

 

“Tomorrow night, ten, greenhouses. Do not be late. Dismissed… Potter—”

 

The boy paused at the threshold and turned around.

 

“Dress warmly. We will be limiting using magic, so do not rely on heating charms.”

 

~***~

Early November, 1996.

 

If Harry had been hoping for a sense of normalcy following Halloween… Well, the thought seemed laughable now.

 

None of his friends were the wiser of his and Snape’s excursion — as it should be. His absence and late arrival to Gryffindor Tower had definitely been questioned, most of all by a miffed McGonagall, but Harry had easily lied that he’d simply dozed off in the Astronomy Tower. Gryffindor ended up losing ten points, but Harry thought it was a minuscule price to pay.

 

It felt strange when everything had seemed to resume as usual the very next morning. Classes had resumed. So had Quidditch practice, which was progressing well. The Halloween decor had started to come down. Peeves had flooded a boys bathroom, claiming to be continuing the Weasley twins’ legacy…

 

And Harry had fully appreciated this perception of normalcy, following that night in the graveyard. 

 

Until his first Defense lesson with Snape.

 

All feelings of normalcy had flown out the window then and there when Harry had realized that Snape was blatantly ignoring him. Initially Harry hadn’t thought anything of it — the professor never once meeting his gaze in the hallways or even indulging in any interaction with him, even antagonistically. Not even a scathing rebuke of some sort. 

 

It hadn’t bothered Harry at first.

 

Until that first Defense lesson since Halloween had come upon him. 

 

Snape hadn’t even so much as looked Harry’s way once during that lesson. 

 

And so it continued. Be it during class or corridors. It was complete avoidance, complete ignorance, as if Harry didn’t exist. 

 

And that made Harry think. 

 

Ruminate.

 

For longer than he was proud to admit.

 

Was Snape really ignoring him?

 

Why?

 

Was Snape angry with him?

 

Or was it all just part of his act?

 

Maybe the man regretted taking Harry to Godric’s Hollow…

 

Or did he simply… hate Harry again?

 

That last possibility felt like an additional, heavy tome added to his school bag. Harry didn’t want Snape to hate him again. The concept was strange to him still — the fact that he cared at all what Snape thought of him… 

 

But after everything, he did.

 

Unfortunately, Harry could not just walk up to and confront him — the thought alone was laughable. So he’d just taken to experimenting throughout the next three Defense periods that week. At one point, Harry had even tried to see if Snape would assign him detention. But no matter what he’d tried, his efforts had been ignored.

 

And this unsettled Harry.

 

Deeply.  

 

But then— Finally—

 

Snape had assigned him detention.

 

‘Detention’

 

“Barabaculous fungus,” Severus had begun, his tone unreadable and business-like. Void of any emotion. “A particularly scarce and valuable ingredient in Potions-Making. Their properties are highly potent, and their extract is an indispensable component of elixirs...”

 

And now, the next evening, Harry was lying in his bed, awaiting midnight’s stroke.

 

The thought of falling asleep didn’t scare him — he knew all of his thoughts wouldn’t let him.

 

He and Snape were going into the Forbidden Forest to look for some strange mushrooms… Harry didn’t know how to feel about that. Not fearful — he’d gone in and out of the forest plenty of times before, and moreover was the fact that he’d be accompanied by Snape, of all people. A literal Death Eater. 

 

It was only the thought of Snape’s recent strange behavior that made Harry’s stomach clench uncomfortably. 

 

Memories of the Dursleys suddenly surfaced. They made him slightly sick. Memories of when the Dursleys would act nicely to him, would put on those acts of care and so-called kindness… only to then take it all away, out of spite. No reason, no explanation, just tactics. Then would come the complete ignorance of him. As if he hadn’t existed.

 

Then Harry would try to somehow make it up to them, without even knowing what he’d done to cause this. He would do more chores, put in more effort, and behave himself better — but nothing had ever worked.

 

The ignorance had always been even worse than acting as if they cared. Ignoration meant hatred. Hatred on another level. It had meant that Harry wasn’t even worthy of acknowledgement, that he was an utter waste of time, energy, and resources… It had always stung, burned away at him as a child…

 

And it was making a full circle back to him. 

 

Only with Snape ignoring him, in the very depths of his mind — in the smallest voice. Harry could admit that it was somehow tenfold worse.

 

And the wait felt like impending doom.

 

Would Snape continue to ignore him? Did he really hate Harry again? What had he done wrong?

 

Harry turned over on his side.

 

His thoughts transported him back into his Fourth Year, when Ron had been ignoring him. 

 

Then when he’d thought his friends had been ignoring his letters last summer.

 

Then when Remus hadn’t been replying to his owls, and later when the man had visited the Burrow. Despite his warm tone, Harry had easily picked up on the coldness, the distance in it.

 

Except with Remus, it was obvious as to why.

 

Sirius. 

 

Harry briefly closed his eyes at the jolting reminder of his late godfather.

 

Snape ignoring him wasn’t his only concern.

 

It was needless to say that the following couple of nights after Halloween had been trying for Harry. The nightmares persisted, but that was nothing new, of course. They had been worse, certainly, but even still, peaceful rest came seldom. 

 

But something about his nightmares, his dreams, his memories felt… off. Different.

 

Blurrier.

 

Perhaps Harry was slowly going insane — he wouldn’t be too surprised if that really were the case. Since Halloween, Harry had been having trouble remembering his godfather’s benevolent face. But it had been more than a full week since then, when this seemed to have started, and it seemed the harder Harry tried to cling to those precious memories of his godfather, the blurrier the images became.

 

But that was ridiculous — he was probably just tired…

 

But that thought didn’t work to allay his mind for long.

 

What unnerved him most was the fact that when he tried to picture his parents, he could see them clearly. Same with other people: the Dursleys, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Snape, Remus… 

 

It was as if… as if Sirius was fading from his memory.

 

It terrified Harry. Consequently, it was the only thing he ever thought about these days.

 

Could it be a side effect of the Dreamless Sleep potion he’d overdosed on earlier?

 

Out of anything, that seemed most likely to be the case.

 

What if the effects were irreversible?

 

Harry was lying in his bed, ruminating all of this, tossing and turning in his tangle of blankets as usual. His thoughts were running amok as he waited for midnight to leave. He wasn’t afraid of dozing off. Nothing was giving him peace. His mind was a beehive. 

 

He turned to lie on his right side.

 

Sirius… What did Sirius look like? Harry tried remembering the joyous moment he’d been reunited with his godfather at Grimmauld Place last summer…

 

A blur. Warmth, but a blur.

 

He turned to lie on his back now.

 

Halloween. The graveyard. Snape.

 

On his left side again.

 

Should he ask Snape?

 

This was a problem concerning his thoughts, his memories. Mental stuff. Whom better to ask than Snape?

 

“...I am no therapist…”

 

Those words bobbed heavily at the forefront of his mind even still.

 

Harry turned to his other side again. 

 

But hadn’t things changed between them? Even if only a little?

 

“...I am no therapist…”

 

Harry closed his eyes. They burned. He couldn’t tell whether it was from exhaustion or the tightness in his chest.

 

Because how could he approach Snape with a problem relating to Sirius? The man would, no doubt, just sneer him away.

 

No. He would figure it out by himself — he always did.

 

… But didn’t his memories of Sirius outweigh taking a chance with Snape?

 

…

 

His wand, lying on his bedside table, suddenly buzzed. Midnight, thankfully, had finally struck.

Notes:

apoloGIES for the long wait again. School. What more do I have to say? Oh, but at least I've planned out the next few chapters pretty well. Honestly, actually writing them is the hardest part. SO slow-going. But, hey, some progress is better than no progress:) And, oh, boy, things are gonna start getting heated. Haaha.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed this chapter. ik it was short, but I had no choice but to break it up. As always, lemme know your thoughts, predictions, hopes for this story, and consider following my Tumblr for progress updates (darsfanfics7).

Okaaay, cya:)

Chapter 13: A Thestral’s Lament

Early November, 1996.

 

Traversing down the empty corridors, a chill followed Harry’s ankles as his father’s Cloak flapped in his wake. It wasn’t long enough to cover him head-to-toe anymore, but that didn’t seem to be a big problem tonight. It was Slughorn’s shift. The man’s large stomach didn’t exactly give him the agility of an old caretaker with a thirst for catching students.

 

He’d had no trouble sneaking out — everyone had been fast asleep by half past eleven, knackered out by another day overloaded with work. As far as his predictions went, that must have been the easiest feat of this whole… endeavor.

 

He didn’t know what to expect of tonight. Going into the Forbidden Forest at such a time could equate to having a death wish. He knew. More than once, he’d come out of it having come within inches of death.

 

Only difference this time — he would be with Snape. A literal Death Eater. And something about that really helped to allay the trepidation in his stomach. 

 

The walk to the greenhouses was uneventful. Emerging out into the cold night air, felt like having a warm blanket stripped off. Harry shivered. Puffs of his breath blurred his glasses before clearing again. Pulling his Cloak tighter around himself, he strained his eyes against the frost prikling them, trying to make out where the man was lurking. He wove between the greenhouses for a few minutes like that, not another soul in sight…

 

Until something peripheral caught his vision. Squinting his eyes against the darkness, he was finally able to discern an unmistakable figure lurking in the shadows, and set out towards it. He and Snape met halfway, the man’s long, dark travelling cloak flaring in the momentum.

 

“Did you bring your map?”

 

Harry had been about to nod, but remembered he was still invisible. But just as he’d started to pull off his cloak, a hand grabbed it, stopping him mid-move. 

 

“Don’t. Not yet... Keep it on until we are beyond the grounds.” 

 

Snape glanced around them, his brows knitting together, before beckoning with his head to follow. 

 

Harry trailed after the man, barely keeping up with his wide strides. They passed the greenhouses and were now trekking down along a road curving around the castle. The night was quiet. That usual, unforgiving gale was absent, holding the treetops of the forestline still in the distance. 

 

Eventually they were nearing Hagrid’s dark hut. That’s when they’d finally reached the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

 

They entered without preamble. There was no path beneath their feet to guide them, only the soggy detritus and squelching, decaying leaves. Nocturnals hooted in the distance, so softly that it seemed as if they were afraid to penetrate the dense silence. But their sounds carried, echoed, only to be lost somewhere in the fog set amongst the surrounding, looming trees. 

 

In the absense of light, Harry was left to rely on the sounds of Snape’s footfalls crunching against the detritus and his own steps, taken in circumspect, in his bid to follow closely behind. The surroundings rewound his memory back to his first ever experience in this god-forsaken forest. There was that uncanny feeling of being watched again, the feeling of exposure — exposure to a cold that had nothing to do with the weather…

 

Snape, to his dismay, seemed unbothered to use a Lumos charm. 

 

Until he eventually came to a halt. The act was so abrupt that Harry almost bumped into him. 

 

“Stay back,” Snape ordered. 

 

Harry’s heart skidded, thinking the man had spotted something. But the Slytherin, keeping a calm stance, walked a few more steps and outstretched his wand, pointing it at thin air. He drew a pattern of sorts with it… A fragment of a barrier shimmered to life. And in the middle, a hole was forming, like silk being burned. Harry realized it was all the wards surrounding the Hogwarts grounds.

 

With a beckon of his head at Harry, the older wizard walked through. And only once they were on the other side did a Lumos bulb flare at the end of Snape’s wand. They stood facing each other now, faces illuminated by the cool light.

 

“We are beyond the barrier now. It was imperative that no one saw us — particularly you,” he informed, looking in Harry’s general direction. “You may take the Cloak off. It would be impractical to have it on you.”

 

“Why’s that?” Harry asked, though letting the silky fabric slip off himself and pool into his hands. 

 

Snape raised a sardonic brow. “I cannot exactly protect what I cannot see. I may be many things, but I am no bloody seer.”

 

The urge to argue that was almost irresistible — Snape had an unsettling knack for somehow knowing, hearing, and seeing everything —, but Harry wisely bit down on his tongue. 

 

“ Potter ,” Snape suddenly stressed, speaking in a timbre that drained all of Harry’s amusement, “keep your wand at the ready at all times. You are to obey my every order or command at any given time. At the slightest sign of danger, you are to don your Cloak and remain hidden until I get you. You are to abandon and leave me behind. Am I perfectly understood?”

 

The wording made something churn in the Gryffindor’s gut. Though he thought that tonight wouldn’t come to that, the idea of ‘saving his own hide’, as Snape had phrased it many times, didn’t much appeal to him.

 

“What if it’s a werewolf and it can smell me?” Harry asked, slowly, donning a dry undertone. Snape, however, did not look amused. He rolled his eyes skyward and started walking away.

 

“Given that tonight is a full moon,” he drawled, “you would be wise to approach the matter with a tad more diligence. In the event, you would abandon me and run. Use any means of defense and not do anything reckless.”

 

“I’m not reckless,” Harry refuted. A branch suddenly slapped him in the face, the one Snape had been holding. Harry rubbed his cheek as the man snorted.

 

 “Yes, your annual adventures have certainly been solid testaments.”

 

“I didn’t have a say in many of those, uh, incidents,” he argued still. “‘Reckless’ works sometimes… And in this case, it’s not as if I’d ask the werewolf to tea and biscuits.”

 

“Certainly not. It would beat you to it. Only difference: you would be the appetizer.”

 

Harry had no reply to that, and from there the pair lapsed into silence. To Harry’s ears, it felt heavy, dense. Or maybe that was only in his head? He couldn’t know. Snape’s sarcasm had only confused him further — it wasn’t a very reliable indicator of whether the man was angry at Harry or not.

 

And the longer this silence stretched, the more clogged Harry’s ears felt with the tension. Like a soap bubble that was threatening to burst. It frustrated Harry to no end.

 

Another branch suddenly chafed his cheek, its needles dragging along his skin like claws on cloth. 

 

They burst that fragile bubble.

 

“Are you angry at me, sir?” Harry suddenly blurted out. He was so surprised by those words that he barely restrained himself from clamping a hand over his mouth. He wanted to take it back— but the damage had already been done.

 

There was a bout of hesitation in Snape’s stride, just briefly. He turned his head slightly to look at Harry, bemusement in his eyes, his brows crinkling together. “I am afraid I do not follow…”

 

What was that supposed to mean? Was he not angry? 

 

“Just… I just thought that you—” But the more of that babble he exuded, the redder he felt his face turning. The origin of his question reminded him of a toddler asking their parents if they were in trouble. It was truly ridiculous to ask — especially Snape, of all people.

 

Harry shook his head. “Sorry. s’nothing.”

 

“On the contrary, I beg to differ,” Snape drawled smoothly, still walking. “Whatever should have given you such an impression?”

 

Shrugging his shoulders, Harry stayed quiet.

 

“A verbal response, if you would.”

 

Harry eventually sighed. “It’s just… You hadn’t told me anything since, uh, Halloween,” he said, filtering what was coming out of his mouth this time. “I guess I thought… I know it sounds stupid. But it just felt like you’ve been keeping me in the dark. Like Dumbledore did last year.”

 

He didn’t chance a glance up at his professor, whilst the Slytherin kept silent. And the longer said silence stretched, the deeper Harry could feel his stomach sinking. 

 

At one point, Harry was convinced Snape wasn’t going to reply, and that his fears were confirmed…

 

Until Snape did finally speak. His tone was as frustratingly indecipherable as always.

 

“I had promised you I would not keep you in the dark in such a way, had I not? Granted, some information must remain confidential… As for my ‘ignoring you’...” 

 

Snape seemed to hesitate. 

 

“You have not forgotten that we are to maintain our covers? I cannot risk exposing myself by keeping up interaction with you so frequently. Moreover, there simply hadn’t been anything of discussion until I had decided on tonight’s venture — of which I had informed you.”

 

Harry nodded, the gesture more automatic than genuine. “Right. That makes sense.” 

 

They walked a few more paces, but Harry noticed the man holding himself somewhat more tensely now, his head or lips giving a subtle jerk or twitch from time to time — as if he wasn’t finished.  

 

His suspicions were correct, as it turned out. There was a low exhale beside him a moment later, and in a tone drastically different — lower, softer —, he said, “But no, I am not angry at you.”

 

His and Harry’s eyes had met briefly then. In the darkness, it was difficult to tell anything, but it almost looked as if some form of guilt was trapped behind the obsidian eyes. Maybe Harry had imagined it… 

 

But he didn’t hesitate to believe him, almost like a child. He felt like something had melted in relief inside of him at the words.

 

And it suddenly felt as if a blockade had been abolished in his chest, letting the sweet, crisp night air flow freely through his lungs. Snape wasn’t angry at him. 

 

And the man’s word was good enough.

 

The pair continued trudging through the dark shrubbery, but no path was visible still. The woods weren’t very dense in this part of the forest. Harry could still see a few yards ahead of them but overtime noticed the trees growing increasingly denser. Harry would occasionally glimpse the full moon overhead. It would sometimes peak through the canopies above.

 

His thoughts, accordingly, switched to Remus. He decided to try his luck.

 

“Professor, do you know where Remus is? Is he still on that mission?”

 

Snape had stilled in this stride for half of a second. His expression visibly tightened. Harry knew by now that he did particularly enjoy anything relating to the Marauders — that’s when the air would feel as if someone were mixing the air with cement, the density palpable… He was therefore surprised when the man spoke, his tone rather dry and indifferent.

 

“I do not keep correspondence with him, so I do not know. You would be better informed asking the Headmaster or Moody.”

 

“But you’re in the Order. I thought you were supposed to know these sorts of things,” pressed Harry in a testing tone.

 

“What I know or do not know is the Headmaster’s ruling, not my own,” Snape said coolly. “Too much information is dangerous, Potter. A predisposition.”

 

“I thought you said ‘there’s no excess information’,” Harry replied, vaguely annoyed now at the change of topic. 

 

“ Knowledge , Potter. Academic Knowledge. The more information you wield, the more control you crave — a condition the Dark Lord suffers from…” He paused, wherein a beat of silence passed. “This is not just any war, Potter. It is an informational war. The information I pass on to the Dark Lord, for instance, is extremely curated and consequential and may change the outcome entirely.”

 

Still walking, Snape turned to look at Harry, considering him for a moment, weighing his words. Harry looked back, trying to make out if the Professor was still sore about the initial question. He could read nothing, alas, the shadows having fully swallowed his face.

 

“You will recall how easily the Dark Lord was able to lure you into the Ministry that night. He used information about you against you, which resulted in a loss on our side.”

 

A sharp knife stabbed Harry’s chest at the bitter reminder. Something was burning in his stomach. It was acidic. It was self-hatred, returned anew. For that one mistake… He’d been so foolish, so naive…

 

Maybe it was best if he didn’t know anything about Remus’ whereabouts. The mere thought of something happening to him because of Harry made him sick, too horrible to even imagine. Maybe that’s what Snape was implying. After all, if those mental shields of his were a liability and his mind was more susceptible to slipping into Voldemort’s…

 

He would never forgive himself if something ever happened to Remus. Especially because of him. 

 

He would not have a repeat of what had happened to Sirius.

 

Sirius. 

 

Harry, again, tried to envision Sirius. His face. His warm, mischievous smile… But his heart bobbed in confused disappointment when he saw nothing.

 

It was happening again .

 

Why was it so hard to remember Sirius’ face?

 

Harry had to swallow a wad of fear. He felt it sliding down his throat, until it reached the depths of his stomach. 

 

He continued following after Snape. They didn’t talk any more, mostly because Harry was deliberately keeping a few paces after the man. His eyes unseeingly tracked the dead forestation below, their crunching and crackling consumed by his thoughts. In such a manner, they traversed for another good fifteen minutes. Until…

 

They’d reached a trodden-out path. Finally. 

 

Snape didn’t  comment but did continue down it. The farther they traveled, the more familiar it seemed to Harry, as if he’d already been here before, but he couldn’t recall why or when.

 

That’s when something made him pause, and his eyes widened slightly at the sight.

 

“Potter?”

 

It was a bow. A pink ribbon bow. Torn, muddied, but unmistakably hers . Harry almost couldn’t believe it as realization struck him why this path seemed so familiar to him. 

 

“Potter, what is it?”

 

The light from Snape’s wand eclipsed Harry’s form, twigs cracking under his boots as he approached. 

 

“That’s Umbridge’s,” said Harry. He looked around them, then back at the bow. “This is where she was taken.”

 

“Taken?”

 

Harry turned to look at Snape. “Dumbledore never told you what happened?”

 

Snape raised a curious eyebrow, and slowly set off again. “Not in detail. Though I have wondered what could have possibly happened to a grown and capable Ministry official in the hands of two teenagers…”

 

“I’ll amuse you, sir. It was Hermione’s idea. Umbridge thought Dumbledore had some sort of secret weapon, and Hermione told her it was hidden deep in the forest. She believed it and made us take her there. But Hermione was actually leading her to Grawp… That’s Hagrid’s half-brother.“

 

Snape’s brows rose at this, a hint of bewilderment showing on his face. 

 

“But we’d never expected centaurs to show up,” Harry continued. Umbridge tried to threaten them ‘in the name of the Minister and Ministry of Magic’ and all her decrees. They didn’t like that.”

 

“Hmm. Then I must rephrase: academic knowledge through proper education is important.”

 

“No kidding. She sent a rope-binding spell at the Head centaur.”

 

“Did she, now?” Snape sounded highly amused indeed. Harry felt his face stretch in a grin. 

 

“It’s a surprise she’s back at the Ministry again. I mean, the fact that she’d even made it out alive… Do you think Umbridge will return to Hogwarts, after everything?” Harry couldn’t help asking.

 

“I do not think so, and neither does the Headmaster. Especially considering… ” A beat of silence passed between them, a short one, before Snape tilted his head just slightly and spoke again, his tone difficult to decipher.

 

“In ancient times, centaurs were one of the most feared creatures to encounter. They were well known for dragging victims to perform more… undignified acts on them. A fate worse than death, some may say.” 

 

It took a moment for the underlying message to sink in. And when it did, Harry felt all the color drain from his face. He turned to stare at Snape’s profile, mouth agape.

 

“You think that’s what happened to Umbridge?”

 

Snape clucked his tongue once, thoughtfully. “It is certainly a possibility…”

 

The vision that suddenly swam to Harry’s head was too horrible to even verbalize in his thoughts… Then again, how far off was it from the torture Umbridge had inflicted on him and the students, forcing them to write with their own blood? Somehow, Harry didn’t feel sorry for the woman. 

 

A fate worse than death… There were, indeed, things worse than death. Harry knew. He wondered if this was one of them…

 

The pair lapsed into silence again. This seemed often, when a topic would end and both would be plunged into their own musings. The stillness of the woods around them didn’t help. There wasn’t even a breeze tonight, just the biting, damp chill that made Harry crave the fireplace. 

 

It was this acute discomfort again, one that made him feel vulnerable and exposed. He hated it. As if a hundred hidden eyes were watching his unguarded back. He folded his arms across his chest for comfort and mindlessly watched the hem of Snape’s dark cloak…

 

They continued to walk for some time. How long was anyone’s guess. But Harry’s feet had since started to hurt. Snape would sometimes pause in his tracks, travel a few feet in this direction and that to check for something, before returning to Harry and continuing on. They weren’t even following the path anymore, having since strayed off it and once again winding through the sea of towering trees. 

 

Until at last…

 

“Potter—”

 

They had reached another small clearing, where the ground squelched with swamp-like moisture. Everything was overgrown here, somehow soggier than elsewhere, and the air smelled of decaying forestation and detritus. Unlike the other trees in the forest, here their trunks were as twisted as their barren branches. 

 

On closer inspection, Harry realized mushrooms were growing up and along the alien-like trunks. Their caps looked bumpy and knobby, and Harry immediately recognized them from the illustration he’d seen earlier.

 

“...How do we— I pick them?” Harry asked. Beside him, Snape gave his wand a soft swish, and the digits ‘02:56’ appeared before them. His eyes widened a fraction, an almost grave expression sculpting his deep-set features, and he began digging in his bag for something… before pulling out a jar. Harry took the proffered item. 

 

“Pay attention; it may just save your life. The fungi are covered in an extremely acidic slime that is only neutralized at witching hour. This lasts for a minute, you ought to hurry. They may be difficult to separate from the bark… You must gather as many as you can into this jar. The more we have obtained, the better.”

 

“Don’t s’ppose I get any gloves?” Harry asked dryly. 

 

“No,” Snape shook his head. “It is crucial that your skin touches the fungi. They will be completely useless to us otherwise. In case you do get burned, I have an antidote.”

 

“Mm. Brilliant.”

 

“Indeed,” replied Snape in a tone just as dry as Harry’s. He cast another Tempus. “Thirty seconds.” He glanced skyward, where the moon shone brightly, shedding its light down directly on the small clearing. 

 

Harry, accordingly, lowered himself to his knees onto the soft moss, close to the mushrooms. They were actually really small, much more than he’d initially envisioned them, and had a slimy surface, gracefully oozing off the caps… 

 

That’s when he noticed that something was starting to happen. 

 

At first, he’d thought it was a trick of the light. But now, the mushroom caps were obtaining a faint but vibrant-blue glow, their small knobs, on the other hand, turning a slight gold-yellow. The sight was quite alluring. Harry’s whole periphery was bespeckled with these patches of tiny light bulbs, giving life to the once-dead surroundings. It truly looked like something out of a children’s book. 

 

“Potter, now!”

 

Harry was thrust out of his reverie and immediately dove to his task. He somehow grasped the first mushroom, slippery and barely big enough to grip, and made to pluck it out. But on his first tug, it wouldn’t give. He pulled harder and harder — was using both hands now —

 

The mushroom finally detached itself from the bark, nearly causing Harry to topple back in the momentum. For a bunch of small mushrooms, they sure were latched onto the wood with tooth and nail. But Harry didn’t dare waste a moment. He chucked the first mushroom into the jar and set to pick the rest.

 

The task was increasingly harder now that his hands were covered in the slime. Each mushroom took roughly a bit of time to pluck. But as the seconds ticked on, Harry started to notice that the slime was starting to prickle his skin. His hands were no longer cold.

 

But he kept pulling. He didn’t know how much time had passed or remained, but he kept pulling and pulling. His hands were really starting to burn now, the feeling of touching hot prongs, but he still didn’t care. He plowed on, now gritting his teeth against the sting. He hadn’t picked that many of these mushrooms. What if it wouldn’t be enough for the extraction elixir?

 

The more, the better. So he kept pulling, despite the acidic feel of a thousand tiny needles stabbing his hands. 

 

“Harry, stop.”

 

“Just a… few… more,” Harry bit out, putting in all his force to pull out the stubborn, slippery mushroom.

 

“I said enough! ”

 

He felt cold hands grasping his wrists and roughly pulling him away. That was the final tug that Harry had needed anyway. The stem was ripped off of the trunk, and he gratefully tossed it into the jar with the rest of the harvest. He slumped onto the damp ground and bent over his knees, panting and staring at his aggressively red and blistered hands. They looked as if he'd been playing with hot coals, but were burning twice as bad. 

 

In a sudden move, Snape practically dropped to Harry’s side. 

 

“Foolish child— have you utterly lost your mind ?” he snarled. The man sounded furious and yet, concerned. But Harry didn’t raise his head to look. He could only focus on the pain that was quickly becoming excruciating.

 

In his periphery, Snape was digging in his satchel. A second later, he was grabbing Harry’s wrists again to tug them closer. The move was somehow gentler than Harry would’ve expected. 

 

The Gryffindor watched as Snape poured a sap-like solution onto his palms. Whatever it was, it stung, and the cold air only made it worse. Harry gasped out when Snape started massaging the substance into his skin, sucking in air through his gritted teeth. 

 

“You nearly burned your skin off,” Harry heard Snape growl. “Hold still.”

 

“It bloody burns .”

 

Harry didn’t see Snape’s lips thinning apologetically. 

 

“I realize.”

 

Trying to distract himself, Harry glanced at the jar beside him. The mushrooms in it were no longer aglow, now just a plain brown in the light of Snape’s lit wand, which lay abandoned on the ground. 

 

“That was utterly reckless .”

 

“You said you needed those mushrooms. The more, the better,” Harry bit out. Snape paused and stared at him in bewilderment.

 

“ Not at such an expense. You’ve nearly developed second-degree burns.”

 

Harry shrugged. “I’ll live.”

 

But he now sensed rather than saw Snape shaking his head. 

 

“Your lack of a sense of self-preservation is astonishing . You are not immortal. Did you not agree to obey my every order and command? Why is it that something always happens to you?”

 

Harry wasn’t sure why, but a heavy anchor dropped in his stomach at these words. Was this how Ron had felt like when Mrs. Weasley had been chastising him for flying that Ford Anglia? 

 

It didn’t make any sense to him. He’d never felt like this living with the Dursleys — this guilt. Deep guilt with a bottomless abyss down which he could swim down forever in search of the roots.

 

“...Sorry,” he muttered, looking away. Because it was the best and only thing he could think of. Snape stopped in his movements.

 

“‘Sorry’?” His tone bore incredulity, as if that one word was an insult to his name.

 

“Well, what do you want me to say? Why is it even such a big deal to you? I got the bloody mushrooms. And I’m fine , aren’t I?”

 

Snape’s eyes narrowed into angry slits at him. This time, he sounded genuinely angry. “A ‘ big deal’ ? You are my responsibility. You disobeyed me. Knowingly put yourself in danger. Consequently, you are now injured.”

 

… responsibility…

 

“I won’t go running to Dumbledore or McGonagall — or Madam Pomfrey — if that’s what you're concerned about. Professor, ” Harry threw in, as a formality.

 

Snape huffed sharply. “Of that, I am aware. My concern is your sense of self-preservation, which you inherently lack. ”

 

“I’ve had worse. I’m not some kid.”

 

— He was, of course, referring to the time he’d had his arm bones removed and regrown, been bitten by a Basilisk, and had had his arm slashed open by Pettigrew. And the Blood Quill —

 

“Your actions oftentimes belie that claim.”

 

Harry bit back a scathing remark, the admittance that that had hurt, and just continued to watch as Snape conjured some gauze out of thin air. The man tore off a long strip, folded it several times, and set to wrapping it over Harry’s hands. It stung, but not unbearably so anymore, probably due to that substance. Snape looked as if he were handling a capricious, delicate potion. His movements were precise, careful, and clinical; and his face was furrowed in concentration, a deep crease having formed between his brows.

 

Then, he was finished. 

 

“It will take several days to heal, perhaps a week,” Snape assessed, his voice becoming pensive. He seemed lost in thought as he inspected his work. “Try to minimize using them.”

 

Harry slowly withdrew his hands into his lap. “Thanks…What— What will I tell Ron and Hermione?” he asked.

 

Snape climbed to his feet and helped Harry up in the process, grasping him by the elbow. “A plausible excuse for injuring both of your hands overnight? I do not believe you have many options at your disposal.”

 

No kidding, Harry thought, privately rolling his eyes. Meanwhile, Snape collected the mushroom jar, storing it into his bag.

 

“Maybe I couldn’t sleep, decided to study, and accidentally burned myself with a candle?”

 

Snape deadpanned, “How… original .”

 

“Do you have any suggestions, sir?”

 

“I might…”

 

Together, they started walking back the way they’d come. Harry was careful to keep his hands far apart, knowing there would be hell to pay if he tripped.

 

“Say you were strutting about the castle,” Snape mused after a minute, sounding far more amused than he should have been. “On your way up a staircase, you tripped on your Cloak, fell, and crashed into a suit of armor, injuring both hands — A miracle you didn’t sprain your foolish neck … You were shortly caught by Filch, treated at the Hospital Wing, and earned a week’s worth of detention with me.”

 

Harry scowled. “...Not sure I like that idea, sir.”

 

“On a more serious note,” Snape said regardless, “you shall have to join me in brewing, seeing as I cannot touch the fungi. Now that they’ve adapted to your touch—”

 

“But they burned me!”

 

Snape gave him an annoyed side-glance. “Yes. But their sap is only acidic during witching hour, at the full moon. It is now neutralized. However, only the ultimate consumer, the one who’d picked them, can touch them, else their potency is nulled.”

 

“Couldn’t you just use gloves, sir?” Harry asked.

 

“No. The fungi are extremely sensitive. There is no work-around…” Snape glanced at him, curiosity set in his eyes. “Is there a reason you are so opposed to the idea?”

 

…Pointless…

 

“Uh, no.”

 

…He’s wasting his time…

 

“No, sir.”

 

…Lab Rat…

 

Whether Snape was convinced or not, Harry received no indication. The two continued to walk in silence, following the same path through the woods. The conversation had died there, but it wasn’t such an uncomfortable silence that followed. The crunching of the detritus, dead leaves, and twigs below contributed. Harry could only assume it was nearing somewhere around four in the morning, as the distant fog was growing denser, settling lower amongst the trees.

 

Eventually, they were passing the approximate spot where Umbridge’s pink bow had lain. Harry’s subconsciousness was seeking it out on the ground, amongst the leaves and dirt. But even when he and Snape were past the turned-over trunk that Harry knew they had passed shortly before seeing the bow, he could see none. His eyes hadn’t once strayed from the side of the path, and yet he could spot no trace of that dirtied pink. 

 

Something about that didn’t sit right in his stomach. He sped up a bit, closing the short distance between himself and the Slytherin.

 

“Sir— The bow’s missing.”

 

Snape looked at him bemusedly. “Whatever are you on about?”

 

“Umbridge’s bow that we saw earlier. I’m sure we’ve already passed the spot we saw it.”

 

“I am sure you missed it.”

 

“I—” If it weren’t for the butterflies fluttering in his stomach, Harry probably would have turned red at how absurd he sounded. Maybe some woodland creature had snatched it… “I know I didn’t. It wasn’t by that trunk. What if…?”

 

He closely watched Snape’s brows furrow in thought, but the man did not halt in his strides. His lips thinned a bit. If there was anything Harry had learned about the professor, it was that that could not be a good sign… But as suddenly as that, Snape’s face relaxed, turning impassive again. 

 

“I do not believe it is a cause for concern. After all, werewolves typically are not attracted to accessories,” he drawled. ”However… stay close.”

 

The rest of the journey was somehow uneventful. After another fifteen minutes of footwork — which felt like an hour —, Hogwarts’ turrets could be seen peaking out from beyond the treeline, and Harry recognized that he and Snape were nearing the Care for Magical Creatures enclosure at the edge of the forest.

 

Then — they reached it. A majestic sight stood before them of the medieval castle. It brought back memories of when he and Sirius had stood together, gazing at the structure with glowing windows from a very similar angle, discussing Harry eventually coming to live with the man….

 

This time, the castle was pitch dark. And even still, it was quite an impressive sight to behold. 

 

Apparently, Harry wasn’t the only one enraptured by it. He hadn’t even noticed until now that both he and Snape had halted in their steps, both gazing up at the dark silhouette in the silence. Melancholy silence. Both lost in thoughts, both reminiscing. 

 

But Harry couldn’t help noting there was something different about the man’s expression. Though difficult as ever to decipher, it was as if he were looking at a long-lost friend… 

 

Suddenly, dead leaves and twigs crackled behind them. Harry had barely registered the sound before he felt himself being yanked back by Snape, who was now shielding him, wand outstretched, poised. Harry’s heart accelerated. His hand automatically flew to his wand holster — only to retract it sharply when pain flared through it.

 

The anonymous rustling continued, coming from the bushes at the other end of the clearing. Even the air seemed to be holding its breath… The bushes continued to vigorously shake and rustle, becoming more pronounced as whatever was behind it was coming nearer—

 

A thestral emerged. It spread out its leathery, skeletal wings to shudder off some twigs and dead leaves. Snape grumbled something in annoyance and holstered his wand in one deft move. Simultaneously, Harry let out a breath.

 

“Our… culprit,” drawled Snape. He slowly approached the creature. Harry just watched, not quite sure what the man’s intention was. The Slytherin slowly outstretched his hand, slid it along the thestral’s head, and then plucked something out of its mouth. When he turned to Harry again, he was holding up something pink and utterly filthy in a pinch.

 

A sudden urge to laugh overcame Harry, but he managed to contain it and joined Snape, quite at a loss for words.

 

“Well,” Harry grinned, “technically I was right. Someone did take it.”

 

“Some- thing , Potter. So I am afraid not ,” Snape remarked evilly, just without any bite. He discarded the bow carelessly to the ground. His free hand was back on the thestral’s head, where he let it rest. The thestral only leaned into his touch, snorting softly.

 

Harry could only watch in astonishment. What a stark contrast to what one would have expected from the ‘Dungeon Bat’ or ‘Death Eater’. The man’s tired features appeared more relaxed, as if some deep trouble had receded its shadow. The corners of his lips curved up in the faintest of smiles. His obsidian gaze was fixated on the skeletal horse, an unrecognizable gentleness behind them that Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen before. 

 

It made him wonder. Harry had never really thought that Snape could also see Thestrals. It was far from surprising, of course — the man was a literal Death Eater.  

 

And still, something about the fact that both of them could see these creatures was strangely comforting. A sobering fact. Almost like a sort of common ground. Like a battlefield where both had lost everything, neither having gained, and this was concord soil. 

 

This whole situation was strange, these circumstances. Strange to be standing here with Snape, of all people. Strange that this realization had only now settled in. 

 

“...Sir,” said Harry softly, “When did you start seeing…?”

 

He trailed off, conflicted over whether asking such a personal thing wasn’t crossing some invisible line. But even unvoiced, the question hung tacitly. Snape’s brows contracted, the minute smile fading. He redirected his gaze back at Harry to consider him. Or to weigh his words. Either way, he didn’t speak for a long moment — so long, that Harry was starting to think he wouldn’t answer the question at all.

 

“...It was shortly after I had joined the Dark Lord’s ranks,” he at last intoned, keeping his voice low, as if he were saying something blasphemous . “I do not believe it needs further elaboration.”

 

“But… was it you who…?”

 

Snape blanched, appearing slightly sickened. The man immediately shook his head. “No.”

 

Harry respectively nodded.

 

“And yourself?” Snape returned the question. “I can only assume after the Third Tasks’ events?”

 

…”Kill the spare!”...

 

Something appeared in Harry’s throat, clogging it. 

 

…A burst of green. A dull thump…

 

He swallowed. 

 

…His blank stare, hollow and cold. Skin the color of marble…

 

“Yeah— Yes, sir. But I didn’t know — about the Thestrals — until the start of school last year. When I saw them pulling the carriages. My friends thought I’d gone mental, but Luna Lovegood, she told me I was still sane.”

 

“She, too, was part of that conspiratory club of yours, was she not?” Snape asked mildly.

 

“Who, Luna? Yeah. And it’s called ‘Dumbledore’s Army’” — Snape hummed here — ”... Maybe it wasn’t very smart to call it that. We’ve realized it now. That’s actually why Umbridge had freaked out so badly about it when she found a list of all the members.” Harry couldn’t help laughing a bit at the bitter memory. “She actually thought Dumbledore wanted to take over the Ministry, and that he was building some ‘secret weapon’.”

 

He glimpsed a smirk stretching Snape’s mouth for a moment.

 

“All sentiments aside, Dumbledore has always preached that his biggest weapon is you — not you necessarily, but all of Hogwarts. The students. Even the castle itself.”

 

“That’s similar to what he’d said during his Opening Speech, isn’t it,” recalled Harry. He hadn’t really thought much on the old man’s words from the Feast, though now it all did add up. “‘cept he said that, in the end, we are the dark forces’ biggest weapon.”

 

“The Dark Forces are… manipulative… deceiving… tempting ,” Snape mused, as if in acknowledgement of the last part, continuing to gently caress the thestral. He quickly changed the topic. 

 

“I must admit, I find myself impressed at how long you’d managed to keep that organization sub rosa from Umbridge...”

 

“Well, it wasn’t that hard when more than half the school hated her guts,” Harry shrugged. “Some just weren’t as dense as others and actually wanted to learn defense.”

 

“And whom better to consult than the Chosen One?”

 

Harry only scowled sourly at the appellation but did not reply. Tentatively, he raised his one hand to stroke the thesrtal but remembered last-minute that he couldn’t. 

 

“We, ah, flew on thestrals to the Ministry,” Harry commented, not really sure why. Just a non-sequitur. Perhaps to change the topic a bit again.

 

“Of that much, I am aware. Six students flooding at least twenty school rules and the Decree for the Restriction of Undearage Wizardry and escaping to London on magical creatures — in one night.”

 

The corners of Harry’s lips quirked up. It gave him a fleeting question of whether it was something his father and the Marauders would have been likely to do…

 

He turned his gaze back to the unlit castle. Thoughts of his late godfather surfaced again, causing a hollow ache to appear in his chest. Thoughts of that night — the night Sirius had died.

 

…Nice one, James!...

 

All because of him.

 

…”He’s right there— Please! We can save him!”...

 

Bitter regret. 

 

…I killed Sirius Bla—ack, I killed Sirius Bla—ack…

 

Harry would never forgive himself for that night. No. He’d acted like a bloody imbecilic child, and what irreparable damage had it wrought. 

 

He should have listened.

 

He should have… Harry didn’t even know at this point. 

 

But the faces in those memories, horrible as they were, were a blur. Sirius’ face. Unreadable, unfocused — as if Harry’s glasses had fogged up.

 

It’s only getting worse , he noted with a sharp jolt of alarm.

 

A sudden lump appeared in his throat that was begging to burst. For a wild moment, he toyed with the thought of telling Snape, imagined spilling his guts and worries, asking him why this was happening—

 

But he quickly shooed the idea away. No. For so many reasons, no .

 

At that moment, he felt something gently nudging him from behind. Another thestral had crept up on him, this one smaller than the other. It started nuzzling its head against Harry’s chest and arms. Harry, hands unusable, was forced to remain still.

 

This lasted a moment, but then he realized something was wrong. In the moonlight, droplets were glistening on his fleece coat. Tear droplets, he realized. The thestral whined softly, but it sounded heart wrenching. Harry realized it was crying. 

 

Beside him, there was a sharp inhale. That’s when Harry noticed the haunted look on his professor’s face. It was as if the man had seen death itself in that moment, the color having drained from his face. 

 

“Professor? Are— Are you alright?”

 

Snape said nothing for a very long moment. He seemed frozen. The whole time, he was staring at the lamenting thestral, as if Stupefied .

 

But then, Snape’s eyes tracked Harry’s face. He was looking at him with that look again. The kind that felt like a punch to Harry’s gut for reasons unknown. Worry settled in… 

 

But eventually, Snape appeared to have recomposed himself and said slowly in a slightly hoarse voice:

 

“It is late. Early, rather. Past four, I believe. You ought to return to your dormitory.”

 

Harry fought against the urge to press his questions. He just nodded — in consensus, not will. The thought of returning to his dormitory pulled at his face.

 

They set out. No words were exchanged following this strange encounter. No words, only an unexpected gesture. Snape tentatively put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. 

 

Initially it was as if to steer him away as, together, they made their way back up to the castle. But the hand stayed there for some time. Harry felt its warmth, its uncharacteristic gentleness. Its strange, reassuring comfort. And he relished it.

 

This warmth, this comfort — they lingered even after he and Snape eventually parted ways, allowing for Harry to sneak inside using one of the secret passageways. 

 

When the boy finally slipped back under his covers, his mind might have resembled a hive.

 

Barbaculous fungi… Snape…

 

The thought of Snape strangely brought up the thought of Sirius. It baffled Harry as to why.

 

Sirius… A blank, faceless person that appeared in Harry’s memory.

 

…The blank stare of Cedric…

 

…”Kill the spare!”...

 

…Not Harry! Please, I’ll do anything—!”...

 

A flash of green. Another. Then another. Three bodies. Three deaths. All on his account…

 

Death… Thestrals… The grave, deathly look on Snape’s sunken face…

 

Why did thestrals cry?

Notes:

Hello, Hello! Well, I've strayed a bit off of the cannon plot with this little side-quest, but I felt it was necessary to the overall story. Just because I said this fic would be following canon doesn’t mean I won't add personal touches/storylines. My overall vision for this story is multi-layered. I will also be introducing much darker themes later on. Just letting y'all know.

With that being said, I really hope you've enjoyed this chapter. Waiting to hear your thoughts! Follow my Tumblr for progress updates, and expect the next chapter... Idk when, tbh. Hopefully soon. I have it written, but it needs polishing. And It's slow-going. But going(!).

:D

Chapter 14: Sybilline Dreams

Early November, 1996.

 

A chilling breeze whistled in his ears. It wove through the trees’ exanimated branches and made them chafe and shudder, the sound like bones clattering against one another. The last few leaves, brittle and long-dead, were picked up by the current, carried somewhere out of existence.

 

It was a long, endless road that stretched out before him into the dark, endless abyss. Harry somehow knew where he was; the place seemed all too familiar. But as far as he could tell, no soul inhabited it save for his. Folding his arms over his chest, he shuddered, feeling the night’s chill creeping through his coat.

 

For some moments, he stood there, waiting for something to happen. The wind would die down, only to pick up again, mocking Harry with its ancient whispering. Something in the back of his subconscious knew he was awaiting someone, but for the life of him, there was no knowing whom.

 

But then, at last, the boy started upon something appearing in his periphery. Taking a step back, he found, with both dread and thrill, his godfather standing right beside him.

 

But he was looking far out into the distance, hands neatly folded behind his back as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He didn’t so much as spare Harry a glance.

 

“S— Sirius?”

 

“You didn’t help me,” Sirius answered, point-blank. The words sounded dead, a motionless weight on the water’s surface, and yet they alone struck Harry’s chest like a church bell’s knell.

 

“What?”

 

“You have failed me. You did not help me.”

 

Desperation seized Harry’s lungs, his mouth dry. He’d tried to help Sirius — had tried to save him. How else was he supposed to have helped Sirius? 

 

“But I did! I did help you...”

 

But Sirius was only shaking his head. 

 

“Helped me? Helped me , Harry? Then why am I dead?” he asked. The ending struck like a knife.

 

“I— I tried!”

 

“Trying wasn’t enough !”

 

The man finally turned to face him, showing nothing but uncharacteristic disappointment and scorn in his dark eyes. Their characteristic warmth was gone. It hurt just to look at him. His godfather looked no different now than he had before he’d— 

 

“You failed me.”

 

Before Harry could do or say anything more, Sirius’ face flickered like static on an old TV — just his face. Panic surged through Harry — he knew what was going to happen next. It was all the same; he knew the sequence. 

 

So in all his desperation, he suddenly flung himself at his godfather, clinging to his suit for dear life. No hands pushed him away, and they stayed like that for a moment, then two...

 

Until Harry finally glanced up. When he did, Sirius’ face was gone. In its place was another. As if burned, he suddenly let go — more out of shock than will, choked for words. He could feel his heart accelerating, hammering against his ribcage like some trapped beast. It was as if all air had been vacuumed out of his lungs. 

 

For there, standing before him, wasn’t his godfather at all. But someone else. An entirely different person, though donned in the same clothing. Even his stature was the same, save for the face.

 

The figure spoke one word. Just one. 

 

“Harry.”

 

But his tone in that one word alone bore something vital. It was the greeting of an open door, the bread for a beggar. And Harry suddenly threw himself at the figure again, desperate, yearning, cold, starved, wrapping his arms tightly around the frame—

 

That’s when it ended. His eyes flew open, and in the next minute Harry found himself sitting upright, reclining back on his elbows. Familiar darkness greeted him: the Gryffindor Dormitory. The early morning’s darkness; the soft sounds of snoring. 

 

He was safe.

 

Relatively…

 

It had only been a dream.

 

Just another bloody dream.

 

Harry found the back of his shirt clinging grossly to his back. The heavy rise and fall of his chest chafed against his ears. He waited a minute, just trying to rein in his breathing, trying to comprehend that hell-sent dream or nightmare that he’d just had. Were it not for his bandaged hands, he would’ve dragged one down his face, still feeling mortification’s lingering trace as that scene replayed in his mind.

 

Merlin… Was he really that desperate? Was it all really that naive and pathetic ? Sirius was gone, and what , there was suddenly Snape to rep—

 

Harry vigorously shook his head. 

 

No. No, that was just bloody ridiculous. He couldn’t even bring himself to finish that line of thought.

 

Blimey, Harry, how pathetic are you?

 

Desperate and pathetic.

 

The dream itself was pathetic.

 

…But pathetic and cruel .

 

Because, Merlin’s beard , something deep within him stung — burned . Or even a hollow ache, like those he remembered feeling on days of being locked away in that god-forsaken cupboard, deprived of any food.

 

Only this ache, this burn — this pain — felt worse; more… acute .

 

For just a moment, Harry didn’t want to feel. He just wanted to switch off his head. Like Snape. Seclude himself from all emotion, all memories, all thoughts… 

 

He wanted to be numb.

 

But numbness never came. The seconds continued to trickle by. Everything was still going, still moving, still progressing. This life — existence, more like.

 

Like hopelessly chasing after a train he’d missed: his feet hurt, his lungs on fire— but he couldn’t stop. Because the train just kept going, and going, and going.

 

And he was tired .

 

Frustrated with himself to no end, Harry angrily pulled the covers over himself and lay back down on his pillow. He closed his eyes, but that only made those images blink in and out of his mind again. His last resort was just staring up at the ceiling. 

 

He was eagerly awaiting morning. Harry hated the night. This night. He couldn’t wait to let it fade to the back of his mind…

 

Whatever amount of time would take for that. 

 

~***~

 

“...rry. Oi, mate! C’mon. Bloody overslept, you did!”

 

Harry groggily sat up in his nest of knotted blankets, trying to rub the sunlight’s sting out of his eyes. Grit at the corners prickled the bridge of his nose. Every inch of him felt dead. He felt dead. And Harry knew he must have looked like death itself, too… His vision finally adjusted, and Ron’s tall figure slowly swam into a blurry silhouette of red hair and black school robes.

 

“Blimey, Harry, what happened to you? No offense or anything, but you look worse than Filch.”

 

“Thanks, Ron,” Harry grumbled. “What time is it?”

 

“Breakfast just ended. Hermione’s already gone to class… I wanted to wake you sooner but thought you would get up by yourself and still make it…”

 

Harry offered no comment. He was still wondering how he’d managed to fall asleep after that dream. Steeling himself, he extricated his legs from the warmth of the covers — goosebumps climbed his legs — and forced his feet over to his trunk to gather his things.

 

“Tell McGonagall I’m running late for me, will you?”

 

But that’s when the realization hit him that his hands were still bandaged and sensitive from the burns. 

 

“Err, Ron—!”

 

The redhead reappeared in the doorway. “What?”

 

“Uh, on second thought…” Harry awkwardly displayed his hands. His friend’s eyes widened.

 

“Blimey, Harry. How'd you get that? ”

 

Harry internally sighed.

 

“Well, I couldn’t sleep, so I thought a stroll might help. Uh… But I tripped over my Cloak. Yeah, crashed into one of those armor stands. I ended up going to Madame Pomfrey.”

 

“In the middle of the night?” Ron exclaimed, gaping wide-eyed. “Did you get in trouble?”

 

Harry rolled his eyes. “What do you think? Got a detention with Snape…”

 

“Blimey… Did Gryffindor lose any points?” 

 

“Uh… Filch caught me, so, no… Just help me pack my bag, will you, Mr. Prefect?”

 

“Oh. Right. Sure. Think I forgot my notes, anyway.”

 

“Since when do you care about notes?” asked Harry in bemusement, trying to hop into his trousers.

 

“Well… I mean… Hermione cares…” the redhead mumbled, slurring his words a bit. “And, you know, she always helps us with notes. Her notes are brilliant. I mean— she ’s bloody brilliant, too. Don’t know what we would do without…”

 

“Huh?”

 

Ron shook his head, but Harry thought his cheeks looked a little flushed. “Nothing.”

 

Harry didn’t mull over the strange behavior. He quickly pulled his wrinkled robes over his head, told Ron to throw in whatever textbooks he needed in his bag, and all within a minute, both took off for their first class of the day.

 

The next six hours of lessons dragged on painstakingly mundanely. 

 

Needless to say that Harry’s bandaged hands didn’t make his day any easier. At least five people had asked about his injury, but that wasn’t the worst of it. Harry soon found that he could barely keep his quill steady without aggravating his hands too much. 

 

Aside from that, his concentration was worse than a rogue bludger. He couldn’t keep his mind on anything for more than three minutes — and even that, he thought, was generously speaking.

 

That dream kept drifting in and out of his head like a hell-sent present. Harry hated it. It was strange, weird, beyond pathetic, and left him feeling even more so. His subconsciousness continued to argue against the dream in stubborn denial, trying to reason that what he’d seen was absurdity on another level…

 

But another layer of his subconsciousness kept reevaluating the dream’s plausibility: 

 

Sirius, fading away. Erased. 

 

How far off from reality was it, really? These days, whenever Harry tried to picture Sirius — any memory of him, good or bad —, it would become all the harder to do so. Blurrier. His mind would go blank. Sometimes, it felt like staring at a test he’d forgotten to study for.

 

It was… disconcerting at the least. 

 

Harry kept trying to reason that it was just paranoia, that he was tired, that it was just some side effect from the insomnia…

 

But deep down, his intuition remained in a state of constant unease. Something felt wrong. Really wrong.

 

And then there was the part with Snape… 

 

Harry didn’t know what to make of it. He’d never been a fan of dream interpreting — thankfully he hadn’t had Divination in some time… But he wasn’t so blind as not to understand that , subconsciously, he was seeking something missing in the wrong place — in the wrong person.

 

Because Snape would send Harry straight to St. Mungo’s Insanity Ward if he ever caught a whiff of Harry’s pathetic, childish needs. 

 

The poor, needy, martyr orphan.

 

He’d had his chance at some semblance of family with Sirius — and he’d royally blown it. Chances like that didn’t come every day, or even every lifetime. He’d wasted his, and there was nothing for it.

 

By the end of the day, Harry felt like a sponge that had been wrung out several times, mentally and physically. He could barely keep his head up straight. Last night’s late excursion had certainly taken its toll. Moreover was the unspoken promise of evergreenery that that dream seemed to carry, to be forever engraved into his head, and the sour mood his thoughts had soaked him in this morning.

 

And, lucky him, the Slytherin and Gryffindor Sixth-Years’ last period of the day was Defense Against the Dark Arts.

 

But Harry didn’t remember anything past the first ten minutes of Snape’s lecture. He’d blacked out (Merlin knew when), and was now shaken awake by Ron.

 

“Hmm, yes,” drawled Snape’s velvety voice overhead as a sea of eyes stared at the scene. “What a privilege it must be to be the Chosen One, to allow oneself beauty rest at personal convenience.” He sneered. 

 

People snickered in the back, but he couldn’t care less. Harry, straightening up in his chair, just blankly stared right back — the only thought giving him enough confidence for this was ‘We went mushroom-picking last night’.

 

“Do you consider yourself above the rules, Mr. Potter?”

 

“No… Sir .”

 

“And yet you exude the arrogance of a presumptuous prince in this castle?”

 

A Slytherin at the back made the sound of a royal horn toot. This, of course, was ignored by their Head of House. Harry only glared back, beyond answering.

 

“Let us pray,” continued the man icily, “that Mr. Potter will be well-enough rested for polishing the trophy room’s silver. Tonight. At eight.”

 

He spun on his heel and headed back to the front of the classroom without a second glance at the Gryffindor. 

 

Snape’s swords continued to ring in Harry’s ears. There were were only two possible ways tonight would go:

 

Harry would either be a lab rat again, or he really would be polishing those stupid trophies.

 

And he wasn’t sure which one he was dreading more. 

 

…

 

Evening came faster than expected. 

 

After lessons, he, Ron, and Hermione had studied in the library, but it had felt more like regurgitating information — like trying to stuff an extra book into an already full and messy bag. Dinner had been a blessing, but Harry hadn’t stuffed that much into himself. It was as if his stomach had shrunken from hunger.

 

Which was most likely the case.

 

Unfortunately, the food had only made him sleepier. 

 

Which wasn’t ideal at all. 

 

He was now trudging heavily up the stairs leading to Snape’s office. The door swung open shortly upon his knock.

 

“Have you brought your Cloak?” were Snape’s first words, speaking in a low undertone, standing in the doorway. They took a moment to register with Harry. He nodded, already reaching for it—

 

“Don it once we have reached the dungeons. Come.”

 

The familiar journey through the castle seemed a blur to Harry, but in no time at all, he was in Snape’s quarters again. In the man’s lab. Images of the Blood Knife flashed in his mind.

 

He was about to be a rat again. 

 

Because of the fragment inside of him. Because he was a freak. A freak… A murderer. An anomaly. 

 

“Potter.”

 

Harry blinked a few times. He hadn’t even noticed he’d stopped in the doorway. Snape was looking at him strangely, but Harry was too tired to think into it. 

 

“Sir?”

 

Snape raised a sardonic eyebrow. “I do not expect you to stand. You may have realized this is not your typical detention.”

 

“...Right.”

 

Harry pulled out a stool at random and dropped down onto it, letting his bag fall beside him. He palmed his face in one hand, propped up on his elbow, and gently massaged the corners of his eyes. They burned. The cool metal of his glasses rode up to his forehead.

 

Suddenly, a vial was set down in front of him, a soft plunk .

 

“Drink this. It will help.”

 

Harry took it, holding it up. “What is it?”

 

“Crocraive extract,” Snape explained, rummaging through his cupboards. “It is a less potent caffeine than what you would find in your everyday cup of coffee or in an invigorating Draught. A mouthful should suffice. I do not wish for a repeat of today’s lesson, however opportune it may have been.”

 

“Opportune, sir?” repeated Harry blankly, unstopping the vial.

 

Snape looked at him as if it were the most obvious thing. “Yes. It provided me with a reason to assign you detention. Your mere sitting and breathing oftentimes doesn’t cut it.”

 

“Ah. Right…”

 

“Drink,” Snape prompted, a hint of dry amusement lacing his tone.

 

Harry finally tipped his head back to take the extract, which he thought tasted just a bit like fermented prune juice. And only seconds later, he felt as if someone had splashed him with ice.

 

“Woah. That’s brilliant. Thanks… And, uh, sorry about that, sir. I didn’t mean to fall asleep…”

 

“That much is obvious,” Snape drawled, still rummaging through his cabinets. He paused for a moment then. “...However, understandable. I assume you did not sleep well?”

 

‘What does it look like?’ or ‘Do I ever?’ swam to mind, but Harry held his tongue.

 

“You could say that.”

 

“That goes for the both of us, then.”

 

The cabinet doors plunked closed, and Snape pulled out a stool for himself to sit at the other side of the workbench’s corner. He neatly folded his hands on his lap, considering Harry for a moment.

 

“How are your hands?”

 

“Uh— Well, I can’t hold a quill properly, so I’d say fantastic.”

 

Snape gave him a dry look. 

 

“Oh,” added Harry, ”I told my friends your idea, about how I injured them. Hermione seemed suspicious, but I think they bought it… ”

 

Snape hummed in acknowledgement. 

 

“You ought to be careful. Should anyone know…”

 

“I know,” Harry said quickly. The pair exchanged a tacit, understanding look.

 

“The bandages require a change. In this case, I am against you seeing Madame Pomfrey. It may arouse questions, since you were never caught last night in the first place. It is enough that your classmates think so… However, I first need you to add the Barbaculous fungi into the potion, as they require your contact.”

 

“Oh. Right. Sure,” Harry nodded. But the wording gave him pause. Did that mean that Snape was going to change the bandage?

 

 “Any wary symptoms?”

 

“Uh, no…” answered Harry. “It hurts to use them, but it’s manageable.”

 

Snape rose and moved to the counters at the back, where Harry only now noticed a cauldron simmering over a low fire. The Professor stirred the substance. Harry went over to get a better look. Inside, he found a vivid-blue substance. Aside from the appealing color, there was nothing visually captivating about it, not even the smell.

 

“It is nearly ready. It needs to simmer another minute,” assessed Snape.

 

“Could you tell me about the potion, sir?” Harry asked.

 

“ Elixir .” Snape tapped the ladle on the cauldron and set it aside. He dragged forth a journal with lots of crammed and crossed-out writing. The penmanship rang some distant bells in Harry’s memory, but he didn’t think too much about it.

 

“Given that the fungus is adapted to you, and you only, it should have antibody properties, destroying anything that it does not recognize as its own — that being the Dark Lord’s fragment.”

 

“...Do you… Do you really think it’ll work?” Harry couldn’t help asking uncertainly. He’d also asked this last time. That Elixir hadn’t lived up to either of their hopes.

 

“In theory, it should. However, given the complexity of the circumstances… ” Snape trailed off, but the message was tacit. “Unfortunately, it will not be ready until next week. That said, there are several more ingredients that will need to be added by your hand.”

 

Great. 

 

“So… more detention?”

 

“Hmm, I daresay.”

 

“You know, sir, I don’t think I’ve ever had this much detention before — Umbridge included.”

 

“And you are so miserable not carving words into your flesh?”

 

“I mean—” Harry sheepishly rubbed the back of his head— “I guess it could be worse.”

 

Snape scoffed. “That can easily be rectified. Are you not meant to be polishing the trophy room floor to ceiling right now?”

 

Harry promptly shut his trap but couldn’t resist a small, private grin. He suddenly didn’t feel as cold as before, a strange warmth blooming in his chest at the wry, playful tone of this strange banter.

 

And even more strangely so, he thought Snape’s expression looked more at-ease. Or smug. It was still hard to read the man, but just maybe…

 

A memory of Sirius suddenly invaded Harry’s thoughts. Laughing with him over something. Warmth.

 

But then, that warmth had gone.

 

Sirius had gone.

 

Harry remembered last night’s dream again. It played out in his head, imprinted in his retinas.

 

…

 

Severus watched the teen closely; he watched the little light that had just been there fade from his face. The boy attained a faraway look in his eyes. This wasn’t the first time today.

 

He is hiding something. It is clearly bothering him…

 

And, baffling to him as it was, Severus wanted to know what. He could not explain it, this intuitive feeling. This urge — need — to know. This… concern ? Was it concern? He wanted to protect him, to shield him, to help the boy. What if he could? What if he could offer some solution to his ailment?

 

What if this was the least that he could do, in the event of none of their attempts at removing the fragment proving fruitful?

 

Severus realized only then that his heart had accelerated at these thoughts. 

 

Desperation? 

 

Yes, he was desperate. After last night, how could he not be? After those thestrals… Severus was still, hopelessly, denying the implications of the thestral’s lament in denial.

 

But the memory had haunted him since. 

 

He was unwilling to accept it. No. No, it would not happen. He refused to accept it.

 

“It is ready,” Severus announced suddenly. He summoned a cutting board and knife, and prepared a workplace on one of the counters, right next to the jar of the Barbaculous fungi. 

 

“I am going to remove your bandages. The fungi have to have as much contact with your skin as possible.”

 

Harry silently presented his hands. Snape tapped the bandages with his wand, and the strips began to delicately unravel themselves. The first thing Harry noted was some bright-yellow residue on his reddish, slightly blistered skin — he surmised it was from that potion Snape had used last night. The sight wasn’t appealing. 

 

“They appear to be healing well enough,” Snape mused, assessing them as he carefully turned them over in his own hands. The man could’ve been examining a curious specimen, by the look of it.

 

“That’s good. Can barely hold a quill…” 

 

“Finely dice three mushrooms. It should be close to a pulp-like consistency.”

 

Harry didn’t need to be told twice. He promptly set to the task, first fishing out three gross, slippery mushrooms. Dicing them, he soon discovered, was a challenge: the slime was making it nearly impossible for the blade to land where it needed to. It also didn’t help that his hands still stung and burned like hell when he used them — he had to grit his teeth the whole time.

 

At last, his efforts had conceived a nice, chunky pulp. Snape, who was standing over him, gave a nod of approval. It reminded Harry of all those Potions lessons back when Snape had taught the subject — a not-so-pleasant memory. 

 

“That will do. Now you ought to add it into the potion.”

 

Harry grumbled under his breath but did not argue. His hands felt absolutely on fire now. It took him two rounds to gingerly plop all of the disgusting stuff into the cauldron. By the time he’d finished, he was sure that he would start seeing his skin peeling off. His hands looked blistered, felt swollen, and hurt; and Harry hated every bit of it.

 

Meanwhile, Snape was furiously stirring the cauldron. He stood doing that for a good minute. Harry told himself to suck it up and tried his best to ignore the discomfort and approached to take a look. The potion was now a bright orange, almost an ethereal glow emanating from it, but that did little to impress him.

 

But not a moment later did Snape abandon the ladle and start darting to and fro cupboards, gathering various supplies, which he then set down on the workbench in a haste. Harry barely had time to register anything more before Snape was grasping his wrists, albeit gently, and leading him away to sit.

 

His palms were laid out on the surface of the workbench. Harry’s red and blistered palms and fingers lay exposed to the chilly dungeon air. Using a moist flannel, Snape began cleaning Harry’s hands and then made quick work of applying a generous amount of some kind of silky salve. With it, the burning tingling started to ebb away… 

 

A horrible realization suddenly crashed down on Harry like a pile of Bludgers. It must have shown on his face, because Snape sharply asked:

 

“What is it?”

 

“How am I supposed to play Quidditch?”

 

Snape stared at him for a moment, as if Harry were the biggest dunderhead he’d ever met.

 

“I am shocked it has occurred to you only now. The tragedy…” he deadpanned. “I am certain your team will survive your absence for a week.”

 

“You’re just worried Gryffindor will beat you…” Harry muttered under his breath.

 

“Yes, that is precisely my biggest concern. However, did you know?”

 

 Harry ducked his head to hide a grin. He cleared his throat to better cover it. “Call it intuition…”

 

Snape tugged his hands forward a bit, be it in response or to better position them. Harry thought it was more the former.

 

Then, Snape stilled — it lasted for such a brief moment, that Harry could have easily missed it. His hands were turned right-side up so that the scar from Umbridge’s Blood Quill lay presented in all of its grotesque glory. On his other hand, the scar from the Basilisk was peeking out from his sleeve.

 

From the corner of his eye, Harry saw the man’s lips thinning; Harry could not discern the emotion that had just flickered across his face… But all that had lasted mere seconds, and the man continued tending to the task at hand.

 

It surprised Harry that even now, when these marks and scars were nothing new, the sight still seemed to, what, displease the man? Concern him?

 

Moreover, Snape’s every movement seemed clinical, calculated. Scrupulous. Harry, again, couldn’t help but note the precision with which the man worked — the Gryffindor’s hands might as well have been some delicate potion, where not a single slip-up could be afforded.

 

The Dursleys would’ve never…

 

Harry shook the thought out of his head before he’d even finished it. He did not want to think about the Dursleys. His recent emancipation was still a bitter, painful reminder as it was; he didn’t need to brood on them even more now.

 

He tried not to think into it… But the thought of when things had changed so much once again invaded his mind.

 

And it brought up the memory of that weird dream from last night…

 

He shook his head again, without even realizing he’d done it physically this time.

 

“Something on your mind?” startled Snape’s voice. Harry glanced up. 

 

You could say that…

 

“No, sir.”

 

Snape hummed in acknowledgement. Harry didn’t know what that meant. The man conjured some fresh gauze rolls, tore off a long strip, and began wrapping the first hand.

 

“You have always been a deplorable liar.”

 

Harry grimaced and turned away, giving a small shrug.

 

“I just… haven’t been sleeping well.”

 

“Nightmares, I presume?”

 

Harry nodded. 

 

“It has not escaped my mind, these sleeping ailments you have. I will give you a few Calming Draughts — modified ones. You may find the results favorable to the former ones.”

 

Harry looked up at him in genuine surprise. He’d just assumed that Snape had forgotten about his promise, since it had been a few weeks already. But he hadn’t. Hope in his chest soared. 

 

“I’d really appreciate that, sir,” he said sincerely. “Thank y—”

 

Snape stopped him with a halting hand. Almost gently, he said, “Platitudes are unnecessary. You have yet to try it.”

 

Harry shrugged a bit. “Still, it’s more than anyone’s ever done for me. Especially the Dursleys—” But he suddenly cut himself off, pure horror washing over him at the realization of what had just escaped his lips.

 

Too late — Snape appeared to have caught on. His lip curled. Harry’s second hand currently lay half-bandaged. “I cannot say I am surprised,” he intoned darkly. He did not, however, seem inclined to offer anything more on the topic and quickly finished the task of wrapping up Harry’s hand. Snape stood from the workbench to manually put all the supplies away.

 

“You need not concern yourself with them any longer,” he sniffed after a moment. “It is for the better.”

 

Harry was drumming his fingers against the wood, staring at it. “I know, but… It feels more complicated than that,” he mumbled. Something had loosened his tongue; he didn’t know what. “I mean— they’re still blood. The last blood relation I have. They’re the reason I was kept safe for fifteen years; they’re the reason Vol— HE couldn’t get to me all that time. Now it’s — they’re — just… gone.”

 

Snape said nothing for a long moment. 

 

Until he did. It was a question.

 

“Do you wish they still had legal custody over you?”

 

The boy’s mouth opened, closed, and repeated the cycle a few times like some amphibian’s. “I’m… I dunno. It depends. I never liked living with them—” An understatement, “ —, but it was my mum’s sacrifice keeping me safe there. Maybe I regret that the Blood Wards fell. It… I feel like it was my fault.”

 

“Yes, as much as Mr. Diggory’s death,” Snape quipped, his tone dripping with sarcasm. And still, despite that, Harry’s ribcage constricted painfully at the words. The boy looked down at his hands for a minute. A part of him was waiting for Snape to say more.

 

Which he did.

 

“...Precisely what happened on that day to have led to such a drastic resort as emancipation?” the man asked slowly, his tone low and neutral again. He was leaning against the counter, his hands neatly folded in his lap. 

 

It was the same question Snape had asked Harry during their two-week confinement. A question that Harry, as far as his memory went, had answered quite vaguely.

 

But that had been back then. Back when things had been… different. 

 

Trust…

 

And now?

 

“...I need you to trust me…”

 

“I, er, don’t remember how the argument started,” he began slowly, a little too casually. “But it escalated quickly. They were insulting my parents. Saying…” Harry shook his head. “They were also saying things about Sirius. I… I guess I kind of snapped at that point. I shouldn’t have. It wasn’t anything new.” Harry didn’t know why, but he felt his eyes burning. “I ruined everything. I should’ve just kept my mouth shut.”

 

Snape was looking at him squarely in the eyes now, wearing a fierce, set expression. He enunciated his next words clearly.

 

“It was not your fault . Matter of fact, I believe it was inevitable.”

 

“But—”

 

“Let me be clear—” Snape firmly replanted his hands against the counter— “ You are not responsible for the actions or decisions of adults. You are still a child — in the eyes of the law, at the least . Your relatives failed in their legal duties by relinquishing them, and that is not. Your. Fault.”

 

The adamant tone took Harry by surprise. He’d never been defended like that. It felt… strange. More so when that person was Snape. Never in a million years would Harry have imagined… But he didn’t not like it. For some reason, Harry really, really didn’t not like it.

 

But even still, Harry just couldn’t see it: adults being responsible for his actions? If he went and killed someone, would that mean that some adult would be responsible? Rubbish.

 

Feeling rather awkward, Harry glanced away. He wasn’t sure how to respond. He disagreed with the man, but that in itself was being conflicted and challenged by other factors. So he just opted for silence.

 

Until the brilliant idea of changing the topic crossed his mind. He cleared his throat.

 

“So, uh, did the Elixir turn out alright? I mean, with that fungi?”

 

Snape was still eyeing him consideringly, but he nodded curtly. “Yes. It will next require the addition of powdered hawthorn in a day, and later several more various ingredients.”

 

“I’m guessing it’ll take a while…” Harry mused.

 

“About a fortnight, perhaps more,” Snape supplied. “It is a time-consuming elixir. However, the results should be… favorable.”

 

But even those words seemed to carry a distinct uncertainty. Maybe Harry was imagining it, or maybe not — though he thought that the stretch of tense silence that followed spoke well enough for itself.

 

And once again, Harry couldn’t unhear the voice screaming in his mind that this was all for naught; that the elixir was a waste of time, effort, and resources; that this was all just a fruitless endeavor. Empty hope. Call it intuition… A gut feeling. And it left him feeling cold, as though someone had yanked off his sweater.

 

Harry eventually shook himself out of his trance. He realized that Snape was back over at that counter, slowly — almost mindlessly — stirring the elixir with a stick. 

 

“Um, sir? If that’s all, I think I should get going. My friends are probably worried…”

 

“That I have dissected you into potion ingredients?” Snape mused, turning his head just enough for Harry to catch sight of a rare smirk’s trace. 

 

“Maybe a defense dummy. Since you don’t teach Potions anymore,” Harry interjected dryly. 

 

“Perhaps. But yes, you ought to be. I shall give you the Calming Draughts…“

 

Harry’s heart leapt. The draughts—!

 

In the time it took Harry to pick up and swing his bag over his shoulder, Snape had already returned with a black, leather pouch. Harry took it, seeing a light tremor in his hands. He held it. Carefully. If he somehow dropped it, he would never forgive himself.

 

“A mouthful per dose should be sufficient. However, in more… severe cases, another will not hinder,” Snape instructed. “Right before bed. It is meant to calm your mind and suppress unsavory thoughts and memories, but not in such a way that would make it more susceptible to slipping into the Dark Lord’s.”

 

Harry pocketed the pouch and nodded gratefully at the man. Gratitude was on the tip of his tongue again, but he swallowed it down, remembering Snape’s earlier reaction to it. 

 

“Umm, right. I’ll be going then, sir.”

 

“Wear your Cloak. I would advise until you have reached the trophy-room’s floor.”

 

Harry nodded again. He readjusted the strap of his bag and followed Snape as the man led him through and out of his quarters. 

 

Harry paused at the threshold, however. A question that had been at the back of his mind since last night made him. But when it sprang out of his mouth, of its own volition, it surprised even him.

 

“Professor, I was wondering… Why do thestrals cry?”

 

He attentively watched for Snape’s reaction and was not disappointed. As soon as the question had escaped his lips, Snape’s figure stilled. It was as if some dark shadow had eclipsed him. The room suddenly grew deathly quiet. Not even the eerie, telltale sounds of the ancient dungeons audible.

 

“I only meant… Last night, there was that thestral… I— I just found it curious… Sir?”

 

Snape’s face, again, was an unreadable mask. Harry felt his stomach sink a bit in premonition. 

 

“Thestrals are sentimental creatures,” he drawled slowly, somewhat haltingly. ”Perhaps it was lamenting your recent injuries.”

 

It was an obvious lie. Did Snape really think he would buy that? Harry knew Snape knew. Harry knew that there was more ice beneath the tip of this iceberg, and that unsettled him deeply. If the thestral really had cried over such an insignificance, Snape wouldn’t have looked as if death had warmed over.

 

But the older wizard’s tone had such finality to it that Harry also knew better than to probe the man. 

 

“Right. Goodnight, sir…”

 

He only heard the bang of Snape’s door and the swoosh of the portrait in reply.

 

~***~

 

Later that same night, Harry sat slumped against the headboard of his bed. In his bandaged hands, he twirled a corked vial of a murky indigo liquid, his eyes tracking its swirls within. Rather than finishing his Transfiguration essay, he was still mulling over his conversation with Snape, and moreover his strange reaction at the question…

 

Until a familiar voice penetrated his trance.

 

“Hey, guys, I need your help!” Dean announced, entering the room. He was carrying a small crate of fancy-looking bottles of different shapes, colors, and sizes, which he gingerly set down on his bed. 

 

Ron, Nevile, and Seamus abandoned their activities and curiously craned their heads to see. Harry included. Dean had both of his hands on his hips, facing his audience.

 

“My uncle’s sent some perfume samples. Runs Mystic Mists in Diagon Alley — might’ve heard from your mums, or somethin’. Pretty popular nowadays…”

 

“Good for you, mate,” Seamus interrupted, getting up for a closer look at the goods. “Your uncle’s got a point — you could use a good cologne or two.”

 

Ron had joined the two boys by the crate by now; he was holding up a pink, crystal-shaped bottle with tiny sparkly details flying around it that Harry couldn’t quite discern.

 

“I’d start with this one, if I were you. The smell of ‘luscious loveberries’ would suit you well out on the pitch.”

 

Laughter erupted while Dean’s ears turned a bright crimson. The offended boy quickly snatched the bottle out of Ron’s hand. 

 

“It ain’t for me! I happen to have a girlfriend, y’know,” he barked angrily.

 

That promptly hushed the room. Ron, in his evident disapproval, crossed his arms over his chest and leaned somewhat sardonically against a bed pillar. At the same time, something in Harry stirred, made his fingers clench around his blanket. 

 

“ As I was saying,” Dean continued. “I can’t decide which one to give Ginny.”

 

That same something in Harry stirred the thought of when the last time he’d seen Ginny fussing over the way she smelled was. 

 

“Yeah, not bloody happening,” Ron grumbled. He was climbing back under his covers. “You know, I bet she gets more excited about a shower than she would about a perfume. ‘Course, you would know that...”

 

Dean was already giving his wand a series of flourishes. A discarded piece of parchment (his homework, by the looks of it) tore itself up, the pieces of which then getting sprayed by one of the perfumes. One flew to each of the Gryffindors, rotating between them like some carousell.

 

“Oh, Yeah? What’s that supposed to mean?” he rounded.

 

“Nothin’. Just that you’d think a guy who’s been dating a girl would know she’s not into this kind of stuff.”

 

“And how’d you know?” rounded Dean.

 

“She’s my sister , bloody hell!”

 

“And I’ve been dating her for a year! What, think she’d be telling her brother all her secrets and interests?”

 

“Oi, I’d watch it if I were you!” Ron clumsily groped on his nightstand for his Prefect badge— “Know who you’re dealing with!”

 

The pair glared at one another while the rest of the crowd held their breath. Both boys were breathing hard, their chests heaving.

 

“Fine,” Dean said, throwing his hands up. His eyes landed on Hary first, and they seemed to light up with hope.

 

“Here—” Dean, unbiddenly, made himself comfortable on the edge of Harry’s bed and summoned the parchment pieces and a few bottles, laying them out on the sheets. Slightly dumbstruck, Harry could only watch. Dean handed him the first sampler — practically shoving it under Harry’s nose.

 

“This one’s ‘Mystic Rose’.”

 

“Err, ’s alright…” Harry said evasively. Much to his surprise, it smelled impressively just like petunias, only the sweetness elicited the urge to gag. Like something his aunt would be head over heels for.

 

“Hmm. Maybe this one?”

 

The next perfume made Harry’s nose scrunch up. An intense stench punched his senses, reaking of, again, something sickly bittersweet. It was worse than Mrs. Figg’s favorite perfume mixed with her hoard of cats, something Harry hadn’t even thought possible until now.

 

He demonstratively wrinkled his nose. “...Depends. Is it meant for Umbridge?”

 

Dean furrowed his eyes. “What’re you on about? These are some of the best-selling perfumes out there.”

 

Something In Harry’s chest growled. Again. It was that same feeling he’d had when he’d seen Ginny holding hands with Dean.

 

“Yeah, well, maybe Ron’s got a point. Maybe Ginny’s not into perfumes,” Harry bit out. “She doesn’t strike me as someone to fuss over the way she smells.” 

 

He’d tried to keep his tone neutral, but it had still come out with an edge. But how couldn’t it have? Ron had a point: if Dean had been dating Ginny for a year, surely he would know that she would sooner be caught wearing a huge, pink bow than smelling like that…

 

Fortunately, Dean’s reaction wasn’t to explode. Instead, he seemed to take a moment to consider the bottles, and then let his hands drop into his lap. 

 

“Well, what am I supposed to give her? I’d take her to Hogsmead on a date, but Merlin knows when that’s going to be. I need something now . Else I’ll be properly screwed.”

 

“What’s the hurry?” Ron piped up sarcastically. “Valentine’s Day’s still a bit far, ain’t it?”

 

The boy rubbed the back of his neck, but gave a small shrug. “Well, our anniversary’s coming up. Gotta get her something .”

 

There was a disapproving snort from Ron’s bed, and the redhead was already burrowing himself under his blankets. Dean glared in his direction, but then turned his attention back to Harry, despondency brimming his eyes.

 

“What do you think, Harry?”

 

Yes, what did Harry think?

 

“I dunno,” Harry snapped. “Maybe you should ask yourself that. She’s your girlfriend. How should I know?” 

 

It came out more hostile than he’d intended. Again. He blamed the dragon in his stomach.

 

“What’s bitten your ass? You also have a problem?”

 

“Yeah, maybe I do.” He hadn’t meant to say that either. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d stop making my bed smell like pixie vomit.”

 

Dean scowled, gathered up the bottles and samples, and trudged back to his bed, mumbling something about ‘no help’, ‘temper’ and the ‘Chosen One’. 

 

No one peeped a word after that.

 

As soon as the lights went out, Harry took a generous swig of the new Calming Draught Snape had given him as though it were a shot of Firewhiskey. He spent a minute fluffing up his pillow… perhaps a bit harder than necessary, before letting his head fall on it.

Notes:

BEFORE YOU ALL GO OUT TO KILL ME - LET ME EXPLAIN.
Yes, this IS the longest I've ever gone without uploading, BUT-... 7000 words? Yay?😅

Honestly, with school, family stuff, more school, me turning 18 (yay🥳), and writer's block, this chapter really got delayed. I only hope that you all enjoyed this new upload and aren't too angry at me🤞❤️‍🩹

Other than that, I've got nothing more to say. Let me know your thoughts, predictions - I always love reading them!

PS: follow my Tumblr (@darsfanfics7) for progress updates😊 See you in the next upload!

Chapter 15: Fading

Early-Mid November, 1991.

 

The next few weeks were interesting.

 

The first frost had blown in, dusting the grounds and mountains powder-white. Like every year, seasonal decorations were slowly popping up across the castle. Peeves, especially, enjoyed springing up on unsuspecting students and entangling them in tinsel, undoing their work. Classes and life resumed as usual. Mounds of homework and tests were only piling on, the pressure too, in a dizzying race to lock in final semester grades. 

 

Everyone was busy.

 

This, apparently, didn’t exclude the Headmaster.

 

To Harry’s great disappointment but no surprise, there was still no word from Dumbledore. He was seldom a show at meals in the Great Hall, and many times when Harry tried asking McGonagall about his whereabouts, she would enlighten him with no new information.

 

Harry had also tried asking Moody during their dueling lessons; alas, the retired Auror knew nothing more than McGonagal. 

 

Unfortunately, Moody had been called away on another mission for the Order — again — , and Harry hadn’t heard from him since. He wondered if it had something to do with Dumbledore’s disappearance.

 

But anyway, there was enough to keep Harry occupied. 

 

Aside from his ongoing obsession with the Half-Blood Prince’s book, Harry was only growing more suspicious of a certain ferret. 

 

What had started off as an occasional habit was now a ritual for Harry to consult the Marauders Map — daily — in hopes of figuring out what the ferret could be up to. Most of the time, he would be disappointed to see him sitting in a classroom or traversing down a corridor with a couple other Slytherins, nothing to satisfy his curiosity or suspicions. 

 

There had even been a few instances when Harry could have sworn Malfoy’s nametag was nowhere on the map. As if he’d disappeared somewhere. 

 

“Hermione— I think Malfoy’s leaving the castle,” Harry had told his friend one evening, as she’d been leaving for bed. “I’ve seen it sometimes. Sometimes he just disappears off the map.”

 

Hermione had given him her usual exasperated look. “That’s not possible. No one can leave the castle these days. The map’s wrong.”

 

“The map’s never wrong.”

 

Hermione had only sighed. “Good night, Harry.”

 

But Harry wasn’t buying it. The map was never wrong. 

 

He would tell Moody when he returned.

 

But the more Harry thought about the timing of Moody’s departure, the more he realized how fortunate it was. The cynical ex-Auror would surely have gotten suspicious of the number of detentions Harry had been getting from Snape.

 

For said last few weeks, Snape had been using any plausible occasion or excuse to give him detention. The extraction elixir — as Snape had forewarned — indeed involved various complicated steps, most of which required Harry’s — as the ultimate consumer’s — physical contact with the ingredients. 

 

So Harry was never surprised or caught off guard whenever he landed a new detention. In fact, he even roughly knew when to expect it and made sure to play his part well.

 

But much to his surprise, the detentions weren’t too intolerable — counter to what his friends supposed. 

 

He and Snape would always meet up in the DADA office, from where they would traverse down to the chilly dungeons and into Snape’s quarters, his private lab. Snape would brief him in on the progress of the elixir, the brewing steps for that day, and then assign Harry a task. There would always be something for him to chop, stir, throw in, or even chant. 

 

Either that, or the man would have him taste foul potions, list his symptoms, ask him ridiculous questions, or take more samples of his blood, hair, and saliva.

 

Like a lab rat.

 

…Or so it had initially seemed. 

 

There were days when both would be more reserved, consumed by their own thoughts and troubles. Those days — Harry never enjoyed those days.

 

Whereas on other days, he and Snape would drift into long conversations. Of course, the main topic would always revolve around the elixir and fragment in Harry… 

 

But sometimes, they would break into more trivial, lighthearted things. Harry never really knew how these conversations started — they just did. 

 

Snape would explain the different potion ingredients as he was brewing, or sometimes Harry would ask him school-related things he didn’t quite understand or wanted reiterated or elaborated. And though he would usually receive his answer with a dry comment on his brain’s comprehension capacity, the Professor would never deny him an explanation. 

 

Harry respected that.

 

Snape had always spoken down to him, condescendingly and mockingly, without so much as a shred of respect. In reply, Harry wasn’t proud to admit that he hadn’t been any better. Neither had ever been capable of restraining their temperament and mutual disdain, and the mere idea of ‘respect’ or ‘civility’ had seemed less conducive than the Dursleys coming to love wizardkind. 

 

But now, Harry thought that things couldn’t be more different. He’d never thought he’d live to see the day when Snape would show patience or even respect towards Harry. For once, Harry didn’t feel humiliated or like he was the scum of the earth. He felt like an equal. No longer a mere child, but an adult. 

 

It made him realize that conversation with Snape had never really felt so… easy. The man had a sharp, quick-witted tongue, oh yes, but it was definitely refreshing to know that none of it was directed at Harry. 

 

Not malevolently, at least. 

 

The Gryffindor had actually come to appreciate the man’s dry sarcasm, his often morbid ‘sense of humor’.

 

There were also times when Snape would tell Harry to wait in the sitting room if he would be needed later for the next brewing step. Harry didn’t mind this at all. He would use this time to catch up on homework — it worked out brilliantly because there were no distractions there. Just him, curled up on the black-leather couch in front of the crackling fireplace, listening to the soft clinking and clacking of potions being brewed just in the other room…

 

Snape would sometimes shake him awake, always with a witty, sarcastic quip.

 

But it was never a rude awakening. Only a gentle shake of the shoulder.

 

Overall, Harry far from hated it. In fact, those kind of moments helped to ease the feeling of being a ‘lab rat’.

 

It was almost… nice.

 

So these pseudo detentions continued, often several times a week. These few hours that Harry got to spend with the man had become somewhat of an escape for him, baffling as the admittance was. He more and more often found himself looking forward to the brewing, the peace and quiet of the dungeons, and the warm glow of the fireplace. 

 

The dungeons had practically become his latibule at this point.

 

Harry was just thinking about it, gazing blankly into the dying embers in the grate in the Gryffindor Common Room, when he realized something was tapping his knee. 

 

“...Harry. Harry!”

 

Harry blinked himself out of his daze at fingers snapping inches from his face. He turned to Hermione. She was wearing that irritating look of concern again.

 

“Sorry. What was the question?” asked Harry.

 

“There was no question. I was suggesting going to bed… It’s late. Everyone else has.”

 

Beside them on the couch, Ron stretched in a wide yawn. “Bloody right. Honestly, I don't think I’m ready for Snape’s assignment tomorrow. But he can go jinx himself if he wants to... Maybe Harry’s right, and he won’t last more than a year — so who cares?” he said wistfully.

 

“That settles it, then,” concluded Hermione, stacking her books and parchment.

 

Harry merely gave a disinterested grunt.

 

The idea of ‘sleep’ had never particularly excited him, nor did it now.

 

Harry’s nights now consisted of lying in bed, tossing, turning, and staring blankly at the ceiling — as blankly as the face that would appear in his head every time he would try to envision a once-familiar face.

 

When he’d experienced this bout of amnesia around Halloween, Harry hadn’t thought much of it. But weeks had passed since then, and it seemed the harder he tried to cling to the memories, the blurrier the images of his late godfather became.

 

His kind, mischievous features, curly hair, playful smirk, chocolate-brown eyes, head-to-toe appearance, even his voice … It was as if someone had put a blurring film over any memory Harry had of him.

 

And this unnerved him to the point of insomnia. With that modified Calming Draught Snape had given him earlier, Harry had finally managed to catch up on some sleep in these recent weeks, due to the exclusion of nightmares. Even his magic had improved. 

 

—Moody had noted his progress in nonverbal casting— 

 

 It was a reprieve beyond words, but the calming draught didn’t do much in terms of drowning out all of Harry's thoughts. 

 

Because unfortunately, the lack of nightmares didn’t equate to the exclusion of seeing Sirius in his dreams.

 

Could he possibly be forgetting Sirius? How? Why? People didn’t normally just forget important people to them, did they? And it had only been less than half a year since his death.

 

He was probably just tired…

 

But that thought hadn’t worked to allay his mind for long.

 

What unnerved Harry most was the fact that when he tried to picture his parents, he could see them clearly. Same with other people: the Dursleys, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Snape, Remus… 

 

It was as if… as if Sirius was fading from his memory.

 

It terrified Harry. Consequently, it was the only thing he ever thought about these days.

 

Could it be a side effect of the Dreamless Sleep potion he’d overdosed on earlier?

 

Out of everything, that seemed most likely to be the case.

 

“HARRY!”

 

“What!?” Harry jumped.

 

Hermione was staring at him, wide-eyed, as if questioning his audacity. 

 

“You were doing it again.”

 

“Doing what?”

 

“Zoning out… Oh, Harry, please go see—”

 

“ —Madame Pomfrey, yeah, I know, Hermione. Tell me something I haven’t already heard.” Harry threw his hands up and stood from the couch. He bent down to collect his books and parchment. “I’m tired, alright?”

 

“Honestly, Harry, when aren’t you?” Hermione snapped impatiently.

 

“I dunno. Maybe I won’t be when—”

 

But Harry stopped. Two new voices had just appeared — the three heads swiveled around to find Ginny and Dean climbing through the portrait hole. By the faded sounds, they had been mid-argument, but it had melted away into reserve when all their eyes met.

 

A dragon settled in Harry’s stomach. Harry suddenly imagined its claws prying the pair apart.

 

“Before you Prefects spring on us,” began Dean placatingly, “we’ve got notes from Madame Hooch. We were helping her clean out the broom shed. Nasty Pluprats — the broom handles look like nibbled breadsticks now.”

 

“Nothing a broom-maintenance kit won’t mend,” shrugged Ginny. The Fifth-Year’s face was covered in small smudges of grime, and her red hair was in a haggard state. The initial tightness in her features receded, and she looked at Harry. 

 

“That reminds me, O’ Great Quidditch Captain: Madam Hooch wants you down at the pitch tomorrow with the other captains. Since security’s tighter than a kneazle, she wants to place one big order for Spintwitche’s Sporting Needs for all the teams.”

 

The dragon in Harry’s stomach was sharpening its claws against the walls again. For a moment, he couldn’t seem to get any words out of his dumb mouth.

 

“Oh. Yeah. Brilliant. I’ll— I’ll be there. Thanks, Ginny.”

 

“No problem... Well, I’m absolutely beat. See you, guys.”

 

She spun on the spot and didn’t even bid Dean goodnight. The boy followed her regardless. Their hushed voices reached Harry’s ears. He frustratingly couldn’t make out the words, but the dragon in his stomach was growling now — smoke issuing from its nostrils — when his ears picked up on the notes of anger and disagreement in them.

 

Later that night, Harry lay in his bed, tossing and turning in his tangle of blankets as usual. His thoughts were running amok. Nothing was giving him peace. His mind was a beehive. 

 

What had Dean and Ginny been bickering about?

 

He turned to lie on his right side.

 

The Elixir would be ready tomorrow. The fact did not resonate with him. Harry’s stomach tied itself in knots just at the mere thought of drinking that hell of a concoction.

 

He turned onto his left side. 

 

Sirius… What did Sirius look like? Harry tried remembering the joyous moment he’d been reunited with his godfather at Grimmauld Place last summer…

 

A blur. Warmth, but a blur.

 

He turned to lie on his back now, and shut his eyes tightly. With a deep, conscious breath, Harry tried to gather all of his thoughts in his bid to remember — to remember Sirius. To remember what he’d so painfully lost. To remember what he surely wasn’t slowly forgetting…

 

And still, nothing. The scenes of conversation were there, but Sirius wasn’t. A dam. A blockade. His mind blank, and the picture faceless.

 

A new frisson of fear coursed through Harry. He sat upright, seeing the dark dormitory. Reaching for his wand, which lay on the nightstand, he began to fidget with the wood.

 

How much longer could this go on?

 

Could this really be a result of that overdosage of Dreamless Sleep? 

 

What if he could never get his memories of Sirius back?

 

He could not afford that. He had to tell Snape — whom else ?

 

But a voice whispered slyly in his mind…

 

“...I am no therapist…”

 

Harry buried his head in his knees, feeling emotionally torn to threads.

 

It was a long while before sleep reluctantly claimed him. But even then, it was restless and uneasy.

 

The next day came — Harry almost wished it hadn’t. His thoughts were consumed with the impending elixir trial, and with every hour speeding closer to his meeting with Snape, the heavier his guts felt. He wondered if this was how children felt before seeing a doctor.

 

It felt suffocating that he couldn’t tell Ron or Hermione. Guilt was corroding his insides. He’d always shared everything with his friends. They’d always been with him through everything, and now there was this dam between them…

 

“Enough.” 

 

Snape’s voice tore through Harry’s thoughts.

 

“Huh?”

 

“Articulate as always... The potion is down here while your thoughts are somewhere up there, Potter.”

 

Harry tapped the ladle against the cauldron and rested it on the counter, looking at the professor in confusion.

 

“Sorry, sir.”

 

Harry reached for the ladle again and dipped it back into the orange substance, continuing to stir it gently. From a short distance, a pair of black eyes tracked him.

 

“Perhaps you should step away from that potion before whatever it is that is clearly bothering you causes you to blow it up,” Snape’s smooth voice drawled. And it wasn’t a suggestion. 

 

“Actually, Professor, I haven’t blown up a single potion this year,” Harry replied proudly. “You could ask Professor Slughorn.”

 

“I am tempted to. His incessant bragging about his new potions prodigy has had me curious.”

 

Harry wisely didn’t make eye contact, the Half-Blood Prince’s book riding on his guilty consciousness. 

 

Fortunately, Snape moved on. His voice turned more serious again. “Something is troubling you. You are exceptionally quiet today — for a Potter, that is never a good sign. Either you are plotting something, or—”

 

“I’m not plotting anything,” bristled Harry. He continued to stir the potion, more vigorously this time.

 

“... Or ,” Snape continued, undeterred, “you have a problem.”

 

No kidding, thought Harry, but he glued his lips together.

 

“Perhaps you should consult Mr. Weasley or Miss Granger?”

 

“It’s…” Harry folded his arms over his chest. “Not that kind of… problem.” He sighed lightly. Contemplation overtook him, not for the first time in recent days: was it worth risking asking Snape about something like this?

 

“...I am no therapist…”

 

Those words still rang loudly in his head. Every time he remembered them, something would stab him in the chest. A twinge of disappointment? A feeling of walking a tightrope, where one move could break some delicate balance?

 

But this was a pressing issue. Snape was the only one who could help Harry with a problem of this nature.

 

So Harry took the plunge.

 

“Sir, I was actually wondering… Can someone lose— Can memories fade?”

 

Snape’s eyes narrowed curiously at him.

 

“Under certain circumstances, yes.”

 

“...What kind of circumstances?” Harry followed up.

 

Snape clucked his tongue. “Perhaps it would be more productive if you told me this problem you have.”

 

Harry drew in a mental breath, averting his eyes to a few spilled herbs on the counter. He opened his mouth to speak— But the words were stuck in his windpipe.

 

He hated Sirius’ guts. Really think he would help you now?

 

“I… There’s a memory — well, several memories — that I’m having trouble remembering,” he tried to explain. “It’s never happened before. The memories, they’re pretty recent. And it’s as if… as if they’re becoming more and more blurry… It’s kinda hard to explain.”

 

Snape’s eyes narrowed — but not in a shrewd way. His brows crinkled in the middle, like they did whenever the man was… concerned.

 

“Precisely what memories are you talking about?”

 

Harry shrugged after a moment. “Does it matter?” he hedged.

 

“Exceptionally.”

 

“Well… They’re not bad memories. They’re very important to me…”

 

A frustrated sigh interrupted him. Harry glimpsed Snape pinching the bridge of his nose.

 

“Potter. You cannot brew an antidote without knowing the venom. I cannot give you a satisfactory answer based on such abstract descriptions.”

 

For a long moment, Harry was frozen.

 

He could see the strenuous thread that was their relationship. Or a castle of cards. Precarious. What damage would a tug or probe do?

 

“ Harry .”

 

“Sirius,” Harry blurted out — Snape’s use of his first name made him. Horror washed over him, mouth gone dry. He watched as Snape’s lips parted slightly, probably in bemusement.

 

“I… Whenever I try to remember him,” Harry plowed on, “it’s like I can’t. Everything just goes blurry. I don’t know why.”

 

Snape’s expression looked too complicated to read. The man was staring at him with his head ever so slightly tilted to the side, as if Harry were a complex potion to depuzzle.

 

“You do not have trouble with other memories?” he asked clinically.

 

“No. Just of Sirius.”

 

Snape whipped out his wand and whispered a statis spell on the brewing and bubbling cauldrons. Then — a stool beside Harry slid out. Almost automatically, Harry sat.

 

“Memories fading is not an uncommon occurrence in the face of several circumstances. Most often, it is caused by intense emotions, stress tied to them, or hyperfixation.”

 

“I don’t have a hyperfixation—”

 

“It may not be so obvious to you… How do you understand the term?”

 

Snape was asking him to give a definition?

 

“What’s that got to do with anything? It’s not like I’m constantly thinking about him.”

 

“You keep having nightmares. I presume on the subject of Black?” Snape persisted.

 

Harry didn't want to admit he was right. He said nothing. So Snape continued.

 

“You are still grieving — it is blatantly obvious. Your mind is fixated on this grief — fixated on Black . The mind is a complex machine; it is designed to recognize and shield itself from harm, including emotional harm. Suppressing those memories may be a defensive mechanism.”

 

“So…  You’re saying I’m forgetting Sirius because I’m thinking about him too much?” asked Harry, shaking his head. “How does that even make any sense?”

 

“It does.”

 

“It’s stupid,” said Harry, childishly.

 

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “It is a defensive mechanism of your mind.”

 

A beat of silence passed.

 

“So… What do I do?” sighed Harry.

 

Snape visibly hesitated. When he answered, his voice was almost gentle. Cautious. 

 

“ Harry . I am no mind-healer, nor a psychiatrist—” 

 

Harry’s stomach vaulted.

 

“—However, I do know the mind. And I do know that, until you have settled your ailments, there isn’t a single potion or branch of magic that will solve it for you…”

 

Was that it? Was that the end of the road for him? Was that all that Harry was going to get from Snape, an indirect message to ‘deal with his own problems’?

 

Harry bent forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands so hard that he could feel them turning cold. “I— I can’t lose him,” he whispered, his chest constricting in desperation in its simplest form.

 

He heard a soft exhale. 

 

“Your memories haven’t been erased, only repressed to the back of your mind. Unless they were Obliviated , the damage is reversible… That said, there may be a way to reinforce your memories. Through Occlumency.”

 

Occlumency. The dreaded word. As the Gryffindor sat there, his every muscle gone rigid, he couldn’t help but chastise himself that he should have seen this coming. Of course Snape would suggest Occlumency; it only made sense.

 

But even in his subconscious, hadn’t Harry known what to expect on deciding to ask Snape?

 

“So they’re not lost? My memories, I mean. There’s a way to get them back with Occlumency?”

 

“In essence,” Snape nodded. “It is also possible through means of Legilimency, a decisively faster and more reliable way.”

 

Legilimency didn’t sound any more appetizing to Harry. 

 

“...What’s the difference?”

 

Snape considered him for a second or two, leaning back against the counter.

 

“Occlumency would require more effort and involvement on your part. Given your record with the art, you would find it difficult to Occlude properly enough to make any substantial progress and may potentially exacerbate your state… Legilimency, on the other hand, would not be so demanding.”

 

“What do you mean?” Harry interrupted, though already sensing the direction this was going. 

 

“ Meaning you would let me enter your mind, and I would try to retrieve and reinforce your memories.”

 

Those words crashed down on Harry like a pile of bricks. Their disastrous lessons from last year began playing out in his mind. Legilimency — Harry vividly remembered the coldness of intrusion, Snape’s presence, and how he’d rifle through his mind like a kid through a toy pile. 

 

Harry had always ended up on the hard stone floor, panting for breath on all fours from exertion, frustration, and humiliation. 

 

It had not been a fun experience. Their sessions this past summer hadn’t been any more enjoyable this past summer. 

 

And now, he was caught between a rock and a hard place. There were only two options. Two options, or his memories of Sirius would fade forever. He supposed it was better than half of his expectations — that the man would sneer at his predicament and tell him to bugger off…

 

But that wasn’t the case. Harry was now faced with those two options that had him in a dumb, wordless trance. 

 

And time again, he had to ask himself: how much did he trust Snape? Did he trust him enough to trust him with his most precious memories? To willingly, consciously, and deliberately let him enter his mind and rummage through his memories? 

 

Looking up at Snape, Harry opened his mouth to speak, but he had no words to exude. He sat there, at a loss for what to say, for a good few moments.

 

Then he considered these recent couple of weeks. Their circumstances. Where they currently stood… 

 

“You need not decide now,” Snape answered, probably sensing Harry’s inner conflict. Harry felt himself ease up a bit at his tone. He pressed a hand to the back of his neck. 

 

“I… To be honest, I don’t think I have much of a choice here, sir.”

 

“Liberalism is a thing in this country, fortunately enough,” drawled Snape dryly, his lips quirking up in a minute smirk. He turned serious again. “I will not foist you into choosing one or the other. However, you should know that it would not be like our previous lessons. Both of our hands had been forced and tied, which had resulted in nothing fruitful. Those lessons may have hindered more than helped…” 

 

At this point, the man appeared almost uncomfortable, as if his collar was too tight. “I am… willing to admit that the fault had largely been mine.”

 

Harry had to take a moment to process what he’d just heard. Had Snape just… apologized? He’d admitted that those lessons had been mostly his fault, which was essentially the same thing, wasn’t it?

 

“It was also my fault,” Harry couldn’t help admitting softly, feeling his pride sting. He averted his gaze to the wooden pattern of the workbench. “I didn’t really bother practicing or… just at all with Occluding. Maybe if I’d put in a bit more effort…”

 

Snape held up a halting hand. “Let us concede that they should have never been in the first place. We were both far from saints. For the time being, it is up to you on how to proceed.”

 

To this, Harry only nodded.

 

“It is ready,” Snape announced, setting down the stirring stick as he charmed the fire under the cauldron off for the last time. “Pass me those vials.”

 

It took Harry a moment to register the request. When he walked the short distance, his feet felt like noodles. All previous thoughts were now forsaken. He was aware of nothing more or less than the dark, smoking liquid that Snape was carefully pouring into one of his vials. Every measured drop that dribbled into the glass reminded him of a ticking clock’s hands, racing to whatever impending doom he was dreading.

 

When Snape turned around to face Harry, his obsidian eyes bore an indecipherable emotion that Harry didn’t want to know. Because if it was doubt…

 

It was one thing for Harry to have his doubts, but an entirely other for Snape. 

 

Harry was the tester. Snape was the brewer.

 

Neither knew what was to come. Neither knew the outcome. This Elixir had never been tested before, nothing more than an experiment wherein Harry was the lab rat. And after weeks of effort and research, testing and time, they were finally going to take the plunge.

 

Well, Harry was. Which did not serve to allay his growing, gnawing dread. But if that’s what it would take to rid himself of the fragment inside him, it would be well worth it.

 

Harry accepted the vial. The glass radiated warmth into his fingers, barely enough not to burn. “Should I just drink it?” he asked, wondering if there were any other necessary, ritualistic steps. 

 

The Slytherin nodded. “Yes. This Elixir does not require any additional procedures.” The entire time, his gaze was glued on Harry, still with no emotions showing through. A marble statue, silently observing, reserved to his own thoughts and musings. Harry wondered if he really could be doubting the elixir. 

 

Harry twirled the vial between his fingers. He licked his dry lips before asking, “How— How will we know if it’s worked?”

 

Snape visibly paused; his brows knitted together for a second. His lips parted, leaving several beats before answering.

 

“I speculate it will be evident, either by your scar or other indications. You ought to sense it, and if not… there are other ways.”

 

The cryptic answer didn’t really please Harry, but he took it for what it was and mentally braced himself. 

 

It felt as if he were preparing to jump off a cliff, down into a pool of unknown depth. His heart hitched. He could feel anxiety starting to lap against his stomach, rippling through his body.

 

An image suddenly appeared in his head, of a parent holding their child’s hand in comfort and support, letting them know that they weren’t alone. Harry had seen it a lot with Dudley whenever he’d gone to the doctor’s with the Dursleys.

 

But no one had ever been there to hold Harry’s hand. It had always been him holding himself for comfort, and now was no different. 

 

One last time, Harry glanced at Snape, half-hopeful to lock gazes with him. For what, though? That ridiculous feeling of encouragement? support? Comfort? 

 

Whatever his expectations had been, he was left with a bitter sting of disappointment rotting in his chest when Snape’s face still bore that same unreadable mask, his black eyes like a blank parchment. 

 

Fingers having attained a light tremble, Harry tilted his head and vial back and let the liquid glide down his throat. Thick and unappetizing, it left an acidic aftertaste in Harry’s mouth. He scrunched up his face but voiced no complaint.

 

Both wizards now stood waiting. There was nothing there to break the silence that had now encompassed the laboratory, save for Harry’s thrumming heart and breathing, both of which felt too loud.

 

And that’s when something did finally happen.

 

It came so unexpectedly that Harry felt as if he really had just jumped off a cliff. The world went dark, and something had hooked him by the navel, pulling him deeper and deeper into this unknown abyss. Nothing was making any sense; up was right and left was down. A flash of white then, as his scar seared aflame; the pain so sharp and sudden that it was as if a blade had stabbed him. 

 

Something twitched in his chest. Snape’s laboratory flashed before his eyes, then everything went dark. A weightless sensation took hold, and seconds later his body was colliding with something cold and hard. 

 

But Harry’s entire focus was caught by that initial something — it was alive . And it was in pain, continuing to twitch, chirp, shriek in panic and discourse that was now flowing through Harry’s every fiber of being. He knew because he could feel it . 

 

Harry’s world was plunged into blinding pain. He could feel its torment, its desperation to repel whatever force was attacking it . As if he were being lacerated with white-hot knives from all directions. 

 

At one point, Harry heard yelling, then more screaming. He could not tell if it was that thing’s or his own. 

 

Then that familiar sickly green flooded his vision. Harry knew it by heart by now, forever engraved in his retinas. It was accompanied by a chilling scream, one that had been visiting him in his most vivid and horrific of nightmares. The scream from the night it had all happened; the night that this alien-like monster had embedded itself into Harry, had latched onto him with its dark tendrils, a leech refusing to let go as it continued to wage this unknown war—

 

Someone continued to yell, but the voice was drowned in his head as if he were underwater, only sometimes tearing through the surface. Pain would flare anew in his scar, but it wasn’t entirely his own. That something in him was restless, tugging, twitching, chirping in discourse and fear — fear for its life . 

 

And he wanted it to end . This agony, this mounting pain, this feeling of falling down a bottomless pit, being shoved and swayed by some invisible force. He wanted to scream all the air out of his lungs until that thing inside him suffocated. 

 

But he knew he couldn’t. Because he was waging a lost battle, the only thing keeping him afloat being desperation. 

 

He wanted everything to just end —

 

Just when he thought he couldn’t endure any more, it stopped. As if a collar had been released. Harry’s vision spun. Static shimmered on dark blotches in a nauseating waltz, and the vertigo in his head was only becoming more pronounced with each throb in his scar. The concerned voice in the background, though muffled, did not help.

 

But he’d stopped falling. Harry, with relief, recognized that he was sprawled on the rough, cold stone floor. He’d never thought he would be so elated to find himself like this. His chest was heaving. A shiver ricocheted through his body, clothing drenched with sweat.

 

As he lay there, panting like a dog, savoring the cool surface against his wet cheek, he suddenly felt a pair of strong arms slithering under and around his torso. A jolt of newfound panic quivered in his chest — the world was still dark, the lighting too harsh for his eyes to properly adjust — but it passed when the hands weren’t rough.

 

They were gentle. Careful. Familiar. 

 

Safety.

 

Harry next found himself being slowly pulled up against something. Expecting a wall or chair, he was surprised when the surface was soft and solid. One hand remained locked around his middle in a stable grip, while the other gently cupped his head, pressing it to rest against an equally heaving chest. 

 

“...Concussion…Hold still,” Snape’s deep, reverberating voice murmured overhead. It carried a fragile waver that Harry hardly recognized.

 

But Harry didn’t question it. For once, he let himself go lax, feeling every bit of his exertion as he tried to reign in his breathing, still shaking from the ordeal. 

 

“You are alright,” the reassurance flowed, a relieved exhale. It wasn’t directed at Harry.

 

It was hard to tell if the pounding he could still feel in his head was his own or the other person’s frenetic heartbeat, though he thought it was more of the latter.

 

And slowly, the cold began to recede. Harry, caught in a strange state of half-consciousness, was so warm all of a sudden. The hands’ grip felt almost protective now, tightening more as if to somehow pull him closer, afraid to let go.  

 

The pair sat there for several long minutes, in the dense silence broken only by their patchy breathing. But Harry eventually managed to come to his senses enough to ask:

 

“Did— Did it work?”

 

Snape’s voice was a rasp when he answered. He had still not relented his hold. Harry felt him swallow. 

 

“I do not know.”

 

Harry licked his cracked lips, trying to swallow with his parched throat, which felt raw and sore. “I felt— I felt it. The fragment. It was alive. And it was scared — like it knew it was in danger. But…”

 

“Yes?” the man prompted. Harry struggled to organize everything that had just happened. Most of it felt like he’d been thrust into a cyclone, when chaos had dispelled anything coherent or perceptive. Like trying to piece together an ever-changing jigsaw puzzle.

 

“Well, at first, it was fighting against the thing attacking it. I… I’m guessing that was the Elixir. But then the connection broke. I’m not sure if it won or not…”

 

Snape’s hand shifted slightly, his fingers gliding over his forehead precisely to where Harry’s scar was, which still felt tender to the touch. Harry hissed at the contact. He simultaneously felt a small but sharp inhale against himself. It was so small that he could’ve missed it.

 

“You still have the scar…” he mused thoughtfully. Snape heaved a heavy sigh after a moment, and Harry felt him shake his head. “It is no reliable indicator, but the Elixir should have expelled the fragment out of you — dark magic such as it would have been visible, palpable…”

 

That was all the answer Harry needed. He felt his heart sink, and in a crashing wave of disappointment felt himself go limp against Snape. 

 

They’d failed. 

 

“It didn’t work,” Harry intoned, the sound as empty as a blank parchment.

 

It hadn’t worked.

 

Again . 

 

“I am so sorry ,” Snape rasped out, his voice like a wraith’s in agony, a man’s under the crushing weight of guilt and regret. It moved something in Harry, shattered something in him.

 

The younger wizard quickly shook his head (though regretted the move when his head spun with nausea). “It’s not your fault, sir.”

 

The arms around him tightened ever more, if possible. “ Don’t —”

 

The man’s chin settled on Harry’s head.

 

Despite the dampening news, Harry could count the number of times he’d been held like this. And he relished the feeling.

 

Neither said anything more. The pair sat like that for an indefinite amount of time, each drowning in their own pools of reflection.

 

And it was a newfound drive that later made Harry blurt out his next decision. He was tired of waiting, tired of failure, tired of this impotency. He wanted — needed — more control. A win. 

 

He wanted something done.

 

“I want to give it a go. Legilimency.”

Notes:

Hellooo! Yep. I'm back. School's out, summer's IN! FINALLY. THANK JESUS CHRIST. Even though it's the end of the school year, I was still rather busy these past few weeks. I quite literally didn't sleep two nights in a row, painting in a studio for a school project. Yeah... Don't recommend. Thought I was gonna die by the second morning.

Anyhow:

-Not much to say on this chapter, other than that I personally really like how it turned out. My amazing beta reader also thinks so. So I hope you all enjoyed it just as much.
-Currently working on a super angsty chapter. Have much in store for you guys.
-Thank you all so much for all of your support and staying with me on this journey. I always get such excitement whenever I open my email to find comments from you guys. I truly value, cherish, and appreciate them all❤️ On that note, let me know your thoughts, predictions, questions - I'll be more than happy to answer:)

That's it for now:)

PS: go follow my Tumblr for updates between chapters.

Chapter 16: Worries and Visions

Mid-November, 1996.

 

Freezing ice and rain whirled in a raging flurry; it roared with the fierceness of the chill biting through the many layers of clothing. But the Gryffindor Team had to make do with what they had. Harry could argue that the weather conditions had been worse, like back in Third Year, when they’d had to play the actual match in a hell-sent storm, complete with thunder and lightning. 

 

And anyway, they didn’t have the luxury of choice.

 

The Gryffindor-Slytherin match was less than two weeks away. And pitch reservations for practice were a tight gamble with the Snakes.

 

It was all hands on deck. The stakes were higher than ever now.

 

Harry had already caught the Snitch but refused to end the round. He wanted to prolong practice for at least a little while longer. They’d been at it for close to half an hour — a time frame Harry thought reasonable, since they didn’t need anyone catching the cold of their death right before the big game — but Harry had caught the Snitch pretty quickly this time, which he realized wasn’t very productive for his teammates. 

 

So he had taken to hovering some fifty feet in the air, spectating, observing, and analyzing the other players from above. 

 

To their rotten luck, they had briefly been one player short after the recent ordeal in Hogsmeade. It still remained a mystery who had given Katie Bell the package containing the cursed opal necklace in the bathroom of Hog’s Head. She hadn’t been doing it knowingly. 

 

Harry stood by that. No, he had his finger pointed at Malfoy, the sly ferret. 

 

A ‘very serious accusation’, as McGonagall had deemed it — as if she herself wasn’t suspicious of him.

 

Snape hadn’t been very pleased with Harry’s suspicions, either.

 

“It was Malfoy, and you know it,” said Harry, subconsciously crushing bits of dry herbs littered on the workbench to dust. Snape’s back was turned to him, working at the counter. 

 

“I do not know anything for certain, and neither do you,” he replied firmly, yet somehow calmly.

 

Liar.

 

“Who else could it’ve been?” Harry plowed on. “I know it was Malfoy. At first I wasn’t sure why the necklace looked familiar. But then I remembered seeing it in Burgin and Burke’s a few years ago. I even remember Malfoy’s father telling him ‘not to touch it’.”

 

This, apparently, seemed to have caught Snape’s attention. He turned his head over his shoulder, his brows drawn together in a hint of bewilderment.

 

“For the love of Merlin, what were you doing there in the first place, a few years ago?”

 

Harry irritably shook his head. “That’s not the point! Don’t you see? Malfoy found a way to sneak in that necklace. He wanted it delivered to someone. Someone Volde— HE wants dead.”

 

Snape didn’t say anything. He was fully facing him now, looking at him with a blank expression. 

 

“It couldn’t be me he’s targeting,” Harry spoke again, “otherwise, Katie would have given it to me in Hog’s Head. Can’t be Dumbledore, either: he would’ve immediately recognized it was a dark object. What if… What about Slughorn? Dumbledore mentioned that the Death Eaters were trying to recruit him all sum—”

 

“Enough.” Snape’s hiss seemed to have hushed even the cauldrons’ soft bubbling. The man set down the vial in his hand so firmly that some of its liquid sloshed out . “I thought I had told you not to concern yourself with this.”

 

Harry crossed his arms defiantly. “So you do know what he’s up to.”

 

“I have told you that there is no concrete evidence to support this claim! Moreover, I highly doubt he has found a way to bypass the hundreds of wards and security measures erected by the Ministry and the Headmaster. It would take even the Dark Lord a strenuous amount of effort.”

 

Harry stubbornly opened his trap, but Snape was already speaking over him. 

 

“Are you not supposed to be cutting up the flybell stems?”

 

That topic had ended then and there.

 

Harry was still sour over that argument. He knew that Snape wasn’t telling him something — like what Malfoy’s mission was. The worst of it was that Snape knew that Harry knew; he just still wouldn’t tell him anything. Why, because the man didn’t think Harry could handle reality? Because he thought the moment he told Harry, that he would go murder Malfoy in a bathroom?

 

He was getting sick of being treated like some incompetent child. 

 

But whatever was new in that?

 

So since Katie Bell had been moved to St. Mungo’s indefinitely, Harry’s team had been one chaser short. But only temporarily.

 

Harry had kept putting off replacing Katie in the hope that she would return, but their opening match against Slytherin was looming, and he’d finally had to accept that she would not be back in time to play. Harry did not think he could stand another full-House tryout. 

 

With a sinking feeling that had little to do with Quidditch, he had cornered Dean Thomas after Transfiguration one day. Most of the class had already left, although several twittering yellow birds had still been zooming around the room, all of Hermione’s creation; nobody else had succeeded in conjuring so much as a feather from thin air. 

 

…“Are you still interested in playing Chaser?” 

 

“Wha — ? Yeah, of course!” Dean agreed excitedly. Over Dean’s shoulder, Harry could see Seamus Finnigan slamming his books into his bag, looking sour. 

 

“Well then, you’re in. There’s a practice tonight, seven o’clock.” 

 

“Right,” Dean said. “Cheers, Harry! Blimey, I can’t wait to tell Ginny!” 

 

He sprinted out of the room, leaving Harry and Seamus alone together, an uncomfortable moment made no easier when a bird dropping landed on Seamus’ head as one of Hermione’s canaries whizzed over them. Seamus was muttering something, but it barely registered with Harry over the simmering potion in his chest at Dean’s mention of Ginny….

 

Now, Harry had no reason to regret his choice once he saw Dean fly; he worked well with Ginny and Demelza. The Beaters, Peakes and Coote, were getting better all the time. The only problem, ever-still, was Ron. 

 

Harry had known all along that Ron was an inconsistent player who suffered from nerves and a lack of confidence, and unfortunately, the looming prospect of the opening game of the season seemed to have brought out all his old insecurities. And with them: unfortunate accidents. 

 

Like when he’d punched an oncoming Demelza Robins in the mouth. 

 

…“It was an accident, I’m sorry, Demelza, really sorry!” Ron shouted after her as she zigzagged back to the ground, dripping blood everywhere. 

 

“I just —” 

 

“Panicked,” Ginny said angrily, landing next to Demelza and examining her fat lip. “You prat, Ron, look at the state of her!” 

 

“I can fix that,” said Harry, landing beside the two girls, pointing his wand at Demelza’s mouth, and saying “Episkey.” 

 

“And Ginny, don’t call Ron a prat, you’re not the Captain of this team —” 

 

“Well, you seemed too busy to call him a prat and I thought someone should —” 

 

Harry forced himself not to laugh. “In the air, everyone, let’s go.”... 

 

Overall that was one of the worst practices they had had all term, though Harry did not feel that honesty was the best policy when they were this close to the match. 

 

A triumphant cry suddenly penetrated his trance. His attention was pulled back to the present, where down below he could see his team swirling about the pitch… Feeling his warming charms starting to let the chill seep in, Harry finally decided to call it a day.

 

“I played like a sack of dragon dung,” said Ron in a hollow voice when the changing room door had swung shut behind them.

 

“No, you didn’t,” said Harry firmly. “You’re the best Keeper I tried out, Ron. Your only problem is nerves.” 

 

He kept up a relentless flow of encouragement all the way back to the castle, and by the time they reached the second floor, Ron was looking marginally more cheerful. When Harry pushed open the tapestry to take their usual shortcut up to Gryffindor Tower, however, they found themselves looking at Dean and Ginny, who were locked in a close embrace and kissing fiercely as though glued together. 

 

It was as though something large and scaly erupted into life in Harry’s stomach, clawing at his insides: Hot blood seemed to flood his brain, so that all thought was extinguished, replaced by a savage urge to jinx Dean into a jelly. Wrestling with this sudden madness, he heard Ron’s voice as though from a great distance away. 

 

“Oi!” Dean and Ginny broke apart and looked around. 

 

“What?” said Ginny. 

 

“I don’t want to find my own sister snogging people in public!” 

 

“This was a deserted corridor till you came butting in!” said Ginny. 

 

Dean was looking embarrassed. He gave Harry a shifty grin that Harry did not return, as the newborn monster inside him was roaring for Dean’s instant dismissal from the team. 

 

“Er . . . c’mon, Ginny,” said Dean, “let’s go back to the common room. . . .” 

 

“You go!” said Ginny. “I want a word with my dear brother!” 

 

Dean left, looking as though he was not sorry to depart the scene. 

 

“Right,” said Ginny, tossing her long red hair out of her face and glaring at Ron, “let’s get this straight once and for all. It is none of your business who I go out with or what I do with them, Ron —” 

 

“Yeah, it is!” said Ron, just as angrily. “D’you think I want people saying my sister’s a —” 

 

“A what?” shouted Ginny, drawing her wand. “A what, exactly?” 

 

“He doesn’t mean anything, Ginny —” said Harry automatically, though the monster was roaring its approval of Ron’s words. 

 

“Oh yes he does!” she said, flaring up at Harry. “Just because he’s never snogged anyone in his life, just because the best kiss he’s ever had is from our Auntie Muriel —” 

 

“Shut your mouth!” bellowed Ron, bypassing red and turning maroon. 

 

“No, I will not!” yelled Ginny, beside herself. “I’ve seen you with Phlegm, hoping she’ll kiss you on the cheek every time you see her, it’s pathetic! If you went out and got a bit of snogging done yourself, you wouldn’t mind so much that everyone else does it!” Ron had pulled out his wand too; Harry stepped swiftly between them. 

 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Ron roared, trying to get a clear shot at Ginny around Harry, who was now standing in front of her with his arms outstretched. “Just because I don’t do it in public — !” 

 

Ginny screamed with derisive laughter, trying to push Harry out of the way. “Been kissing Pigwidgeon, have you? Or have you got a picture of Auntie Muriel stashed under your pillow?” 

 

“You —” 

 

A streak of orange light flew under Harry’s left arm and missed Ginny by inches; Harry pushed Ron up against the wall. 

 

“Don’t be stupid —” 

 

“Harry’s snogged Cho Chang!” shouted Ginny, who sounded close to tears now. “And Hermione snogged Viktor Krum, it’s only you who acts like it’s something disgusting, Ron, and that’s because you’ve got about as much experience as a twelve-year-old!” 

 

And with that, she stormed away. Harry quickly let go of Ron; the look on his face was murderous. They both stood there, breathing heavily, until Mrs. Norris, Filch’s cat, appeared around the corner, which broke the tension. 

 

“C’mon,” said Harry, as the sound of Filch’s shuffling feet reached their ears. They hurried up the stairs and along a seventh-floor corridor. 

 

“Oi, out of the way!” Ron barked at a small girl who jumped in fright and dropped a bottle of toadspawn. Harry hardly noticed the sound of shattering glass; he felt disoriented, dizzy; being struck by a lightning bolt must be something like this. 

 

It’s just because she’s Ron’s sister, he told himself. You just didn’t like seeing her kissing Dean because she’s Ron’s sister. .. But unbidden into his mind came an image of that same deserted corridor with himself kissing Ginny instead…

 

The monster in his chest purred . . . but then he saw Ron ripping open the tapestry curtain and drawing his wand on Harry, shouting things like “betrayal of trust” . . . “supposed to be my friend” . . . 

 

“D’you think Hermione did snog Krum?” Ron asked abruptly, as they approached the Fat Lady. Harry gave a guilty start and wrenched his imagination away from a corridor in which no Ron intruded, in which he and Ginny were quite alone — 

 

“What?” he said confusedly. “Oh . . . er . . .” The honest answer was “yes,” but he did not want to give it. However, Ron seemed to gather the worst from the look on Harry’s face. 

 

“Dilligrout,” he said darkly to the Fat Lady, and they climbed through the portrait hole into the common room. 

 

Neither seemed inclined to mention Ginny or Hermione again.

 

The rest of the afternoon was a quiet affair. Nevile, Luna, and Hermione later joined them to study, all trying to cram in as much work as they could before dinner. But despite the tension brought on by the impending deadlines, Harry couldn’t focus. He was absorbed in his own thoughts, trying to convince himself that his feelings for Ginny were entirely elder-brotherly.

 

They had lived, had they not, like brother and sister all summer, playing Quidditch, teasing Ron, and having a laugh about Bill and Phlegm? He had known Ginny for years now. . . . It was natural that he should feel protective . . . natural that he should want to look out for her . . . want to rip Dean limb from limb for kissing her . . . 

 

No . . . he would have to control that particular brotherly feeling. . . . 

 

Ron muttered something as he angrily flipped a page in his textbook; Hermione glanced at him, shaking her head in exasperation — despite her lips twitching.

 

She’s Ron’s sister , Harry told himself firmly. Ron’s sister. She’s out of-bounds . He would not risk his friendship with Ron for anything. 

 

And Harry’d resolutely left it at that.

 

Shaking his head back to the present, Harry adjusted the Potions textbook he had planted on his knee, curled up in his favorite armchair. Beside him on the floor lay Slughorn’s comparison essay on Horklump juice and extract. He lazily twisted himself to pick it up, and traced his tired eyes over the few paragraphs he’d written.

 

…Horklumps can reach maturity in humid environments, which is when the substance —  their juice — in their caps turns acidic. Horklump juice is easier to gather and is more versatile: it can be used in transformational medicinal potions and brews. The juice can be cured into extract, which makes it more potent. The extract is more commonly used in elixirs…

 

Harry stared blankly at the last word on the page, tapping his knee with his quill. Against his own will, his thoughts seemed to have rearranged themselves, pulling the ones of his latest fixation.

 

As much as Harry tried not to think about the failed extraction elixir trial a week ago, the memory always came up unbiddenly. It still stung, the realization of his fears, his doubts — the waste of those hours — weeks — both he and Snape had put into brewing that elixir — the lengths they’d both gone to obtain those Barbaculous fungi…

 

It had left Harry feeling more discouraged than ever.

 

He and Snape hadn’t held much conversation since then. There really hadn’t even been that much to discuss. Snape claimed that, indeed, the hell-like rollercoaster he’d been through on taking the elixir had been Voldemort’s fragment being attacked. It was overall a good sign that the alien soul could be targeted at all — a sliver of hope, at least. But it was going to take a lot more to completely extricate it out of Harry.

 

This left little hope for him. 

 

With each passing day, each passing night, day, dawn, and dusk, his prophesied fate of death was growing into more and more of an acceptance of fact. A coming to terms. Perhaps it was morbid, but Harry wasn’t about to delude himself:

 

In the end, it would all come down to him and Voldemort. Some Gryffindor who still struggled with nonverbal spells and the Darkest wizard of the century.

 

The mere comparison was laughable. Sticks and swords.

 

He still shuddered to remember what that elixir had done to him. That was to say — to Voldemort’s fragment in him. That was the first time Harry had ever truly sensed it — had felt its fear, its emotions as if it were… 

 

But it was alive. And every time Harry was reminded of that, disgust would burn through him like flaming gunpowder. Disgust with himself. Disgust with his body, his existence, the fact that a part of that monster lived and breathed inside him; disgusted with that so long as he breathed, that creature breathed too. 

 

He hadn’t been able to sleep the first few nights following the whole ordeal, even with Snape’s calming potion. Every time he would close his eyes, that green light would flash, a scream resounding in his head. It was just his head playing mental tricks on him, but the fact did little to assuage the problem. Then he would grow restless within his sheets, his fingers curling and convulsing around bunches of the fabric.

 

It wasn’t just the mental aspect of the experience, but the physical one too.

 

The time Harry had been under the Cruciatus Curse could never compare to the torture he’d undergone from that elixir. He knew that it had been the potion trying to sever the fragment from him, but he could never have imagined it being so physically painful, as if his insides were being torn apart — as if something were trying to tear itself away from him.

 

He never wished to experience something like that again. 

 

An unforeseen spasm suddenly caught Harry in a coughing fit. His throat had been sore for a few days, so he’d been practically living off of Pepper-Up’s, chugging them down like pumpkin juice. Many students also were — tis was the season, he supposed. Harry only hoped none of his teammates would be sidelined right before the Match.

 

At precisely that moment, commotion stirred. He noticed people starting to leave for dinner, and his friends were slowly packing their things away. Soon enough, the lot of them were soon sitting down to feast in the Great Hall. 

 

While they waited for the food to appear, Harry inconspicuously raked his eyes up and down the long table but found no sign of Ginny.

 

Something about it gave him deja vu. He couldn’t help thinking back to that incident in First Year, when Ron had upset Hermione so much that she’d reclused herself in the bathroom… Which had nearly led to her death by a twelve-foot mountain troll.

 

The similarities of the circumstances tonight and back then felt… uncanny.

 

For a minute, Harry wasn’t even aware that he was boring his gaze at his red-headed mate right across from him, stuffing his mouth with food, unlikely to be concerned about Ginny’s whereabouts. How many times had Ron hurt people with his harsh, abrasive words? He was Harry’s best mate, but that didn’t excuse his wrongs. 

 

What if something had happened to Ginny?

 

The thought just sprang to Harry’s mind, unbiddenly and yet enough to make something jump in his chest. He hadn’t seen her since that yelling match earlier, and now she was a no-show at dinner…

 

But surely, she was alright… It was Ginny — she knew the Bat-Bogey hex better than anyone in the school. Slughorn himself had prided her on it.

 

Harry tried to resume his eating, prodding his potatoes and steak with his fork, but his appetite seemed to have vanished. His eyes kept wandering back to where Ginny usually sat, his thoughts swirling back to that incident five years ago… 

 

And then he remembered that nasty altercation with those Slytherins at the start of the year.

 

In the spur of the moment, Harry suddenly rose, pushing his plate back so suddenly that his goblet nearly toppled over. He felt his left wrist for his wand, safely tucked away in his holster, and made a beeline for the doors, ignoring the bemused calls of his friends or a certain dark gaze from the staff table.

 

A million thoughts and scenarios were swirling in his head. He wasn’t sure where his feet were taking him but somehow trusted them. 

 

As Harry traversed down empty corridors, passed classrooms, and ascended moving staircases, he used his wand to cast a Tempus, which told him there was another ten minutes of dinner — ten minutes before he would have to trudge down to the dungeons.

 

He was just stepping onto a new staircase landing when his ears perked up at the sound of voices. Familiar voices. His heart sped up when he recognized Ginny’s…

 

And Dean’s.

 

Like a blazing fire, hot tendrils slithered to life in his chest, his throat; they irritated his Adam's apple to the point where it felt like he’d swallowed a hairball. Slughorn’s recent Slug Club dinner sprang to mind — when Ginny had arrived late, formally dressed but her eyes red. Hermione had proposed that she and Dean had been fighting again…

 

“ —Don’t care if he’s your sodding brother or cousin or whatever, he’s a right git!” 

 

“I’ve already told you that Ron can be a prat, Dean. I can’t help that. What more do you want me to say?” fired Ginny. She sounded almost as exasperated as she'd been with Ron. Harry, keeping to the wall, quickly spotted the two Gryffindors standing on a landing just overhead.

 

“I want an apology from him, that’s what,” announced Dean boldly.

 

“And I’ve already told you,” groused Ginny, as if explaining basic numbers to a toddler, “that I am not going to make Ron apologize. I am not some sodding messenger owl. If you’re so sore over it, you go take it up with him.”

 

Dean crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not taking up anything with him. It’s him who should come to me. He owes me an apology — yeah, I heard what he said about me. And that Potter— ” he spat distastefully.

 

Something within Harry burned. He was half aware of the crescent moons his nails were engraving into his palms.

 

“Leave Harry out of this,” Ginny warned, her tone dropping low.

 

“Oh, so you’re defending him now? ‘Harry’, is it?”

 

“That is what a name is. And maybe I am. Because out of the three of you, at least he doesn’t act like he’s five!”

 

Dean’s face contorted with rage. Harry watched it. It filled him with strange satisfaction.

 

“Then maybe you should go snog him instead, the bloody Chosen One!” — Dean was shouting at this point. Ginny’s jaw dropped, her face glowing scarlet. With a final glare, he pushed past the redhead and strode down the staircase.

 

And straight into Harry.

 

His eyes widened to the size of tennis balls, surprise quickly morphing into outrage, and lastly loathing. The boy growled something under his breath. Harry returned his glare wholeheartedly, itching to see a Bludger ram into his face. He was half-expecting a brawl to break out and was ready.

 

But the boy seemed to have thought better. He roughly chafed Harry’s shoulder and continued on his merry way down, not sparing either another glance.

 

The silence that had now settled over the corridor felt impenetrable, like a vacuum. Harry reluctantly ascended the short flight of stairs to Ginny, who was standing stiller than a statue, her face still painted in disbelief.

 

“Er… Are you alright?”

 

Harry would have liked to kill himself for asking such a stupid question.

 

Ginny folded her arms over her middle and glanced away, likely embarrassed. “Honestly… I’ve been better. How much did you— Nevermind,” she shook her head. “Don’t mind Dean. He can be… hotheaded sometimes.”

 

“Sometimes?” Harry parroted. Ginny cracked a weak smile, though Harry noted that her eyes were glossier than usual. He could see the torchlight behind him in them.

 

“What are you doing here?” Harry asked. 

 

“I could ask you the same.” Ginny’s eyes suddenly narrowed suspiciously at him. “If Ron’s sent you—” she began angrily, but Harry hastened to cut her off. 

 

“No. No, Ron didn’t send me. I was just, erm… You weren’t at dinner. I dunno, I guess I just wanted to make sure…”

 

Ginny visibly relaxed. “I just didn’t feel like seeing Ron. I was in the library until Dean found me.”

 

“You’ve had a row,” Harry said — it was just an acknowledgement, not even a question. A small, hopeful part of him was expecting to hear a whole obloquy.

 

The girl gave a distasteful shrug. “Yeah, well, it’s not the first one. He wants Ron to apologize to him. He took it a bit far when he told me I should go tell him that.”

 

“Yeah, definitely,” Harry laughed dryly. “Ron’s been in a grouchy mood all evening. I think he would set the place on fire if he knew.”

 

“I don’t care. He has no right to tell me who to snog or not, just because he’s a year older than me. He’s jealous. Just wants attention. It’s pathetic, how he always wears that Prefect badge of his…Ugh, he just ruins everything. The things he says sometimes — he never thinks!” Ginny raged, looking close to stomping her foot. “How many times has he hurt you or Hermione with that stupid, big mouth of his? He’s always been a right prat, but I’d never thought he’d—”

 

She broke off and averted her head. Harry caught a look of hurt flash across her face, and suddenly wanted to punch something — or someone .

 

But he forced himself to say something responsible. 

 

“I… I know. But he’s just very protective of you. I’m sure he means well.”

 

“You’re taking his side?”

 

Harry held his hands up. “I’m not. Honest.”

 

“...And anyway, I find that hard to believe. Fred and George were never like this. Or Bill. Or Charlie. Or… Percy. And it’s ridiculous — one would think I’m some kind of invalid, or there’s a red target painted on my back!”

 

Ginny drew in a breath, evidently in a bid to calm herself. It was shaky. She looked back at Harry again, and she appeared uncomfortable. 

 

“Listen, Harry, I wanted to say thanks. For earlier today. I appreciate you taking my side in this—” Her hazelnut eyes found his green ones, narrowing suspiciously. “If you really do agree with me.”

 

“Yeah. Of course I do,” confirmed Harry immediately. It was true that he could not side with Ron on this, but he couldn’t help his distinct desire to see something happen to Dean. “And, if you’d like,” he offered, his lips moving faster than his brains, “I could try talking to him.”

 

“That’s sweet of you to offer, Harry, but there’s no hope in trying to talk sense into that thick head of his. He can sulk his sorrows out all he wants.”

 

“I think he’ll come around,” Harry added. “Ron always does.”

 

“That’s some hope,” replied Ginny sarcastically. “Well, I’m gonna go. I think I’ve still got some time left; maybe I’ll nick a bite from the kitchens…”

 

Her voice trailed off. Harry watched her gaze wander to and narrow at something behind him. When Harry turned around, he knew why.

 

Ron and Hermione were standing some feet away from them. The boy still bore that sour look from earlier as he glared between Harry and Ginny, who was glaring right back. Perfect silence reigned. Neither uttered a word, as if something had sucked the air out of the corridor.

 

Eventually, Ginny flashed Harry and Hermine a saccharine smile, a small wave, and brushed past them as if nothing had happened.

 

“Oi! Where are you going?” Ron called after her. “Don’t let me catch you past curfew!”

 

Curfew wasn’t until nine. It wasn’t even six.

 

Before Harry knew what he was doing, his hand was swatting Ron’s shoulder. Hermione just looked between them in confusion — she still didn’t know what had gone down earlier.

 

“Cut it out,” Harry warned, piercing the taller boy’s gaze. “You’re not helping.”

 

“Oh yeah, and you were?” he retorted shrewdly. “What were you two doing here, anyway, talking it up? You just got up and left. No doubt—”

 

“Ron, stop it!” Hermine cried. “Is anyone going to tell me what’s going on? Why is Ginny upset?”

 

Harry shook his head. “Ask Ron. I’ve gotta go. I still have that detention with Snape.”

 

It was true.

 

And he was royally late now.

 

Harry was still seething when he reached the defense corridor. His head was pounding, and his nose felt as if someone had stuffed it with cotton, and the initial scratchiness in his throat was evolving into something like swallowing nails. 

 

Harry shivered in the chilliness of the stone castle, hating the place’s distinctive cold. Its steel caress of goosebumps was seeping through his layered sweaters, crawling underneath. He couldn’t seem to manage to warm up since the most recent quidditch practice.

 

But none of that mattered right now. Not really, anyway. He had already arrived at Snape's office door. Mentally bracing himself, Harry rapped his knuckles trice against the wood before entering.

 

In the fiery glow of the candlelight, he saw Snape hunched over some papers at his desk, his deep-set features adding an extra five years to his age in the stark shadows. On Harry entering, the man paused in his task to look up. He greeted him with a curt nod and neatly slid his things aside.

 

“Evening, sir,” Harry greeted, clearing his throat. He took the seat in front of the professor’s desk when he was indicated to. “...we’re not going to your lab?”

 

“I find there to be no need,” Snape replied simply — he was rearranging a few things on his desk, clearing them away. Harry jumped when the door behind him shut itself suddenly, the thud followed by the heavy click of a latch.

 

Snape steepled his fingers together in front of himself, his calculative gaze pinned on the boy sitting in front of him as if contemplating his next words. This was the first time they’d met up after the failed attempt. The events seemed almost tangible, lingering in the air between them like some haunting presence. Harry shifted around in his seat. Waiting… 

 

“You wish to restore your memories of Black through means of Legilimency,” Snape stated. As if it weren’t the reason he and Harry had pre-planned this ‘detention’.

 

Harry nodded. “Yeah— Yes, sir. That’s why I’m here.”

 

Snape did not lower his gaze — his stare — from Harry. It was as if the man were interrogating a suspect. Harry was still half-expecting some derogatory quip or comment about his late godfather, or at least a sneer… but the Slytherin’s face remained impassive.

 

“And… you are fully aware of and are amenable to the implications?”

 

With a bit more uncertainty, Harry nodded again. He had nothing to lose — if he didn’t try this now, those memories would eventually fade anyway.

 

Snape’s dark gaze lingered on his for a moment longer. Words seemed stuck in his mouth, as if uncertainty or indecision were holding them captive — unbecoming of the man as it was.

 

When Snape spoke again, he lowered his voice by some degree, looking intently at Harry.

 

“You are certain you wish to do this?”

 

The question caught Harry in an unforeseeable chokehold. It felt as if some part of Harry were pulling him by hook and rope to the door; to leave; to shake his head and cancel this whole arrangement. The thought of having Snape perform legilimency on him — intrude his mind and rummage through all of his memories — still had his stomach lurching, memories springing, jumping, whirling within...

 

But he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t decline. Not now. Not when memories of Sirius were at stake.

 

After what only seemed like too long, Harry nodded his head again, a definitively more affirmative gesture, returning the eye contact. “I’m certain.”

 

“Then let us begin.” 

 

Snape flicked his ebony wand. From one of his shelves flew a candle, layers of old wax solidified around the base. It settled on the desk between them.

 

“Retrieving faded memories is a complicated endeavor, especially when the mind is utilizing it as a defensive mechanism. Therefore it is not something that will be resolved in a single session… Wherein I will be penetrating your mind in order to revive memories of your…” his lips curled in slightly, “godfather. Your objective will be to try not to resist or repel my presence.”

 

“I mean, why would I?” asked Harry. ”If I’m letting you do it, if I know you're not an enemy… I trust you, sir.”

 

Something in Snape’s dark eyes, steely and bottomless, melted at those words.

 

“You will be tempted to, regardless,” Snape countered, tone considerably softer. “Legilimency is direct intrusion of the mind; it is an inherent instinct to try to repel an alien presence. You must first lower your mental shields entirely or encourage them to drop.”

 

“I don’t understand,” said Harry slowly, inspecting the desk’s swirling wood pattern. “I mean, I’m rubbish at Occlumency anyway, and you’re excellent at this stuff. Couldn’t you just… break through them? Why would me trying to repel you even be a problem?”

 

Snape only shook his head, as if expecting that question. “Because those memories in question are already buried deep and are fragile. The more danger your mind senses, the more it will attempt to conceal them. It would be… imprudent of me to do anything then.”

 

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

 

 A flame suddenly bloomed to life on the wick.

 

“Watch the flame.”

 

Harry goggled at him and the flame.

 

“Sorry?”

 

“The candle flame — fire — has calming properties. It shall help to calm you and clear your mind.”

 

“I am calm,” Harry argued, a sliver of annoyance slipping into his tone. Snape raised an eyebrow at him as he redirected his gaze down to where Harry's leg was bouncing, unbeknownst to him. Harry firmly planted it flat against the stone, restraining a grunt.

 

“Couldn’t I just take a calming draught?” he all but pleaded.

 

“It is inadvisable to take an artificial approach. Now, hush.” Snape shot a pointed glare at the candle, the message unequivocal and clear. Harry sighed. He couldn’t imagine how staring at a flame would help. It sounded quite ridiculous.

 

“So I just… stare at it?”

 

The corners of the man’s lips twitched. “Do not be fooled. It is easier said than done.”

 

Resigned to his fate, Harry shifted in his seat and fixated his eyes on the flame. It was nothing special; just like any other typical candle — white, tall, age-old wax lazily oozing down the base... 

 

Though with a few seconds’ passing, something seemed to shift in Harry’s mind. There was almost something… hypnotic about it. 

 

He noted how the ember glowed at the end of the wick that held the small inferno. How its blue transitioned flawlessly into white. The hazy orange halo that surrounded it. The base — still but for its end, which was just barely trembling in the non-existent wind, as if yearning to reach for the ceiling with its fragile wisps. 

 

The endeavor — it seemed almost delusional; for something so fragile, so delicate and brittle — a mere breath could end its life — to hold out such perfect, stable stillness.

 

The edges of Harry’s vision were slowly turning dark in the dimly lit room. But unlike staring at the sun or a Muggle light bulb, the light did not hurt his eyes. That expected burning sensation remained at bay. The single wisp of white simply… existed. Existed in the silence, in the stillness. It was perfectly still: barely moving, barely breathing.

 

It was as if time’s hands couldn’t reach it. 

 

Harry envied it.

 

But for the first time, he really found himself observing the flame, for he would usually just stare right through it, lost in his thoughts and reveries. 

 

All time seemed to have stopped. Harry wasn’t sure at what point he’d felt the back of his chair as he’d eased himself into a recline. He wasn’t really even thinking. Not anymore. His mind was awake but quieter than it had been in Merlin-knew-how-long, like an exhausted machine finally coming to a halt.

 

The silence was suddenly severed by a sharp inhale. Before Harry even knew what was happening, a streak of white flashed through his vision as his scar seared to life. His ears rang. Desperation ran through him as his hands clawed at his scar, as if they could pry the pain away—

 

Then, it ceased. The searing ebbed into a pulsating throb, finally allowing Harry to squint his eyes open, gingerly rubbing at his scar. Snape was on his feet behind his desk. His right hand was clutching his left wrist in a death grip, his knuckles almost as white as his face. His eyes, however, were strained on Harry, scrutinizing him with poorly-masked concern.

 

In the evanescent beat of stretched silence, a million tacit words seemed to pass between them. Both understood. 

 

In two swift strides, the man crossed his office to a cabinet. Glass tinkled. He returned with two vials, which he set down in front of Harry. Snape’s dark eyes squared on Harry resolutely, whirlpools churning with urgency.

 

“Return to Gryffindor Tower.”

 

“But…”

 

The vials were forced into his hands. “Now.”

 

“But what if—”

 

“ Harry! ”

 

Harry looked desperately into Snape’s eyes, his fear only mounting. The thrums of his irregular heartbeat, irregularly coinciding with his throbbing scar, sounded too loud in his ears as they continued to amplify, pulsating in his navel. 

 

That one night from the two weeks they’d spent together in the summer — when Snape had returned to Spinner’s End bleeding and unconscious — flashed in his eyes with sickening bile rising to his throat.

 

“Harry, do as I say.”

 

He didn’t want to. Every nerve in his body was screaming at him to make the man stay, to protest, to latch onto Snape’s robes to stop him from going—

 

But that wasn’t an option. Snape’s tone held no room for argument. Time was of the essence, and Harry was only wasting it. If Snape were late, the consequences would be dire. 

 

So against his own will, Harry made himself nod, trying to swallow down the thick wad of consternation lodged in his parched throat. With a stumble, he hastily gathered his few things and left the office, the classroom, but turned around just in time to glimpse a receding, bat-like shape striding down the long corridor in the opposite direction, already rounding the bend.

 

…Hours later found Harry restless. 

 

A storm was raging outside. It battered its fury against the windows, sending the weathered panes shuddering under the force of the hundreds of nails hitting them. 

 

Sleep just stubbornly refused to claim him. He’d lain awake for hours, boring holes into the ceiling of his bed for what had felt like endless hours. For once, he wished to have a vision, to know what Voldemort was up to, to know that Snape wasn’t…

 

He swallowed at the morbid thought.  

 

It was the unknown that was slowly driving him insane, torturously pulling on his tenuous strings of sanity. What was Voldemort planning? What could tonight’s meeting be about? Or was it a private invitation for Snape only, being Voldemort’s ‘faithful spy’?

 

What if Voldemort was angry with Snape? What if Snape had arrived late, or the monster was displeased with him about something else…?

 

Harry’s mind began to feed him unbidden images, visuals that finally marked the final straw and pulled him out of his tangle of bedcovers. A shiver raced up his feet and spine like an electric shock when his soles touched the stone — the fabric of his hand-me-down socks was as good as nothing. He ignored it. Rubbing his arms, Harry began to pace, distantly thankful that the floor wasn’t rickety laminate.

 

He paced. 

 

The feral winds outside wailed as though in agony. Harry checked the time. 00:03. 

 

And he paced…

 

00:49.

 

And paced…

 

When he consulted the Marauder’s Map, Snape’s name was nowhere to be found. Malfoy, at least, appeared to be asleep.

 

More pacing.

 

There was a part of him that was still struggling to comprehend how much had changed between him and Snape for him to be this level of worry for him, of all people…

 

But could he be worrying for naught? It was Snape, after all, wasn’t it?

 

…Except Voldemort was a sadist and a bastard. Nothing had stopped him from punishing Snape that one night this past summer. The memory felt forever engraved in Harry’s memory — Snape half-conscious, the rug beneath his limp body turning red.

 

Acid rose up in Harry’s throat like a voluminous balloon, but he forced it back down.

 

It was at 01:59 when the panic really took from a crawl to a lunge. What had started as a light tremble to his fingers was now shivers caressing his frame, licking every cell in his body. Every breath cost immense effort as his heart only accelerated on.

 

And he couldn’t do anything about anything. He wasn’t in control of whatever must be happening to Snape; he wasn’t in control of the visions — regardless if he wanted them or not —, and he wasn’t even in control of himself or the repulsive, incongruous piece of that monstrous being living, breathing the same breath as he— 

 

Snape could be dead even at this very second. He could be getting tortured, or even low on his knees before Voldemort, planting careful lies for the war effort’s sake.

 

For Harry’s sake. To protect the Chosen One. Just another pawn thrown out onto the chessboard. All to protect the Boy-Who-Lived…

 

02:15.

 

His eyes scanning over the parchment, the dungeons — still nothing.

 

Harry felt as if he’d somehow used up all the oxygen in the room. The darkness surrounding him was starting to creep in on his periphery like some phantom wanting to swallow him whole. Everything was spiraling out of control...

 

Except he’d never been in control to begin with. He’d watched Cedric, then Sirius, drop dead right before his eyes — he’d stood there, watching helplessly, uselessly. With his parents it had not been too different.

 

And now, Harry was stuck here, stuck in time, awaiting something — anything: a sign, an indicator…

 

02:30.

 

He was starting to accept the fact that nothing would come of this. A vision wasn’t coming, and his pacing was as pointless as anything at this point. Harry unfurled the Map for the twentieth time that night, already braced for nothing new…

 

But then— a breath caught in his throat. Harry had to do a double take to confirm that he wasn’t hallucinating. There, on the ancient parchment, stood out to him one and one name only. For a long moment, Harry could only numbly stare, subconsciously feeling his heart slowing to an uncharacteristic pace, each thump like an echo.

 

All rationality was forsaken then; his heart’s deathening thuds had knocked it out. Harry was already snatching his wand and cloak. The journey down to the Common Room was a blur, and the Fat Lady’s startled cry — a distant noise. His body was acting of its own accord, on autopilot, a million thoughts clouding his head for him to comprehend anything properly. 

 

Deeper and deeper down he descended. It wasn’t until he’d reached the lower levels of the dungeons that he realized his cloak was still clutched in his hand, damp and cool where he held it. But this didn’t stop him. Everything about what he was doing was throwing caution to the wind. So he continued on, undeterred.

 

And before long, he was standing in front of the ancient painting of Salazar Slytherin.

 

~***~

 

“Time turners, you say…” Dumbledore mused, studying one of his silver gadgets on his large desk. His tone was conversational; he might’ve been discussing breakfast.

 

Severus was sitting in one of the hideous armchairs before him, exhausted beyond measure. The hour was late — ungodly so. He’d just laid out the entrails of tonight’s Death Eater meeting. It was the first one in quite some time, thankfully with only a few… mishaps.

 

“The Dark Lord is, of course, aware of the recent destruction of the Ministry’s entire stock,” Severus added. “Not that he is interested in the kinds once stored there. He is looking to acquire a special one through means of… building it. A team project, ” he sneered, “he’s assigned to myself, Lestrange, and several others in his inner circle.” 

 

The raps of Dumbledore’s fingers on the wood were the only sound for a pensive moment. The old man had never looked older than he did now, only after a few weeks of his ‘travels’. The lines carved into his face — they sculpted his face to add another ten years, but his electric-blue eyes were as sharp as ever. They were devoid of their characteristic twinkle, laden with calculations churning behind them that Severus daren’t interrupt. 

 

He continued to sit, to silently observe the aged wizard, and he couldn’t help but diagnose his slow, inexorable withering away.

 

“This is most concerning news. Tom was rather quiet as of late. I was beginning to wonder. The quiet always promises a storm…”

 

A shiver crawled up Severus’ spine at the man’s use of the Dark Lord’s birth name. It was something about the causality with which Dumbledore said it; something so unnatural, misplaced. Something that radiated power — a fearless, even reckless power. Witches and wizards, save for a select-few fools, trembled at anything but ‘You-Know-Who’. Dumbledore held no regard for it.

 

“...And precisely what does he plan on doing with it, provided he is successful in building one?” the decrepit man was asking, just as Severus resurfaced from his brief trance.

 

“His descriptions were careful, vague,” he answered, drawing out his words to bid himself time to mentally organize the night’s events. “He wants to irreversibly change the past. A time turner would enable that… ” A heavy exhale escaped him, laden with the weight of his guilt, as he rubbed the inner corners of his eyes. “I think it is quite obvious what moment in time he would change.”

 

Dumbledore nodded gravely. “The night it all happened. One could only assume he would go about that night differently — would murder differently. This time he would not offer to spare Lily’s life. It would save him thirteen years of torment, of endless wandering about the continent: neither dead nor alive…”

 

The event penetrated Severus’ mind: his own memory of how he’d found Lily, the boy, and the destroyed house, what had come before that — supplied by the nightmare that Harry had had this past summer. 

 

Outwardly, his body betrayed nothing to indicate the visceral anguish these memories brought him.

 

Dumbledore was speaking again. 

 

“How does he expect you to go about building one? Even with my experience and ripe age, I wouldn’t have a trifle of a clue how to build a time turner. Most blueprints are buried deep in the Department of Mysteries.”

 

A bitter smirk pulled at Severus’ tired face, humourless and dry. “When has that ever concerned the Dark Lord, Albus? He demands, we deliver.”

 

“Ah, but what will you ultimately deliver to him, Severus? You and I both know that we cannot let a time turner fall into Voldemort’s hands.”

 

Pain shot through Severus’ arm. In his weary and frustrated state, it felt multiplied tenfold. It took him all of his strength to ignore it.

 

“Then I shall have to sabotage it. Or perhaps stage an… incident. Pray tell, of whose death would we most benefit from?” Severus drawled sarcastically, this time a genuine hint of amusement slipping into his tone. “I’m certain no children would mourn dear Bella’s death.”

 

Dumbledore did not look amused. He shook his head again. “No. That may not be the best course of action. We do not need any unnecessary suspicions raised… See if you can prolong this project as much as possible. As we both know it...” His blue eyes wandered to a curio of hanging silver spheres, the opposite ones swinging at ticking speed, “time is everything.” 

 

Dumbledore then reclasped his ancient fingers, allowing himself to lean back in his throne-like chair, and pinned his spy with the gaze of a commander sending his troops to war.

 

“Your orders, Severus: begin research on time turners. Play nicely with the others assigned to this project. Do not displease Voldemort — this way, he may be more forthcoming in revealing more information.”

 

Severus gave a curt nod. “Naturally, Albus.”

 

“Good. Has he mentioned Harry or the young Malfoy?”

 

“The Dark Lord asked for a general report on the Order’s procedures, plans, etcetera, wherein I included that Potter is continuously being guarded under the best protection available. As for Draco, he did not mention him… Narcissa is growing concerned. I had reassured her prior to leaving that he is safe.”

 

A low utter sounded, something along the lines of ‘sorting too soon’, but Severus pointedly gave it a wide berth.

 

“The point is, neither of the two were the main topic of discussion,” he concluded. At the moment, it didn’t escape Severus that the wizard’s grey brows had contracted. Two of his fingers met, which he pressed to his lips in thought. Or something deeper.

 

“You are concerned,” Severus inferred.

 

“Well, one ought to be calm before the storm. Under different circumstances, the news would be relieving. My supposition is that Voldemort thinks going after Harry now would be imprudent, seeing as he will, in his beliefs, soon have a time turner in his grasp.”

 

“Perhaps,” Severus conceded. A pause followed this — one that suggested the end of this discussion. He rose from his chair, feeling exhaustion’s anchors pulling him down, the weight like a burden. “If that is all, Headmaster?” 

 

“I believe it is. Thank you, Severus. Go and salvage whatever sleep you can. I daren’t check the time — I rue to think of when our dear colleagues and students will wake up, joyous to start another day of lessons.”

 

Severus could have groaned. The corner of his mouth twisted as if he’d swallowed something sour.

 

“Goodnight, Albus.”

 

The journey from the old coot’s office to his quarters felt excruciatingly longer than usual. Severus supposed it was a blessing that it was a descent, not an ascent… The chill of the dungeons welcomed him in its own comforting way. All was silent, only the click-clacks of his boots echoing throughout. There was not another soul in sight — or if there were, Severus couldn’t have brought himself to care.

 

Safe in his quarters, he collapsed into one of the armchairs in the sitting area, a small fire now kindling in the hearth. Severus gazed into it, at the soft whisps licking the logs, hissing like some beguiling serpent…

 

That’s when he remembered his and Harry’s unceremonious end of meeting.

 

‘Harry’…

 

Sagging sideways in the armchair, head propped up on his fist, Severus impulsively rubbed his eyes with his other hand. An unsettling feeling flooded his chest, his gut. It might have been guilt. A weight he couldn’t explain — It was not his fault the Dark Mark had burned when it did; it was not his fault that he’d fallen short in his promise to the boy… 

 

Yet, he couldn’t help the feeling that he’d somehow let down the boy. In all the commotion, Severus had utterly forgotten about him.

 

And this crushing weight — it was more than guilt. Guilt was pressure. This weight was crushing. Crippling. As if he’d misplaced an invaluable possession; as if his collar was too tight. And it had taken him only now to recognize it for what it was: 

 

It was concern — for the boy, blast it . And it was only growing. Not a day passed that Severus wasn’t tormented by the lack of progress in extracting the fragment from Harry — an ungraceful waltz of one step forward, two steps back. And now, concern for his well-being.

 

These thoughts had been suppressed for the last hours — in the presence of the Dark Lord and Dumbledore. But now, in solitude’s company, they were invading his mind like some parasite. He’d told Harry to go back to Gryffindor Tower, but had he really? Could he have received a vision of the meeting? What had he seen or heard? 

 

Severus glanced up at the mantel — it was well past 2 am. He had no will to move — even the comfort of his bed didn’t seem worth it—

 

Every nerve and cell in his body stilled when he suddenly felt a vibration pulse through him. It was his wards.

 

Gritting his teeth, Severus summoned the remnants of his willpower to hoist himself up and cross to the entrance. Whoever it was knocking on his door had better be dying, else Severus would murder them himself.

 

Then again, the circumstances would have to be rather dire for someone to come knocking on his door at this ungodly hour.

 

But then the door and portrait swung open, and in the doorway stood the last person Severus had been expecting to see.

 

Every fiber of his being seemed to have frozen over. Harry stood paralyzed, even his throat dry. He beheld the sight of the dark-robed wizard — the robes unstained . The man — standing, upright. Alive.

 

Snape was alive.

 

“Potter.”

 

But the moment of relief passed as quickly as it came. Gone like a sudden gale. And now his full conscience seemed to have caught up with him. Realization of where he was, in whose presence, and of what he’d done rammed into him like a crashing wave.

 

He’d acted on his impulses. Again.

 

“...Harry!”

 

Harry snapped back to reality at Snape’s voice. The man was looking at him with knitted brows, as if caught between frustration and worry.

 

Harry opened his mouth, but no words came out. He goggled like a fish out of water for a moment.

 

“I— I just…”

 

“You just what ?”

 

“I was worried,” Harry blurted out… 

 

The change was instant. Those mere three words seemed to have melted the anger off the man’s face; something in his obsidian orbs softened. He regarded Harry with some form of disbelief, but there was something almost tender about it. Harry held his breath.

 

Snape eventually heaved an exhausted sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as he shook his head.

 

“What am I going to do with you?”

 

The words struck him harder than a physical blow.

 

“…Burden! Off with you and the plague you carry—”

 

“…Freak…”

 

“...Pathetic…”

 

“...Such a nuisance…”

 

Harry felt his face burning, a bulbous fireball lodged in his throat that he kept trying to swallow. It stung. It shouldn’t have stung so much, but it did. Again, he’d ruined everything. Again, regret filled him. He wished he had stayed in bed. He wished he hadn’t let his irrationality, his anxiety, coerce his actions like they had with Sirius.

 

“I’m sorry. I— I’ll go…”

 

Snape’s eyes snapped open. Harry was already backing away when Snape’s hand shot out for his.

 

“ Not so quick. Potter—”

 

“You’re right,” Harry babbled, riding a wave he didn’t know how to get off of. “It was stupid of me to come. It was dumb and stupid. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ll get out of your hair now, sir—”

 

Harry barely got to finish before Snape grasped his shoulders, holding him at arm’s length. “ Harry! ” he hissed. 

 

In the span of one moment, Harry found himself inside of Snape’s quarters, the door and portrait swinging shut behind them. The disoriented buzz in his ears drowned out the sound. And in the next, he was being pushed down onto a coushiony surface. The leather sofa. 

 

In front of him, Snape seemed to hesitate before sitting himself in an adjacent armchair. In the firelight’s amber glow, his face sagged with exertion.

 

“What happened? Did you have a vision?” the man inquired. Harry shook his head, averting his gaze. 

 

He had no plausible reason to be here. His anxiety had led him, and he’d abided by it.

 

In his periphery, Snape leaned back in his chair, as if sagging with relief. The crackle of logs filled a beat of quiet. Harry stared at his hands as he waited for… something, his knuckles bone-white.

 

“A nightmare?”

 

“Couldn’t sleep, more like…”

 

“You were… worried?”

 

Harry clamped a hand to the back of his neck, feeling heat. He opened his mouth but hesitated. “Well, yeah, I mean… You were called by him . And you were gone a while. I kept checking the map…”

 

Snape didn’t reply for a lengthy moment. It was taking all of Harry’s willpower to restrain his leg from bouncing.

 

“I was gone for a while. Afterwards I had to report to the Headmaster.”

 

Harry’s head snapped up as if on a tripwire. “Dumbledore? Dumbledore’s back?” It hadn’t really occurred to him to check the Headmaster’s office on the map in these recent days — he hadn’t thought he would be back.

 

“Yes, but temporarily.”

 

Well then…

 

“... I guess I didn’t think to check there. I was mostly monitoring your quarters.” Harry heaved a sigh. “I guess I just… remembered that time you were called away. When you returned, you were—” He swallowed, a shudder slithering through him.

 

Snape’s voice remained surprisingly measured. “The Dark Lord did not find anything to displease over this time.” An awkward pause ensued. “...Be that as it may, I find myself… moved by your concern for my wellbeing. It is… appreciated. Although after years of — ah — experience, I am more than capable of returning to safety in dire circumstances.”

 

“Didn’t seem like it last time.” 

 

No regret followed those unplanned words, though Harry was sure he was about to be put back in his place.

 

He indeed didn’t like Snape’s reaction. But for a different reason: the man shifted his gaze to the dying embers, and his lips twisted into a dark, bitter smile. 

 

“I had been through worse, same as anyone who has ever displeased the Dark Lord. You must remember, Harry, I am invaluable to him through many criteria. Much as he is loath to admit it, he will not easily get rid of me.”

 

“As long as you’re valuable to him,” Harry reaffirmed. 

 

Snape nodded. “As long as I am valuable to him.”

 

Harry fidgeted with his fingers. He envisioned a tenuous thread, waiting for the smallest pull, the smallest tug to tear.

 

“What did V— he want?” he couldn’t help asking.

 

“That is a conversation for another time.”

 

“Was it something to do with Malfoy’s mission?”

 

Snape’s gaze briefly hardened, and that’s what hinted at Harry to stuff a cork in it.

 

“No,” he said coolly. “Neither you nor him were the topic of discussion tonight. That will suffice for you to know.” Harry looked up, a protest on the tip of his tongue, but Snape held up a halting hand. “For now.”

 

Harry clamped his lips together into a line — a habit he seemed to have picked up from the master himself over time.

 

A blur of black in his vision snapped Harry back out of his thoughts. Snape disappeared in and out of his laboratory like a shadow. Glass tinkled softly. Not a minute passed before he returned with a glass of murky blue liquid. He handed it to a bemused Harry.

 

“I— I don’t need sedatives,” Harry started to protest. “I’m fine. Not some lunatic.” Yet.

 

Snape was back in his chair. Harry noted only now that the man also had the same drink in his hand. “Nor am I. This is merely a tea. It counteracts the aftermath of severe stress or physical exertion.” 

 

The Slytherin gazed knowingly at Harry over the rim of his glass as he took a sip. Frowning, Harry gazed down at his own distorted reflection in his lap. Truthfully, he was too tired to try to explain the visceral warmth swelling in his chest.

 

Coming here, Harry hadn’t really known what to expect. Perhaps a heap of bloodied dark robes, or at best a pissed-off Snape, berating and shooing him away for bothering him in the middle of the night… But none of that had come to fruition. Snape had literally forced him to sit down, had confronted him civilly, almost with worry, and had even gotten them both tea.

 

Almost like…

 

Harry quickly took a sip of his tea, as if to drown the thought. He ended up scorching himself.

 

He wasn’t sure what was to come next.

 

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out. Again. Snape’s scrutinizing gaze was palpable. He babbled on. “I know you’re probably tired of me. I shouldn’t have come here. You’re fine. I really wasn’t thinking—”

 

“Harry, stop.”

 

Weariness lined Snape's tone, but it was soft and composed all the same.

 

“When did I ever claim to be ‘tired of you’? Tired from you — certainly—” But there was an amused twinkle in his dark eyes as he said this. “You will certainly be the death of me, have no doubt about it.”

 

Heat seared Harry’s cheeks. He blew on his tea and took a slow sip to busy himself. The draught glided down his throat like a soothing balm, leaving a mild spearmint sting.

 

“Are you angry with me?” The question had slipped out before he’d even censored it. 

 

Snape studied him, almost assessingly.

 

“No,” he replied shortly. “Merely intrigued. Your worry — it is unorthodox. Coming from The Harry Potter with our background...”

 

Despite himself, Harry couldn’t help grinning cheekily.

 

“The arrogant Chosen One and the Dungeon Bat. Who would’ve thought, sir?”

 

For a minute, Harry thought he’d crossed some line, but tension ebbed from his muscles when Snape smirked lightly. Something warm and pleasant fluttered in Harry’s chest in that moment. It was something that strengthened the dying hearth, something that cleared the initial tension in the air. It was something that made Harry’s lungs expand and contract with unusual ease. Something that just made the room more spacious.

 

A clock’s hand suddenly tolled. Both sets of eyes snapped to the mantel. It had just struck 3 am.

 

“I do not want you wandering all seven floors of the castle this late.” Snape stood, brandished his ebony wand, and summoned a few blankets and a pillow, which all flumped down beside Harry in a neat pile. “You will sleep here.”

 

“Um, sir, I have my Cloak…”

 

Snape fixed him with a glare that brooked finality. “You will sleep here.” He banished his and Harry's cups of chilled tea. “Will you need a draught?”

 

Harry shook his head. “No. I’m alright,” 

 

His long, dark cloak billowed in a large flare as he rounded the couch, banishing his and Harry’s cups of chilled tea in his wake. Yet he paused just behind the couch. Snape’s head turned back just enough for the firelight to catch his deep-set features, his thin lips parted, as if in waiting for words to come forth. 

 

In a soft undertone — so low that Harry had to strain his ears to hear —, Snape said, “You were not the only one. Worried.”

 

He was worried…

 

And that meant something to Harry.

 

The Gryffindor wasn’t sure how to respond to the non sequitur, so he offered a small smile. “Good night, sir.”

 

In reply, he received a grumble along the lines of ‘‘morning’ being more fitting’, but ultimately the man, too, bade him good night.

 

Harry lay awake until four. He was shaken awake at six. And well by seven, he was back in his own bed up in Gryffindor Tower. That Saturday, sleep — merciful, restful sleep — held him captive well into the afternoon.

Notes:

Well, there's a new chapter for you guys:) Hope you all enjoyed it - getting cozier and cozier, huh? Oh, Sev and Harry have come such a way, no? I REALLY enjoyed writing this chapter, it really resonated with me!

Other than that, there really isn't anth much to say. Just a new chapter for you all to digest. Just finished writing another chapter, so gonna be starting the 20th one soon. Oh, man, things are getting heated, I can tell you that.

But ok, ok, enough teasing.

Write me your thoughts, questions, etc. - I'd love to reply to them! Until the next upload🥰✨

Chapter 17: Felix Felicis - Or Not

Notes:

So sorry for the long wait. Was on vacation:) Don't come for me, please...

Anyhow, I think the wait was worth it. Got a real angsty one here. Enjoy!

Late November, 1996.

 

For the coming week, the atmosphere was abuzz with outlandish bets and swelling anticipation. There seemed no topic more relevant than the upcoming Saturday match, the first of the season. In the face of the continuous daily disappearances and casualties that would appear on the front page of the Daily Prophet at breakfast, over chicken sausages and pumpkin juice no less, the event was an anticipated respite. Something to look forward to without dread.

 

Between classes, students would cheer or jeer at the two rival House teams. Though the extent of it didn’t stop there, nor at the reciprocal empty threats and baleful glares. 

 

Things had escalated till some Slytherin cretin had sneaked in some exploding stink-spores into the Gryffindor changing room. The team’s practice time on the pitch had been cut in half that day, as it had taken nearly half an hour to wait out the urge to vomit enough to let them play without sicking up their lunch.

 

That night, however, had not ended well for the Slytherins. 

 

Ginny and Demelza Robins had courteously returned the favor by owling the Slytherin captain an anonymous parcel with a stink-spore plant. Flint must have opened it in his dormitory, for the hospital wing that evening had had Madame Pomfrey treating at least half of the Slytherin team for oozing boils. 

 

It had been all the rage that same night in the Gryffindor Common Room.

 

“No— No, wait!” gasped out Ginny between wheezes, struggling to find her breath. “It was also Neville’s idea!”

 

As the collective laughter slowly died down, a bright red flush spread over Neville’s face, who was sitting on the rug with his toad in his lap. The crowd’s gaze was pinned on him now. 

 

“Uhh— It was?”

 

“Well, indirectly. You were telling me and Luna about the stink-spores the other week, remember?”

 

Beside him, Ron punched Neville’s shoulder. “Bloody brilliant, Neville! Hey, maybe you still have that weird spitting cactus plant your grandma got you? We could also send that their way. Charity, know what I mean?”

 

“Actually,” began Neville, definitely more invested now, “my grandma’s got loads of weird plants in her garden. She collects them almost as much as her handbags.”

 

“I guess it’s a wizarding thing, huh?” grinned Harry. “Ron, doesn’t your mum grow like half the herbology textbook in her garden?”

 

His friend leaned forward, as if about to spill something he ought not to. “Mum doesn’t like to admit it, but she’s also fond of Muggle plants. Especially petunias. Dad’s obsession with Muggles has grown on her.”

 

“Argh, don’t remind me,” Ginny groaned, rocking in exasperation on the armrest of a chair. “Mum makes me help her weed those horrid petunias the Muggle way every summer—”

 

“I also hate petunias,” Harry heard himself blurt out. Everyone’s heads snapped to look at him, puzzled. Harry shared the feeling. He felt his ears burning and tried not to make eye contact with Ginny as he scrambled to elaborate. 

 

“Err, my aunt was fond of them. She would make me weed and tend to them every summer, too. Never liked them. Nasty things.”

 

“Hmpf. Sounds… narcissistic of her,” Ginny commented with a dry laugh. “But I’ve decided they’re not so bad. Phlegm hates them. Says they’re ‘too avant-garde’. I think that’s why Mum planted so many this summer.”

 

“Oh. Yeah, they’re alright, I guess…”

 

Harry didn’t lift his eyes. He knew he sounded like an idiot. He could feel Ron’s befuddled gaze lingering on him, as if he’d gone mad, and he was loath to think what thoughts were going through Ginny's head.

 

Despite that one snag, things seemed to be nearing the match as smoothly as could be. 

 

Well, almost. 

 

It had all started a few days ago, when Harry had woken up with a sore throat. He’d dismissed it, only for it to have festered into a nasty, dry cough. He’d gone to Madame Pomfrey, and she’d prescribed him a few Pepper-Ups with a warning that if they didn’t help, she’d better not see him flying that match.

 

Well, they hadn’t helped. 

 

And as rotten luck would have it, it was the day before the match that found Harry dragging his feet to Snape’s office. 

 

Invisible anchors were tied to his ankles, dragging out every step with the urge to turn around and just call it a day. It was as if the air weighed tonnes, pounding its pressure on Harry’s head like an anvil. His face felt hot. But then the rest of his body trembled with shivers of ant-like waves of goosebumps. He couldn’t remember a time since starting at Hogwarts when he’d felt this sick.

 

But there was nothing for it. So, mentally bracing himself for the coming Legilimency session, Harry rapped his knuckles thrice on the professor’s office door.

 

The time between that and the door being opened felt strangely long. His vision blurred at one point. A voice sounded — familiar — from within, but the words were slurred.

 

Harry vigorously blinked himself back into the present when he realized Snape was standing before him in the doorway, peering down at him with that somewhat-familiar look of concern, his brows contracted at the deep crease between.

 

“Evening, Professor,” Harry greeted, mustering his best voice. He still cringed at how strained he sounded. Snape raised an eyebrow at him. 

 

“Evening,” Snape drawled and let him in. 

 

Harry jumped in his skin when the door banged closed behind him, but Snape, luckily, didn’t see it, for he was already rounding his desk to sit behind it. As routine, Harry dropped his bag down beside his usual seat and sat himself in it.

 

“Are you unwell?” was the first question to slip out of Snape's mouth. Harry had seen it coming.

 

“No, sir,” Harry lied, forcing a small smile. He felt like the world’s biggest idiot, but the settling mental fog wasn’t helping him think straight. “So, let’s begin?”

 

Snape was leaning back in his chair, silently appraising Harry, but said nothing. Harry also said nothing. He sat there, waiting, trying to keep his posture as straight as his fatigue would let him, all-the-while reciting a convincing mantra of ‘I’m fine’ in his head. He kept hoping it would do something.

 

What happened next was something Harry never would have anticipated. 

 

In a split second, Snape rose, came around his desk, and—

 

Harry startled, confused, when he felt a cold hand pressed to his forehead. For the two seconds that it lasted — he relished the feeling, somewhere in the deep, hidden abyss of his conscience. The small pressure held there for a moment, and Harry almost found himself leaning into it. 

 

A distant memory played out in his head. He was sure he’d seen Aunt Petunia do it to Dudley many times, worry soaking her tone and gesture.

 

“You are burning up,” Snape stated, frowning.

 

Harry saw no point in denying this — It was blatant that he looked no better than he felt.

 

“I’ll be fine. Had worse,” Harry shrugged, rubbing at his eyes. “Just gotta walk it off.”

 

Snape sneered. “A mentality conditioned by your relatives, no doubt.”

 

Harry chose not to comment. 

 

“Have you been to the infirmary wing?” 

 

Clearing his throat, “Yeah. On Wednesday. Madam Pomfrey had me take two doses of pepper-up, and some other weird, green stuff that tasted like rotten chicken… She said it’s probably something seasonal and should go away soon.”

 

Snape hummed. “Clearly, you have contracted something beyond the remedy of Pepper-Up. I advise you see her tonight.

 

Harry shook his head — more to himself — at the thought. “Can’t.”

 

Snape’s brows rose in dry surprise. “Why ever not?” 

 

“The match—” he cleared his throat, “ —is tomorrow. Pomfrey said she’d forbid me to play if the Pepper-Ups don’t work.”

 

He probably shouldn't have said that. Some part of his brain had thought this before he’d spoken the words, but they had slipped out of their own accord. He just couldn’t think straight.

 

“Pardon?”

 

Harry looked up, meeting the man’s sharpened gaze. 

 

“Well, the match’s tomorrow—”

 

“I am well aware of that,” Snape cut in. He was standing a few paces away, yet still somehow managing to tower over Harry like some skyscraper in a storm. His eyes narrowed, piercing his own with utmost scrutiny. “What I am unaware of is what gave you the impression that you are in a fit state for such a foolish endeavor tomorrow.”

 

“I’m fine. It’s just a little cold.”

 

“A little cold,” Snape repeated slowly, drawing out every syllable in mockery like a harmonica. “Either your fever has made you delirious, or you are grossly underestimating your current state. What, in your brilliant mind, makes you think broom racing in below-zero weather is a good idea?”

 

Harry shrugged him off. “We’ve been training in this weather for weeks. It’s nothing new. I’m not ditching the match tomorrow.”

 

“Your health is more valuable than Quidditch,” the man sneered in a low undertone.

 

Hearing those words moved something in Harry, made him shift uncomfortably in his chair. He dropped his tone to a more conscious decibel.

 

“I’ll— I’ll just take a few more Pepper-Ups — maybe if you could give me some? I was sick loads of times before. Especially back at the Dursleys, and it never stopped them from—” But he quickly bit his tongue, realizing nearly too late what he was saying. It was operating on autopilot, and Harry's control over it seemed broken.

 

A trigger pulled. Something dangerous — livid — flashed across Snape's face, like a murderous strike of lightning slitting a dark sky. “Go on.”

 

Harry averted his gaze. Silence stretched.

 

Snape finally exuded a frustrated sigh. “That is beside the point right now. I swear to Merlin, should I see you on that blasted broom tomorrow—”

 

Severus suddenly paused. No, he stilled . Both of them did. He was caught off guard by his own words as much as the boy looked. Who was he to forbid him from doing anything? What authority could he exercise, aside from what his position as professor permitted him?

 

But the damage was already done. And Severus couldn’t take back his words.

 

Harry had already shot up from his chair — Severus’s stomach lurched when the boy swayed, though he managed to stabilize himself with the back of the chair.

 

“You can’t do that,” said the boy, tone imposing and confident — defensive . 

 

And Severus knew he couldn’t.

 

He walked back around his desk to reshuffle some papers, hitting the small stack against the wood to align them. “As your professor, I certainly can . Should I deem that there is a threat to a student’s life—”

 

“When hasn’t my life been in danger?”

 

Severus narrowed his eyes. “ Moreover why it is imperative to minimize any additional potential threats. Your life is more valuable than a game of chasing ball. I am astounded that your Head of House has overlooked such a paramount issue this grossly. You will catch your death — a most premature way to die,” he said bluntly.

 

“Well, I won’t. I’ve told you: I’ll have a bunch of warming charms on me,” Harry argued.

 

“You can hardly stand,” criticized Snape, tone nothing but condescending.

 

“Good thing flying doesn’t need standing.”

 

Silence cast a standstill over them, lasting all but five seconds when it felt like minutes. Snape stared at him — perhaps marvelling at the audacious remark. Harry waited, not sure what would come next. Then again — he never was. This limbo between potential care, concern, and peremptoriness still confused him. It was presumptuous of the man to assume he had so much authority over Harry — as if he were his legal guardian —, which both knew he didn’t. No, Snape was just a professor. Not even his Head of House. Perhaps an ally, yes, but nothing beyond that. 

 

Certainly not a legal guardian. That was Dumbledore’s alleged role.

 

And Harry wasn’t backing down. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell he was jeopardizing his team over a runny nose.

 

“You foolish teenagers are all the same,” sneered the man at last, still standing, “appointing high wisdom to your age, then nearly breaking your foolish necks! Pray tell, Mr. Potter—”

 

Harry’s stomach plummeted at the formality.

 

“ —whom do you imagine will take on responsibility for you when you end up in the Hospital Wing with hypothermia, if not worse?”

 

“I wou—!”

 

“Do you imagine the Headmaster will want this sort of trouble?” he ruthlessly plowed on. “Or perhaps the Order, which is counting sleepless nights to ensure your safety within these wards? Yet you clearly have no qualms about squandering their efforts on a game of Quidditch.”

 

It wasn’t all like that — Harry reasoned privately as a stab of guilt tried to penetrate him. Snape's jabs and attempts were nothing new. He would often use this tactic — this guilt card — on Harry whenever he would do or say something remotely life-threatening to himself.

 

But not even this reasoning helped to ease the burn of frustration in his chest, like sandpaper against eroded stone.

 

“That’s rich,” Harry sized up, his voice rough from his sore throat and dry from the sarcasm. “You’d think Dumbledore would give a damn. Don’t see him checking up on me from time to time, to see how I’m doing, do you?”

 

“Tone,” Snape warned. Something about his stance, however — if only ever so slightly — shifted at Harry’s words. A sliver of hesitation. Harry knew he’d made a point even he couldn’t deny. “We have digressed. Regardless of the Headmaster’s dereliction," the man said slowly, acquiescing with Harry, to the boy’s surprise, “any sensible — responsible — adult would forbid you to jeopardize your wellbeing over a match.”

 

“Yeah? Like who?” challenged Harry.

 

“ Me .”

 

That single word enveloped the room in a chill colder than the snowstorm visible outside.

 

The answer seemed to hold the air between them for a minute. Harry, unconsciously, shifted his footing, hearing furious roaring in his ears. He barked out a laugh — which came out in half a cough that scraped his throat like razors. “You can’t forbid me,” he rasped.

 

Snape straightened up to his full height and considered Harry for a moment, as though he were deciding what to do with a botched potion.

 

“You are correct, I cannot. Therefore, you will arrive here after breakfast to serve a detention. Lines on self-preservation will not go remiss.”

 

It might have been a death bell’s knoll that reverberated through him, paralyzing him. Harry stood there, in disbelief. The feverish heat on his face had somehow travelled down to his stomach, where it developed into a sizzling fireball, waiting to be spit out. And he could feel it rising, could feel the injustice of everything boiling within him.

 

That was the worst of it — the pinnacle of everything. 

 

Snape’s injustice— 

 

Snape was giving him detention for absolutely no reason. Again. He’d reverted back to his old ways, back to hating Harry, treating him like some rag that he could wipe the floors with. For weeks — months — Harry had so childishly believed that Snape was past that, that their strange limbo of a friendship, alliance, had changed something.

 

And the injustice of the timing— 

 

It stung that no one had ever cared before, had ever given a damn if he was ill, throwing up, or bleeding. His childhood had passed without a single word of caution, a sliver of concern for his wellbeing. And now, while he didn’t know the source of Snape’s adamant insistence on him not playing — genuine concern or some cruel desire to hurt him —, it nevertheless stung that it was so… overdue . 

 

‘Better late than never’, as the saying went. But was this really the ‘late’ part? Was this exercise of authority, this insistingness, these arguments, the concern that Harry had been privately praying for as a child? The concern that was so late, so long overdue? Or was this all just a lie, a subterfuge?

 

Harry didn’t know. Snape’s behavior was nothing but confusing. And he didn’t want it. Any of it.

 

Because, surely, this wasn’t how the typical professor would react to his student?

 

McGonagall wouldn’t have reacted in such a way.

 

This wasn’t how an ally would react.

 

Not even anyone from the Order — even his friends — would have reacted this way.

 

So what was Snape’s bloody motive?

 

What was he trying to achieve?

 

What would he get out of Harry not participating in the match tomorrow?

 

Surely, this couldn’t be about securing victory for his own House. No, that thought was idiotic. Snape didn’t care nearly that much about pointless House points and Cups. Not when there were things of much greater magnitude.

 

Surely…

 

In any case, Harry didn’t need this so-called ‘concern’, moreover in the form of detention. Snape had no right to decide he couldn’t attend a match. 

 

“Detention,” Harry parroted numbly, the word flaring the heat inside him. Its sound echoed distantly in his ears. “What am I getting detention for?”

 

Snape’s face was infuriatingly stoic. “For your own betterment.”

 

“I’ll tell McGonagall,” Harry growled, refusing to feel like a cornered animal. He’d had enough of that at the Dursleys’.

 

Severus knew things were slipping out of control. Like sand through fingers; like a fragile tower of cards beginning to sway and shudder. The boy’s stubbornness and his own steadfastness were only digging the both of them deeper into this grave.

 

But he couldn’t give way. Perhaps the threat of detention was a move too far, but Severus couldn’t back down now. He was the adult, the authority here. 

 

It was for the boy’s own good. He may hate him for it, but that was something Severus was willing to trade.

 

“Is that a threat?” he drawled silkily, leaning forward on his desk where he stood. Harry didn’t blink. That adamant glare was in place, resolution trapped behind those insufferable, round glasses. He opened his mouth, but Severus spoke first. 

 

“Astonishing, Potter. How responsible of you indeed. And precisely what will that conversation entail? I assume your Head of House will be most intrigued when she discovers her Seeker can hardly stand, let alone is running a fever and drugging himself on Pepper-Ups.”

 

“I’m not drugging myself.”

 

Snape drew back in visible exasperation. “Yes, with your history — clearly .”

 

That was the last straw. Harry spun, snatched his bag, and charged for the door. “Forget it. I don’t have to listen to you—”

 

“I am your professor, Potter. Show some respect! ” Snape hissed.

 

“Yeah, well, you’re not my father, so stop bloody acting like one !”

 

Such silence struck that someone might have dropped a porcelain vase. The moment felt like a stretched-out rubber band that finally snapped. Harry could hardly breathe at the realization of what had just come out of his mouth. Only the rasps deep in his lungs could be heard. 

 

Snape, for once his face readable, looked as if he’d just been slapped. Harry dreaded to think of the thoughts currently running through the man’s head. He wanted nothing more than to have the floor swallow him, to run, to take back the utter stupidity he’d just blurted out—

 

Neither wizard moved an inch until something in Snape’s expression took a drastic change. His face closed off. Any traces of thought or emotion vanished  — a marble statue head would have had more. And in a tone so low yet acerbic that it could’ve slit steel, his next words tore not only through the tension’s silence but also Harry’s insides.

 

“No. Thank Merlin , I am not .”

 

That struck like a poison-tipped arrow. It shouldn’t have. Harry didn’t know why, but it did. More than he dared to admit to himself. More than anything the Dursleys had ever thrown at him. It didn’t make sense. It shouldn’t have—

 

“Our meeting is at an end,” Snape informed him in barely above a whisper, enunciating every syllable. The message was clear. Just like it had been when Harry had seen into Snape’s pensieve.

 

Harry didn’t need to hear it repeated. He knew if he opened his stupid mouth again, things would only get uglier. Without another word, he departed from the office. A gust of wind followed him out at the thud of the heavy door behind him. 

 

Harry didn’t look back. His mind was reeling, only one half present while the other was still stuck in those last two minutes. 

 

Two minutes. That’s all it had taken to properly muck everything up.

 

His feet were carrying him, and Harry uncaringly let them. It wasn’t long at all before he reached an uncharted corridor’s dead end. Cold, eroded stones drew painful patterns on his back as he slid to the hard floor. He rested his throbbing head against the wall, feeling the jagged pattern imprinting itself into it. Eyes closed, Harry concentrated on it — anything to distract himself. To rein in his emotions.

 

Merlin, that had been mortifying.

 

“...you’re not my father, so stop bloody acting like one!”

 

“...No. Thank Merlin, I am not…”

 

‘Thank Merlin, I am not.’

 

But realistically, what else had Harry been expecting?

 

Harry slid the hem of his sleeve across his face — in the dim torchlight, snot glistened on the dark fabric of his robes. He felt hot all over, as if it were July. And tired. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and throw the covers over his head, yet he couldn’t bring himself to rise. The satisfying chill of the castle’s floor and wall had seized him captive in its respiteful hands.

 

How had things escalated to such a degree? They’d meant to give a go at Legilimency, to try to retrieve Harry’s faded memories of Sirius. Instead, the so-called lesson had resulted in an argument and a sour aftertaste on Harry’s tongue.

 

Letting his forehead hit his drawn knees, Harry tried to gather his thoughts in the boiling cauldron that was his mind. He wasn’t missing the match tomorrow — if not for his team then for the sake of that row with Snape not having been for nought.

 

Who even was he to command Harry what to do, what to attend or not?

 

What if he really was concerned?

 

Harry quickly dispelled the unrealistic thought. Despite everything — the last couple of months and everything in between —, that concept just felt too… foreign for him to even consider.

 

~***~

 

The next morning at breakfast found the Great Hall aroar with excitement. Applause thundered from every table but the Slytherins as Harry and his team strode in through the grand, oak doors. The sound fell on Harry’s clogged ears like bolts against steel, but he grinned and waved back nevertheless.

 

“ —Nice hat!”

 

“ —Good luck, Ron!”

 

“ —Ron, you’re a loser!”

 

“ —I’m counting on you, Ron. I’ve two Galleons on Gryffindor, yeah?”

 

Harry leaned in to nudge his mate in the shoulder as they were walking down to their table, Ginny and Hermione waving them over. He cleared his throat (feeling everything gurgling in it). 

 

“Don’t mind ‘em. You’re gonna do great, I just know it.”

 

His mate smiled back meekly. They both finally sat down in their friends’ company. Hermione banished her Daily Prophet — which meant that nothing noteworthy had happened since yesterday— and quick greetings were exchanged as Harry scanned over today’s breakfast choices.

 

“Eat up, Ron,” Harry encouraged, patting his mate on the back as he reached for a plate, already forking Ron’s favorite sausage onto it. “We’re not gonna win on empty stomachs.”

 

“Easy for you to say,” Ron mumbled back. “You haven’t got Doxy Pixies in yours.” 

 

That may have been true, but Harry had no appetite whatsoever. In fact, he felt every definition of terrible. Last night’s few hours spent sitting on the cold, stone floor hadn’t been a brilliant idea, and Harry had barely crawled out of bed on all fours in the morning. He could feel his fleece sweater clinging to his clammy skin like hair to wet leather, and he was hot and cold at the same time. In an attempt to invigorate himself, Harry poured himself a nearly overflowing cup of coffee and sprinkled in four spoons of sugar.

 

Meanwhile, Ron was glancing skittishly in every direction. One would think he was expecting a Death Eater to jump out at any moment. Harry knew it was all just nerves. He’d barely managed to convince Ron not to resign from the match as they’d been dressing that morning. 

 

And frankly, it was starting to get on his own nerves. On top of his head and nasal cavity feeling like they were stuffed with cotton and the needle-like ache in his throat, it was not a good addition.

 

Harry had considered going to Madame Pomfrey to ask for more Pepper-Up potion, as he’d downed the last one just last night, but had ultimately deemed it a fruitless endeavor. The medi-witch would likely also start a conundrum about Harry’s lack of self-preservation.

 

But that was beside the point. It was too late to turn back. The match was taking place directly after breakfast. 

 

Harry’s eyes almost involuntarily jumped up to the staff table. All the professors were there — including Dumbledore, Hagrid, Slughorn, and—

 

Snape. 

 

Harry somehow managed to avert his gaze a mere second before Snape’s could find his. Harry wasn’t sure how serious he’d been about that detention. But he had everything thought through — quite a valid reason: Snape had never specified the day of the detention. After all, ‘after breakfast’ didn’t specify any dates. 

 

The interpretation seemed legit. It fell heavy on his conscience to think about it, but he resolutely pushed the guilt back, tried to drown it as he subconsciously poured himself black coffee.

 

“ —Harry!”

 

The third draught of the disgustingly sweet, brown muck made it down the wrong way. A tremulous coughing fit overtook Harry. He rasped and sputtered for a good minute, feeling as if someone were sanding his windpipe’s lining. He eventually quieted down. He was hyper-aware of the ten pairs of eyes staring at him (which he refused to acknowledge).

 

All except Hermione’s, who was sitting directly across from him. She was looking at him in blatant concen, eyes a little wider than normal.

 

“Wha— What was that for?” Harry asked irritably, accepting a thick wad of tissues from Ginny.

 

“Harry, you're ill!” Hermione exclaimed, sounding properly frazzled. “You have been for the past week. You can’t actually be serious about playing.”

 

“It’s fine, Mione. ‘S just a little cold.”

 

She laughed, bewildered. “A little cold? Harry, you will catch your death out there. It’s snowing. Just look—!”

 

The tall arcade windows lining the walls shone in pure white from the flurry of snow outside. It hadn’t been snowing earlier, so Harry figured it had just started.

 

Brilliant.

 

Outwardly, he gave a nonchalant shrug, at the same time reaching for a serviette to wipe his nose. 

 

“Give it a rest, Hermione. You’re starting to sound like my mum. It’s scary," said Ron, sounding annoyed.

 

Hermione pinned the redhead with a sharp glare that would’ve sent a first year running. She opened her mouth to retort, but beside her, Ginny beat her to it. 

 

“Yeah, well, maybe Mum’s the reason you lived long enough to even attend Hogwarts, Ron.” She turned to look at Harry, a concerned frown tugging at her face that shouldn’t have brought Harry such a level of content as it did. 

 

Then Ginny shrugged at him — there was clear skepticism in her hazel eyes, like she was assessing if a large stack of books would fit into her bag. But she was never one to fuss or push — something Harry greatly appreciated.

 

Ron suddenly gave off a dry snort. “Suppose McLaggen appreciates you molly-coddling him,” he mumbled under his breath. The air seemed to grow several degrees colder. Hermione brought up her gaze, sharp as a hawk’s. 

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded.

 

“Well, nothing,” shrugged Ron innocently. He twirled his fork between his fingers. “It seems pretty clear that he fancies you… Didn’t you two go to Slughorn’s dinner party thing?”

 

“Everyone there was invited personally by Professor Slughorn, Ron.” That said, she added: “Harry, Professor Slughorn’s having a Christmas-do soon. He’s asked me to tell you—”

 

“Suppose you’re bringing McLaggen,” Ron interrupted. His tone was a strange mix of sarcasm and nonchalance that Harry definitely marked as fake.

 

“ Actually , I was going to ask you.”

 

Harry wasn’t watching Ron’s face, but his tone was still just as dry when he replied. “Really?”

 

Footsteps — small pumps — suddenly neared them. Harry and Ron had to crane their necks back to see Lavender Brown, whose large, brown eyes were fixated only on the redhead.

 

“Good luck today, Ron. I know you’ll be brilliant. ”

 

She strode on without waiting for a reply. A heavy silence ensued — it was as if there were a storm cloud just above their heads. No one seemed inclined to break it for a while.

 

“Harry—”

 

Harry brought his head up, looking at Ginny. “Hmm?”

 

She leaned in a bit across the table. “Don’t look, but Snape’s been staring at you. You didn’t do anything, did you?”

 

His sweater suddenly felt a size smaller around his neck, and Harry fought the urge not to let his eyes travel up to the staff table. Snape must have already surmised that Harry was playing regardless of their row last night, and if the look on Ginny’s face was anything to go by, the man was not happy.

 

But Harry had a role to maintain. He just shrugged. 

 

“Not that I can think of. But since when does Snape need a reason to be angry with me? He’s probably just mourning his House’s victory in advance.”

 

Breakfast was soon coming to a close, and the first few students were already leaving. Harry had tried to scarf down at least something substantial, but he couldn’t smell or taste anything at this point, and the saccharine coffee on an empty stomach had only made him nauseous. Hermione kept stealing occasional glances at his plate — had even chastised him to eat more — but even Harry’s favorite treacle tart tasted like chewy, tasteless rubber.

 

And anyway, he was far more interested in Ron’s plate.

 

Or better yet — his goblet.

 

A fork suddenly clattered loudly as it hit Ron’s plate. “Forget it. I’m resigning. After today’s match. McLaggen can have my spot—”

 

“Have it your way,” interrupted Harry. He was already pouring his friend some beverage. “Juice?”

 

Ron took it, mumbling a thanks.

 

“Hello, everyone,” greeted Luna’s dreamy voice as she sat down beside Ginny. A handmade lion’s head costume sat on her head. “You look dreadful, Ron. And you, Harry. Is that why you put something in his cup? Is it a tonic? Or Pepper-Up? I think you may have confused it with your goblet.”

 

In Harry's periphery, Hermione stilled. Her face was a shade closer to the napkins on the table. 

 

“Liquid luck,” she breathed. “Don’t drink it, Ron!”

 

But it was too late. The words fell on deaf ears — Ron had downed the entire contents of his goblet. When he set it down, a grin was stretching his face as if he’d just hit a revelation.

 

“You could be expelled for that!”

 

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” replied Harry calmly as ever, pocketing the tiny vial.

 

Now it was just up to Ron.

 

“C’mon, Harry, we’ve got a game to win!”

 

~***~

 

Holding trials was one thing, and playing a real match — the first of the season — was another thing completely. Harry had missed the exhilaration, the euphoria, the pounding of his heart as he rose, swooped down, and swerved on his broom, maneuvering it with the adrenaline rushing through his veins. 

 

Below, the stands cheered — a deafening sound that was drowned out by the rush of the wind. Snow pelted in Harry’s vision, painting it a foggy white. He wasn’t sure if the weather conditions had ever been this terrible during a match. The warming charms — about three different kinds — were proving pointless. Harry had long since lost all feeling in his fingers and toes. The only warmth in his entire body was from the scorching flames grazing his throat.

 

Harry soared around the perimeter of the grounds, looking around for the Snitch and keeping one eye on Harper, who was zigzagging far below him. Then a voice that was jarringly different from the usual commentator’s started up. 

 

“Well, there they go, and I think we’re all surprised to see the team that Potter’s put together this year. Many thought, given Ronald Weasley’s patchy performance as Keeper last year, that he might be off the team, but of course, a close personal friendship with the Captain does help. . .” 

 

These words were greeted with jeers and applause from the Slytherin end of the pitch. Harry craned around on his broom to look toward the commentator’s podium. A tall, skinny blond boy with an upturned nose was standing there, talking into the magical megaphone that had once been Lee Jordan’s; Harry recognized Zacharias Smith, a Hufflepuff player whom he heartily disliked. 

 

“Oh, and here comes Slytherin’s first attempt on goal. It’s Urquhart streaking down the pitch and —” Harry’s stomach turned over. “— Weasley saves it; well, he’s bound to get lucky sometimes, I suppose. . .” 

 

“That’s right, Smith, he is,” muttered Harry, grinning to himself. His breath suddenly caught, and he had to hold on for dear life as another coughing fit wracked his frame… But then he dove amongst the Chasers with his eyes searching all around for some hint of the elusive Snitch. 

 

With half an hour of the game gone, Gryffindor was leading sixty points to zero, Ron having made some truly spectacular saves, some by the very tips of his gloves, and Ginny having scored four of Gryffindor’s six goals. This effectively stopped Zacharias from wondering loudly whether the two Weasleys were only there because Harry liked them, and he started on Peakes and Coote instead. 

 

“Of course, Coote isn’t really the usual build for a Beater,” said Zacharias loftily. “They’ve generally got a bit more muscle —” 

 

“Hit a Bludger at him!” Harry called to Coote as he zoomed past, but Coote, grinning broadly, chose to aim the next Bludger at Harper instead, who was just passing Harry in the opposite direction. Harry was pleased to hear the dull thunk that meant the Bludger had found its mark. 

 

It seemed as though Gryffindor could do no wrong. Again and again they scored, and again and again, at the other end of the pitch, Ron saved goals with apparent ease. He was actually smiling now, and when the crowd greeted a particularly good save with a rousing chorus of the old favorite “Weasley Is Our King”, he pretended to conduct them from on high. 

 

“Thinks he’s something special today, doesn’t he?” said a snide voice, and Harry was nearly knocked off his broom as Harper collided with him hard and deliberately. “Your blood-traitor pal . . .” 

 

Madam Hooch’s back was turned, and though Gryffindors below shouted in anger, by the time she looked around, Harper had already sped off. 

 

His shoulder aching, Harry raced after him, determined to ram him back. In the back of his mind, he wished it were Malfoy on that Slytherin’s broom — both because Harry would get back at the ferret and. because the blond’s absence was… concerning. ‘Too sick with the flu’ his arse.... 

 

“And I think Harper of Slytherin’s seen the Snitch!” said Zacharias Smith through his megaphone. “Yes, he’s certainly seen something Potter hasn’t!” Smith really was an idiot, thought Harry. Hadn’t he noticed them collide? But the next moment, his stomach seemed to drop out of the sky — 

 

Smith was right and Harry was wrong. Harper had not sped upward at random; he had spotted what Harry had not: The Snitch was speeding along high above them, glinting brightly against the clear blue sky. Harry accelerated; the wind was whistling in his ears so that it drowned all sound of Smith’s commentary and the crowd, but Harper was still ahead of him, and Gryffindor was only a hundred points up. If Harper got there first, Gryffindor had lost . . . and now Harper was just mere feet from it, his hand outstretched. . . . 

 

“Oi, Harper!” yelled Harry in desperation. “How much did Malfoy pay you to come on instead of him?” He did not know what made him say it, but Harper did a double take; he fumbled the Snitch, let it slip through his fingers, and shot right past it. Harry made a great swipe for the tiny, fluttering ball and caught it. 

 

“YES!” Harry yelled. Holding the Snitch up high, he lapped around the stadium, his fatigue, throat, and everything in between forgotten. The podiums were aroar. And everything was brilliant.

 

Until it wasn’t.

 

Harper had been tailing Harry. Harry hadn’t noticed. And now he and Harper were flying neck-and-neck, and the Slytherin Seeker was closing the space between them at an accelerating pace. Acting on instinct, confused, Harry began speeding ahead, seeing that they were about to collide… But the boy continued to pursue him.

 

Below, Madame Hooche’s whistle continued to blow outrageously. 

 

And suddenly, Harper rammed into him sideways. Harry just barely managed to stay on. 

 

“Have you gone mad!?” he yelled. 

 

“Thought you’d get away with that, did you?” jeered Harper, grinning nastily with his crooked teeth as he rammed into Harry again. Harry tried to shove him away— 

 

But couldn’t when his cloak got caught on Harper's broom’s footrest. 

 

Even Harper had noticed this by now, and Harry heard him snarl. 

 

They began to struggle, each uncoordinated shove and yank turning more and more violent. In the background, people were screaming. The commentary was yelling, but Harry discerned none of it.

 

Only then did both boys seem to realize that they were headed straight for a spectator tower. Becoming desperate, Harry and Harper tried one last time to sever the contact. 

 

And they did. 

 

But that final yank came too suddenly. Too unmeasured. Harper flew off, but Harry didn’t have enough time to swerve away. And the next thing he knew — there was a loud crash. 

 

Everything turned black. 

 

Then he saw the sky. 

 

People screamed. 

 

A sickening, dull thud. 

 

Ringing in his ears. 

 

He couldn’t feel his body for a second, and then pain found it, lancing through his every muscle and nerve ending. 

 

He blinked. Splinters of wood came nearing him…

 

And the world went pitch dark.

---

Awareness came to him slowly, a sizzling, dissolving haze. Something soft and warm — a steady weight — was covering him, but it was both too hot and too cold. His limbs ached. Everything did. From his throat down to his legs, and pressure pulsated in his head that blocked comprehension of anything else. 

 

The silence pressed in on his ears for a moment or two, until Harry finally managed to squint his eyes open. It came easily — nighttime. The vision static sizzled out. Not even moonlight shone, and snow fluttered lazily past the tall windows…

 

Infirmary windows.

 

Harry’s stomach lurched with dread. Confusion washed over him as he struggled to remember; alas the dense fog and throbbing made the feat quite impossible. So instead, he tried to shift himself into a sitting position on his elbows. 

 

He didn’t get very far, however. It must have been the new tilt of his head, but something grazed his throat, and harsh coughs wracked his frame. He wheezed and sputtered for what felt like hours, trying to catch his breath, but every time the tingling sensation would aggravate his windpipe anew. It was like razors caressing his insides, and they wouldn't relent. 

 

Eventually Harry calmed, exhausted and mouth parched.

 

Someone whispered his name.

 

Harry was completely caught off-guard when a hand gently settled on his chest, pushing him to lie back down. He swiveled his head to the right. A dark figure sat in a chair. It was unmistakable, the long hair and robes silhouetted against the tall windows. Its voice warmed the darkness, a familiar timbre — low, composed. And tired. 

 

But an anchor. Or a life ring thrown to a man drowning out at sea.

 

He didn’t need to see his face to know who that was. In that moment, such relief flooded Harry, that he wanted to both laugh and cry.

 

“W— Water,” Harry rasped out, his voice hoarse and barely a whisper. He was relieved when the rim of a cool glass was pressed to his lips, and he began to drink at it as greedily as the tilt of his head and the glass would allow.

 

The draughts slid down his throat, soothing what felt like hundreds of cracked crevices surely lining it. But as the cold reached his stomach, it sent a chilling sensation to make his frame shudder. 

 

When Harry finally rested his head back down on the pillow, feeling like he’d just run a marathon. A million questions were still whirling in his head — old and new — like one of the recent blizzards. 

 

But in the end, Harry eventually settled on one question that encompassed everything.

 

“What happened?”

 

“What do you remember?" Snape returned, sounding like he was nickpicking his words. Everything was dark and blurry, until the tip of Snape’s wand lit up, a very faint Lumos that cast just enough light for Harry to see the man’s tired, disheveled appearance, exhaustion dragging down his features.

 

Harry had to wet his dry lips, feeling their rough, cracked ridges. Memories, one by one, began to flood back to him. “I… I was flying after the Snitch. Harper was also going after it. But—” His eyes suddenly grew wide, his heart doing a somersault in his ribcage as it began to hammer in dread.

 

“Who won? I caught it, didn’t I?”

 

He watched for Snape’s reaction intently. The man’s expression temporarily pinched, his lips drawing into a tight, thin line. He was looking at Harry like he was fighting the urge to strangle him — like he was the biggest dunderhead he’d ever met.

 

“You had just nearly fallen and frozen to your death, yet you are asking ‘who won’?”

 

Harry shrank back a bit. “Er…”

 

Snape shook his head. “Merlin preserve me… You will be pleased to know that your utterly moronic efforts were not in vain. You caught the Snitch moments before nearly plummeting to your death from fifty feet in the air! ”

 

The part about him nearly dying somehow eluded him, faded into the background, really. Harry was overjoyed — all those months of hard work and practice in the cold and rain had paid off. He’d proven himself as Quidditch Captain, had lived up to Oliver Wood’s legacy. 

 

Pride and accomplishment swelled in his chest.

 

But the elation from the news lasted a mere, transient moment, when he glanced at Snape. The man appeared far from pleased. And why would he be? He’d just admitted loss to the Gryffindor Captain and Golden Boy. 

 

There still remained a hollow void that his victory didn’t seem to have filled. 

 

But more bits and pieces — scraps of memories — were now crawling back to him. Harry remembered it now: Harper had spotted the Snitch first, and Harry had quickly followed. He and Harper had been neck-in-neck, bare inches separating their brooms. A flutter of gold in the confusing flurry of snow… 

 

But then— a hard shove from his right. The world had spun. He’d collided with something hard, solid. People screaming. And everything had gone black.

 

"Cracked ribs, mild hypothermia, a sprained wrist... You are lucky to be alive. Foolish child," Snape hissed. "Pray tell, why am I not surprised?”

 

Harry scowled. Before answering, he cleared his gurgling throat. "You're making it sound like it's my fault Harper tried to shove me off my broom. And I could've easily gotten hypothermia even if I hadn't already been sick---" But he didn’t finish. Another dreadful coughing fit suddenly latched onto him, wracking his entire frame. The sound echoed throughout the empty infirmary. When it finally ceased, Harry felt like he’d used up all the breath in his lungs. Everything — from his chest to throat — felt swollen and inflamed, making every breath feel like his lungs were wrapped in barbed wire.

 

Snape’s hand gently pushed down on his chest, guiding him to lie back. Harry didn’t fight it; he was exhausted. And the fact that the man probably wasn't too angry with him to offer such a gesture felt like a balm of its own… Snape tapped an empty glass sitting on the bedside table with the tip of his wand — a soft clink — and silently offered it to Harry. The Gryffindor gratefully accepted it with shaking hands. He didn’t argue when Snape simply plucked the glass of water out of them and pressed the glass to his lips.

 

Although belatedly, Snape's reply came more controled, more leveled. "I do not recall faulting you for it."

 

This time, swallowing hurt as if he were trying to force nails down his throat, though it ironically had little to do with his current state. Harry blinked several times. His eyes were burning. And he turned away, bitterly and in confusion.

 

"Then why are you here?" he croaked out, voice barely a whisper. "If you're not here to yell at me or dock points---"

 

"Do you truly believe that is why I am here?"

 

This made Harry turn back to look at the man. Not even the words themselves, but the rawness in his rasp. In the wand-lit darkness, they stared at each other for a long moment.

 

Harry's throat was very dry when he finally spoke. "I--- I don't know. Kinda why I'm alsking, no?" he laughed dryly. 

 

Snape watched his for a very long moment. So long, and so statuesquely, that he appeared to be in some sort of indicisive state. Like some kind of stupor; like he was weighing two impossible options, or caught between worlds. In the dim light of his wand, Snape looked like a man who hadn’t slept in weeks.

 

And when no answer seemed forthcoming, Harry gave up. Dissapointment filled him. He suddenly felt cold. Very cold. It wasn't the physical kind --- that was bearable. This kind of cold was visceral; one that seemed to isolate and puncture the gut with countless tiny needles. 

 

"Nevermind," Harry shook his head.

 

And Snape, completely out of the blue, switched the topic.

 

“When I called you foolish, I was mostly referring to the pneumonia you have successfully developed as a result of participating in the match,” he clipped.

 

And Harry really had nothing to say to that. Snape had merely stated the obvious (not that Harry was going to admit that out loud). He didn’t meet the man’s eyes. Couldn't bring himself to. He’d willingly accepted the potential consequences when he participated in the match, and now he was paying its price. Just as he’d said earlier: he’d taken on the responsibility of his actions. 

 

“I’m alive, though, aren’t I?” he said, shrugging his shoulders as his fingers fidgited with his blanket.

 

The sneer plastered on Snape’s face was palpable in the air. “Barely,” he snarled. He went quiet for a long moment, the silence as delicate as a spider weaving its cobweb. But then his voice changed. It was as if an anchor, or a mask, had finally given in, revealing an exterior laden with something raw and impotent. He sounded exhausted — like he hadn’t slept in days. “They were contemplating admitting you to St. Mungo's,” he said grimly, and this time though, it was more of a weak rasp.

 

A pebble sank in Harry’s ribcage. 

 

“... I’m sorry,” Harry said softly. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was apologizing for, but felt it necessary. Had the man been worried— that worried? 

 

Snape shook his head in Harry's periphery. He shut his eyes. “ Don’t .”

 

This time, his stomach dropped. Caved in.

 

Snape went on after a moment. He spoke slowly, as if struggling under some invisible weight.

 

“As per the incident — I… apologize on behalf of Mr. Harper. I did not assume — did not foresee such a transgression of behavior.”

 

The apology had Harry somewhat stumped. Of all things, it was the last he would have expected. It didn’t sound fitting.

 

“There’s no way you could have kn—”

 

Snape shook his head in what could only be self-condemnation. “I should have,” he hissed. He sounded like a man drowning in failure. “I should have forseen… It is by sheer luck that you survived that fall. You easily could have died . And I should have done more to protect you. I should have…” For once, the man appeared speechless. Defeated.

 

Nothing could have prepared Harry for such a confession; for such rawness, despondency in the man’s voice. It was always with the stoicism, the composure, — an unreadable mask… All of that seemed to have chipped away, revealing a side that Harry had only glimpsed a scarce-few times before.

 

“I… I don’t blame you,” Harry said carefully, blindly picking at his cuticles, “If I’m being honest, I don’t think that handshake before the match fooled anybody...”

 

—He had to hold back the inclination to barb at how the whole Slytherin House was like that, along with a whole selection of just what he thought of them. But he wasn’t so dumb as not to recognize that Snape was also a Slytherin. The Head, no less. And truthfully, it wasn’t the man’s fault. His hands were tied. Those circumstances…

 

It was all just circumstances.

 

Always circumstances.

 

“No, it did not,” Snape agreed finally — a heavy heave — exhaustion slurring his words. He dragged a hand through his lanky hair — a gesture Harry had grown to recognize as some form of unease. Guilt struck Harry’s conscience. 

 

A silence stretched between them; it felt like it was plugging Harry’s ears. He had to say something. Anything to puncture the tension.

 

“...Guess I really am the Boy-Who-Lived. I can’t seem to die.”

 

“Hilarious,” Snape drawled sardonically. “It seems your appellation never fails to precede you...”

 

“Well, the position does come with its perks. Still wouldn’t recommend it, though.”

 

Snape hummed distastefully, like he’d tasted something bitter. “I prefer mortality, thank you.”

 

Harry smiled. The air already felt lighter between them. Even Snape’s shoulders seemed to have relaxed a little, unless that was Harry’s imagination. And all it took was a few lines of banter. Alas, it didn’t last long. The pair lapsed into a minute silence, before Harry dared to speak again.

 

“What happened to me? After I hit that tower. Did I really fall all that way?”

 

“You would have,” Snape answered matter-of-factly, “had my spell not caught you. It reached you at the last moment but wasn’t enough to negate the impact entirely.”

 

Harry let out a small snort. “Guess you keep saving my life, huh, sir?” 

 

He regretted how dry it came out, though it was true. The man had been from his very first day at Hogwarts. Harry had never really appreciated it, but now, it felt something like a safety net. A sturdy one — one that he knew wouldn’t fail. Like a stable beam in a precarious foundation. The thought warmed him.

 

A bit more seriously, Harry said, “Thank you.” 

 

But Snape ignored the gratitude. “From what I have heard, you have several broken ribs and a sprained wrist.” Harry watched his eyes narrow at him, his glare darkening disapprovingly in the darkness — however that was possible. “Your sickness only complicates your state. It is a blasted miracle that you are alive. ”

 

Harry cringed. He was grateful for the night’s veil, as he was sure his face was burning from more than fever… He shrugged his shoulders lightly, looking down at his hands in his lap.

 

“We won though, didn’t we? I mean— I get that you’re not happy about that—”

 

“ —I do not care for the damn Quidditch match!” Snape hissed venomously. “Blast it all, Harry, you could have died . And I—” He sucked in a sharp breath, like the horrific thought had stolen it. A long, painful silence ensued. Harry thought he wouldn’t say anything. But then, in a brittle voice, barely audible, he said:

 

“I would have had to bury you.”

 

A void had vacuumed all sound, so much so that the snow pelting against the glass was rendered inaudible. Harry could hear the man’s elevated breathing, crashing with his own congested rasps.

 

“I…”

 

“ Your life ,” Snape continued, enunciating every word with crystal clarity, “Is worth more than Quidditch.”

 

“Because I’m the sacrificial lamb,” he couldn’t help interjecting stubbornly, throat closing up.

 

“Because there are people who care for you, you utter dunderhead . When will you get that through your thick head?”

 

Harry felt his eyes growing alarmingly hot. He wished the mattress would swallow him. He’d never heard those words, not from anyone. 

 

And he couldn't help wondering if the statement indirectly applied to Snape.

 

It really only now dawned on him that Snape didn’t have to sit here, at his bedside, in the middle of the night. Nothing was tying him to this place. He’d chosen to… to come, to stay .

 

Heat rose to Harry’s eyes. Even after that dispute, after he’d gone against Snape, even after the odd ends they’d closed yesterday with...

 

Snape was here. 

 

Present. In the middle of the night. Risking his cover. 

 

For Harry .

 

No one had ever been there for him like this. Mrs. Weasley had shown up when he’d landed in the infirmary after the third Triwizarding task, but that hadn't lasted more than an hour.

 

The amount of times he’d seen parents and relatives, visiting students in the infirmary, sitting at their bedsides, fussing over them, rebuking them… Harry had never had that. 

 

This realization struck Harry deeply. Like a wave crashing against the shore.

 

And he hated the guilt now warping his insides — why was he feeling guilt in the first place? Like he’d just committed a crime, and something was expected of him. This felt somehow worse than whenever the Dursleys had scolded him or he’d done wrong by them. 

 

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he croaked out, head hung and shamefully averted. 

 

“Neither do I,” came the simple answer. And it hung heavily between them. Just there. Just the blunt truth of it.

 

A silence fell over them. It wasn’t a tense silence, but it wasn’t a comfortable one either. It just felt like a construction blockade at the end of a tunnel. Harry fidgited with his fingers in his lap, mentally scrambling for something else to say. There seemed more that had to be said. It was this feeling of countless loose threads he had to tie. 

 

“You should rest,” spoke Snape again, realizing Harry’s fears, this time in a softer tone. 

 

“No,” Harry rasped, shaking his head. “I…” He met Snape’s dark eyes. Even that sight alone helped to ground him, and he fought for something to say to stall. 

 

There seemed to be so many things he wanted to say. 

 

But the words kept getting caught before they could ride up his throat. He wracked his mind for something — literally anything — to stall the man… That’s when he remembered:

 

“There’s something else I have to tell you. Malfoy, he wasn’t at the match. I couldn’t see him anywhere—”

 

“We will discuss this later.”

 

“He must have wanted to use the match as a distrac—”

 

“ Later , Harry .” Snape’s tone left no room for argument. Harry hated when Snape intoned his name like that.

 

Another silence, this one briefer. 

 

The soft tinkling of glass echoed, and in the next moment, Snape was pressing the mouth of a flask to Harry’s lips. “A fever-reducing draught,” he supplied.

 

It was a familiar scent, one of peppermint, something tangy, and a hint of something else that rang some distinct bells in his head. Tentatively, Harry swallowed, tilting his head back.

 

He realized his mistake almost immediately, when his eyes started to grow exceptionally heavy, anchors pulling down on them. He looked at Snape, accusation stinging his tone.

 

“Liar!” he rasped out, hacking out a cough. “You… spiked it!”

 

“I do not remember saying that I didn’t .” Snape’s answer echoed, calm, yet somewhat amused, growing increasingly distant in Harry's ears. Harry was struggling to keep himself leaning back on his elbows, and just then, a hand effortlessly pushed him down, rendering his efforts in vain.

 

“There is really no point fighting it. Rest.”

 

His eyes weighed almost too much to keep open. But in his last efforts, Harry was at least able to move his mouth.

 

“You should, too…”

 

Didn’t Snape have better things to do than sit here, in his miserable company, in the middle of the night? 

 

“Pr’fess’r, what are you doin’ here?”

 

The genuine question still sounded a bit rude for Harry’s liking. 

 

Snape visibly hesitated — or maybe it was the sedative that was stretching the time.

 

“I may leave, if you prefer—"

 

“No—!” Harry felt his fingertips brush against something like fabric when his hand blindly shot out. A surge of panic had quivered through him. He didn’t want the man to leave. Not yet. Not now.

 

He was half aware of the words emerging from his mouth. ‘Stay’ echoed in his mind — or maybe he was saying it out loud; he really didn’t know. Everything sounded muffled, a sloppy, grey slur. 

 

But the movement at his side stilled. Harry waited, his breath held, feeling the potion’s sedative creeping in around his consciousness like a spreading disease… 

 

“Alright.”

 

Snape resumed his seat. Harry didn’t know why — why the man would bother with his childish request. Or why it mattered so much that the man stayed. But he also privately relished his relief.

 

He could always blame it on his ill state.

 

Harry rested his head back down, feeling himself slipping deeper and deeper into unconsciousness. Some wild instinct was screaming at every cell in his body to resist it. Like he was forgetting something, like time was escaping him, sand running through his fingers.

 

“Sir?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“M’sorry. For getting angry at you. You were right. And I guess just… looking out for me…? And…”

 

“Concerned,” supplied Snape softly. Harry nearly missed it.

 

“Why?”

 

This time, Harry didn’t hear a reply. Maybe he’d really missed it this time, or there never was one, but he strained his ears to listen, feeling his mind growing foggier and foggier.

 

“Bed, Harry.”

 

A short silence befell them. Harry felt like he was wringing out the remnants of his consciousness at this point.

 

“Sir?”

 

Snape sighed, practically voicing the roll of his eyes. “You are incorrigible. What is it?” His tone carried no malice, however, which told Harry it was alright.

 

“About what I said earlier… about you acting like… a…”

 

…

 

“Like a what, Harry?” Severus inquired, much softer, despite the line — the answer — having been engraved in his head since the day before. He could feel his heart hammering — not nearly as much as it had been during the blasted match, but enough to produce an annoying lump in his throat.

 

Harry’s words were barely discernible now. They were more of an incoherent mumble. But Severus waited with uncharacteristic patience, his breath subconsciously held.

 

“...Y’know… I don’t mind.”

 

From that moment, hours may have passed that Severus sat there, unmoving, speechless in his own thoughts, just staring at the still, prone form — perhaps in awe — only aware of the evened-out rise and fall of his chest. His own ribcage constricted painfully at the recent memories, when he’d watched the thin body hit the ground…

 

He reached out, laid a hand over the boy’s clammy one, and gave the cold fingers a soft squeeze. Just to check his pulse. Wellness concerns.

 

But the warmth from the smaller hand released a tension in his chess, unraveled a knot. In that moment, he felt a surge of some unnamable emotion. In all his years, he’d never felt anything like it. 

 

Like a homeless man with only one prized possession that he wouldn’t sell for anything. 

 

Like he could murder anyone who dared lay a finger on this boy. 

 

Like he would move heaven and earth for him.

 

He sighed. “You will be the death of me.”

 

Notes:

Well, I sure hope you all enjoyed this chapter - personally, I loved writing it. Had been waiting to for ages. So glad it's finally out:D I decided to sweeten the first day of school a bit with this treat, so yeah:)

On that note: wanted to point out that school has officially started (duh), which means it's back to studies and tests and whatnot. This year and the coming are imperative for me, and I'm going to be VERY busy. That is not to say that I wont be writing or uploading - rest assured, I'm not going anywhere. Just saying that chapters are gonna take a longer while for me to write and edit. I think it's safe to say that the same goes for my beta reader, Val.

With that said, I hope you all had an amazing summer, and I wish you all luck in your studies. I also hope to hear your thoughts on this chapter in the comments - the amount of joy I get from reading them is immeasurable🥹 And thank you for all of your support!

See you in the next chapter!

Chapter 18: Digging For Memories

Early December, 1996.

 

“Concentrate on the flame.”

 

Harry surfaced from his trance. Again. And again, the Defense office registered with him as he blinked himself into it as if seeing it for the first time. The professor’s face swam into view, deeply lined in the candle’s amber glow.

 

“I am,” the lie slipped out, too easily. 

 

Snape raised a mocking eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “Obviously... Open book, remember?”

 

Harry couldn’t help the low, frustrated groan that slipped out. This was getting them absolutely nowhere — staring at a flame. Every minute that trickled by felt like another sliver of his memories of Sirius peeling away. Harry had waited long enough — this whole Legilimency thing that would allegedly bring back those memories had been put off too many times.  

 

And Harry was itching to finally see some progress, to start seeing results. The extraction elixir was going nowhere, if their latest attempt was anything to go by, and his memories of Sirius were only continuing to fade. To leave Harry. Gone; erased, with only smudged traces like dried chalk on a blackboard.

 

“ —We’ve been at this for at least an hour. Couldn’t we move on already, sir?” Harry pleaded.

 

Snape narrowed his eyes at him, those obsidian orbs that never failed to make Harry feel like they could swallow him whole. The man’s patience was running thin. It was blatantly obvious. But so was Harry’s. A mutual limbo.

 

“You are expecting a quick solution. An easy fix. I will disappoint you now: you will not find it. The mind is not a Muggle machine that can be mended in an instant. It is a muscle to be trained — yes, Potter, trained. Trained to obey.”

 

“I never said I thought this was going to be quick,” Harry groused out through a clenched jaw. “I just think we’re wasting time, sitting and staring at a candle.”

 

The man beheld him appraisingly, as if he were trying to assess if a potion had reached a certain stage. Harry had been expecting hell to pay for his less-than-dandy tone. 

 

And yet, this was another rare instance when he almost wished Snape would read him like a book — would realize his desperation so as to spare him the admittance…

 

Therefore, Snape’s following answer caught him by surprise.

 

“Very well.”

 

The man suddenly stood, brushing invisible dust off himself, and rounded his desk in one fluid movement. Harry’s eyes tracked the hand that reached into his other sleeve to brandish an ebony wand. The boy automatically straightened his posture against the back of his chair, a tangle of consternation sliding down his throat to line his intestine.

 

Here they were again: Snape towering over him, armed, and Harry in a chair, about to lay his mind bare before him.

 

It’s not like last year, he internally reasoned. Trust…

 

“Relax. Remember, your objective is to disarm your mental shields as much as possible. Your mind must not recognize me as an enemy or a potential threat, else it will try to shield your memories from me even more.”

 

“I know you’re not my enemy. And I’m not scared of you. Isn’t that enough?” Harry asked uncertainly.

 

Snape seemed to devote the question a second’s thought, pursing his lips ever so slightly. 

 

“We shall see… Prepare yourself.” The familiar ebony wand was drawn— raised— “Legilimens!”

 

Harry had only a second before the office was swallowed. He was watching flickers of memories, scenes and fragments of recent events, like a Muggle show on rewind. 

 

And again he felt intrusion. He had no control over anything, utterly lost in the cyclone that this presence was at the epicenter of, himself forgotten at the edge.

 

The memories continued to play backwards in chronological order, a tape rewind. 

 

Harry saw himself flying in the sleet and snow, the stands raging. A Slytherin player whizzed past him, missing him by an inch… The stands roared when a loud voice announced a goal scored by Gryffindor…

 

Ron sitting next to him in class, Snape towering over them with a sneer that could intimidate a full-grown wizard. Ron tapped Harry's foot with his own under the desk. Harry shoved it right back — just as his fist clenched around his quill at yet another bout of unfair vituperation.

 

A run-down neighborhood, ugly brick houses flanking the dark street. Harry struggled to balance the Invisibility Cloak on his head as he trudged after the dark-clad figure, hands laden with luggage… 

 

Uncle Vernon, his face purple and contorted with rage as he stood bellowing at Harry, gesticulating wildly with his finger between his nephew and the front door. He jabbed a meaty finger in his chest; Harry shoved his hand away, bellowing something back — the sound warped and muffled — that gave Vernon the appearance of a bull seeing red…

 

Like a stretched-out rubber band, the vision snapped. Harry felt himself getting sucked out, back into reality — back into the man’s office. He nearly lost his balance on the chair as his surroundings spun, his breath knocked out of him.

 

“Why— Why’d you stop?” he panted.

 

“You panicked.”

 

Harry looked up. Snape outwardly appeared undeterred, wand held at his side. 

 

“Did— Did I throw you out?”

 

“Hardly. I ended the connection. It would have been counterproductive of me to have tried to go any deeper. Your mind knows you wish to conceal certain memories, like that last one.”

 

“Well— sorry if I don’t fancy you seeing every detail of my life,” Harry retorted tartly.

 

No matter the circumstances, unimaginable shame and refusal burned in him at letting Snape see anything of the Dursleys. Hell, he didn’t want to have to see them. Why couldn’t it be those memories fading instead of ones of Sirius? Why couldn’t they just be buried somewhere deep, deep in his mind? 

 

And truthfully, at this point Harry wasn’t sure if he was more frustrated with himself or the fact that Snape was making it sound as if his mind were a human being.

 

Snape spoke again, in a more tentative tone.

 

“Why was your uncle shouting at you?”

 

Laughter drier than bark broke out of Harry. “Why wasn’t he?”

 

Snape didn’t look satisfied. Harry sighed. This was exactly what he’d feared — interrogation. Admittedly, this trepidation had been plaguing him all evening.

 

But he could sense there was little point in trying to skirt around the subject… too much.

 

“…Well, I think that time I may have breathed in a tad much of his air. You see, he usually wouldn’t take kindly to that.”

 

“I take it this was a common occurrence, then?” Snape inferred seriously. Harry shrugged.

 

“It would depend on his mood. But really, it was more the fact that I existed…”

 

“...what did he ever even do to you!?”

 

“...Well, it’s more the fact that he exists, Evans…”

 

And it seemed that memory — those words exactly — played out simultaneously between them, echoes engraved in both wizards’ memories. It was clear in the brief, void-like silence that stretched between them, in the tacit, unspoken words that connected their gaze.

 

It made Harry ponder, not for the first time, the irony of the things they had in common.

 

“I… I feel like I can’t really complain, though,” Harry felt the urge to say. “I mean— They really didn’t take me in of their own will. Dumbledore kinda forced my aunt. And— But they did take me in. Gave me food, a roof over my head. I can’t be ungrateful.”

 

“Said roof,” interposed Snape, his voice sounding like he was struggling to restrain his tongue, “had leaks and was a safety hazard. Do not delude yourself — you cannot honestly think that such neglect — pardon, abuse — is deserving of platitudes.”

 

That one word felt like a slap across his face.

 

“They—”

 

Snape shot to his feet, pressing his palms down on his desk. “I swear, if you do not constitute it as such, then I just might be Merlin himself.”

 

A ridiculous urge to laugh suddenly clogged Harry’s throat. The visual of the dark-clad man sporting a tall, pointy hat and long beard was quite something.

 

“I just don’t want to make a big deal out of it,” Harry said. “It’s not like it matters, anyway. Not anymore. It’s in the past. I think I’ve got bigger problems to worry about than not having had a dandy childhood.”

 

Snape thinned his lips. The man looked like he had an entire spiel clogging his throat, simply begging to burst forth — and Harry was already bracing himself to hear it… But nothing came. In a swift motion, Snape visibly deflated. And he changed the subject just as suddenly.

 

“Onceover: I had no choice but to withdraw from your mind because it felt threatened. In order for me to access your repressed memories, I must venture deeper. The older the memories, the more difficult they become to procure. For me to do that, your mind must not feel threatened to the need of repressing them farther—”

 

“I know!” Harry snapped. “I know.” He'd already heard this, not once. Snape was just paraphrasing at this point. It was like an itch that Harry couldn’t reach. Because he knew it; he knew his recurring fault. And it sat itching in his chest provocatively. He drummed his fingers on the armrest, clenching his jaw so hard that he thought his teeth might chip. 

 

Every tiny, intricate mishap, every contributing factor, was an additional droplet filling a bucket, the surface domed and threatening to spill over. It felt like control was slipping from Harry’s grasp — like sand through fingers, water through cloth. He could feel the frustration sizzling in his fingertips — he wanted something to explode, to hurl objects left and right as he had those silver trinkets that night in Dumbledore’s office…

 

But he couldn’t. And one look at Snape’s taut expression dispelled those thoughts as quickly as they had come. The man had still said nothing. Oh, but he looked less than pleased, his eyes growing narrower and lips stretching into a line surely as thin as his patience. 

 

The underlying message hung tacitly: ‘Know your place’.

 

Harry had to bite his tongue, quell his temper, not give the man any more reasons to show him the door. 

 

Because he could. Snape had every right to do so, after all he’d done for Harry, after the way Harry had just snapped; after Harry’s attitude… 

 

Harry hated this…this… guilt.

 

Or worse—

 

Debt.

 

Because what gave him the right to snap at the man in such a way? Yes, though it had been over a week since the quidditch incident, that particular memory still hung heavily at the forefront of Harry's mind. After Snape had sat at his bedside in the infirmary? When he was already wasting his time on this whole Legilimency thing — moreover when it concerned memories of Sirius Black? 

 

It still remained a mystery to Harry why the man was even bothering with him in the first place, let alone the recent infirmary scene. Because, yes, though it had been over a week since the quidditch incident, that particular memory still hung heavily at the forefront of Harry's mind. … 

 

And it felt like he was waging through knee-deep marshes of debt. 

 

Because nothing ever came free.

 

…”You should be grateful for the roof over your head, boy!”...

 

He owed Snape respect.

 

…”The likes of you belong in orphanages… Petunia and I were generous, taking you in. Went out of our own bloody way, we did.”…

 

He was practically waiting for Snape to remind him of it… Would he? Would the man exploit such leverage?

 

Harry closed his eyes for a moment and mentally counted from ten to reign in his bearings. He spoke again only when he felt calmer. 

 

“I know that,” he repeated. “Sorry. Just… you can’t expect me to be fine with you seeing all my memories.”

 

“I never said such a thing,” Snape replied, composed as ever. “You are here of your own will — you have agreed to this.”

 

And Harry knew that the man had a point.

 

He nodded. “Let’s go again.”

 

The resolution in his tone must have shown, for Snape drew his wand again.

 

“Legilimens!”

 

And again, Harry was plunged into his own chaotic mind. As before, memories started to play out before him, some lingering longer than others. Harry let them… tried to, at least.

 

Molly Weasley serving the tea at breakfast while Ginny and Fleur sat bickering over something insignificant. Harry, sitting beside Hermione, pouring himself some pumpkin juice, inconspicuously stealing glances at the redhead…

 

A dark room, lit by only a shaft of moonlight as Harry sat against the bedframe, knees drawn as he trembled. The door opened…

 

“ —Make it stop. Please…”

 

Snape standing in the foyer of the meticulous home before a lanky woman and rotund man…

 

“ —Fortunately, I have no desire to linger. Go fetch Potter; tell him to pack. He’s leaving with me…”

 

A dozen or so people — a small sea of red, blue, and yellow striped ties — were moving about a large room. Spells whizzed left and right as everyone echoed the same incantation, aiming at their opponent. Harry was weaving his way between them. He stopped by a Fourth-Year Hufflepuff boy to give him a pointer on his wand flick—

 

In the next moment, the room vanished, the walls of Snape’s office falling back into place. Harry looked up, confused, but Snape was already speaking.

 

“What was that last memory?”

 

It took Harry a brief moment to gather his thoughts.

 

“You mean that room?”

 

Harry was just plain stalling. He knew he was cornered. The thought of telling Snape about the Room of Requirement felt… wrong. After all, he and all those students had worked so hard to keep it a secret… But none of that mattered anymore. That line of thought was more of an impulse reaction.

 

“That’s where we would meet up — Dumbledore’s Army.”

 

He watched as Snape's eyes widened with intrigue. The man stroked his lips thoughtfully.

 

“Yes, I figured… I gather it was no ordinary classroom?“

 

Harry’s lips twitched, and he shook his head. “Nope. It’s a special room, appears to whoever needs it and adjusts itself to the seeker’s needs. Then it dissappears… It’s called the Room of Requirement. And it’s pretty much unplottable. Not many people know about it.”

 

“Of course,” the man mused. “The Headmaster did use such a term on several occasions. I… confess myself impressed at how long you’d managed to keep it concealed from Umbridge.”

 

Harry shrugged, shoulders and mouth. “Well, it wasn’t that hard when more than half the school hated her. Some just weren’t as dense as others and actually wanted to learn defense against the dark arts, for once.”

 

Snape smirked. “And whom better to consult than the Chosen One?” he drawled wryly, which Harry ignored.

 

“But the Room of Requirement did its job, though. Kept us hidden right under Umbridge's nose for a few months.”

 

“How did you discover the Room of Requirement?” Snape inquired again. 

 

“A house elf showed us. When we didn’t know where we would host those lessons, Dobby told us to check out the place by the painting of the three trolls doing ballet.”

 

“Ah, yes, on the seventh floor, unless I am mistaken?”

 

“Yeah, that one,” nodded Harry. A brief pause ensued while the man seemed lost in thought for a minute. Harry bounced his knee, wondering if Snape was going to ask more — or even to be taken there.

 

“Let us continue,” he said eventually. Harry, glad for the change of topic, didn’t protest.

 

And the wand was raised again.

 

A long, dark corridor stretched out before him — the Department of Mysteries. Harry was in the lead, wand held aloft, and five other people trailing closely behind him. They were his only anchor in that moment…

 

Ripples on the Great Lake’s surface. They lapped against each other alluringly. Harry’s stomach twisted in knots as he held the gillyweed in his fisted hand, feeling the slimy seaweed close to slipping out…

 

Luna, as she walked the forest floor barefoot. The ground emanated October’s cold, but the girl seemed unbothered. She hummed as she moved from one thestral to the other, kindly caressing their skeletal wings…

 

Harry standing over the sink, a tower of dishes piled for him to wash. The tap hissed while Harry vigorously scrubbed a porcelain plate.

 

This memory slowed down. The muffled sound in the background was slowly gaining clarity.

 

“ —I’m telling you now, you ungrateful freak,” Vernon’s voice jabbed from behind. “You ought to be grateful for the roof over your head. If it had been up to me, it would’a been straight to the orphanage with you—”

 

The plate shook in his hands. Water sloshed and sprayed.

 

“ —inconvenienve. First it was the voodoo tricks, then that ruddy Black criminal… Hmmf. See how your kind ends up? Kicked the bucket like your parents, didn’t he?”

 

A deafening crash. White shards rained down on the floor. Before Harry could register anything more, much less turn around, he was seeing stars. The blow had come with such unforeseeable force, that it had completely knocked him off his feet. Harry’s right cheek stung. He tasted iron—

 

NOOO!

 

And there was Snape’s office again. Static sizzled in Harry’s vision as he slowly came more to. He could feel his heart’s unrest, thrumming against his ribcage with familiar anxiety as if he’d just physically relived the memory. And maybe it was something mental at this point, but he could’ve sworn he tasted blood.

 

His head swivelled up in horror. Snape. Snape had just seen that. Snape, whose face appeared whiter than his usual pallor. His eyes bore something wild in them — like a Muggle who’d just seen a phantom.

 

Harry felt sick to his stomach. 

 

Unaware of his actions, Harry sprang to his feet. A hand caught his forearm as his own groped for the back of his chair for support. He jerked away from the man, whose expression looked stricken. 

 

“Harry—”

 

“Stop— Stop watching my memories like they’re some kind of show!” Harry exerted, feeling his sweater clinging grossly to his skin. Hearing Snape use his first name struck a chord in him.

 

Snape briefly pressed his lips together. “I am not. It is you who is subconsciously slowing down certain memories. I cannot compete for authority — it would only trigger your mind into a greater panic, therefore repressing its memories more so.”

 

Like a sandbag’s threads, fiber by fiber, Harry’s nerves tore. He kicked his chair’s leg. A horrible screech followed as it scraped the floor. 

 

“Aurgh! This is impossible!”

 

“No,” Snape intoned, his deep voice overriding Harry’s like thunder in a storm. “You lack self-discipline and patience.”

 

“Patience!?” Harry barked out. He could feel his face burning red. “Well, maybe I’m just tired of nothing ever happening!”

 

“Sit. Down.”

 

Harry stubbornly crossed his arms. “I’ll stand, thanks.”

 

Snape glared. They both did for a moment. The man was studying Harry closely again. 

 

“You are riding on your emotions. It will get you nowhere. This is precisely why you were supposed to properly occlude your mind before starting—”

 

“Occlude,” Harry interrupted, blinking in confusion. “You mean to tell me I was Occluding, back there with that candle?”

 

“The term is to be used loosely,” Snape corrected, sounding slightly less terse.

 

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

 

Snape poised a hand’s fingers on the polished desk, but he never broke eye contact with the younger wizard. 

 

“I thought a change of your perception might have… lowered the chances of your mind erecting mental shields subconsciously — given that you are, indubitably, prejudiced against Occlumency.”

 

Lies…

 

Deception…

 

“Briliant,” Harry ground out. “So is there anything else you’re not telling me, before we continue? Sir?”

 

Snape’s face closed off. He straightened up to full height, tilting his chin back a few degrees. “Foolish Gryffindor, with your cynical ways again. When will you get it through that thick skull of yours that I am not your enemy?”

 

The words struck something in Harry — that fragile chord again. He swallowed, but the disappointment at Snape’s statement lingered like a bitter aftertaste.

 

They were at it again — arguing.

 

Bloody hell, Harry, stuff a sock in it…

 

Despite the room already being quite warm, Harry rubbed his elbows for warmth. He wanted to take back his outburst, his words, his… Why couldn’t he do anything right? Why was he such a burden?

 

“I… I know that. That you’re not… my enemy. I’ve told you that,” he said timidly.

 

The older wizard hummed.

 

 “Sorry. I just don’t like you seeing all that stuff. About the Dursleys, I mean.”

 

Snape only replied after a few moments of silence, in a voice dry yet softer than Harry thought he deserved.

 

“So you’ve said… But I would be surprised if you did.”

 

Harry’s head shot up, jaw dropping wide in mock astonishment. “Right. Because I'm an arrogant, spoiled prince…”

 

For a change, now Snape appeared awkward, his shoulders as stiff as a hanger. 

 

“No, you are not… Suppose… An ill judgement on my part,” the man confessed slowly. He was looking at Harry with an emotion that the boy couldn’t quite decipher — almost like sorrow… guilt… remorse.

 

A clock’s hand chimed, an arrow piercing through the ethereal silence. Snape cleared his throat.

 

“Enough dawdling. Do you wish to continue?”

 

Harry nodded.

 

Snape slowly raised his wand…

 

It took four more rounds of memory carousels. Four more rounds of Harry watching random moments of his life — some which he’d long since forgotten about — play out before him. Some would whiz by before Harry could recognize them properly; some would slow to a lazy crawl before speeding up again. Harry wasn’t sure if it was his subconscious at play or Snape’s doing. He tried to keep a passive stance, tried his best not to panic whenever—

 

—“Boy! Where’s Dudley’s controller?”

 

“I don’t know,” Harry, thirteen, replied blankly, a wet mop held in his hand. Vernon scrutinized him through his pug-like eyes.

 

“Oh, really? Then what’s it you’re saying? It just grew wings and flew away?”

 

“Maybe,” Harry said, putting on a seriously genuine tone. “But how would I know? You hid my wand—”

 

His breath suddenly caught in his throat when the brute seized him by the scruff of his shirt, bringing his face inches from his own. The bitter scent of beer was the only thing separating the air between them.

 

“Ah. Decided to get ourselves a little payback, have we?”

 

Or…

 

A brute of a bulldog lay snarling at a small, scrawny boy of no more than eight from under his owner’s legs. Aunt Marge, in a large, plush armchair, remained unbothered.

 

“ —just as I was saying, the economy’s ton’s better out there in the countryside. My friend — oh, you surely remember him, Petunia, that short, pale one with that horrid cat — tells me her brother’s paying twice the rent she does— HEY!”

 

Harry had tripped over backwards when Ripper gave a particularly nasty, inciting snarl.

 

“You! What do you think you’re doing, bothering poor Ripper?” she snapped. Harry clumsily clambered to his knees, clumsily righting his taped glasses.

 

“I— I didn’t do—”

 

“Nasty little liar, you are,” the rotund woman drawled. She turned to Vernon and Petunia. “Of course, I don't blame either of you. There ain’t no hope with this one. Still think he ought to have gone to the orphanage.”

 

Vernon gave an uncomfortable chuckle. “Took him in out of our pure hearts’ good will, didn’t we, Pet?”

 

Another vicious snarl sounded through the room. Harry was slowly backing away now, the dog advancing… Then both bolted. Harry’s scream tore through the house as the dog’s barks thundered after. Somewhere in the background—

 

“Got to learn his lesson one way or another. Builds character…”

 

Minutes later found the Dursley lot outside, choking with laughter at the sight of their nephew clinging to a high tree branch for his life while Ripper stood guard, growling, below…

 

He and Snape surfaced from the memories. Harry thought of it as taking a plunge underwater, where each time one didn’t know what the depths held… 

 

Harry’s heart and head continued to pound with multiplying dread, again awaiting commentary interrogation.

 

He chanced a glance at Snape. He had that expression about himself again — the kind that suggested a thirst for murder in his bottomless eyes —

 

But Snape said nothing. Much to Harry’s relief. 

 

So they plunged again.

 

Harry was watching himself, Ron, and Hermione sitting in the Great Hall at breakfast, then himself doing his homework in the library…

 

And again.

 

Until finally—

 

They struck gold.

 

Harry felt his heart skip several beats, held in a chokehold. This new memory — it was initially blurred, muffled, rippling as though he were viewing it underwater. But as it dragged on, it was also gaining clarity.

 

“I want to go with you.”

 

Sirius was holding Harry by the shoulders, his handsome, dark eyes shining even under the cover of darkness. 

 

“One day, perhaps. For some time, my life will be too unpredictable. And besides, you're meant to be here.”

 

“But you're innocent.”

 

“And you know it.” He sat Harry down on a bench, kneeling before him. “And for now, that'll do. I expect you're tired of hearing this... but you look so like your father. Except your eyes. You have…”

 

“My mother's eyes.”

 

“It's cruel that I got to spend so much time with James and Lily, and you so little. But know this, the ones that love us never really leave us, and you can always find them…” 

 

He put his hand over memory-Harry's heart, and the touch was almost palpable to present-Harry: “...in here.”

 

That’s when something different happened. Harry felt a sort of mental tug. The memory was growing ever clearer now. Someone had caught it by the hook, reeling it in from the depths, closer to the surface. It kept growing closer, closer…

 

The connection ceased again. A hand caught Harry’s shoulder to stabilize him as his world spun. The first thing that registered with him was his hot, wet face. Harry tasted salt on his lips. He was shocked to find he’d been crying, and his chest was heaving as if he’d just run a lap around the Great Lake.

 

But none of that mattered. Nothing did except for the memory playing out in his mind’s eye. He could see it so clearly now: Sirius’ features, sagged and tired from starvation and Azkaban, but still radiating warmth and pride. His hair was a mess, both facial and on his head, and he had several wounds from the incident with Lupin in werewolf form…

 

But it was him. 

 

Fearing that the moment would flit away, Harry closed his eyes and tried to mentally grasp it, clutch onto the scene that he’d considered lost. He was powerless against the pressure in his chest, against the fresh wave of grief that had come as the cost. He’d almost forgotten its cold hands, constricting the air out of his lungs. 

 

He gave in. It was a stone press squeezing out streams of silent tears that flowed down his cheeks. They dripped down onto his hands limp in his lap, but were neither tears of joy nor sorrow. Because they were both.

 

A hand tentatively settled on his shoulder. The simple gesture fell over him like a warm blanket, one which the boy only wanted to pull tighter around himself, burying himself in its comfort from the cold… 

 

But he automatically shook his head — he didn’t even know why. He wiped at his face with the back of his sleeves — causing his glasses to ride up to his sticky forehead —

 

That's when he felt a serviette being proffered into his hand.

 

“Sorry,” he choked out thickly, trying to clear his throat. He had to pull himself together.

 

“Would you like a Calming Draught?” Snape inquired. His voice bore no judgement, no criticism. No condescension. And it made Harry look up.

 

“It— It worked,” he stated.

 

Snape, who was now sitting in a chair beside Harry (he must have recently conjured it), nodded. “You seem surprised... However, I advise we stop here. You are exhausted, in more ways than one. Admittedly, I am too. An attempt at procuring more memories would only hinder.”

 

Harry nodded in assent. He could feel his drying cheeks suffering from an embarrassed tingle, but he mustered up enough willpower to drag his gaze up to meet the dark, obsidian one. And with more reverence than he’d ever put into two single words, he said:

 

“Thank you.”

 

Snape looked uncomfortable again, like he was at a loss for what to do or say, how to reply… But maybe no reply was needed.

 

“I have brought that specific memory to the forefront of your mind,” Snape replied instead, “but it is not a permanent solution. It will continue to fade until your mind does not deem it an emotional threat.”

 

“But how do I… I dunno… do that? How do I convince myself that it’s not a bad memory?” The question sounded dumb, Harry mentally acknowledged.

 

The corner of Snape's lips twitched — almost imperceptibly. “I believe you just took the first step. Acknowledging the fact.”

 

“I… don’t think I quite understand, sir.”

 

“I suggest you think on it, in that case. Homework, if you will. Hopefully this time it will receive more effort from you… It is getting late,” Snape acknowledged, consulting a clock on his wall. “You ought to leave.”

 

“Uh, right. Yeah.”

 

Harry rose somewhat clumsily to his feet, grunting from the stiffness of the chair. He bent down for his school bag and swung it over his shoulder.

 

“Thanks— Thank you again, sir.”

 

He was almost past the threshold when Snape’s voice stopped him.

 

“Harry—”

 

Snape had stood from his desk and was filing through a drawer for a moment, only to withdraw… two sheets of parchment. New. Unstained by ink. Harry curiously approached. Snape raised his wand, and with an elegant, elaborate set of motions, incantated a string of Latin. Both parchments rose and briefly merged together before being torn apart again, and both pieces elegantly flew to settle on the surface again.

 

Snape took them and rounded his desk. With a flicker of hesitance, he handed one to Harry.

 

“Should you ever have need of me — in broad daylight or some ungodly hour of the night,” he spoke softly, meaningly, though something hidden in his undertone, “you need only write on this parchment. I will receive the message on mine, and likewise. The ink will vanish by itself a minute after it has been read.”

 

Standing there and gaping, Harry accepted the torn sheet. For just a moment, he saw not paper but glass, and his own reflection, in Sirius’ Two-Way mirror. 

 

Snape’s words remained an echo in his ears.

 

Familiar warmth filled him, but he didn’t let that override his critical thinking. Questions of integrity instantly flooded his thoughts — surely, the man wasn’t serious. He was exaggerating. Or this was his sarcasm at play…

 

“I can assure you, I am quite serious.”

 

“You’re reading my thoughts again!” Harry accused. Snape raised an eyebrow.

 

“When they are written across your incredulous face, it is rather difficult not to.”

 

Harry merely frowned. Another look at the parchment sobered him again. He really was at a loss for words for a good minute…

 

“I’ll… keep it in mind. Thank you, sir.” He offered him a small, tired smile. “Goodnight.”

 

“Goodnight, Harry.”

 

That night, both went to bed with the parchment either on their nightstand or under a pillow. Both were plagued with nightmares: ones of the revelatory visions of the day, and ones of a man adorned in prison garb.

 

Early December, 1996.

 

The Legilimency session turned out to be not the only excitement that week.

 

The topic of Gryffindor’s recent victory and Harry’s unfortunate Quidditch incident was, thankfully, drying out. Everyone seemed to be moving on. But Harry was still reeling over the fact that Ron and Lavender had kissed after the match. And Hermione… Well, she seemed rather stuck in that particular moment too, no matter how hard she tried to act otherwise.

 

Harry had found Hermione alone, sobbing on the stairwell of an unfrequented tower. Just when he’d thought things couldn't get any worse, Ron and his new girlfriend had showed up. Only to be chased away by Hermione's conjured-up canaries.

 

Ever since, Harry's two friends hadn’t so much as spared a glance at each other, let alone uttered a single phrase or word. Truly, it was worse than it had been in their Third or Fourth Year.

 

And both were tearing Harry apart, as if trying to win him over in a game of tug-of-war.

 

“What do you even find in Lavender?” Harry couldn't help asking one day at breakfast (Lavender was running late, so her ‘Won Won’ had a spare moment without her flogging presence).

 

“Well, she’s got nice skin. Y’know?”

 

Harry grew irritated, tightening his grip on his fork. 

 

“Thought you said that Hermione's got nice skin?”

 

His friend shrugged. Harry thought that a flicker of disappointment eclipsed his face. “Yeah, well… doesn’t mean that Lavender hasn’t got it, too.” He took a sip of his pumpkin juice and set it down with maybe a tad more force than necessary. “Look, I can’t help it if she’s got her knickers in a twist. What Lav and I have — well, let’s just say there was no stopping it. It’s chemical. Will it last? Who 

knows? Point is, I’m a free agent.” 

 

Later that same evening, he’d met Hermione at the library, impotently trailing her through the bookshelves.

 

“He’s at perfect liberty to kiss whomever he likes,” Hermione was ranting as she returned the books in her arms to their respective shelves. “I really couldn’t care less. Was I under the impression that he and I would be attending Slughorn’s Christmas party together? Yes. Of course, now, given the circumstances, I’ve had to make other arrangements…”

 

“Have you?” 

 

“Yes. Why?"

 

“I just thought, you know, since neither one of us can take who we’d really like... maybe we’d go together. As friends.” 

 

Hermione stopped, incredulity dawning on her face. “Why didn’t I think of that?” 

 

“So who are you taking?” Harry couldn't help prying.

 

“Um... it’s a surprise,” said Hermione evasively. “Besides, it’s you we need to worry about. And you can’t pick just anyone. See that girl over there—” she pointed to the other end of the library— “That’s Romilda Vane. Rumor has it she’s trying to slip you a love potion.”

 

“Really...?” Harry considered the girl for a moment. She was fine-boned and had raven hair. There wasn’t anything special about it. It wasn’t like the fiery color of Ginny's…

 

He hadn’t even realized he was staring before Hermione snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Hey! She’s only interested in you because she thinks you’re the Chosen One. You know that, right, Harry?”

 

Harry cocked a lofty smirk. “But I am the Chosen One—”

 

That landed him a slap on the head with a book. But even he had to admit that he’d had it coming.

 

“Okay. Kidding. I’ll just ask someone I like. Someone cool…”

 

Well — Harry had yet to find that ‘someone cool’. His dilemma persisted. He was very low on options. But in all honesty — half the time, his thoughts were far from such trivial worries… At least, trying to find a date for some silly party paled in comparison to the Daily Prophet’s headline one morning. One that had truly had everyone shaken:

 

‘MINISTRY ON HIGH ALERT: Massive Death Eater Breakout in Azkaban! DEMENTORS FLEE THEIR POSTS, Join He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!’

 

So, that was simply lovely.

 

Snape hadn’t been very eager to discuss the topic. Not that that was anything to discuss. It had been inevitable.

 

But that had been several days ago. And now, on Friday morning, Harry was ducking his way into Charms Class, over five minutes late because Lavender Brown had held him up, asking if he knew why Ron was suddenly ‘avoiding’ her. Harry had told her that he hadn’t the slightest clue and that maybe — being his girlfriend — she should ask him herself.

 

“Ah! Potter,” exclaimed the stout professor, seen at his high desk at the front of the classroom. “About time.”

 

Harry ignored the heads that were now staring at him. “Sorry, Professor. Got held up,” he said as he slipped into the only empty seat available — perfectly next to Hermione.

 

“Well, then, off to work! We’re turning vinegar into wine. You have your goblet ready right there in front of you. And mind you, this will be on next week’s test!”

 

The minute the tiny professor turned away, Hermione leaned over to him and whispered in his ear, as if she’d been holding the news in for ages and it was simply begging to burst from her.

 

Ginny and Dean split up, Harry.” 

 

Harry thought there was a rather knowing look in her eye as she told him that, but she could not possibly know that his insides were suddenly dancing the conga. Keeping his face as immobile and his voice as indifferent as he could, he asked, “R— Really? How come?” 

 

“Oh, something really silly . . . She said he was always trying to help her through the portrait hole, like she couldn’t climb in herself . . . but they’ve been a bit rocky for ages.” 

 

Harry glanced over at Dean on the other side of the classroom. He certainly looked unhappy. 

 

“Of course, this puts you in a bit of a dilemma, doesn’t it?” said Hermione. 

 

“Whatever d’you mean?” said Harry quickly. Too quickly, bloody he—

 

“The Quidditch team,” said Hermione. “If Ginny and Dean aren’t speaking . . .”

 

Oh. “Oh — oh yeah,” said Harry. 

 

Their conversation died when both spotted the tiny little Charms master bobbing his way toward them, and Hermione was the only one who had managed to turn vinegar into wine; her glass flask was full of deep crimson liquid, whereas the contents of Harry’s was still murky brown. Flitwick commented on their progress, but his words fell on death ears. 

 

She’s Ron’s sister. 

 

But she’s ditched Dean! 

 

She’s still Ron’s sister. 

 

I’m his best mate! 

 

That’ll make it worse. 

 

If I talked to him first — 

 

He’d hit you. 

 

What if I don’t care? 

 

He’s your best mate!

 

Harry had to struggle through the rest of the day — and that night — with this mental tug-of-war.

Notes:

Hellooo! Well, apologies for the long wait, but here it is:) Another chapter. School's hectic. Crazy amount of stuff going on. Struggling with balance, so pretty much the only time I have to write is before bed🫠

But, uhh, on a different note, I've just finished mapping out the rest of this story. All in all, there's going to be +- 40 chapters, so we have another 20-ish to go... GRRRRRR YESSS I've started to write the chapters ive been most looking forward to!!!! Oh, man, things are getting crazy wild. Gonna be swimming in that angst, I tell ya.

Ah- and: I think it's safe to say that this will be my last big fic project, because next year is my final exams year, and I am simply not going to have the time to dedicate to a big project such as this, especially since I will have to switch to speaking more of the foreign language I'm painstakingly studying, and writing in English won't really help.

(tbh idk who needed that info. That was just me ranting out my problems again. Sue me.)

Anyways, thank you all so much for your huge support - I love and appreciate each and every single one of you and your comments. They never fail to make my heart absolutely melt. It makes me so happy to know that so many people are enjoying my writing and this story!!!!

Also just wanted to mention that very recently Two Weeks hit 100000 hits, which is simply INSANE TO ME. And now, as of this chapter, The Path Chosen has reached over 100000 words. Crazy numbers, so crazy (thank youu all SO MUCH, I'm literally so ecstatic that my writing has gained so many hits:DDDDD)

Hope you've enjoyed this new chapter, share your thoughts, and until the next chapter 😊(cough* don't ask me when, cough*)

*psst - follow my tumblr for progress updates

Chapter 19: First Priority

Early December, 1996.

 

“I think that will do.”

 

The weightless feeling of soaring through darkness washed over Harry, and moments later, he and Dumbledore were back in the circular office. Before them, the contents of the pensieve swirled and glimmered majestically. Harry thought that it ironically belied the memories it held. Like afterimages, the memories he’d just seen clung to his retinas.

 

“Sit down,” invited Dumbledore. Harry obeyed, choosing his usual seat in front of Dumbledore's large desk. The man was last to sit, his every movement careful and slow. Harry’s gaze was again drawn to his withered hand — he had yet to discover what had caused it. 

 

“He believed it much quicker than I did — I mean, when you told him he was a wizard,” said Harry, thinking of Tom Riddle. “I didn’t believe Hagrid at first, when he told me.”

 

“Yes, Riddle was perfectly ready to believe that he was — to use his word — ‘special,’” said Dumbledore.

 

“Did you know — then?” asked Harry.

 

“Did I know that I had just met the most dangerous Dark wizard of all time?” said Dumbledore. “No, I had no idea that he was to grow up to be what he is. Had I…” 

 

Dumbledore faltered, his expression troubled. A small shiver raced down Harry’s spine. He glanced over at the Pensieve, where young Tom Riddle’s fragmented face still floated on the surface…

 

“However, I was certainly intrigued by him. I returned to Hogwarts intending to keep an eye upon him, something I should have done in any case, given that he was alone and friendless, but which, already, I felt I ought to do for others’ sake as much as his. 

 

“His powers, as you heard, were surprisingly well-developed for such a young wizard and — most interestingly and ominously of all — he had already discovered that he had some measure of control over them and begun to use them consciously. And as you saw, they were not the random experiments typical of young wizards: He was already using magic against other people, to frighten, to punish, to control. The little stories of the strangled rabbit and the young boy and girl he lured into a cave were most suggestive. . . . ‘I can make them hurt if I want to. . . ’”

 

“And he was a Parselmouth,” interjected Harry. 

 

“Yes, indeed: a rare ability.”

 

Dumbledore stood and paced over to one of the dark, high windows overlooking the Scottish highlands.

 

“Over time, while here at Hogwarts,” he continued, “Tom Riddle grew close to one particular teacher. Can you guess which teacher that might be?”

 

Harry pondered over this for a lengthy moment. He had a hunch. A strong one. Suddenly, everything clicked.

 

“You didn’t bring Professor Slughorn back simply to teach Potions, did you, sir?” He inferred slowly. 

 

“No. I did not. You see, Professor Slughorn possesses something I desire very dearly. And he will not part with it easily…” He eyed Harry knowingly. “I’d rather not divulge any more just yet, Harry. But I promise in time you will know everything.”

 

“...You said Professor Slughorn would try to collect me…” Harry remembered. 

 

“I did.”

 

Harry clenched his fists to keep his voice even.

 

“Do you want me to let him?” 

 

He watched Dumbledore trail his ashen fingers on the surface of the Pensieve, vanquishing young Tom Riddle’s face. He said only one word, simple and blunt.

 

“Yes.”

 

That word held the silence, strung for a minute.

 

“Ah. Time is making fools of us again,” acknowledged Dumbledore, indicating the dark sky beyond the windows. “But before we part — I hope you are not too sleepy to pay attention to this, Harry — the young Tom Riddle liked to collect trophies. You saw the box of stolen articles he had hidden in his room. These were taken from victims of his bullying behavior, souvenirs, if you will, of particularly unpleasant bits of magic. Bear in mind this magpie-like tendency, for this, particularly, will be important later.”

 

Harry nodded thoughtfully, already on his feet. Dumbledore smiled benevolently at him.

 

“And now, it really is time for bed.” 

 

Harry descended the moving stairs, his feet entrancing him in their quick, monotonous steps. His head felt too heavy for his shoulders. His and Dumbledore’s conversation and trip down memory lane had his mind reeling with information, mulling it over like a grain of sand in an oyster.

 

The only other time he’d ever seen a younger Voldemort — a younger Tom Riddle — was in his Second Year in the Chamber of Secrets. But that memory couldn’t compare to seeing the boy as a child, in an orphanage no less.

 

It seemed the more Harry looked into it, the more similarities he could make out between himself and Voldemort — nay, the younger one. Both had grown up without parents, both never knowing about the Wizarding World until someone came to personally take them. And both were Parselmouths.

 

That sum-up made the castle’s chill seep in a little deeper into Harry’s skin.

 

Then he thought back to Dumbledore's most recent words — about young Voldemort's collector habits. Harry still wasn’t sure what to make of that or why it was important. But it had something to do with Slughorn… And Dumbledore was indirectly asking Harry to find out what.

 

Harry was just thinking about Snape’s reaction to all of this new information when his ears piqued at a humming sound. Then soft footfalls. He barely had time to register this before a familiar face rounded a corner, nearly running into him in the process.

 

“Oh, Hello, Harry,” said Luna cheerily. She was wearing a heavy cloak around her shoulders, decorated in its usual hand-painted sunflowers and — clearly more recent — mud. A few twigs were peeking out of her long, blonde hair, but the girl was either unperturbed by them or simply unaware. “What brings you here?”

 

“Hey, Luna. Uh, I was just on my way to Gryffindor Tower. What ’bout you?”

 

Luna smiled. “I’m just returning from Hagrid’s. He wants me to give Professor McGonagall this letter—” She held up an envelope with a messy wax seal. 

 

“Oh. Well, by all means, then, come along,” Harry invited, and the pair set off down the corridor. A moment later, Harry asked, “Wait, why wouldn’t Hagrid just use an owl?”

 

“He didn’t want to. You might have heard that many have come down with Bugwaddler’s Flu. He doesn’t want to trouble them.” The girl frowned. 

 

“Oh… Guess I should probably keep Hedwig out of the Owlery for a while, huh?” A twinge of guilt bit Harry. It had been a while since he’d sent Hedwig out to deliver any letters. He didn’t exactly have anyone to write to — with Sirius gone, realistically there was only Remus left, but the last that Harry had heard, he was on a mission with the werewolves. Correspondence would be risky. He was hoping to see him over the holidays.

 

“So you’re delivering a letter for Hagrid,” Harry continued. They were passing an armor stand trying to brush dust off of himself. “… It’s a bit late, though, isn’t it?” Harry asked. “Curfew’s in, I think, ten minutes.”

 

“I don’t mind,” shrugged Luna, her tone mild. “I enjoy helping out Hagrid. He’s been busy. And a bit sad lately...”

 

That really struck the guilt chord in Harry, despite the fact that he, Ron, and Hermione had smoothed things out with Hagrid about them having chosen not to do Care for Magical Creatures NEWTs.

 

“What were you two doing?” he asked, trying to somehow diffuse the hot air around himself. 

 

“We helped deliver a thestralette.”

 

“A— What?”

 

“A thestralette,” repeated Luna, smiling brightly. “It’s a baby thestral. A shame you weren’t there; it was rather interesting."

 

“Oh… Well, I mean— that’s brilliant, Luna. Er… congratulations?”

 

“There is another thestralette coming," Luna continued, “and Hagrid says it should be born any day now. Would you like to come see?”

 

Thestrals…

 

Harry subconsciously rubbed the back of his neck as he stalled his answer. That answer, simply put, was ‘no’. Maybe if he didn't have about a hundred other worries on his mind.

 

But he also didn’t want to hurt Luna's feelings or seem inconsiderate. But on top of Moody’s lessons, quidditch practice, Dumbledore's meetings, classes, homework, and his ‘detentions’ with Snape — this was really the last thing he needed.

 

Luna, however, seemed to have read through the silence. “That’s alright, Harry. You don’t have to come up with an excuse not to.”

 

Harry felt his cheeks prickle with red. “I wasn’t… That’s not what I…”

 

They had reached a fork, one way leading to Gryffindor Tower, the other to McGonagall’s office. Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that he was forgetting something. Like it was right on the tip of his tongue, but for the life of him, he didn’t know what.

 

“Really, Harry, it is quite alright. But I’m sure Hagrid will want to show them in one of his lessons, so maybe you could pop in if you have a window?”

 

“Oh, definitely,” said Harry brightly. “Yeah, uhh, I’ll also tell Hermione. Maybe Ron will want to come, too.” Although he highly doubted that last part, given that, lately, Ron and Hermione couldn’t be found being in the same room for longer than absolutely necessary.

 

Luna smiled. “Well, goodnight, then, Harry. I hope you have very normal dreams.”

 

Harry laughed. “No ‘sweet dreams’?”

 

The girl paused, thinking. “I’m afraid you can’t taste dreams, Harry," she said seriously, as if she had just diagnosed him with some disease.

 

“Err, no, you can’t. I guess you’re right. ” Harry grinned. He appreciated Luna for this — the lightness he felt around her. “See you, then.”

 

Both set off in different directions, but Harry didn’t make it more than ten steps before a thought occurred to him out of the blue.

 

“Wait— Luna!”

 

The Ravenclaw stopped and turned around, eyes curious. Harry jogged up to her.

 

“I was, uh, wondering… Well, it’s a bit of a strange question, really.”

 

Luna was looking at him with large, inquisitive eyes. “That’s alright, Harry. I enjoy strange questions.”

 

“Alright. Well, you mentioned the Thestrals… Do you know why thestrals cry? Or rather, when? I mean, I know it sounds a bit stupid…”

 

“There can be many reasons,” mused Luna dreamily, as if she were discussing the many kinds of Berty Bott’s every flavor beans. But to Harry’s relief, she didn’t appear to think the question was stupid. “Thestrals aren’t so different from humans, you know. They have feelings, too.”

 

“Well, yeah, but…”

 

“But that’s not what you meant,” filled in Luna. She looked at him strangely, blue eyes quite unreadable. Harry noticed that her gaze had wandered up to his bangs, where his scar was concealed, but only lingered there for a beat. She continued talking after a moment, and Harry fell into step with her.

 

“There is a small forest my mum was very fond of, close to our house. She would pick muzzlefuzz berries there. I remember going with her many times. She introduced me to some thestrals there, though I could not see them at the time. They had taken quite a liking to her…” Her smile faded a little. “One time, Mum told me one of the thestrals was crying. She collected its tears for her brewing experiments… But she died a month later.”

 

Her words left silence in her wake as the Ravenclaw slowly started walking down the corridor, and it took Harry a full minute to process what she’d just said before he could catch up to her. He chose his next words very carefully.

 

“I’m… sorry to hear that,” Harry sympathized. “And… you don’t think that was a coincidence,” he rather inferred than asked.

 

“At first I did,” Luna answered, keeping the same tone. “But Mum started collecting thestral tears more frequently throughout that month. Dad seemed really upset when he found out. I thought it was curious.”

 

“And…” Harry first had to swallow, “Why d’you reckon that is?”

 

The girl stopped. Looked at him. “I would say it’s quite obvious. Thestrals can sense death,” she replied, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “They grieve those who they feel are going to die soon.”

 

It felt as if a church bell had knelled, somewhere far and distant, yet still echoing through Harry’s chest with gnawing dread.

 

“Oh,” Harry said numbly, his mouth gone dry. It was all he could manage. His mind was reeling — everything had finally fallen into place, the missing puzzle pieces. And it all made such perfect sense… 

 

How could he have been so blind?

 

The thestrals could sense death. His death. He was going to die soon. Because of the prophecy. Because in the end, none of Snape's attempts at extracting that fragment out of Harry would prove fruitful. 

 

It was all just a pointless endeavor.

 

And Snape knew this — had known this since that night in the forest. Harry understood it all now: his deathly pallor, features horror-struck as if he’d just witnessed something indescribable.

 

Snape knew.

 

The realization sent a chilling shiver down his spine, gliding down in numbing shock.

 

And yet, the man had still persevered with the elixir — still was persevering. Despite the fact that Harry's fate lay sealed, despite the fact that he knew that he would fail, regardless.

 

There was no survival for him. No chance. He was to be used — a mere pawn, nothing more, nothing less. 

 

Harry found himself so shell-shocked that his mind felt separated from his body. He couldn’t move for several dumb moments, while Luna stood there, looking at him with concern. 

 

“Are you alright, Harry? You look ill. It might be the Wrackspurts again… ”

 

Harry felt ill.

 

“Err— Sorry. Gotta go…” he mumbled, the words coming out slurred. He passed Luna before the girl could reply.  

 

His journey up to Gryffindor Tower was a blur. He might have passed Seamus and Neville on his way up, but he wouldn’t know. His feet felt oddly disconnected from his body, and his body from his mind.

 

Harry later lay in bed. His head felt like a whirlpool that was touching down into the very depths of the dark abyss that was his thoughts. Every detail of his and Luna’s earlier conversation kept replaying like a mantra, then that night with the crying thestral.

 

So, that was it — he was going to die.

 

This was the end — it was determined.

 

Prophesied. 

 

With no confusing interpretations, without even a single word spoken, the thestral had solved the puzzle.

 

Harry was destined to die. 

 

In the end, he would be the one murdered. 

 

And, honestly, Harry didn’t know if it was better or worse than being the murderer.

 

He felt ants of tension crawling through his body, tingling in his hands, fingers, feet, and chest — he wasn’t covered by a blanket but by a veil of restlessness. Anxiety. Fear. Impotent fear. It twitched in him. He wanted to scream it out of his lungs, to hurl something in the room — to hear it shatter, clatter to the floor in tiny fragments—

 

But he lay still. Perfectly still. 

 

He felt… tired.

 

No… He felt exhausted. 

 

Mentally exhausted, but it felt physical too. He was tired of the false hope, tired of not living, but surviving. Tired of everything: Voldemort, the elixir, the constant, gnawing thought that he was contaminated with a fragment of that— that monster.

 

He was tired of everything.

 

And eventually, Harry felt a shift. That weight in his chest, cold and heavy, simply dissolved. Not into peace, but resignation. Indifference. Numb indifference.

 

Because what was there that he could do? Worry? About what, a fate that was already sealed? 

 

It went without saying that Harry didn’t sleep that night.

 

Or the next.

 

Or for the rest of that week.

 

He attended classes, ate his three meals with his friends, and laughed and smiled when expected to. He and Snape were no longer meeting up for those Legilimency sessions to retrieve memories of Sirius. Harry just started lying, claiming that his memories were coming back to him naturally. Snape seemed hesitant to believe him but didn’t question it. And that was fine by Harry. He couldn’t risk Snape discovering that he now knew about the thestrals. 

 

One part of him was practically begging to confront the man about it, to question everything he’d been told, to rage in fury and grief at him—

 

But he didn’t. He didn’t want to have that conversation — about his imminent death. He didn’t want to stir up this whole mess. So he didn’t. 

 

He stayed silent. And away. As far away as possible. 

 

Fortunately, Snape had yet to tell him to stay after class or assign him detention for the purpose of that fragment-extraction elixir. Harry was more than fine with that. 

 

These days, he couldn’t bring himself to look the man in the eye for more than a few seconds. 

 

Harry hated Snape. Hated him with a burning fire for concealing the truth from him— the whole point of their conspiracy against Dumbledore to begin with.

 

Lies. All lies. 

 

Why, if Snape already knew Harry's fate, was he still bothering with the elixir?

 

By his fifth night of mulling over this, Harry no longer wanted to punch his pillow — he wanted to tear it. Insomnia had bespelled him. Then again, it was better than the nightmares that had returned to plague him all anew. None of Snape’s dumb Calming Draughts were of any use anymore.

 

Pointless. 

 

Hollow.

 

As hollow as the empty flasks and vials stashed under Harry’s bed. He’d been having to resort to the old-fashioned method — silencing charms. And thanks to the Half-Blood Prince, he now knew Muffliato.

 

He couldn’t help but wonder if he and this mysterious ‘Prince’ had more in common than he’d ever dared to imagine.

 

The spell was dead useful for whenever he awoke from recurring nightmares, feeling like he was being strangled in his sleep.

 

And so he would count the hours go by.

 

Sometimes, he would wake in a cold sweat.

 

Other times, sleep wouldn’t claim him until the very early hours of the morning.

 

Some days, he would fall asleep in class.

 

Other days, his magic would hitch. In the most inconvenient ways. One time, he called in sick so as not to attend Moody’s training session.

 

But none of those nights could compare to what this last night held in store… 

 

~***~

 

There was no horizon line here; no end. The ground, lifeless soil and rock, appeared to stretch on endlessly, blurring with the fog that bled from the grey sky. Rows stretched. Their graves were far from equidistant. It was a chaotic disorder that seemed to hold no promise of peace for the resting. 

 

And Harry found himself climbing to his feet in its midst. 

 

He could smell something foul, something that did not belong to either the dead or the living. It smelled of promise. A promise for blood.

 

He shivered, a chill passing through him that seeped its razor-like teeth deep into his bones. There was not another soul in sight save for his…

 

But not a moment later was he proven horribly wrong.

 

His entire body froze. He rather sensed than heard a presence slithering up behind him. Slowly, he turned. 

 

Nagini.

 

He somehow knew she’d come alone.

 

But rather than even so much as acknowledging his presence, the giant snake glided right past him. And although Harry couldn’t explain this tug in him, urging him to follow, he listened to it anyway.

 

They traversed the dead grounds for an unknown stretch of time. Time… it seemed non-existent here… 

 

Finally, they reached a place of familiarity. Every pebble, every chipped brick here… Harry knew it all. This clearing, the eroded statue set in the middle. 

 

Before he could comprehend anything else — the snake suddenly lunged. Harry couldn’t have done anything, so unexpected it had come. But he felt no pain. Only in the next moment, the ground was closer, chafing against his skin… his scales. In his periphery, he saw himself — his human-self. He, Harry, was standing when he’d been before the snake had lunged, still looking around himself.

 

But that wasn’t Harry — because consciously, Harry was down here. And he was moving. Not of his own accord, no. He was moving towards a smell. A smell of flesh.

 

He slithered around the statue. Slowly, patiently. When he rounded it, there lay a body. Alive but unconscious. It was—

 

“Sirius!” cried out Harry — the other one. The one still on his two feet, beholding the sight in shock. He made to run towards Sirius, but chains appeared out of nowhere. Like a ragdoll’s, the boy’s body was shackled to a tall headstone. 

 

Nagini-Harry began slithering closer to Sirius. Dread pooled in his stomach, pushed up acidic bile to his throat. He tried to resist, but his efforts were in vain.

 

He didn’t wait — he struck without mercy. His fangs sank through fabric then something more solid. He pulled away. Sirius’ face — as dirty and unshaven as the night he’d been rescued by the trio — flashed in his vision. But then it morphed. Now it was Cedric’s.

 

He struck again. And again. He wanted to scream; every cell of the reptile’s body wasn’t his, and yet all were screaming for him to stop. But he didn’t. He was thirsty. And fulfilling this thirst was addictive.

 

So he lunged again…. Warm, wet. The ground was no longer parched—

 

Just when Harry felt like he would lose his mind, the scene vanished. Instead, he was now slithering across marble, down a dimly-lit corridor of black tile and Ministry of Magic banners. He continued down this way for a minute. The place was unfamiliar to him, and yet the scent he was following was all the directions he needed…

 

At last, he’d arrived. The office door stood slightly ajar. Harry slithering in, silent as a ghost. There, a man stood behind his desk, shrugging on his heavy winter cloak, his briefcase propped up against his leg.

 

Then, he stilled. Harry knew that he knew. Slowly, the man turned, a worker no older than fifty. Only a flicker of fear managed to widen his eyes before Harry lunged again.

 

His victim screamed, hollered, and tried to reach for his wand—

 

Harry eventually managed to tear through the layers of fabric of sleep. Hot tears were streaming down his face. It was stifling hot — too hot for winter. His chest was heaving up and down uncontrollably as though he’d just run a marathon, his shirt drenched in something cold and sticky and clinging to his skin. The darkness around him was spinning; the lack of oxygen was starving his lungs of breath.

 

He was scared, terrified. Anxiety was eroding his gut like hungry waters engulfing sea rocks. He felt it churning. Panic kept washing over him in waves of sweat that made him feel like he was about to sick up. It was that feeling again: that fear, that discomfort, which had come to haunt him anew.

 

His nightmare’s imagery flashed in his mind again — another wave of nausea making his insides do a somersault. He disconnectedly glanced around himself in a frenzy. All was quiet in the dorm; not another sound apart from the ones he was making to be heard. 

 

So the Muffliato spell was still working.

 

Harry swallowed painfully with his dry throat and straightened himself a bit. He discoordinately untangled his bedcovers from around his legs…

 

…Nagini, curling and looping its long body around Sirius’. The man’s face morphing into Cedric’s, then Remus’... Harry striked again— …

 

A breath suddenly hitched in his throat. Harry wanted to light his wand, but he couldn’t risk waking the others. But he couldn’t stand the darkness either. He needed a distraction. He had to regain control of himself.

 

Mustering up whatever willpower he could, Harry forced himself to draw in a long, deep breath. The exertion came out as a shudder, but he persisted. Shivers were still coursing up and down his arms and legs like tiny ants.

 

Breath after breath, his chest gradually began rising and falling more evenly. The wait felt torturous. He continued to follow the mantra in his head, a voice telling him to breathe, following a steady sequence…

 

But it wasn’t enough. The panic continued to spread like some untamable disease. Mounting and mounting, to the point where it felt like he was swallowing down poison.

 

It had been a vision. The first part might have been a nightmare sent from hell, but the second part — that had definitely been a vision.

 

He had to warn. He didn’t know whom, but someone. Anyone. 

 

Before Harry could give it any measure of thought, he was already stumbling over his pooled blankets and turned-over trunk contents lying strewn on the floor, fumbling with his glasses to sit on his face. He didn't even bother with his wand. It didn’t matter. 

 

He made it down to the darkened common room, then out into the corridor outside, lit only by the moonlight filtering through the towering arcade windows.

 

McGonagall’s office was up the moving stairs on his right. The dungeons were down, on his left. Beyond all logical reasoning, his feet turned left.

 

The chill of the descent sank its teeth deeper into Harry's skin than usual. Portraits grumbled as he rushed past them, heart hammering, adrenaline the only thing propelling his legs.

 

Warn. Snake. Vision. Not again. Please. Not again. Voldemort. Have to warn…

 

By the time he reached the dungeons, he felt as though his lungs would tear themselves apart at any moment. Nausea kept threatening to bounce up too high in his throat to keep down, but he swallowed down the bile. Harry deliberately continued down one long corridor and a short flight of steps in the direction of the Snake den.

 

Until Harry finally stopped at the portrait of Salazar Slytherin. 

 

There was no door to knock on. It was right at that moment that Salazar’s painted figure jolted awake, and his sharp eyes narrowed at Harry.

 

“Well, well, another mischief-maker, ey? And then Slytherins get all the blame… What’re you doing here at this ungodly hour?”

 

Harry’s breathing was still haggard. He was just barely keeping himself together. The forced self-control was backfiring into even more nausea.

 

“I— I need to see him. Snape.”

 

“That’s Professor to you, insolent boy!” 

 

Boy…

 

His uncle’s face struck him in his mind, and it gave his stomach a painful lurch. That was not an image he needed right now.

“You don’t understand— I need…” 

 

Needy… 

 

“I want…” 

 

Spoiled… 

 

“Well, spit it out, boy. I haven’t got all night—”

 

“It’s urgent!” Harry cried out. He gritted his teeth against the cold, shaking now from the effort it took not to choke on his words. “Please.”

 

The desperation in his voice must have shown, for Salazar’s figure rolled its eyes just before it disappeared from view.

 

A thick, void-like silence settled. Harry wound his arms tighter around his torso. It felt too hard to breathe. The dungeons didn’t have enough oxygen. He continued to shiver with cold sweat, close to wishing he’d simply pass out…

 

After what felt like too long, the latch of a door echoed, and then the portrait hole was swung open. Faint, warm light colored the dark corridor — Harry had to squint… And then, there Snape’s tall, dark silhouette stood: grey pajamas, hair haggard, but his stance battle-ready, wand already clutched securely in one hand.

 

Severus beheld the sight of Harry with pooling worry. The boy’s eyes were red-rimmed but not crying. The dark circles under them looked like bruises. His face was pale — too pale. The kind one would expect from a Muggle who’d just seen a ghost.

 

Panic attack.

 

Harry’s breath hitched.

 

“Ha—”

 

“V— Vision,” Harry blurted, shivering, his breathing visibly accelerating. 

 

Nothing more needed to be said. Snape was already reaching for Harry’s shoulder — he flinched at the contact —  and guiding him inside. Not angrily. Not too gently, either. 

 

He sat Harry down on the leather couch in one deft, practiced move. The coals in the grate lay nearly lifeless, wheezing out their last cackles, though they were still enough to cast the sitting room into deep shadow.

 

It was all too familiar.

 

“What happened?” Snape demanded, towering over Harry. Not menacingly — just there. The Gryffindor opened his mouth to answer, but a breath caught in his windpipe.

 

—He struck again. And again. He wanted to scream; every cell of the reptile’s body wasn’t his, and yet all were screaming for him to stop. But he didn’t. He was thirsty. And fulfilling this thirst was addictive—

 

Nausea rolled up his throat. He began to shake anew. There wasn’t enough oxygen in this room either, and he was surely going to suffocate. His lungs’ demand for breath was too high to keep up with.

 

The next thing that registered with him was Snape kneeling down in front of him. Harry was taken by his upper arms, gently but firmly.

 

“Harry, breathe,” the man implored. “Follow the sound of my voice.”

“Stop— No time— Ministry— Voldemort’s snake was at the Ministry o— of Magic,” he choked out. “I— I was the snake. I saw it. I killed him. He’s dead—”

 

Alarm sharpened Snape’s eyes. But said alarm was leveled, conscious. “Who is?” he demanded.

 

“Someone named Nelson Sickleworth—”

 

Snape’s eyes were still locked on his, searching, calculating, assessing.

 

“You are certain it was a vision?” he asked. Harry wildly nodded his head, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. 

 

“I’m certain. I saw it. I— I was the snake. I killed him…”

 

—So he lunged again…. Warm, wet. The ground was no longer parched—

 

Harry’s eyes could’ve belonged to a caged animal. Severus could feel his own heart starting to hammer, the sight contagious. He wasn’t even sure if the child could hear him.

 

“Sir, please—” Harry pleaded, his voice a thin, brittle thing. Something about the sound struck a chord in Severus.

 

“Harry, breathe.”

 

He shook his head wildly. “I— I can’t—”

 

“Yes, you can. You would be long-dead by now if you couldn’t.”

 

But even despite the sarcasm, as if burned, Harry flinched at his last words. Dead. He seemed beyond reasoning, beyond reach…

 

All of a sudden, Harry felt himself being pulled off the couch to his feet like a ragdoll. He staggered but never had a chance to fall. Two arms caught him, wound around him, and pulled him in. He landed against a soft but solid surface. Something familiar. Something black. 

 

Safety.

 

Harry was still caught off guard, still couldn’t breathe properly, but the infernal chill wasn’t as unbearable anymore. The warmth spreading through him

felt better than any tea could have at that moment.

 

This… This was nothing more and nothing less than he’d ever wanted. 

 

Harry could still feel his muscles holding rigid, tense, half-expecting the man to change his mind and pull away. 

 

—Because he was disgusting, wasn’t he? Contaminated by the fragment of that monster; a soul not purely his own. He’d just impersonated a snake and struck, killed, ripped, tore—

 

And he was a dead man. Dead by fate. And Snape knew this, knew his fate. 

 

Another shudder quaked his body. His breaths were coming in rasps now.

 

“In and out. Breathe.”

 

Harry shook his head. He couldn’t. He was tired. So tired. Too tired— 

 

“Breathe!”

 

—Too tired to fight something so pointless. He was going to die. There was no hope for him. Snape knew this, and yet the man seemed to completely disregard the fact. A man in denial.

 

“You must. Har—”

 

“What’s even the bloody point!?” Harry choked out, his voice broken and ragged. In a sudden rage, he roughly shoved himself free from the man’s grasp. Free from the warmth. For compensation, he wrapped his own arms around his middle.

 

“I—I know. I know everything.”

 

Snape paled to a shade that could’ve rivaled a corpse.

 

“I know why th— that thestral was crying, and w— why you reacted to it like that. I know I’m going to die, so. What. Is. The. Bloody. POINT!?” He bit out the last word like it cost him his breath, and his voice broke, died. He hunched in on himself, gnashing his teeth against the knives stabbing his chest. 

 

“You knew,” he whispered, voice thin and brittle. Full of accusation. “You knew, and you said nothing. You kn— know, and you’re still trying. Well, it’s pointless.”

 

Severus could only watch in silent shock. It felt like someone was scooping out his guts. Every strained breath that Harry drew felt like his own, a jagged blade grazing his insides, and yet all he could do was watch.

 

A deep silence struck them. Neither spoke. Harry’s breaths, still jagged, somewhat leveled out by sheer willpower. Harry finally raised his face to meet Snape’s ashen one. He didn’t care about decorum or shame at this point. 

 

“Aren’t— Aren’t you going to tell Dumbledore? About the vision?”

 

“It can wait,” Severus replied steadily. “If you are certain that the ministry worker is dead, there is hardly anything that could be done now.

 

“But—”

 

“It can wait. You are my first priority.”

 

Harry’s eyes blurred. He blinked. Then he stared at Snape, his words echoing strangely in his ears.

 

“Why?”  

 

Snape didn’t say anything. He only continued to peer at him, something about his face shattered and impotent.

 

“‘Why’ what?”

 

Suddenly, everything that had been stacking up like pennies — tonight, the fear, the worry, the vision, all the confusion, all the questions, everything that had happened since that fortnight they’d spent in Spinner’s End — it all finally came gushing out.

 

“WHY,” Harry roared, demanding the truth, “do you STILL BOTHER? What’s IN IT for you—? Why do you BLOODY CARE!? You hate me, remember—?”

 

“I do not hate you.”

 

Harry laughed, the sound so cold, humorless, and unhinged that it was inhumane. “Then, what? You care for me?” he mocked. And yet the words struck him—

 

—Them both—

 

Like jagged blades.

 

They had digressed so far off topic, but Harry couldn’t let it up now. For months, the question had been living in the back of his mind like a heavy load, and now — he could only hope that he would get a straight answer.

 

For once.

 

Snape was looking at him. Simply looking. His expression in that moment truly was unreadable, a statue in marble. He might have tilted his head by a fraction, as if trying to evaluate something… 

 

Then:

 

“Perhaps I do.”

 

It came out as if he’d just come to such a simple, obvious decision. The words were spoken so simply, so quietly, that Harry might have hallucinated them. Because there was no way in hell that he’d just heard the man correctly.

 

Harry stood in the suffocating silence, too afraid to speak — to ask if he’d misheard.

 

Snape continued to stand there, still looking, still calculating something. Only this time, he appeared as if he’d just made some great revelation.

 

But Harry finally couldn’t stand the silence anymore, thinking it would swallow him.

 

“Why?”  he asked again.

 

The answer came to Severus quicker and easier than he’d expected.

 

“Because you are not whom I had once perceived you to be.”

 

“What— the bloody hell’s that supposed to mean?”

 

Severus tilted his head to the side — just by a mere few degrees. He didn’t answer for a breath. Then, “Do you know what I see when I look at you?” he inquired. It was a rhetorical question. 

 

My father? A pathetic mess…?

 

“I see a boy who is scared, but too stubborn to admit it. A boy who was pressured to put others before himself; a boy who was taught to give conditioned answers, even if that meant sabotaging himself. I see a boy, who bears too many scars — not only in the physical sense— was forced to grow up too quickly and is now facing the consequences for it—” 

 

Severus inched a bit closer, a measured step.

 

”I see a young man, who is terrified because he has selflessly sold himself to a selfish world… Someone who is terrified of the future, because he was never promised one.”

 

They were standing a mere foot apart now. Severus could see the reddened whites of Harry’s eyes, glistening, contrasting starkly against the orbs of emerald-green in the middle. Harry’s eyes. Not just Lily’s.

 

“When I look at you,” Severus continued one last time, watching a few tears streak down the boy’s face, pride bobbing in his throat, which he swallowed down, “I am reminded of myself. Too many times, I wish someone had been there to care enough to stop me from making all those mistakes. To guide me, to set and keep me down the right path. To… To offer assistance, a presence, in my darkest of times.  Perhaps many things would be different today…”

 

He hesitated here. But the boy’s wide-eyed gaze — in them hope and disbelief absurdly easy to read — held him captive, made him continue. 

 

“To answer you, I do care, you utterly foolish child. I care enough not to give up on you. I care enough to exhaust every last option for your survival. I care enough to offer you guidance — to the best of my abilities…” 

 

In an unforeseen move, Harry pressed his head to Snape’s shoulder, as if its weight was too much for him to support — as if the pressure would squash the pain and emotion swelling in his throat. The move came so unexpectedly that the man staggered back. But Harry latched onto the dark fabric of the man’s nightshirt for dear life. He needed this. And wanted it.

 

He was shaking, his face was wet; he was barely mustering up the willpower to stand. The words had made something in Harry crumble. The dam finally broke. It all fell, crippled. His fortitude shattered like a marble vase. The first sob ripped itself out, choked and restrained, muffled by the fabric, but the rest followed like gushing water from a dam. His whole frame shuddered. 

 

Almost immediately, he felt Snape’s arms wrapping around his frame again, holding him securely — not shoving him away. 

 

It felt so good.

 

And somehow, Harry knew that the arms holding him wouldn't let go. He didn’t return the strange gesture; his arms felt too heavy for that. But that was alright. He knew, in that moment, that even if he didn’t hold on, he wouldn’t be let go.

 

He buried his face deeper in Snape's chest, as if with hope that the fabric would swallow him. It didn’t. 

 

But it was there. Just was. As were the arms holding him securely.

 

Harry wasn’t even sure why he was crying at this point. Maybe from the warmth he’d been starving for until this moment, the weight of everything that had just happened — the nightmare-made-vision — from fear, which had piled up in him like pennies…. 

 

Or just, maybe it was… joy and relief. 

 

“...You are my first priority…”

 

Those mere five words kept echoing in his head; they felt like bells of victory, of a long-fought battle finally won. They felt so surreal, so foreign. 

 

Either way, it felt good. This relief with which every breath, every sob, every hitch that exerted itself. It felt like coughing out glass shards that had been lodged in his throat.

 

This warmth, this safety. Stability… 

 

He was starved of it.

 

So Harry continued to weep. The pair stood like that for maybe a minute, maybe an hour. But eventually, his heaves did die down. Harry felt drained of any energy. He was leaning against Snape like a rag doll, barely keeping his knees from buckling. One of them had to say something eventually — and it seemed Snape was just waiting for Harry to take that step, when he was ready.

 

But the things that Harry had to say… 

 

“I’m tired.”

 

“I know.”

 

They were so simple.

 

“I’m scared.”

 

“I know.”

 

Yet so unattainable.

 

“I don’t want to die.”

 

“You will not. I will not let you.”

 

“But the thestrals…”

 

“I said no!”

 

Snape ripped Harry away to hold him by the shoulders at arm’s length. He looked demented. A man in denial. His breathing was heavy. Too heavy for someone who had just been holding him. 

 

“I will not let you. I have promised you, and I fully intend to keep that promise. I am a man of my word. You. Will. Not. Die.”

 

Harry’s face grew hot again, so he turned away. Neither spoke for a few moments. A density hung between them. It was the kind that held the blunt truth, in spite of mankind’s delusions, wishes, promises, or denial.

 

Harry, more calm, then had to ask:

 

“Do you really believe in that, sir?”

 

Snape held Harry’s gaze for a long moment. It was tacit that Harry was expecting an objective, honest answer. Not delusion nor sugarcoating… Something behind Snape’s obsidian orbs seemed to have cracked, yet remained withheld.

 

“I do not know.”

 

Whatever sliver of hope he might have had — withered away. It sank like a pebble down a well. 

 

Snape exhaled slowly through his nose, letting go of Harry. 

 

“I do not know,” he repeated, “...but I will die trying.”

 

And there was something about the way he’d said it that made it sound like, not even a promise, but a vow. It was visible in his eyes, too. The warm eyes that had once looked at Harry with scorn and hatred. They were warm now, warm with an emotion that Harry was too afraid of being wrong to name.

 

But in his reply, Harry merely shrugged, still quite discouraged. “Seems pretty straightforward to me. As long as I'm alive, so is that fragment inside me. And you won't be able to remove it. Thestrals cry when they sense that someone’s going to die soon. So you can stop trying.”

 

“Prophecies… are not infallible. Not even a thestral’s tears are a guarantee. Nothing ever is.”

 

Harry said nothing. He simply averted his gaze to the dying embers, occasionally glimpsing hues of orange and red pulsating under the charcoal.

 

There was a low sigh.

 

“Have a seat.”

 

Harry didn’t argue. He gladly sat himself on the couch behind him, but his perch involuntarily became a recline when he realized just how much of a physical toll the night had taken on him. He let his head fall back, yet still refused to let his eyes fall shut. Snape’s footsteps faded away. Harry didn’t track them. Just stared at the grate, which he wasn’t even sure at what point had sprouted new flames.

 

The man came back after a moment, carrying two mugs of tea. Harry avoided meeting his eyes, shifting uncomfortably. He was very well aware of the fact that not ten minutes ago he’d bawled his eyes out on the professor. Now that the storm had calmed, the remnants of it still lingered in the air, heavy and raw with embarrassment. 

 

Whether or not Snape felt the same, he didn’t show. The man set the two mugs down on the coffee table, then sat beside Harry. Not too close… But also not too far away. Both watched the steady rise of steam from the tea, yet neither reached for it.

 

“I keep coming back here,” Harry broke the silence, his voice still a little raspy. But that was all he said. Just an acknowledgement.

 

Snape nodded his head slowly, thinking. “So you do. Much to my surprise. I would think you would be more inclined to consult your friends, head of house, or Madame Pomf—”

 

“They wouldn’t understand,” interrupted Harry, staring at the grate. “Not like you do.”

 

Snape peered at him thoughtfully. “No. Perhaps they wouldn’t.”

 

Harry gave a dry chuckle, humorless as it was. “Guess I’d better not get used to this, huh? Me, waking you up in the middle of the night…”

 

But the man’s answer to that took him aback.

 

“I would prefer you to consult me over suffering by yourself,” he replied with grim integrity.

 

This time, Harry did finally look at him. In surprise. He could only see integrity in the man’s face. No traces of deception.

 

“My earlier offer has not expired,” he continued, his voice low. “Should you ever have need of me — my door will always be open. Matter of fact— I find myself… rather surprised that you have chosen to confide in me.”

 

Harry had to consider his answer for a few seconds. But then he confidently nodded, and a reply came to him more easily than anything. “I trust you, sir.”

 

And he watched something in the man’s tired features melt. 

 

It wasn’t too noticeable. 

 

But Harry had learned to notice it.

 

Both turned to look at the fire again. Both lost themselves in it for a brief minute or two.

 

“Do you feel in a state to discuss your nightmare or the vision?”

 

Harry’s hands automatically clenched, his fingers flexing, curling in. Memories flooded back to him in clips — the most gruesome, most memorable ones of the night — but their effect wasn’t as crippling. Not anymore. Not here.

 

“It felt very real,” Harry began, tucking his knees to his chest. “At first, it was a dream. I was Volde— HIS snake. I— It — was attacking people I know. But… But then it was a vision. I’m not sure how, but I just knew… Anyway, I was the snake again, but inside the ministry. There was a worker there; he was leaving to go home. It was very late. And then— I attacked.” Harry swallowed down the bile rising to his throat. “I killed him,” he whispered, his voice thinning. “I— I killed him—”

 

“You did not kill him,” interrupted Snape firmly. 

 

“Then why do I feel so guilty about it?”

 

“Because that is an emotion. Emotions do not equate to reality. You cannot control what that snake or the Dark Lord does through these visions; therefore, you are not responsible, and therefore, you are not a murderer.”

 

Harry wasn't going to argue. That would suffice for now. He just nodded. He felt drained of the energy he’d need to do so. Sleep’s tendrils were pulling him in, caressing Harry's lids with temptive strokes, but he feared giving in to their lull.

 

He kept his eyes on the kindling flame. Silence held.

 

At some point, he let his head loll sideways, where it came to rest on a hard surface. He then felt warmth encompass his body as a heavy weight was draped over it.

 

His glasses were plucked off. He may have mumbled something unhappily, but his protests were ignored.

 

And Severus stood there, watching the steady rise and fall of Harry’s chest. A child. But at the same time, a young man, scarred by war and a nonexistent childhood. An occasional hitch, a shudder, would quake the boy — with them, Severus felt something rippling through his own chest — but he was asleep.

 

A part of Severus didn’t want to leave him alone, even though he knew it was unlikely that he would suffer from another vision…

 

But just in case, he whispered a soft monitoring charm over him. He altered the glow of the flames to a bare kindle and left for his own bedroom. 

Notes:

Hey, hey:) Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. Took me a while to FINALLY upload it. had to polish it up real good with my beta reader, Val (a big shout-out to her. She's incredible). But when I tell you I had been waiting AGES to finally get this chapter out there! I know I say that about a lot of chapters, but THIS ONE! The cat's finally out of the bag now - abt the thestral's lament mystery. Hope this chapter was worth the wait:)

Also, things are really starting to heat up. Lots of drama coming up in the near-future chapters. I'm actively writing them. Things are gonna take a dark turn, sorry not sorry ㄟ( ▔, ▔ )ㄏ. Also ik that it's been taking me at least a month to upload a single chapter, but unfortunately that's just how things are rn, what with school and everything. So, uh, yeah... sorry:? I still try to deliver my best, though🫡

with that being said, i hope to hear your thoughts in the comments! Maybe even guesses at what on earth could happen next... C ya in the next upload!

*cough* Follow my Tumblr for occasional spoilers/sneak-peeks/progress updates, *cough*

Chapter 20: Holidays on the Bend

Notes:

Well, here it is - the promised Christmas chapter! Hope you all enjoy your gift of 10k words🎄❤️🪄🥳🤯

 

Early December, 1996.

 

To say the corridors of Hogwarts were decked with boughs of holly would be an understatement.

 

The castle looked magical, as it always did and was. Mistletoe was either stuffed in every empty corner or hung in garlands over the bare, stone walls. Ornaments bore enchanted images on them that moved, or patterns that warped and shifted like a kaleidoscope. These adorned the furry branches of the hundreds of fir trees placed about the castle. Oh, and practically every fireplace was decked with holly, mistletoe... 

 

Being the end of the semester — for the students who didn't have any overdue tests or homework — life definitely seemed a lot more worth living than for those who did. The holidays were looming. And with that ever-nearing prospect, something had eased in the air a little. Like a draft finally slipping into a stuffy room. Or perhaps like a promising light at the end of a tunnel. 

 

Free periods were hardly being used for studying these days. Rather, a more enticing pastime was engaging in inter-house snow wars/rivalries. Harry thought — as well as many of the other Gryffindors — that it was a shame that Fred and George Weasley had graduated last year… What was more, a few daring Second Years had started a sort of trend of sneaking down into the kitchens to steal gingerbread cookies in between classes, and late at night for those willing to place bets on their luck.

 

Harry loved the holiday season. This hadn’t always been the case, though. Not before Hogwarts, at least. The contrast between Christmas at the Dursleys and here was so stark, it was laughable. 

 

He’d never truly experienced Christmas at his relatives’— had merely been a spectator. The one helping with preparing meals, like Petunia’s plum pudding, or slaving away, cleaning the entire house from top to bottom. But never the one rummaging under the glimmering tree’s branches, or sitting down at the table groaning from the amount of food set upon it — enough to feed not one but two families generously. The most Harry had ever received from them as a gift, was fifty pence — and even that, he still thought, had been generous.

 

Harry had always disliked this season when he’d been little, had repeatedly sung himself the same mantra of indifference and apathy to the festivities around him. Looking back at that now in hindsight, Harry thought himself very fortunate — and grateful — that his opinions had since changed. 

 

So even now, after six years of celebrating Christmas the wizarding way, Harry valued every second of it, every glimpse of the festive colors around him and the joy they brought him, the contrasting warmth of the firewood against the billowing snow outside, which warmed the castle’s walls, and the hypnotizing smells of holly, tinsel, and old spices. 

 

Unfortunately, as they progressed deeper into December, the atmosphere became slightly dampened. There were several factors contributing to this:

 

More Death Eater attacks, raids, and images in the headlines of the Daily Prophet of the Dark Mark looming over houses. This, naturally, meant more students being taken out of school early by worried parents.

 

He and Snape having resumed those Legilimency sessions — which were a constant drainer for Harry’s energy (though they were proving fruitful, for Harry was getting more and more memories of Sirius back).

 

And—

 

Ron and Hermione were still giving each other a wide berth. 

 

That part was primarily due to the fact that Ron's lips were ninety percent of the time occupied with Lavender Browne’s, who, after the pair’s impromptu kiss after the last Quidditch match, considered every minute without her ‘Won-Won’ wasted.

 

“She can’t complain,” Ron told Harry, whose hands and forearms still bore scratches and cuts from Hermione’s bird attack. He was taking a defensive and resentful tone. “She snogged Krum. So she’s found out someone wants to snog me too. Well, it’s a free country. I haven’t done anything wrong.” 

 

Harry did not answer, but pretended to be absorbed in the book they were supposed to have read before Charms next morning (Quintessence: A Quest). Determined as he was to remain friends with both Ron and Hermione, he was spending a lot of time with his mouth shut tight. 

 

“I never promised Hermione anything,” Ron mumbled. “I mean, all right, I was going to go to Slughorn’s Christmas party with her, but she never said… just as friends… I’m a free agent…”

 

Things weren’t going too well on Hermione’s end, either.

 

In fact, she’d been so ‘busy’ as of late, that Harry could only catch her in the library, for she refused to be in the same room as Ron for any reason other than a lesson.

 

“He’s at perfect liberty to kiss whomever he likes,” said Hermione, while the librarian, Madam Pince, prowled the shelves behind them. The girl was sorting the books in her hands back onto the shelves, though Harry doubted she was aware that she was squeezing a Herbology thesaurus in between tomes on Charms. “I really couldn’t care less.”

 

It was quite often that Harry found himself studying in the library with his friend these last few weeks. The sessions were frequent, though impotent words would always hang over them like those garlands of holly and ornaments.

 

One particular day, however, a topic other than Ron’s ‘free will to do whatever with whomever’ had arisen:

 

“You need to be careful, Harry. I went into the girls’ bathroom just before I came in here and there were about a dozen girls in there, including that Romilda Vane, trying to decide how to slip you a love potion. They’re all hoping they’re going to get you to take them to Slughorn’s party, and they all seem to have bought Fred and George’s love potions, which I’m afraid to say probably work —”

 

“Why didn’t you confiscate them then?” demanded Harry.

 

 “They didn’t have the potions with them in the bathroom,” said Hermione scornfully. “They were just discussing tactics. As I doubt whether even the Half-Blood Prince” — she gave the book next to Harry on the reading desk another nasty look — “could dream up an antidote for a dozen different love potions at once, I’d just invite someone to go with you, that’ll stop all the others thinking they’ve still got a chance. It’s tomorrow night, they’re getting desperate.” 

 

On top of everything, there was the topic of Slughorn’s looming Christmas party.

 

“There isn’t anyone I want to invite,” mumbled Harry, so blatantly lying to himself and his friend.

 

Hermione gave him a very knowing look. “Well, just be careful what you drink, because Romilda Vane looked like she meant business,” she said grimly.

 

So it was on a Saturday that the last Hogsmeade visit was announced. 

 

Which meant that, for many students, it was also their last chance for Christmas gift shopping. Including Harry.

 

He was diligently trudging his way down to the quaint village, shrugging his coat tighter around himself, following the sparsed-out groups of all the other students. Hermione had, once again, been too busy with her studies to join him. As for Ron, his friend had been too busy listening to one of Lavender’s love poems for her ‘Won Won’ to come.

 

Fortunately, Harry had run into Neville. So now he and the boy were walking to Hogsmeade together, rubbing their hands together for warmth against the snowflakes pelting them. Not even warming charms seemed enough to ward off the North-Scottish cold.

 

“...Well, what about Parvati Patil? You took her to the Yule Ball, didn’t you?”

 

Harry immediately shook his head, shuddering at the remembrance of his and Ron’s disastrous dates. “Yeah, ‘took her’ doesn’t exactly mean it went well, Nev.”

 

“Well, you’ve got to invite someone to Slughorn’s party. It’s too bad you say Hermione’s already been invited. The two of you could’ve gone as friends.”

 

They continued the trade-off of possible candidates until they reached the snowed-in village, where they paused at the center square. Neville said he was going to fancy himself a butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks before any shopping, but Harry politely declined. With the task he had set out for himself, he really had no time to spare. So they parted then and there.

 

With a bag of coins jiggling with every step he took, Harry wondered where to begin. He had already owl-ordered Hermione a limited edition of a transfiguration book she’d been obsessing over lately but had yet to find Ron a gift. 

 

Plus — there were two other people on his list this year.

 

And as much as Harry had already mulled over it, he still genuinely had no idea what to get either of them. 

 

So he set out down the snowed-in streets. Hogsmeade truly looked magical — like something out of a fairy tale book — at this time of year. Smoke was rising out of practically every building, and the storefronts twinkled and blinked with fairy lights and festive decor. Some tipsy wizards were laughing over some butterbeer as they passed, accidentally spilling some on a few passersby, and many children squealed as they pressed their noses and mittened hands to shop windows. 

 

Harry first hit Spintwitches Sporting Needs. The place was absolutely packed, and he ended up exchanging greetings with a few Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff Quidditch players. Admittedly, the place had a knack for swallowing time, and so that store alone took him close to an hour to pick out something for Ron.

 

But in the end, he was proudly carrying a set of brand new dragon leather Quidditch gloves with red and gold threading reading Ron’s full name. Harry was happy with his choice, given that Ron’s old gloves were starting to show signs of wear and tear.

 

But now, with less than two hours remaining and the streets starting to dim, time’s pressure really began to set in. He started to wander the village. Truly wander. Harry scrupulously examined every storefront, every item on display, flipped through every advertisement that would fly his way, entertaining this idea and that for an appropriate gift. 

 

Then — something briefly caught his eye. It was a collection of scarves with matching socks. They had fun magical creature prints on them, one being ridden with illustrated and moving pygmy puffs. It, in particular, stood out to him. A chortle caught in his throat when he pictured Ginny wearing it, her own pygmy puff riding on her shoulder…

 

He wondered if the idea was dumb: How would Ginny — hypothetically — react to it? Would she accept it with good humour, or look at Harry as if he were the biggest idiot?

 

He stood looking at it for a long time.

 

…Until a child’s voice broke through his trance. A young girl and her father had approached the window, and the girl was eagerly pointing at the pygmy puff set. Harry’s heart gave a sudden lurch at the sight — he didn’t exactly know why, nor did he want to know. 

 

But then, her father agreed that it was a nice scarf and that the girl ought to ‘try asking Santa for it’. 

 

Without even realizing what he was doing, Harry was already barging into the store, snatching the set, and paying fifteen Galleons for the scarf and socks.

 

A breath of relief left him when he was back outside. He saw it clouding as it left him. 

 

Ginny — check.

 

And now…

 

Snape.

 

Harry sighed heavily, his breath condensing in the crisp air, as the cold stung his nose. Of course he had to get Snape something. Wanted to. After everything, it was only right. He wanted to show his gratitude to the man, and merely saying ‘thank you’ over and over again just wouldn’t cut it (moreover — Snape would always cut him off before he even had a chance to finish the sentence). 

 

But the dilemma was: Harry had no idea what to get him. How was one to shop for a recluse like Snape? How would a gift even be interpreted? Would Snape even accept a gift from Harry, or would he somehow find it insulting? The man didn’t exactly seem like the Christmas type. More of a Grinch, in all honesty — even despite his changed treatment of Harry.

 

No, said a firm voice in Harry's head, resolute and decided. He would get Snape something. 

 

But not anything. 

 

Whatever it would be, it would have to be something that the man would find useful. He was a double-spy, after all. A soldier in war, putting his life at risk every time he was called away by Voldemort. So Harry couldn’t just get him some kind of potion ingredient or a cauldron — the man, indubitably, already had a throatful of them. 

 

So then, what?

 

Harry’s shop selection was rather limited. It would either have to be Tomes and Scrolls or J. Pippin’s Potions apothecary. Else, Harry was at a loss for where he could look.

 

So he took off to the apothecary first.

 

The sudden change from the frostbite outside to the humid atmosphere made it feel like he was entering a sauna or something. Various aromas of familiar, and some not, spices, herbs, and other things emulated the wealthy selection of products. It wasn’t too crowded. Mostly just a few students that Harry didn’t recognize.

 

He briefly entertained the idea of getting Snape something called celestial tree bark— a ‘rare and limited ingredient’, as a shop assistant explained to Harry. Aside from being a crucial ingredient in medicinal potions, it also cost a hefty ten Galleons per few grams.

 

It wasn’t about the money, though. Harry just had no way of knowing if Snape would find it useful or even if he already had it. 

 

He skimmed through the rest of the selection but continued to grow ever more discouraged and doubtful in the idea. He was just about to leave for Tomes and Scrolls when he suddenly heard:

 

“Hello, Harry.”

 

It was Luna. Harry had to do a double-take at seeing her here of all places. She wasn’t taking Potions this year, after all.

 

“Luna! What— what are you doing here?” He and the girl hadn’t really spoken since she’d told Harry about the thestrals that one late evening. The memory swam to Harry unbiddenly, but he pushed it away, refusing to let it ruin the air between them.

 

Luna readjusted her hold on a rather big box, wrapped in festive paper with flying hippogryphs on it. “I was just getting my dad a gift. He’s mentioned wanting to try making Horklump tea cakes, but his usual apothecary had rather fresh-smelling ones.”

 

Harry felt confused. “Isn’t that… good?” He was afraid, judging by Luna’s tone, that he was wrong. 

 

The girl shook her head seriously and beckoned her head to leave the shop. She was wearing rather large, bright-yellow earmuffs that matched with her coat.

 

“You would think that,” she explained, “but the recipe uses moldy Horklumps. The cookbook says they have to be at least three days past expiration; it describes they’re supposed to smell like radishes soaked in plumberry brine.”

 

Harry didn’t know that combination of smells — he wondered if Luna did — and he was grateful for it. “And… have you found them?”

 

“Oh, yes. One of the assistants there had to go to the back of the store. She wasn’t too nice about it, though. Only Ginny and Hermione ever are…” Luna’s eyes regained a bit of their previous spark when she decided to change topics. She and Harry were now standing outside the apothecary. “Were you looking for a gift as well, Harry?”

 

Harry felt his eyes mentally widen at the girl’s guess. “Uh— whatever makes you say that?”

 

“Well, it’s the holiday season. And you didn’t really look like you knew what you were doing,” she said — all with a straight face and a genuine tone. Harry felt his own prickling slightly. 

 

“Uh, yeah, I guess not.”

 

“That’s good.”

 

“It— It is?”

 

Luna nodded, smiling now. “It means that you are thinking very deeply about it because the person means a lot to you. It’s better than if you were to get just any meaningless gift.”

 

“Oh. Right.” Harry could see the logic in that. He sighed. “Luna, can I be honest with you?”

 

“Of course, Harry.”

 

“I… I could use some help… looking for this gift. You see, I don’t really know what to get this person.”

 

Luna nodded thoughtfully at him. They slowly started walking together, keeping in-step. “You don’t have to tell me who it is if you prefer not to, Harry. Don’t worry. Do you know what this person likes?”

 

“Uhh— Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it? I want to get him something useful, practical. Y’know, ‘cause it’s all dangerous now and stuff…” 

 

‘Dangerous and stuff’? Way to sound like an absolute loser.

 

“Hmm. Personally, I would like myself a pair of Specrtrespecs…”

 

It took Harry’s every fiber of being to keep himself from bursting out with unhinged laughter at the image of Severus Snape showing up to a Death Eater meeting, wearing a pair of those — one eye blue and the other pink.

 

“Uh, I don’t think he’d fancy those much…”

 

The pair continued to debate — or rather, Harry listened to Luna’s suggestions — until Luna suddenly stopped in her step. They’d come up at a storefront, the windows grimy and frosted over, and featuring what looked like the most random, second-hand items. The sign above read: ‘Croozle’s Nook’. To Harry’s dismay, Luna saw them in, ensuring him that this was a ‘good place to look’.

 

The interior of the store was even mustier and dustier than the exterior implied. A lingering haze fogged up the cluttered space. It looked reminiscent of the Room of Requirement. There were precarious, towering piles of spindle chairs, cracked crystal balls, and trinkets of every kind that Harry bet even Dumbledore would envy.

 

He belatedly realized that Luna was already at the counter, talking to an old lady with thick glasses and bundled up in at least five colorful shawls.

 

“My friend is looking for a gift, but he doesn’t know what it’s supposed to be,” Luna was saying her usual, dreamy voice. The lady shifted her gaze from her to Harry, narrowing her already narrow eyes at him in utmost scrutiny. 

 

“Ye look familiar…”

 

Harry’s hand subconsciously flew up to flatten his bangs. He quickly said, “I’m looking for something practical, something that could come in handy in case of Death Eaters or similar dangerous situations. Maybe something for protection or defense…?”

 

Her eyes lit up, and she gave him a toothless grin. “Oooh, yes, attta boy, thinkin’ wisely. Yes, yes… Ye ain’t thinkin’ o’ somethin’ like a Sneakoscope, no?” Harry shook his head. “Well… Wha’ abou’ a hex-repellin’ hat, hon’?” She conjured one with a swish and flick of her wand. Harry held it for a moment but was already shaking her head again.

 

He could feel his nerves stretching into more and more tenuous chords. 

 

“Err, I’ll consider it,” he promised the lady as she was advertising a crystal ball that allegedly showed one’s future to him (Harry’s was: dark days, filled with suffering and sorrow — whatever was new?) He tapped Luna's hand under the counter and started leading her to the door.

 

“ —An’ ye get a 15% discount on yer first buy!”

 

Something suddenly clattered underfoot. Harry glanced down to find a pot of trinkets he’d accidentally knocked over. Even more frustrated now, he muttered an apology and bent down to tidy up the mess—

 

He paused when he picked up a small pocket watch. It was old and rusty, had a broken chain dangling from it… But what had captured his eye were the hands — or, rather, what they were pointing at.

 

This was no typical pocket watch. The hands, several of them, had icons for arrows: tiny portraits of people Harry didn’t know. All of them were pointing to ‘dead’ or ‘lost’. He turned it over a couple times. The Weasleys had a bigger one of these up on their wall, didn’t they…?

 

“Ey, there— Ye stealin’?!”

 

Harry shot to his feet, feeling his heart racing in excitement. He brought the pocket watch to the counter.

 

“Does this still work?” he asked. The lady took it and examined it closely. She even blew on it. 

 

“Sure it does. Jus’ gotta modify it with a few charms to change the people on it.”

 

“How much?” Harry instantly asked, already reaching into his pocket for his sack of coins, the jangling visibly arousing the shop owner.

 

“Fifty Galleons.”

 

When Harry opened his mouth in a mixture of shock and outrage, she quickly added: ”But since yer a first-time buyer, and the ol’ thin’ ‘s a tad… old, we can do twenty-five.”

 

“Twenty,” bartered Harry. He pointed to the icons. “I'll have to charm these people off on my own anyway.”

 

“Twenty Galleons an’ five Sickles… An’ a Knut.”

 

“Deal.” They exchanged the goods. “Where can I find the charm to do it, though?”

 

“Bah! How should I know? Ye atten’ tha’ Hogwarts, don’ ye? It shouldn’t be too hard. Check yer library.”

 

And so, patting his pocket in relief, where lay the watch, Harry and Luna left the shop feeling extremely pleased. 

 

Harry turned to his friend, shaking his head. “Luna, you’re bloody brilliant, you know that?”

 

Luna smiled. “I suppose that’s why the Sorting Hat placed me in Ravenclaw. Personally, I think everyone is brilliant. It’s just more buried in some individuals… Do you have any more specific gifts to buy for more mysterious people, Harry?”

 

Harry laughed. “Nope. I’m all good.”

 

“That’s good,” Luna said. “I’m going to go now. I promised Ginny I would help her pick out a dress for Professor Slughorn’s —”

 

“How would you like to come to Slughorn’s party with me tonight?” The words were out of Harry’s mouth before he could stop them. He heard himself say them as though it were a stranger speaking. It was the same kind of spontaneous decision as he’d made with the pocket watch.

 

Luna turned her protuberant eyes upon him in surprise. “Slughorn’s party? With you?” 

 

“Yeah,” said Harry, trying his best but failing to clear the thought of Ginny already having been asked from his head. “We’re supposed to bring guests, so I thought you might like . . . I mean . . .” He was keen to make his intentions perfectly clear. “I mean, just as friends, you know. But if you don’t want to . . .” 

 

He was already half hoping that she didn’t want to. 

 

“Oh, no, I’d love to go with you as friends!” said Luna, beaming as he had never seen her beam before. “Nobody’s ever asked me to a party before, as a friend!”

 

Relief flooded him. “Great. Yeah. So, I’ll meet you in the entrance hall at eight o’clock then.” 

 

They parted ways, and Harry left Hogsmeade that day on noodle-like legs.

 

~***~

 

15th December, 1996. 

 

It was the final official morning — a Friday — of the semester that found Severus striding through the castle’s deserted corridors, down to his office. The final day of lessons. The final day of enduring the dunderheads that set foot in his classroom. He had only three classes today — Defense with First year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, and Fourth-Year Gryffindors. Tolerable.

 

…At least more than grading the untouched pile of still lying in a neglected heap on his desk. A task he was finally willing to tackle before his first lesson.

 

Severus Snape had never delighted in the holiday season.

 

Every year was no different from the last. A hectic period, with last-minute papers from dunderheads from every Year and grading work galore. To add, those packs of wolves, smelling freedom ahead, were growing restless with excitement, comfortable with flouting more and more rules.

 

Severus was referring to the students, of course.

 

It was safe to say that Severus was not looking forward to the holidays. He had never found the idea of returning to the peeling wallpaper and worn leather chairs of Spinner’s End alluring. Not when he’d been a child, not now. 

 

During his Hogwarts years, he’d always watched students huddled up, eagerly discussing their holiday plans. At home, they would be greeted with warmth by their kin. Severus — with his mother, face stained with either bruises or grime, hastily ushering him inside the damp and cold house, far out of Tobias Snape's sight. 

 

Christmas in Spinner’s End had never exactly been ‘white’. 

 

Even the snow would lie in grimy lumps along the curbs in Spinner’s End, gray sleet flooded with whatever rubbish the street had lent. It was also perhaps due to the close proximity of those factories, for not even fresh snow that frosted the streets looked unsoiled. 

 

For obvious reasons, Severus would have gladly remained at the castle. He’d loathed the thought of returning to the walls of that horrid place, where even the walls had bared witness to the horrors that went on there.

 

Alas, he’d had no choice but to return home for the two-week period, purely out of fear that his drunkard father would do something to his mother after intoxicating himself on the special occasion. There wasn’t much that Severus would have been able to do against a man thrice his size, of course, but he’d also known that he couldn’t simply abandon her there for nine months straight.

 

He was not one to bathe in self-pity. However, this time of year would always somehow find a way to puncture holes in his apathetic mind, his carefully-built layers of armour. Bitter memories would seep in like the biting chill outside. Even still, seeing students huddled together, happily discussing their holiday plans, made his chest twinge with an ugly jealousy that had been following him since as young as he could remember. 

 

He could only sneer in disgust at himself, at this sentimentality. This weakness. Vulnerability. 

 

A liability.

 

Severus was passing another tall and narrow window, his classroom just down the corridor, when something caught his eye. White daylight spilled on his frame, painting his black robes gray. Squinting, he peered at the snowy grounds below, and couldn’t resist the urge to roll his eyes. A bunch of students could be seen horsing round in the snow— 

 

Ah, Gryffindors.

 

Severus wasn’t sure what exactly about the sight had him rooted there for several long minutes. He mentally tried to justify it by thinking of ways to penalize the lot, dock a few points, perhaps dish out a detention or two…

 

In truth, the sight had, infuriatingly enough, made him think of Harry. 

 

With the most recent Order meeting, a bitter thought had settled over his mind like some dense, unforgiving fog. It had already been decided that Harry would be staying the holidays with the Weasleys at the Burrow. That in itself hadn’t been a problem — ensuring that he would be safe there had been.

The Burrow now had so many protections set around it that even Severus had lost count. Which, at least, somewhat put his doubtful thoughts at ease. Shacklebolt had even suggested petitioning the Ministry for a partnership in instating more powerful wards around the Burrow, but the request had been denied due to the surge in suspected Death Eater imposter activity. 

 

Despite the protections, the safety measures, a fury still simmered in Severus, mixed with an annoying pebble of consternation, that it might not be enough. That something might go wrong. 

 

Alas, there was little that could be done now. It had already been decided. 

 

Now, the boy would go to the Weasleys…. 

 

A corner of Severus’ mouth twisted. Something about that mental image disturbed Severus still, like a stain he couldn’t clean, a fly he couldn’t swat. Here, in the castle, Severus could keep a constant eye on the boy — whether the subject in question was aware of it or not. It was this feeling of knowing that he could interfere, were anything to go wrong, were there a threat or danger.

 

Now, the thought of Harry being miles away, regardless of how many grown wizards and wards would be surrounding him, gnawed at him like a disease eating away at his insides.

 

Ever since that night that Harry had sought him out in his quarters, sweat-drenched and terrified after his vision, he couldn't name or shake the image out of his head, nor the disturbing pressure weighing down his chest like sediment.

 

The boy trusted him. Him. Severus. To protective,

 

To a frightening extent.

 

It had taken that night for Severus to realize just to what extent.

 

And it had left him shaken to the core.

 

In a very similar way, Severus felt that he trusted no one else to protect the boy. 

 

That same, cautioning voice in Severus' head rang again, louder than ever before — a vulnerability, danger, a risk. 

 

Care had always been Severus’ Achilles heel.

 

And now, more than ever, it felt exposed. Like a wound that had never really healed, reopened to the biting frost outside.

 

It was too late to turn back now, of course. He and Harry had been trudging through these woods for some time now. Whether they would encounter a werewolf on their way was up to fate.

 

Severus, shaken out of his temporary trance, sharply pivoted on his heel and rounded a corner, continuing down the first-floor corridor. The Defense Classroom doors could be seen just ahead.

 

Striding past the rows of empty desks, Severus ascended the staircase leading up to his office, but something made his hand hesitate on the handle. Something had brushed against his subconsciousness. It was a hint of something — something familiar. 

 

He immediately detected Harry’s magical signature. Still fresh. Like a lingering scent.

 

What the devil could have brought the boy here? 

 

Realization quickly dawned on him, dread sharpening his senses. What if he’d been looking for him? Had something happened? He strode in, wand clutched, expecting to see the familiar head of urchin-like hair sitting in one of the chairs…

 

But the room was empty.

 

Severus raked the room with his eyes, searching out anything amiss. Nothing seemed different. 

 

Nothing, save for a small package on his desk, wrapped (visibly not by an apt hand) in viridian-green paper and tied with silver ribbon. Severus approached the object like a cautious animal. A few quick spells detected no traces of curses or dark magic, but Severus had only done it as a formality. He’d known it already.

 

For a long moment, he hesitated to touch the box. Surely, it was there by mistake? The boy wouldn’t have… 

 

Eventually though he did pick it up. The box weighed little. Turning it, he found, written in silver ink, a note that read ‘To S.S.’ The penmanship was unmistakable. And Severus held the box for a long, pensive moment before finally setting to carefully unwrapping it, unfolding the paper like some origami crane he couldn’t bear to damage. Inside, the first thing that met him was a note.

 

Sir,

 

I wanted to wish you happy holidays. I hope you’ll find my gift useful. It’s not much, but I thought you might find it, well, useful for your spying and whatnot… The charm to add people to the watch is ‘Inscribio Personam’, and then you say the name. To erase — ‘delere personam’.

 

Best wishes,

 

H.P.

 

PS: Don’t worry, this ink fades. 

 

Severus had to re-read the note several times before, as promised, the writing began to vanish, slowly fading out of existence to nothing but blank parchment. A peculiar twinge of regret appeared in his chest, but rather than letting himself dwell on it, he reached inside the box again. What he found was a pocket watch.

 

The bronze case and bezels were painted with patches of rust, and the dial bore words in numerals’ stead. It was no ordinary trinket. Severus immediately recognized it for a location watch. The few hands of empty portraits were all pointing to either ‘lost’ or ‘dead. What he also recognized was the unmistakable trace of repair charms, present on the chain and the glass face… Harry’s trace.

 

Severus barely realized that he’d sunk into his chair at some point. All sounds seemed void, time slowed, and everything in his periphery blurred, save for the two objects held gingerly in his hands. Something warm was fluttering in his chest. Severus held the items tenderly, irrationally afraid that they might crumple or get damaged at the slightest wrong move. The moment held him captive in a protective feeling that made him feel like he had never held anything as valuable in his life.

 

Over the years of his estranged, vagabond life, Severus had received few gifts. So few that he could count them on his fingers. A symbolic bottle of mead from Albus on Christmas, or a compliment from the Dark Lord for his duties. He and Lily had ritually exchanged gifts on Christmas over the course of their friendship, but many were since lost to time.

 

Since then, Severus had grown indifferent to gifts.  Being far from a materialistic person, he hardly respected the symbolic, last-minute gifts of emolument. Symbolic. Meaningless. A formality.

 

Until now. 

 

He had forgotten this cathartic warmth, this sensation of having someone to whom he was — dare he say — relevant. Beyond the value of merely his uses in this bloody war…

 

But did he deserve it?

 

The thought struck Severus, acidic and cold, like a sheaf of a glacier plummeting. 

 

How did he deserve this? After what he’d done to the boy over the years, after the things he’d said, the things he’d promised and hadn’t fulfilled to him yet… What made him worthy of this?

 

He’d known that the student-teacher line had long since been crossed, but this was like confirmation borne anew. 

 

That foolish child is too good for his own good, he thought to himself.

 

Severus wanted to put the gift back, as if afraid he might infect it, but something was holding his arm in place, all except for his fingers, which were twitching, trembling. It was this desperate desire to cling to this moment, this feeling. To savor this sliver of what he barely dared to consider joy. Elation. Something of which he’d only ever received in such dry, scant doses.

 

It made him think of the gift he’d gotten the boy… Yes, he'd gotten Harry a gift. And he wasn’t ecstatic over the possible concept of discussing it with the boy. In fact, it would be much more convenient if he could avoid it altogether. 

 

Severus had despised every step of procuring those ridiculous photos of Black, having had to suffer seeing the dead mutt’s face more than he would have ever liked to…

 

Strangely, it wasn't even Black's face alone that had made that whole process so unbearable. It was more the fact that he’d had to fish out the memories of him with Harry. Either in convivial conversation or embracing — or such other utter, repulsive nonsense. It had made Severus blood vessels pulse and his fingers twitch like he didn't know was possible, and he had no explanation as to why.

 

Or maybe he did, only he was loath to even admit such a childish notion.

 

Another vulnerability…

 

But back in the present moment, as the weight of the watch and letter in his hands brought him back, grounding him even as he was sitting in his chair, it all seemed worth it.

 

Severus didn’t know how long he sat there, lost in his thoughts. He only knew that his grip on the letter and the gift had only tightened, and his gaze kept dancing between it and Harry’s letter as though it were an arithmetic equation he couldn't solve. 

 

17th December, 1996. 

 

Harry awoke this morning grogily but surprisingly well-rested. Most likely because no one had woken him up for breakfast. He knew the time from the level of light in the room, warm-toned and too bright for it to be any time before nine. 

 

Merlin, was he thankful it was a Sunday.

 

When Harry eventually propped himself up, he found that the dormitory was utterly empty of any soul but his. But he did see all of his mates’ trunks and bags packed and ready, which stirred an unfamiliar, childlike excitement in his chest. 

 

Just one more day, and tomorrow, he and the Weasleys would be leaving for the Burrow.

 

For two weeks.

 

Feeling an unprecedented surge of motivation, Harry flung his sheets aside and made to get dressed. His heart nearly gave out, however, when three sharp pecks rattled the window. 

 

It was an owl, stormy-gray with white patches. Harry easily recognized it from the school’s owlery. It continued to peck the envelope in its beak against the frosted glass, so Harry quickly let it inside, shivering in the draft of morning frost that followed the bird. He accepted the delivery, and the owl took off.

 

There was no name, no addressant, and no recipient anywhere on the simple envelope. Harry turned it over a few times, thinking. He was almost scared to open it. Katie Bell’s incident in Hogsmeade hadn’t exactly faded from his mind…

 

Then again, with all the protections in place, he was more certain than not that it bore no malice. So, perching himself on his bed, he carefully pried off the wax seal.

 

His hands almost dropped the envelope at what he found inside.

 

They were photos. A thin stack, but a stack nonetheless. It took Harry a moment to fully comprehend what he was seeing, and when he did, his eyes welled with grief. He stared at the top photo, one of Sirius. Sirius! Harry recognized the scene: the man was sitting at the long kitchen table in Grimmauld Place, arms folded on the table as he sat leaning forward, listening intently, but occasionally giving the viewer — Harry — a shifty grin. A wink…

 

Mind reeling, Harry flipped through the rest of the stack. 

 

Most of the shots made it seem like a photographer had chosen the most random moments to capture:

 

—Harry talking to Sirius, still in Grimmauld Place, where he was grooming Buckbeak in the allocated room…

 

—Sirius’s hands coming up to rest upon Harry’s shoulders, the Black Family tree tapestry in the background. The man smiled warmly, encouragingly. His lips were moving, but no sound was forthcoming…

 

—A more recent memory that he and Snape had salvaged: Harry, having spotted Sirius upon his first arrival at Grimmauld Place, racing into his godfather’s open arms of warm greeting…

 

He was so overcome with questions and wonder that he couldn’t bring his jaw to close. The room suddenly felt too stifling for December. His eyes stung with emotion, vision blurring even more than it already was. He tried to swallow, but the thick wad clogging his throat made that an impossible feat without consequences.

 

Who had sent him these? How had they acquired these pictures?

 

But he soon found his answer. 

 

He’d now reached the very bottom of the stack, only to find a smaller photograph than the rest. It was a muggle one, yellowed at the edges, the quality poor and color faded with age. There — a girl and boy of no older than twelve stood side-by-side, both beaming at the camera. Harry recognized them immediately. His mother had a crown of daisies perched on her head, and Snape — donned in an oversized, greyed shirt — was holding up his hand in a timid wave.

 

Harry sat staring at it — at it all — for a moment that did not seem susceptible to time. 

 

He hadn’t been expecting Snape to get him anything. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind, really. It was strange… Yes, he and the man were far from enemies now, but… Well, there was something about it that Harry just couldn’t place his finger on. 

 

It felt almost… wrong, but in only the right ways. The good ways. The warm ways that Harry had only ever dreamt of. 

 

Then again, perhaps his standards, expectations were quite low, considering that his last living blood relatives had only ever gotten him a pair of Dudley’s old socks or fifty Pence as ‘gifts’ — and that was if Harry had been ‘good’.

 

And anyway, how on earth had Snape gotten these pictures? These were Harry’s memories, scenes no one had been around to see… How had Snape…? Had he really found a way to…?

 

Harry set the photos down and retrieved his photo album from the bottom of his trunk. One by one, he arranged the cards on the blank pages, which then automatically charmed themselves attached.

 

He sat beaming at the sight. Inexplicable warmth had enveloped him, like a blanket that couldn’t be penetrated by any cold. And it was only when Ron and Nevile came up to get him down for breakfast that he was finally able to pry himself away from his gift.

 

The rest of the day sailed by. He’d wanted to go see Snape, but Ron, Dean, and Nevile had dragged him outside to go bob-sledding with some of the other students, which was later followed by a game of Wizard’s chess over hot chocolate that they’d nicked from the kitchens. 

 

It felt strange — this sense of ‘normalcy’, as if there wasn’t a war looming on the horizon. Harry made sure to soak up every second of it. 

 

While that pleasant morning had optimized him, the effects soon started wearing off as the time progressed closer and closer to Slughorn’s Christmas party. In no time, he was standing at the end of a long corridor, fussing with his dress-robe’s sleeves. 

 

He didn't have to wait long for his invitee to turn up. Luna came around the corner, dressed in spangled silver dress robes that shimmered, jangled, and sparkled with her every airy step.

 

“Hello, Harry,” Luna smiled brightly at him.

 

“Hey, Luna. Wow, you look— you look fantastic,” said Harry, vaguely gesturing at her dress. The smile on the girl's face broadened all the more. “So, uh, shall we?”

 

Harry had half a thought to offer Luna his hand, like a ‘proper gentleman’, but refrained out of thought that it would feel awkward, seeing as how they were attending as friends. So, in step, the pair started down the corridor, which was decorated with festive, orange paper lanterns hanging from the high ceiling above. 

 

“I hope you didn’t have to wait too long for me,” commented Luna, gazing up, the reflections of the lights above twinkling in her pale eyes. “I’ve never been to this part of the castle. At least not while awake. I sleepwalk, you see. That’s why I wear shoes to bed…”

 

Harry nodded along. He personally didn’t mind Luna's conversation — in any case, he would take it any day over traversing down an empty corridor with a girl in suffocating silence as his brain went into overdrive, trying to think up an ice-breaker…

 

It didn’t take long at all for them to finally reach their destination. And Slughorn’s office looked unrecognizable. 

 

It was much larger than the usual teacher’s study. The ceiling and walls had been draped with emerald, crimson, and gold hangings so that it looked as though they were all inside a vast tent. The room was crowded and stuffy and bathed in the red light cast by an ornate golden lamp dangling from the center of the ceiling in which real fairies were fluttering, each a brilliant speck of light. 

 

Loud singing accompanied by what sounded like mandolins issued from a distant corner; a haze of pipe smoke hung over several elderly warlocks who were deep in conversation, and a number of house-elves were negotiating their way squeakily through the forest of knees, obscured by the heavy silver platters of food they were bearing, so that they looked like little roving tables. 

 

“Harry, m’boy!” boomed Slughorn, almost as soon as Harry and Luna had squeezed in through the door. “Come in, come in, so many people I’d like you to meet!” 

 

Slughorn was wearing a tasseled velvet hat to match his smoking jacket. Gripping Harry’s arm so tightly he might have been hoping to Disapparate with him, Slughorn led him purposefully into the party. Harry seized Luna’s hand and dragged her along with him like a lifeline.

 

It was by a miracle that Harry was able to pull away when he was offered to publish his own biography by Slughorn’s friend, then quickly dodge several others interested in him and his scar. 

 

He was now standing in the middle of the room, his eyes fell on Luna, talking to Ginny. He was caught in a dumb stupor when Ginny’s eyes flicked to him, a smile in her hazel spheres, and then turned back to Luna. She was wearing a deep blue dress that hugged her figure to her knees, and her red hair lay draped elegantly over her shoulder, like flame against the night on the fabric. Harry couldn’t seem to swallow past the annoying lump suddenly choking him at the sight.

 

Ginny must have noticed his continued stare, because her eyes darted past her friend to him again. Luna also turned around to look. Instantly, a smile overtook her face. The pair approached him. Every step they took felt like a closing-in wall.

 

“Hello, Harry,” Luna greeted him cheerily— as if they hadn’t come to the party together. “Have you met the vampire that was supposed to be coming?”

 

Harry grunted unhappily. He hadn’t the slightest clue whom Luna was talking about, but at this point, her question should have been ‘whom haven't you met?’ 

 

“Er, dunno. Slughorn just introduced me to at least fifty people here. Maybe one of them was that vampire…”

 

Ginny snorted lightly, though there was a sliver of hidden sympathy in it. “I saw. Surprised that your hand is still intact from all those handshakes.”

 

“Yeah, no kidding…”

 

A brief silence befell the trio. It stretched a moment, wherein Harry scrambled for something to say.

 

“So, uh… Having a good time, yeah? You— you look great.” When the compliment seemed too pointed at Ginny, Harry quickly looked at Luna too. But even despite his efforts, he could feel Weasley's eyes appraising him, and her cheeks seemed slightly more flushed.

 

Or it was just his dumb imagination again.

 

“Thank you, Harry!” beamed Luna “That’s much nicer than what some of the girls in my dormitory told me.”

 

Ginny placed her hand on Luna’s shoulder. “Dont mind them, Luna. They’re probably just jealous,” she said encouragingly.

 

Luna shrugged her shoulders, looking completely unperturbed. “I’m quite thirsty. It's very stuffy in here… I’ll find us some pumpkin juice,” she offered and slipped away no sooner than she’d said this.

 

There was a moment, a pause that suddenly made Harry feel like he’d just been shoved on stage. He tried to ignore the rather accelerated rhythm of his heart, pulsing in his ears, and tried to feign adjusting his sleeve so as to avoid making eye contact with Ginny. 

 

“So, err, you here with someone, I reckon?” Harry suddenly asked, surprising even himself with the question.

 

To his further surprise, Ginny shrugged. “I was going to come with Dean, but things have been… ”

 

“Complicated?” 

 

Ginny gave a dry snort. “To say the least.”

 

Harry’s heart soared, leapt, at the answer, his head already working through at least a dozen different interpretations of that.

 

Unfortunately, before he had a chance to reply, Luna returned, three champagne glasses floating behind her. 

 

“Have I missed anything?” she asked. Harry gladly took his glass and took a lengthy sip. He tried his best not to choke on the acidic taste. This was definitely not apple cider. 

 

The three of them talked for a bit longer until something in Harry's periphery caught his attention. He wasn’t sure, but he could’ve sworn he’d seen a curtain move, the silhouette behind it too familiar to ignore. Very conveniently-timed, too, for he was quickly running out of conversation topics. Curious, he excused himself and snuck behind it. He was surprised — and not — to find—

 

“Hermione! What are you doing? And what happened to you?”

 

The girl looked quite pretty, though properly frazzled, like she’d just fought her way through devil’s snare. She restlessly tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, which caught on her gold earrings.

 

“I’ve just escaped,” she breathed. “I mean— left Cormac under the mistletoe.”

 

Harry felt his eyes widen. “Cormac? That’s who you invited?”

 

Hermione folded her arms over her chest. “I thought it would annoy Ron the most,” she huffed. “He’s got more tentacles than a snuffler plant.”

 

Neither had a chance to say anything more, for the curtain was suddenly thrust aside, and a boy, acting butler, appeared with a tray.

 

“Dragon tartare?”

 

Harry immediately shook his head. “No thanks. We’re good.”

 

“Just as well,” the boy nodded, giving a knowing look “They give one horribly bad breath.”

 

Hermione suddenly snatched the tray. “On second thought, maybe they’ll keep Cormac at bay.” She began stuffing her mouth, but her face was quickly turning a pale shade of green. Then her eyes widened. “Oh, God, here he comes—”

 

And just like that, she slipped out, thrusting the tray into Harry's hands. Right when the trouble in question appeared. 

 

Harry and Cormac’s eyes met. 

 

“I— I think she just went to powder her nose,” Harry said.

 

“Little minx, your friend,” the boy grumbled, appearing quite satisfied with himself. “Likes to work her mouth, too, doesn’t she? Yeah…” He took the tray and began to chuck one tartare after another. That’s when his brows knitted in a thoughtful expression.

 

“Hey, what’s this I’m eating, by the way?”

 

Harry looked at him squarely, finding great joy in what he was about to say. 

 

“Dragon balls.”

 

Not a moment later was the curtain thrust open again, and Harry nearly choked on his own saliva in surprise as Snape showed through. Cormac McLaggen’s cheeks suddenly puffed, and he bent over to retch those dragon balls. It was poorly-contained and landed right at the indignant-looking professor’s feet. 

 

Harry held his breath as the boy slowly straightened up, his eyes meeting Snape’s steely one.

 

He’s so dead… Ron will be happy, though.

 

“You’ve just bought yourself a month’s detention, McLaggen— Not so quick, Potter!”

 

Harry hadn’t managed more than five paces before Snape was towering over him again, face expressionless, but eyes cold as steel. Harry, keeping an inconspicuous eye on McLaggen sneaking far away from the two of them, waited.

 

“Yes, sir?” he inquired neutrally. 

 

“Enjoying ourselves, are we?” Snape drawled smoothly, a sarcastic smirk stretching quirking lips. Harry fought to keep his expression in check at what had just happened.

 

“Well, that is what people usually do at a party, sir,” he replied instead.

 

Snape sneered at him. A classic move that Harry was all-too-familiar with. And yet somehow, it still instilled something cold and damp in his chest— a sinking feeling. 

 

He knew it was a farce. A subterfuge. Knew that the man couldn't show anything but hostility towards him in public, that this was the same man who had gifted him photos of the person that was his enemy…

 

But even still Harry couldn't shrug off the discomfort that that glare, that indifference, brought him. It was a moment in which it seemed, even if ephemerally, that he and Snape were still enemies, that everything that had happened — hadn't. That it had all been just a strange dream. It was something similar to when he would wake from a wistful dream back in his younger years, only to realize he was in his cupboard and not a warm, welcoming home.

 

“I only wish to convey a message,” Snape drawled, breaking through Harry's momentary trance.

 

“A message?” Harry blinked owlishly.

 

“From Professor Dumbledore. He asked me to give you his best, and he hopes you enjoy your holiday. You see — he’s travelling… And he won’t return until term resumes.”

 

The news deflated Harry. That Dumbledore was gone again came as no surprise. No word, no note. But the fact alone that Dumbledore had personally requested Snape to deliver this to Harry was strange. 

 

“Travelling where?” Harry asked.

 

Snape looked at him evenly for a long, considering moment. Harry met his gaze, trying to read out any message, any hint of whatever inconspicuous message the man might be relaying.

 

And then— Snape faintly raised an eyebrow at him. He darted with his eyes to the side before spinning around sharply and striding off, his robes billowing behind him. Harry caught on and followed after, stealing a cautious glance around himself as he went. It wasn’t long before the two of them had reached a rather secluded part of the room at the very back, where it was practically scarce of people. 

 

Snape already had his wand out, held at his side, the familiar rod of ebony wood. He gave it a flick that Harry found strangely familiar, but nothing happened.

 

“We are under a silencing charm,” the man informed him in one breath, holstering his wand. He seemed to have deflated of some of his initial tension at his own words, his shoulders easing just by a fraction, but enough for Harry to notice. He understood. It was something of a tacit understanding between them. Keeping up their spiteful mien often felt like a persistent pressure weighing down on them both.

 

And didn’t that just sound properly bewildering?

 

Harry could remember the days when the viotrol, the sneers, the sarcasm hadn’t been a subterfuge. He did not miss those years one bit. The memories were still there, lingering in the back of his mind, in the air between them both, like an unwashable ink stain or a ghost that refused to cease its haunt.  

 

He was glad those times were over. 

 

But despite this newfound relationship, Harry couldn’t quite ward off the suffocating pressure of keeping things secret. This tensions, this strain, the weight of the risks hanging over their heads by what felt like the most fragile of threads. 

 

Harry was tired. Tired of never being able to tell his friends, tired of coming up with elaborate excuses to cover up his long absences whenever he would go see Snape… For once in his life, couldn’t Harry have a sliver of freedom, dare he say happiness, without a price, conditions, or risks? 

 

Even now, under Snape's silencing spell, Harry knew it meant little. Nothing but a false safety net. Just because they couldn't be heard didn't mean they couldn't be seen — by children of death eaters, or even friends of such. 

 

Harry often wished things were different. He often toyed with the question of ‘what if?’. It was a deep, deep rabbit hole we would sometimes go down in his thoughts, at his own risk.

 

What if there were no prophecy?

 

What if Severus didn’t serve as a double-spy?

 

What if…?

 

Stop it, a voice in his head told him firmly. Because dwelling on the impossible had never achieved him anything. And it certainly wouldn’t now, either. 

 

Mentally dragging himself out of his less-than-savory thoughts, Harry quickly refocused on the more burning matter at hand. 

 

“Sir, where’s Dumbledore travelling?” he asked again, looking at the man expectantly, whose expression was impeccably blank. 

 

“He did not disclose any such details to me, though I am certain it is for more of his ‘research’...”

 

“Do you reckon it’s got something to do with the Horcruxes?” Harry interrupted. Even knowing that they could not be overheard, he’d muttered this in an undertone. “He’s looking for them. I know he is. He’s told me himself.”

 

Snape nodded his head once. “Possibly. I shall endeavor to inquire him upon his return, possibly over the holidays…” The man trailed off here and looked at Harry as if he were weighing his next words. Harry waited. He couldn’t help but cast one glance, then another, over his shoulder. In the corner of his eye, he thought he’d caught sight of Ginny’s red hair…

 

“Is there a reason as to why you look as if you are about to be pounced on by a werewolf?”

 

Harry whipped his head back around, caught a bit off guard.

 

“What? Uh, no, I’m alright,” he lied. 

 

Snape’s brow rose slightly. To Harry's disdain, the man’s eyes darted past Harry, at the crowd. If Harry were to guess, he would say the man looked distracted, though there was barely any emotion written on his face for Harry to try to interpret anything else. He was clearly thinking about something, and it definitely wasn’t the questionable catering at this party. No, something was bothering the man. But Harry didn’t know what, and he hated that.

 

Apparently, he needn’t have stressed too much. A moment later, Snape spoke, the shift in topic catching Harry slightly off-guard. 

 

“I’ve been told that the Burrow has been given every manner of protection possible, but it will not serve its purpose if you bound off into trouble…”

 

Harry opened his mouth in offence— But Snape beat him to it. “Do not do anything foolish over the holiday… Please.” 

 

And that one word alone — the very last one —  was enough to shock Harry into silence. Snape didn’t plead. Never had before. Harry had never heard such desperation behind just one word, so raw and audible that it was irrefutable. He suddenly looked way more tired, like he hadn't slept seven days and seven nights, like some ghost had been haunting his dreams, eating at him or some part or another of his sanity…

 

Feeling a bit awkward, Harry said, “I’ll be careful. The whole Order’s going to be there.”

 

Snape’s face, again, turned unreadable, though a moment before — his lips had made a twitch as if tempted to disappear into a taut line. “You had better. It would hardly convenience me for you to squander all my efforts to protect your trouble-attracting hide in a perfectly-avoidable suicidal mission.”

 

“Right. Well, It’s not as if I go looking for trouble. I also fancy myself a peaceful holiday, funnily enough—”

 

“No, it is enough that we are on the brink of war, a dark wizard wants your head, and you have a most unsettling penchant for either finding or attracting trouble,” Snape snapped back, voice suddenly acerbic, his words slashing across Harry’s. 

 

Crossing his arms over his chest, Harry quipped back with: “Right, well, as long as Malfoy never sets foot at the Burrow, I think I’ll manage”. And he meant it. If the blond ever did, no one would be able to restrain Harry from going after him and getting some answers out of his ferret arse.

 

Harry studied the professor’s expression carefully for a moment. Something in it flashed — in the obsidian eyes. Something — a flicker. Of what? Fear? Worry? Fury? He made as if to open his mouth, a hundred cutting remarks, arguments ready for discharge, but seemed to think better of it when he sharply sucked in a breath.

 

They rarely discussed Malfoy. It was a rather… sore topic — Malfoy’s secret mission, Snape’s Unbreakable Vow. Despite Harry’s efforts, any mention or attempt to bring it up only ever resulted in an unnecessarily sharp remark, or pure ignoration. This time, by the look of things, Snape seemed to have thought better of rebuking Harry for it, given their surroundings.

 

Harry ducked his head a little, choosing to stare down at his dress shoes, watching in them the reflections of the festive lights above. He… then heard a sigh. One more controlled, like all of the initial frustration had bled out of him in that one breath.

 

“I only mean to warn you,” Snape said. There was something more… exposed about his voice. More raw, tired… concerned. “You have no idea of the current dangers — not to my extent, at least.”

 

The man cast an inconspicuous glance around them, evidently on edge, like he just couldn't help himself. Everything about his stance, his posture, appeared jittery, restless, impotent. Tense. Like an animal knowing it was being watched. Harry couldn't help but notice a hint of some unnamed emotion in his eyes. They were softer now, his bottomless pupils twitching ever-so-slightly, as if they were watching the man’s mental tug-of-war…

 

“...You’re worried,” said Harry slowly. It was such an obvious conclusion, yet he even shocked himself with this observation.

 

Snape whipped his head back at Harry, so suddenly that his hair swung in his face in the momentum. He focused his gaze on the boy, features tightening as if he’d just been profusely offended. 

 

“Need I not be?” he inquired, tone like a drawn blade. “Or has Miss Bell's incident already escaped your mind?”

 

Of course it hadn’t. Even the whole castle was still abuzz with that incident. But Harry, in defense, crossed his arms over his chest. “Ron, Hermione, and I didn't do anything. We were just there when it happened.”

 

The man’s mouth twisted at the corner. “Which quite precisely illustrates my point.”

 

He had crossed his arms but now let them fall when he realized that the conversation was steering into ugly waters. He didn’t want to start a row with the man. Especially not here, not now, not after… Not when… 

 

“Erm… Alright," Harry said at last, though it cost him a great deal of effort to squeeze the words out. “I’ll be careful…Could we not talk about this right now?” Harry said awkwardly, meanwhile casting a glance around them. Snape, fortunately gave a conceding nod at this, and Harry breathed an internal sigh of relief.

 

But just when Harry caught Snape raising his wand, presumably to disable the spell around them, a thought sprang to Harry's mind, and before he could restrain himself, he jumped at the man to hold down his hand. 

 

“Wait!”

 

That earned him a puzzled expression from Snape, so Harry quickly released him, clearing his throat. 

 

“Sir, I… Well, I wanted to say thank you. Y’know, for that— for the photos,” he stumbled, watching carefully for Snape's reaction. Unless he was wrong, the man looked no less awkward than Harry felt. But it had to be said.

 

Snape nodded once, the movement stiff and measured, hands folded neatly behind his back. 

 

“But, uh, how did you get them?” Harry followed up. “There wasn't anyone around to take those photos. I don't understand…”

 

“It is a less… conventional method of procuring photographs. One that requires Legilimency. It is a complex charm. Few even know of its existence," Snape explained.

 

“On a slightly different note...” Severus followed up, deftly straying from the topic of his gift. From an inside pocket, he pulled out a pocket watch, which he let dangle by the chain. While Severus raised a wry eyebrow at the young man, Harry’s lips parted slightly, as if at a loss for an explanation— which he likely was.

 

“Oh, uh, yeah. I tried to fix it. Hope I did alright,” Harry said sheepishly, one hand rubbing the back of the other. He had had to do it by himself, since asking for Hermione's help would have elicited questions from his curious friend. Harry cast his gaze on the floor, at his dress shoes. “Do you like it?” he timidly asked. 

 

Harry thought he watched another one of Snape’s masks fall. It was slight, but warmth dawned in his eyes, the skin around his eyes softening just enough to make look… younger? More at-ease?

 

Though severus he quickly cleared his throat, looking like he was wrestling between words. In the end, he seemed to settle on:

 

“I confess, it certainly surpasses Albus’ annual bottle of mead and lemondrops.”

 

“Oh…” Harry supposed that was positive feedback. He grinned a little at the thought of Snape reluctantly accepting a bag of lemon drops.

 

Snape was still holding the watch by the chain, turned away from the room to shield the sight. Harry squinted at it. A small gasp escaped him.

 

There was only one arrow with a portrait. It was his. And in addition to the default ‘times’, there were four new ones:

 

Hogwarts. Mortal Peril. Travelling. Safe.

 

Both were pointing to ‘Hogwarts’.

 

Harry wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words to pull out from his tightened throat. There seemed to be so many things he wanted to say, but couldn’t. The sight struck him. He thought of the Weasleys, the way their clock, much like this one, was reserved only for their family. Harry wasn’t on it. Why would he be, after all?

 

But this… 

 

For the first time in what felt like his entire life, Harry felt… important. 

 

But before he could even begin to say anything, a sudden commotion erupted behind them. Both turned to look, and Snape instantly slipped a few paces away. Just when the crowd was parting to reveal Filch dragging a struggling Malfoy by the ear to the heart of the party.

 

“ —Take your hands off me, you filthy squib!” Filch cried out, as if presenting his trophy, “Professor Slughorn, sir! I’ve just discovered this boy lurking in an upstairs corridor. He claims to have been invited to your party.”

 

“Okay, okay, I was gate-crashing. Happy?” The boy, face red and a mixture of muddy emotions, was finally able to break away. Harry thought that, for someone claiming to be gate-crashing, Malfoy sure was dressed a little too casually, his dark school blazer and tie askew… In a split second, Snape was there, blocking Harry's view of Malfoy. 

 

“I’ll escort him out,” the dark figure drawled, his voice coming out like a spider-woven silk. Something like contempt rang in Malfoy’s answer.

 

“Certainly, Professor.”

 

He had all but spat these words, and no sooner had he done that than he was storming out, Snape in his wake.

 

The unfortunate pair left, and some of the silencing fog began to clear at the curious, bewildered whispers from the onlookers, rumors formulating like a disease. 

 

Slughorn clasped his hands, coughing out an off-key laugh. “Well, back to the party, everyone…”

 

Harry, of course, had his thoughts far from the party. 

 

No, he was already slipping through the crowd, dragging some gazes with him that he didn’t particularly give a dragon’s tail about. Instinct led him. He kept to the shadows of the stone corridor, took a turn, pressing himself against the wall.

 

Then he heard voices. Two silhouettes came into view, caught in an angry stride.

 

“Maybe I did hex that Bell girl. Maybe I didn’t. What’s it to you?”

 

That must have been the last straw. In one sharp, precise move, Snape’s dark-robed figure was looming over him, pinning the blond by the scruff to the wall.

 

“I swore to protect you,” he hissed. “I made the Unbreakable Vow—!”

 

“I don’t need protection. I was chosen for this! Out of all others. Me! And I won’t fail him.”

 

Snape regarded him for a moment, as if seeing something otherwise unnoticeable through him. “You’re afraid, Draco. You attempt to conceal it, but it’s obvious. Let me assist you—”

 

“No!” Malfoy’s voice — a desperate echo — cried. “I was chosen. This is my moment!”

 

He managed to break free. The boy’s thin silhouette passed right by the drapery Harry had sneaked behind. Snape had not held him back. He pivoted down the dark corridor several breath-held moments later.

 

Meanwhile, Harry could barely hear his own reeling thoughts over his thudding heart.

Notes:

I'm back with the promised Christmas chapter!!!!!

Ah, finally! I'm on holiday brreak! Such a relief, because I've managed to finish the semester really well with a pretty high overall score🥳😊 Anyway, this chapter was a long one to edit, and me and my beta reader, Val, had to revise it quite a handful of times before it was ready for upload, but we've managed!... Well, ex-beta reader now, really. But more on that later.

I was really contemplating whether to come out and say this or not, but ultimately I decided to do so. Christmas is upon us, and while I could wish you all a Merry Christmas and call it a day... I'd like to say something a little more meaningful.

I am about to be completely transparent: all of us here have got 'daddy issues' to at least some degree. I have them. And for a while, I have been seeking and finding comfort in Severitus -reading and writing about this flawed man who grows to love Harry, his near-enemy, as his own; who swears to protect him, to love him unconditionally, to stand up for him and care for him when no one else will... Even still, I find myself running to Severitus, especially when things at home get more-so... unbearable. I still seek to FEEL that catharsis, that sting in my chest that hurts in all the good ways... But then, I also realize that I am on the brink of sinning.

Idolatry.

I am not here to disencourage anyone from reading or writing severitus. That would only make me the biggest hypocrite in the world. No. I just want to state that we all have a father. THE Father. Our Heavenly Father. He loves us. He is always there for us, no matter whether we 'feel' or 'don't feel him', his presence. And he is the only one we should idolize. I believe it is alright to read and write about a father-son/daughter relationship, just as long as we are not idolizing this fictional character. Because yes, unfortunately, he is fictional. I know that it sometimes doesn't feel like it. In our imagination, in this pleasant feeling that reading severitus brings us... But he's not real. And we should never forget about our real Father, regardless of our relationship with our eathly father.

I would also like to mention that it's really nice to know that there is a whole community here that's united by some trauma or another caused by fathers, or just family issues. Maybe you don't have such problems - in that case, I am happy for you! You obv don't need to have any to enjoy Severitus... But for the people that do... Well... You're not alone. And whatever it is that you are going through, I hope it gets better:)

(disclaimer - no, I did not go back to reread what I just wrote above. It is what it is. Hope there aren't too many typos(I'm writing this half-asleep again))

PS: The only reason I have the guts to expose myself like this is because ya'll don't know me in real life, and I don't know ya'll. And it's ao3:)

PPS: Gonna continue with that Hiatus for a bit, get a few chapters written before uploading the next one. Things are getting angstyyyyy:))))))

PPPS: Hope you all have an amazing Christmas, New Year, Holidays, etc. etc. Love you all, and I can't wait to hear your reviwes on this chapter!

PPPPS: go follow my Tumblr;) - darsfanfics7

🙃

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of The Path Chosen