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Chapter Text

The silence and the stillness, broken only by the occasional grunt or snuffle of a sleeping portrait, was unbearable to him.

It was his fault that Sirius had died. All his fault.

There was a terrible hollow inside him he did not want to feel or examine, a dark hole where Sirius had been, where Sirius had vanished. He did not want to have to be alone with that great, silent space, he could not stand it —

Harry could not stand this, he could not stand being Harry anymore… He had never felt more trapped inside his own head and body, never wished so intensely that he could escape to be somebody — anybody — else….

“Well, Harry,” said Dumbledore, “you will be pleased to hear that none of your fellow students will suffer lasting damage from the night’s events.”

Harry tried to say “Good,” but no sound came out. It seemed that Dumbledore was reminding him of the amount of damage he had caused tonight, and although Dumbledore was for once looking at him directly, his expression calm and not accusing, Harry could not bear to meet his eyes.

“I know how you are feeling, Harry,” said the Headmaster, very quietly.

“No, you don’t,” said Harry. White-hot anger leapt inside him. Dumbledore knew nothing of his feelings.

“There is no shame in what you are feeling, Harry,” said Dumbledore’s voice. “On the contrary… the fact that you can feel pain like this is your greatest strength.”

The white-hot anger licked Harry’s insides, blazing with the desire to hurt Dumbledore for his calmness and his empty words.

“My greatest strength, is it?” said Harry, his voice shaking as he stared out the window, into the distance. “You haven’t a clue… You don’t know…” His hands shook.

“What don’t I know?” asked Dumbledore calmly.

Harry whipped around. “I don’t want to talk about how I feel, all right?”

Dumbledore leaned over his desk and stood. “Harry, suffering like this proves you are still a man! This pain is part of being human—"

“THEN — I — DON’T — WANT — TO — BE —HUMAN!” Harry roared, and he seized one of the delicate silver instruments from the spindle-legged table and flung it across the room. Several of the portraits yelled in anger and fright. “Really!” said Armando Dippet.

“I DON’T CARE!” Harry yelled at them, snatching up the lunascope and throwing it into the fireplace. “I’VE HAD ENOUGH, I’VE SEEN ENOUGH, I WANT OUT, I WANT IT TO END, I DON’T CARE ANYMORE—”

“You do care,” said Dumbledore, smoothly seated again. He had not flinched or made a single move to stop Harry demolishing his office. His expression was calm, almost detached. “You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it.”

“I—DON’T!” Harry screamed, so loudly that he felt his throat might tear, and for a second he wanted to rush at Dumbledore and break him too; shatter that calm old face, shake him, hurt him, make him feel some tiny part of the horror inside Harry.

“Oh yes, you do,” said Dumbledore, still more calmly. “You have now lost your mother, your father, and the closest thing to a parent you have ever known. Of course you care.”

“YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT I FEEL!” Harry roared. “YOU— STANDING THERE—YOU—”

But words were no longer enough, smashing things was no help. He wanted to run and keep running and never look back, he wanted to be somewhere he could not see the clear blue eyes staring at him, that hatefully calm old face. He turned on his heel and ran to the door, seized the doorknob again, and wrenched at it.

But the door would not open.

Harry turned back to Dumbledore.

“Let me out,” he said. He was shaking head to foot.

“No,” said Dumbledore simply.

For a few seconds they stared at each other.

“Let me out,” he said.

“No,” said Dumbledore repeated.

“If you don’t — if you keep me in here — if you don’t let me—”

“Not until I have had my say,” Dumbledore said sharply. Now standing, he towered. His cool blue gaze raked over Harry’s face.

“I DON’T CARE what you have to say!” Harry shrank back against the door. “I don’t want to hear anything you have to say! Let me out!”

“You will,” said Dumbledore sadly. “You are not nearly as angry with me as you ought to be. But if you are to attack me, Harry, as I know you are close to doing, I would like to have thoroughly earned it.”

“Wh—what are you talking—?” Harry’s back slid down the door, and he sat down with a thump.

“It is my fault that Sirius died,” said Dumbledore clearly. “Or I should say almost entirely my fault. Sirius was a brave, clever, and energetic man, and such men are not usually content to sit at home in hiding while they believe others to be in danger. Nevertheless, you should never have believed for an instant that there was any necessity for you to go to the Department of Mysteries. If I had been open with you, Harry, you would have known a long time ago that Voldemort might try and lure you to the Department of Mysteries, and you would never have been tricked into going there tonight. Sirius would not have had to come after you.”

Harry shook his head, avoiding Dumbledore’s face. “No,” he mumbled.

“It begins with your scar. This ability of yours — to detect Voldemort’s presence, even when he is disguised, and to know what he is feeling when his emotions are roused — has become more and more pronounced since Voldemort returned to his own body and his full powers.”

Harry did not bother to nod. He knew all of this already.

“There is but one singular yet incontrovertible reason for this. You are a horcrux.”

Harry’s scar prickled. The hair stood up instinctively on the back of his neck. Hagrid had once beckoned him into a magical world more real and true, more delightful and yet more cruel than he could ever have dreamed of, with just those words: You’re a wizard, Harry. But this—whatever a horcrux was, it promised to be horrible.

Harry blinked and croaked, “I’m a— I’m a what now?” His eyes grew hot with tears.

“A horcrux, Harry.”

Harry took another step back and shook his head more violently, breaking the eye contact. “No. No.”

“Simply put, Harry, a horcrux is what some would term a ‘soul jar.’ The night your parents died, Voldemort used their murders to place a piece of his soul in you, creating that scar of yours, and made you a part of him.” Dumbledore’s voice was somber, but on that last word, his voice darkened. “Because he was meddling with magics he did not understand, the backfire discorporated him, separating his shade from his body, but he still could not be fully killed.”

Somewhere, someone was screaming. Screaming softly into his right ear. His scar sears and burns. Now someone was laughing. Someone was laughing at…him.

Harry looked up and mentally shoved that voice to the side. “He did… What?” Tears streamed down Harry’s face.

“It means this, Harry. Because he has placed his soul in you, for as long as you live, Voldemort cannot die.”

Harry’s eyes widened.

“I knew it could not be long before Voldemort attempted to force his way into your mind, to manipulate and misdirect your thoughts. I will confess that I was not eager to give him more incentive or reason to use you as a means to spy on me. When you began to dream of the prophecies within the Department of Mysteries… I knew, as you did not, that only the people to whom the prophecies refer can lift them from the shelves without suffering madness. Either Voldemort himself would have to enter the Ministry of Magic and risk revealing himself at last—or you would take it for him. And I feared the other uses to which he would put you, the possibility that he might try and possess you. You will forgive me if the matter of the damage wreaked by another possessed by Tom Riddle through the Chamber of Secrets did not also occupy my thoughts. Tom was my student for seven years. It is not so far-fetched to think he might know how to exploit another of this school’s secrets that are not so legendary. Even I do not claim to know them all.

“It became a matter of even greater urgency that you should master Occlumency. Harry, I believe I was right to think that Voldemort would have made use of you in such a way. Indeed, he hoped, when he possessed you briefly a short while ago, that I would sacrifice you in the hope of killing him.” Dumbledore sighed deeply. “Voldemort’s aim in possessing you, as he demonstrated tonight, would not have been my destruction. It would have been yours.”

Harry’s arms were rigid at his sides, his fingers stiff and painful when he clenched them into fists.

“I feared the temptation would prove too great. In an attempt to arm you against Voldemort’s assaults on your mind, I arranged Occlumency lessons with Severus Snape,” said Dumbledore matter-of-factly, taking out his wand as he did so. “This, too, was my mistake. I assumed you had sufficient reason to do so, yet you did not take them seriously. You did not trust Professor Snape, who likewise could not let go of his loathing towards your father, and therefore could not bring himself to discover and nurture the good in you. Yet had I had taught you myself, Voldemort might have opened your connection to himself fully, and your soul would have been lost in the struggle between us.”

That snake of hatred stirred in the pit of his stomach, rising whenever he looked Dumbledore in the eyes. He’s right. Harry felt nauseous. I didn’t practice. I didn’t practice. “But if I hadn’t— If only you had taught me—” Harry tried to argue. His hands were shaking. Shaking uncontrollably. He had been trapped; he had not even known that he had been trapped...

“You have already experienced the worst that could possibly happen when Voldemort is fully present,” said Dumbledore, lifting an eyebrow. “Are you sure you would like to test his will to reach you within the walls of Hogwarts?”

Angry and shaking, Harry scrambled to his feet and spat, “Yes!”

Dumbledore stood and drew his wand, locking eyes with him. “Then prepare to defend yourself. Legilimens!”

White-hot pain, and then Dumbledore was inside his memories, streaming far too quickly to attempt to control or stymie their flow—

Kreacher, mocking him from the fireplace

Fumbling with the teacup and stumbling over Mrs. Figg’s numerous and badly-tempered cats, surrounded by a strong stench of cabbage

Thoughts careened and Harry struggled to direct them, focusing on the cat photographs, which morphed into pink kitten plates, mewling on the walls of—

Crooning to Hedwig, pushing owl treats to her through the bars, she rattled the cage clinking chains against chains, and—

Filch, accompanied by Mrs. Norris

Norbert, thought Harry, pushing the memory forward, but it was too late; the memories were too faint and they faded and failed.

Filch raised his lantern to the wall, light flickering….

I SOLEMNLY SWEAR I AM UP TO NO GOOD, Harry interrupted, sweating, superimposing them over the bloody letters, but the unquenchable stream continued, implacable and un-diverted.

a headless, dripping rooster

Ginny—

“Let me rip you—   let me kill you—"   the basilisk, whispering—   a trail of spiders—   The Heir of Slytherin—Riddle—a ripped and shredded, ink-stained diary amid a pool of darkness—

a dim-lit Graveyard

Harry gasped, clutching the fabric of his shirt and squeezing in a desperate attempt to distract himself through pain.

Peter Pettigrew raised a silver knife, and slashed it down—

“No, not Harry, please not Harry—"

the jet of green light hit Cedric’s body, bright eyes widened in shock dimmed to empty dullness, and he fell slowly, oh so slowly

the Snake bit Arthur Weasley, and Harry woke with fresh terror and an unnatural, happy triumph….

Possessed by a horrible rib-rattling, ecstatic laughter…

then in the Headmaster’s office, a memory of looking, seeking Dumbledore’s eyes—they met—

YES! howled a voice, a familiar voice expressing a strange and horribly joyless euphoria, and darkness surged from Harry’s chest, through his mouth, through his eyes, and that horrible voice screamed in triumph. With no time for thought, Harry rushed forward, pushing out with his hands— Dumbledore whipped his wand into motion — Harry staggered as he hit the crackling edge of Dumbledore’s Shield Charm, and slipped, landing flat on his back with the breath knocked out of him.

Harry curled into a ball on the floor. Eye contact severed, the triumphant scream cut off abruptly. He heard the soft rasp of his lungs gasping for breath, one arm wrapped protectively around his chest, and the other cradling his head.

“You see, Voldemort is learning,” Dumbledore said, with a kind of grimness. “The Occlumency lessons seem not to have helped at all,” he continued. “But no matter. Perhaps it was always too much to ask; whether Occlumency could successfully block your connection was never a complete certainty. Severus, unlike myself, believed the effort to be useless. Sit up, Harry.”

Harry pushed himself up with one arm, and sat numbly on splayed legs, feeling dazed. His head ached.

“I cared about you too much,” said Dumbledore simply. “I cared more for your happiness than your knowing the truth, more for your peace of mind than my plan, more for your life than the lives that might be lost if the plan failed. In other words, I acted exactly as Voldemort expects we fools who love to act. I defy anyone who has watched you as I have not to want to save you more pain than you already had suffered. What did I care if numbers of nameless and faceless people and creatures were slaughtered in the vague future, if in the here and now you were alive, and well, and happy? I never dreamed I would have such a person on my hands.” He sighed. “I was wrong.

“It is time that you knew the full and complete prophecy, the reason why Voldemort sought to kill you when you were a child. He knew a prophecy had been made though he did not know its full contents. He believed he was fulfilling the terms of the prophecy. The globe that was smashed when you attempted to steal it for Voldemort from the Department of Mysteries was a mere record, a copy, of this prophecy.”

Harry said nothing, but followed Dumbledore with his eyes. Dumbledore walked past Harry to the Pensieve, where he raised his wand to his temple and deposited silvery strands of thought from his wand to the basin. Dumbledore tapped the silvery substance, and a figure rose out of it.

When Sybill Trelawney spoke, it was not in her usual ethereal, mystical voice, but in the harsh, hoarse tones Harry had heard her use once before.

“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… AND THE DARK LORD WILL MARK HIM AS HIS EQUAL, BUT HE WILL HAVE POWER THE DARK LORD KNOWS NOT… AND EITHER MUST DIE AT THE HAND OF THE OTHER FOR NEITHER CAN LIVE WHILE THE OTHER SURVIVES…. THE ONE WITH THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD WILL BE BORN AS THE SEVENTH MONTH DIES…”

Harry’s head was spinning. He did not know if he understood what it all meant or not. He didn't really care. “It means—me?”

“Yes,” said Dumbledore after a moment. Thoughtfully, he folded his hands together. “The one spoken of in this prophecy was born at the end of July sixteen years ago, to parents who had already defied Voldemort three times. This is the weapon he has been seeking so assiduously since his return: the knowledge of how to destroy you.”

Harry did not understand. He did not understand anything of his life anymore. “All this… all of this… if I had never been born,” Harry said dully. His dad. His mum. His parents. Peter, Sirius. Cedric. His heart ached. Sirius.

Hermione, prone on the floor. Ron, giggling insensibly through pain. Ginny, curled up against the wall. Neville, his nose broken and oozing. He had nearly led them to slaughter. None of it would have happened if not for him.

Sod the prophecies. All of them.

Dumbledore rose. “As of now, my priority is to keep you alive. Your mother’s sacrifice—it invoked ancient magic that protects you of the kind he continues to despise and underestimate. There is no spell, no charm, no defense that is anything like that magic that lives on from her sacrifice in your blood. You have only to return to her sister, her only remaining relative, once a year, to renew her protection. You will be safe from Voldemort.”

“She doesn’t love me.” Harry hugged his knees. “My aunt doesn’t give a damn.”

“Her blood is your refuge,” Dumbledore repeated, looking at him sternly over the top of his half-moon glasses. “As long as you call her house home.”

“Never mind,” Harry muttered to himself. Numb, Harry arose and walked to the window, and looked out at the empty, misty school grounds. I never asked to live. I never asked to be safe.

“Neither can live while the other survives,” Harry repeated, suddenly. “She— that woman said.”

“Professor Trelawney. Yes,” said Dumbledore. "She did."

Harry squared his shoulders and turned on his heel to face him, his gaze glued to the ground. “Then I’m done.”

Dumbledore frowned. “What do you mean?”

If this is what would result… he should have killed me in that graveyard. It would be better for everyone if I was gone. At least everyone would have a fighting chance. Harry wiped his tears roughly on his sleeve. “I’ve heard it all now. Let me out. I’m done.”

“Harry, we are not done talking yet—”

Harry gathered his strength to bellow. “LET ME OUT!” A powerful wave of despair and wandless magic erupted from his body, wrenching savagely at the door handle. Harry grasped for that wave of magic and pulled, pushed and pulled, yanked and pummeled, shrank and swelled, warping the wood and the metal and the glass. With strain and stress, the door exploded into shards and splinters as the handle spun free. “You can’t stop me.” The metal clattered to the ground.

“Harry—”

Harry ran.

Chapter Text

The explosion of wood chunks and groaning metal missed Severus Snape’s elbow by mere inches, filling the night with splinters, shards, and dust. A lean figure, a slight shadow in the dusky twilight, darted down the passageway.

“STOP RIGHT THERE, POTTER!” Coughing, Severus yanked his wand from its sleeve and surged from the wall where he had been awaiting his own consultation with the Headmaster.

Emerging from the open doorway behind Severus, Dumbledore reached to stay Severus’s wand hand, a breathtakingly condescending gesture that would have carried grave insult if Dumbledore was not so confident of Severus’ respect and trust. With a bit of a growl, Severus resisted.

“Let him go, Severus. He's just lost Sirius; he’s got to grieve,” Dumbledore said, with a quelling tone.

"Are you mad?" Severus sent Dumbledore a savage, scathing glance. “After what you just told him?” Severus shook him off. “Get out of my way.” He saw no trace of the boy; Potter appeared to be gone. Severus swore. “He must have summoned the Cloak!”

“Severus, we must let nature take its course—”

“In that state, Albus?” Severus rounded on him, turning the Headmaster’s name into a sneer. “You told him he was a horcrux! A tool of the Dark Lord! Do you actually believe he is your wizarding savior after all? Do you want the poor fool to die?” By the gods, that conversation could not have gone worse if Dumbledore had tried.

Ripping himself from Dumbledore’s grasp, Severus hurled himself after Potter.

A blood debt. A blood debt. If he does not act fast, Potter’s child or not, there may be no debt to repay at all. Nothing left of Lily on the blessed Earth. For all that the Headmaster claims he cares for the child’s happiness, Severus just wants Potter to survive.

Potter. Potter. Where could Potter have gone? Potter was Muggleborn. Potter liked heights. Heart in his throat, Severus took the stone steps two at a time, and heard light footsteps upon the castle stones as he burst from the tower and onto the smooth stones of the wall. He pointed his wand: “Homenum revelio!”

A ripple in the air. Severus stayed where he was and lowered his wand so as not to present an active threat, but only just. “Potter.”

Potter tore the hood from his head, revealing a face tracked with wood, dust, and tears. “Leave me alone.” He stepped onto the parapet, glancing uneasily at the ground.

Severus said, “I will not.”

“You’re his spy.” Angry indifference on his face, at this moment, Potter cared not whose, Dumbledore's or Voldemort's.

“I am.” Severus paused. “I failed to apprehend your misadventure. I underestimated you, and you are not— you are not the only foolish student who has made mistakes or endangered others.” Severus tightened his grip on his wand. It did not make good form for casting, but his emotions were too strong to suppress. He forced himself to loosen his grip and breathe raggedly through his nose. “Surely you don’t intend…” A dull horror, divorced from contempt, occurred to him with a shiver.

Potter glanced down at the ground, judging the height of the tower.

Severus forced himself to breathe. Focus. Narrowing his eyes, he pictured the distance between himself and Potter, and how long it would take to cross that distance. Which spell: levicorpus? Perhaps, but easily anticipated, and it had to be correctly timed. Featherweight charm? His aim would have to be true. Cushioning charm was similar, but it would take too long: he must have time to spot the ground first. Tethering charm? No, aim in the wrong spot and that could break his neck. Summoning charm? It could fail. Sticky shoes? That might cause the boy to lose his balance, and slip and fall…

Severus spoke again, aware of his fingers fluttering as he re-gripped his wand. “To escape in death…is a senseless waste. I will not have it.”

Potter shrugs. “They would be better off without me.” Potter edges away from Severus and laughs bitterly. “Safer, too.”

“Potter. No one knows that for a fact.” Severus inhaled, nostrils flaring, and spoke with his usual venom and contempt. “You have no idea of your worth.”

Potter scowled. “You mean my worth to Voldemort? Or my worth to Dumbledore? You hated my dad. You hated Sirius. You’ve hated me all your life. Over and over, you told me that I was nothing more than a famous attention-seeking freak!” Skittish, Potter hopped from one parapet to the next, backing away from Severus. “Why would you care? You’ve paid your life debt.” The wind kicked up the hem of his robes, briefly revealed by the edges of his Cloak.

Severus forced himself to relax, remaining at a cautious distance as he continued to follow Potter’s footsteps. “Such debts do not end simply because we wish them to, Potter.” Potter ran out of wall and wobbled on the edge. “As the Dark Lord’s spy, I inflicted great harm, and incurred many other debts I cannot repay. Yet I did not break. Surely you are stronger than this! You heard the prophecy—it is your hand that will vanquish the Dark Lord!” The argument sprang too easily to his lips.

“Strong?” Potter laughed and shook his head. “No. I begged for death today. When Voldemort took control, I was his… puppet. Master Occlumency? Ha! You didn't believe it would help, and never did, and you were my teacher!” Hot, angry tears spilled over Potter’s cheeks. “It doesn’t matter, because I trusted him! I trusted the dreams, I TRUSTED KREACHER! And after all this… the Dursleys will kill me if I don’t go mad first. You don’t know what it’s like, to face them, let alone after Cedric—" Choking down tears, Harry danced back, perilously close to the edge.

Severus whispered hoarsely, “Surely Dumbledore can—”

“He won’t listen.” Potter laughed. “Enough people are dead because of me. Don’t you get it? I just want them to have a fighting chance. I want it to end. I just want it all to end.” Potter spread his arms.

Severus roared and rushed forward. “POTTER! NO!” Spells poured through his mind, murmured senselessly by numb lips; he tore at the air as his wand whipped into motion—

Potter gave him one last, measured look, and then he dropped from the tower, wrapped in the invisibility cloak.

Severus fell against the parapet, grasping uselessly at thin air. Below, there was a sharp CRACK. For a time, the air pulsed, wracked with silent sobs, overwhelmed by a memory of another death from sixteen years ago, before finally Severus wrenched his hands from the stonework. He forced himself to descend the tower stairs, groping the walls with his left hand. Time itself seemed to seize, and it stayed far, far away.

“Harry! Harry!”

The voice sounds like it’s far away, and he hears the delighted barking of a sturdy black dog, and then a warm body slams into Harry’s. Sirius wraps his arms around Harry and buries his face in his neck. “My boy. Oh, my boy. I thought I lost you!”

“Sirius? I thought you were dead…!” Harry shouts joyfully.

“Harry?” Sirius hugs harder. “Harry, I am dead. But…” He bites his lip.

“Where am I?” Harry asks, looking around.

“King’s Cross Station. Or something like?” Sirius takes a look around. “Assuming I am seeing what you are seeing, that is.”

Harry stares at him. Sirius looks young again. The age, the sorrow and the dull anger that haunted him before have been wiped away, utterly gone. He looks… he looks at peace.

“Sirius, what about mum and dad?”

“Not here. They sent me to…speak to you.” Sirius bites his lip. “Lily and James send you their love. Cedric, too,” he adds after a moment, raising his head to meet Harry’s eyes. “Harry, you’ve got to go back.”

“What? No, I don’t! I want to be with you!”

“No, Harry.” Sirius shakes his head. “I never wanted to be an excuse for you to take your life. Your mother, your father and I… we will be well, waiting for you. But your time is not now. You have a second chance.” Sirius grips his shoulders. “Harry, I’m pleading with you because you must, and time is of the essence. Look behind you.”

Trembling, Harry does so.

It’s…. a child. An ugly, distorted child. Now Harry is aware of its grunting, jerking, moaning, whispering, and crying. Moist and clammy, it looks as if it is being tortured. His skin crawls at the thought of touching it. Its slit eyes are sullen, sunken, and spiked with raw hatred and resentment when it catches Harry’s gaze. Harry jerks his gaze away, quickly, feeling vaguely nauseous. So that’s why Snape tried to teach me Occlumency. It had not been real to him before. Guilt settles in the pit of his stomach, bitter and cold.

“I thought this would be easier,” says Harry, swallowing. “Is that how Voldemort was trying to gain control of me?”

Sirius looks at the child and nods. “Harry. Harry, listen. That fragment of soul is Voldemort’s, and it has no morals, no heart, no spirit, no conscience, nothing. It is bound to foul magic, and it has never grown and will never grow and change as a person does. It is not even a properly formed or self-contained Horcrux, but poison and calamity. If you cross the boundary to death, that thing will try to survive you. If it takes over your body, I shudder to think what would happen. But your body died, so you don’t have to leave again with that…thing. It’s no natural part of you. You can leave it behind. If you choose life, you have the stronger will, and it must accept your choice. But you must go back while you still can.”

“So ‘neither can live while the other survives,’ ” Harry says numbly.

“Just so. You forgot, ‘either must die at the hands of the other.’ I’m so sorry, Harry. There’s more than one way to skin a prophecy… but it all comes true in the end.”

“Sirus.” Harry’s eyes fill with tears. “I just missed you so much. I didn’t get to say goodbye. I still—I guess I still don’t understand what happened at the Ministry….”

“I fell through one of the Doors to Death.” Sirius' steady gaze is so gentle and so compassionate, it hurts.

Unable to look at him, Harry looks at the mismatched child of writhing limbs, which is spitting and mewling and whimpering. “Do I just…leave it here?” As disgusted as he is, pity moves him to feel this as a kind of abandonment.

“Let the dead take care of the dead, Harry.”

"Okay. Okay, Sirius." Harry wipes his eyes. “I never asked to live like this. I can’t go on. Not without you. And I— I love Hogwarts, but it’s not enough…”

Sirius presses a kiss to his forehead, then both his cheeks, and braces Harry by the shoulders. “Yes, you can. And yes, there is hope; you just don’t know it yet. Trust me—things can change now you’ve bloody well caught the school’s attention. Now, can you cast a Patronus?”

Harry shakes his head.

“Then do it for me, Harry. Can you do that? Will you let me see your beautiful silver Prongs again? You saved my life once, you know. You were so kind, and so desperate not to let me lose it again. You didn’t fail me, Harry. I failed you, but you never failed me.”

Tearing himself away is agony. Reluctantly, Harry takes a step back and raises his wand. “Yes.”

“All right. You know I am so proud of you, Harry. So proud.” Sirius scrubs at his eyes. “James is right proud, too, even if he’s too miffed to speak just now.” He laughs a little. “He’s giving me such a dirty look, you know. And Lily sends her love.”

“I know,” says Harry softly, knowing this is a dirty, rotten trick, and he is letting Sirius get away with it, but his voice cracks when he says, “You’re the only dad I ever knew.”

“There’s always new family to be found.” Sirius looks at him fondly. “I didn’t find it in my own family. But I found it in Remus and James. Even Lily, one day. You will, too.”

Harry nods, breathing unevenly as he clutches his wand.

“Do it, Harry!”

Harry opens his mouth, opens his mind, and gulps for breath, reaching instinctively for his happiest memories with Sirius, weaving experiences he remembers with those he does not, even as tears pour from his face, and he shouts: “EXPECTO… PATRONUM!!!”

It is hearing Sirius offer his guardianship and his home to him. The hope and joy of handling one of Sirius' letters, tracing over the curves of his handwriting, and signing his name to his reply before rousing a sleepy Hedwig to take it. The warmth in his fingers upon meeting his holly-and-phoenix-feather wand. Racing Malfoy neck-and-neck on a broomstick. Biting into his first chocolate frog. Ron pumping his fists after a close game of wizard chess. Huddling with Hermione, crouched over a murky potion brewing at the back of a very wet girls’ bathroom. Snow pelting Malfoy’s face. A roomful of students waking to breathe and move again after several months of petrification, and the quiet sigh that fell over the hospital wing thereafter. Comfort food in the Great Hall under floating candles and grey-cloud skies. Helping Sirius escape on Buckbeak’s back. It’s tea with Hagrid and his infamous rock cakes. It’s the freedom and relief of handing a thousand galleons to a pair of flabbergasted red-headed twins who know exactly what to do with it once they get over their shock. The thrill of opening the Marauder’s Map and whispering, I solemnly swear I am up to no good, and the names of Misters Moony, Prongs, and Padfoot appearing on its pages. Radishes swing from Luna’s ears and Harry offers to find her lost shoes. Baffled and wet, he is hugged fiercely by Fleur and Gabrielle. He is arguing with Arthur Weasley about rubber ducks and the function of toilets and Muggle technology. Ginny fires off spell after spell with grim determination and perfect deadly form. Neville shouts for all his worth: Riddikulus! Tears tremble on Cho’s eyelashes as she releases tears he cannot shed for Cedric’s death. A hand shoved under Umbridge’s nose, ridged with the scars of the words and declaring with fierce and vicious vindication, I must not tell lies. It is resting under a grove of geraniums in the back of Privet Drive, cool and hidden from the summer sun. It is a sackful of galleons and a modest list of names under the heading "Dumbledore’s Army." It is a glimmering roomful of glowing patroni and delighted, unforced smiles. It is Lucius handing Dobby the house elf the forbidden sock.

The horns of Prongs the stag floods the station with light, filling King’s Cross with overlapping wreaths of hope, love, and joy. It is stronger here on the edge of the afterlife than it is in the corporeal world, and it fills Harry with its strength.

“That’s my boy!” Sirius crows with gleeful pride above the buzz and the gleam of a thousand kilowatts of bright, blindingly pure white light. “That’s the power the Dark Lord knows not!”

Somewhere, a haunted man tips his face into that light, breathless with laughter, becoming young again. Somewhere, a black dog barks farewell.

Goodbye, my godson.

With a soft gasp, Harry shuddered and opened his eyes. Snape loomed above him.

The Headmaster approached, striding swiftly from the tower.

Snape inserted himself between the two of them and shielded Harry Potter with his body. “Do. Not. Touch. Him,” Snape snarled.

“Severus—”

“DO NOT SPEAK TO ME!” Snape shrieked, shaking with the effort. “Nor to HIM! HOW DARE YOU! YOU SAID HE WOULD BE SAFE! I TRUSTED YOU!”

Snape had gone quite mad. Harry’s eyes fluttered and shut.

Chapter Text

Severus sent off a Patronus. Madam Pomfrey swiftly assessed the situation and took his pulse, declaring him alive. She transferred Potter to a stretcher and floated him up to the castle. While Severus continued to block Dumbledore's approach, once satisfied that Madam Pomfrey had duly assumed responsibility for Potter's care, Dumbledore quietly returned to his office. Back in the Hospital Wing, Potter was given Dreamless Sleep while Madam Pomfrey performed diagnostic spells to determine the full extent of his injuries. Severus took a chair and waited.

“Well,” said Madam Pomfrey, at last, “Thanks to your quick thinking and some… accidental... magic… I think he will recover.” She was clearly puzzled.

“What have you discovered?” Severus asked.

Madam Pomfrey frowned. “Well, goodness knows, the diagnostics seemed to indicate that there are signs that he had a fatal injury not too long ago, but his essential organs appear to be perfectly intact without even so much as internal bruising, so that can't be right. His vitals are perfectly fine. He cracked his skull, so his brain at least ought to be rattled. I will be casting more complete diagnostics when he wakes later, but for now I think he needs healing sleep. Broken bones—ah, two breaks in his left arm and his left leg and heel, plus he crushed or scraped up his entire left side. If the spinal cord had broken, I shouldn't like to think. Although I’ve seen Quidditch players do worse falling from a bloody broomstick, and that was after they had the sense to use cushioning charms on the sod of the pitch. We’ll patch him right up.” She grimaced with distaste, then sniffed. "He did fall, didn't he?"

Severus shivered.

"Are you cold, Severus? Of course you must be in shock!" Madam Pomfrey frowned and swiftly conjured him a blanket. When he would not take it, she had to charm it to tuck around his shoulders. Severus scowled, but allowed it to settle sulkily. Madam Pomfrey offered him chocolate, butterbeer, pepper-up. Severus refused. Giving up, Madam Pomfrey sighed. “There’s one other thing,” she said, hesitating.

“What is it?” Severus snapped to attention.

“Potter’s scar,” she said. “Was leaking—seeping something. I didn't like the look of it, so I did my best to draw it out with my wand. Not a natural bodily substance—that’s all I can tell you. I’ve captured it in a bottle in case you wish to attempt a positive identification.” She produced a crystal bottle, filled with something like black ink, and wiggled it.

Severus frowned. “Thank you, Poppy. I certainly will.” He took the bottle and pocketed it.

Madam Pomfrey took a deep breath. “What was the child doing, Severus?”

“Potter ran from the Headmaster’s office and jumped from the nearest bloody tower.” Severus swallowed. “I thought I saw him… die.”

Madam Pomfrey paled.

“Aside from yourself, myself, and Minerva, I am not sure who else needs to know. I ask you to keep it quiet. And I must urge you in the strongest possible terms not to let Headmaster Dumbledore anywhere near him.” Severus’s lip curled. “If he comes while I am guarding the boy, I will hex him first.”

 “You wish to keep out the Headmaster?” It was a sign of her deep distress that Madam Pomfrey nearly laid a hand on his sleeve, her eyes wide. “A Muggle suicide, Severus? But that never works!”

Severus winced. That old wives' tale never seemed to die, but if it served to protect Potter from the media and Ministry interference... “Keep your voice down, Poppy!” Severus scowled and, seeing no way out of it, opted for the simplest set of truth and lies. “We do not know what was discussed in the Headmaster’s office. Potter’s godfather died tonight during a Death Eater raid on the Ministry of Magic. The boy was distraught. Nevertheless…”

"Sirius... Black? His godfather?" Madam Pomfrey gasped. “The poor dear! What on Earth could Albus have said to Harry?”

What indeed. “Whatever it was, it was not taken well. We need to speak to him before we let the Headmaster back into his sight, and ascertain what happened,” Severus replied, and Madam Pomfrey nodded. She still seemed to think Potter survived the fall. Severus was almost certain that he didn’t, but he decided not to press the point. “He lived,” Severus murmured instead.

She chuckled. “ ‘The Boy Who Lives.’ Thank heavens he did. Most wizards do survive reckless falls, bless them…” Longbottom, for one, no thanks to his overbearing, senseless family. “I’ll do as you say. It will be hard to dissuade the Headmaster if he comes by. Perhaps we should request a transfer to St. Mungo’s? The school is closing, after all, and that is where Minerva is currently. You’ll have an excuse to guard them both. The boy’s things can be retrieved later at your leisure. And... sorry to bother you with more paperwork at this time, but... it is standard procedure at this time of year,” Madam Pomfrey said apologetically. She rummaged in some drawers and brought Severus a list of potions for him to restock over the summer.

“A perfect excuse.” Severus smiled thinly.

Madam Pomfrey flashed a prim, satisfied smile. “I thought so.” She picked up a quill and dashed off a letter to St. Mungo’s, requesting assistance and an emergency safety-portkey. Severus swiftly wrote a letter to McGonagall, informing her of the critical developments in the life of her most exasperating student and of his plans, and prepared to escort Potter to the magical hospital. The transfer occurred smoothly. Madam Pomfrey helped Severus sign preliminary paperwork designating himself as Potter's temporary guardian as a representative of Hogwarts. The transfer by safety-portkey was longer, and colder, but less jarring than by standard portkey. Potter was rushed off on a stretcher by a team of two young healers; Severus trailed after them. They were led into a room; Severus took a seat. It was well after midnight before he slept fitfully. His dreams were filled with the ghostly spectres of Death Eaters moving in schools, faces he knew were alive and those he had known who had died, a long fingered column of masked acolytes infiltrating the Ministry...

“Where are we?”

“This is St. Mungo’s.” It must have been early morning. Severus Snape snapped paper sheets flat and refolded his copy of the Daily Prophet and stared at him quellingly. “Where you will no doubt remain for some time,” he said, lifting an eyebrow to sneer.

“I feel fine,” Potter lied, staring at the ceiling. He was painfully stiff, but nothing actively hurt so far. His cheek felt sticky. He must have scraped it in the fall.

“You are probably high on pain salve.” Severus frowned. “Try that again.”

“But I feel—”

“What is the last thing that you remember?”

Potter stayed silent.

A rhetorical question, apparently, because Severus went on impatiently, “You walked off a ledge and fell from a bloody tower. Try again.”

“I feel like I’ve been stamped on by a hippogriff. Sir.”

“Better, but not honest enough to explain your reckless regard for your own life.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “Why are you here, anyway?”

“To keep my eye on your insufferable person, Potter.” Severus took a flask of something out of the bedside drawer. “The mediwizards will want you to drink this soon. It’s a mild restorative.”

“Oh. Fine.” Potter wriggled his toes under the sheets and pushed himself to a sitting position. His left side erupted into hot, angry fire and swollen, distended joints, and he winced. Severus handed him the potion. Harry nearly dropped it in the transfer, and had to hold it in both hands to sip. It was a funny mixture of mint, moly, dittany, and sour bread that left his teeth feeling scrubbed, but it was not unpleasant, albeit strong to the taste. More interesting than shots of Uncle Vernon’s mouthwash, anyway, which he never used. “But why? I’m not going anywhere.” He carefully handed back the vial to Snape, who took it.

“I would not like a repeat of last night,” Severus said grimly.

Potter stared at the ceiling. “It won’t happen again.”

“Oh?”

“I got rid of it. The soul shard or whatever.” Potter picked at a bit of threading in the hospital blanket. “So I guess I lost my second free shot at death at the hands of Voldemort that I didn’t know I had.” He snickered suddenly. “Same difference!”

You’re much too calm, Potter. For a response, Severus settled for a dignified, “Indeed. We shall ascertain the truth of that statement at length later.” When that doesn’t feel sufficient, he added, with a curl of his lip, “You seem in good spirits.”

“I do, don’t I?” Potter said dreamily to the ceiling. “You could say anything to me, and I don’t think I’d care.”

Snape settled back in his chair, his dour expression fixed as a carved mask.

“Harry.” Hermione is crying. A vivid X is drawn in macabre purple across her chest, ragged and ravaged. It hurts to look at. She lies prone on the ground, frozen in the position in which she was once petrified by the basilisk, lips slightly parted. A target.

Ron wades over from the sinks. He hisses something in Parseltongue, and Harry knows what he said and yet cannot understand him at the same time. Ron points to his forehead. Points to Harry’s.

When Harry does not react, Ron frowns, draws his wand, and intones, “Wingardium Leviosa!”

Harry stiffens in panic, but there is no troll’s club. Confused, Harry watches as Hermione rises gently into the air and melts into Ron’s embrace, arms flung around his neck. Ron spins her in a graceful pirouette, sending Hermione’s hair flying and scattering crystal beads of water everywhere.

Ron says, “Look, Hermione! His scar!” He looks at her and points to Harry, laughing.

Hermione releases Ron with a gasp, lands in the water, and fumbles towards Harry. “White as a pearl! It’s healing! Have you ever seen it like this before, Ron?”

“I can’t touch it,” says Harry. He’s trying to reach it under his hair, but his fingers won’t reach. They shy away as if his scar is surrounded by an invisible forcefield.

“Like a bleeding rack of lamb, it was,” says Ron, nodding. “Wouldn’t ever fully heal. Do you reckon Voldemort thought he was a sacrifice? You’re lightning rod for trouble, mate.”

“Shall I touch it for you, then?” Hermione asks nervously. At Harry’s nod, she lightly fingers the scar. The sensation of her touch fades into something like pure bliss.

“Didn’t know curse scars could heal like that,” Ron says, subdued. “Not unless the curse was dealt with, at least.” He stares at Harry. “Did something happen to you, Harry?”

Harry opens his mouth to reply—

“Legilimens!”

Harry groped for his wand, but found nothing in the bedsheets. Panicking and unable to raise his head without pain, he twisted and turned, making sweat break out on his forehead, until someone reached across him to firmly clasp the blanket and shove him back down. “Be still, Potter.” Harry gasped for breath, heart racing.

Someone was leaning over him, and it wasn’t Ron or Hermione lifting a finger to his forehead to check his temperature.

“Where’s my wand?” Harry said thickly. His mouth tasted awful. “Glasses?”

“Potter.” Snape cleared his throat. “I have the frames, if you still wish to use them, but the lenses were shattered and broken and I was unable to fully repair them. You may want to consider replacements. Your effects—your wand and your Cloak—are safely locked in a drawer until you recover.”

“Snape?” Harry croaked, blinking at the grey-black shape above him.

“Professor Snape,” the dark shape corrected him crisply.

Harry made a face.

“I see your impudence has not left you.”

“I thought I saw—” Harry fell silent. “Did—did you try to spell me just now? To get into my mind?”

“Of course not. I thought we had established that teaching you Occlumency was a fool’s errand. Little good it would do me to illegally harass a suicidal underage wizard outside the demands of class,” Snape said irritably. “Did you learn nothing of the subject at all? You cannot cast a fact-finding legilimens effectively on a sleeper, much less on a dreamer. There is nothing I could glean from your mind that I could not procure by legitimate means. I certainly don’t enjoy digging in your miserable head.”

“You— what?”

“Fools like you and your father wear your heart bared upon your sleeves. If you could hide your emotions from your face or gesture, let alone your mind, half the battle could be won,” Snape sneered.

Harry’s jaw dropped. “You never told me facial expressions would matter in Occlumency!”

“A boy like you is expected to think for himself, without an adult at his side to tell him what to do in every circumstance!” Snape hissed. “Surely you’ve thought about the rigor it would take to resist the Dark Lord! That it was time to make every effort to re-enact it!”

“So— so— you were staging an entire—I don’t know, what, a simulation spy game?—when I hadn’t yet mastered the basics? Expecting me to shrug off every insult you lobbed at me? For someone who complains that I am so easy to read, you sure did such a job at giving some positive motivation or making your precious expectations clear! Every success I ever had under your tutelage was an accident. And that’s when defending myself is the only thing I’m ever any good at!” Harry threw himself back into the pillows, shivering. Slivers and needles of pain exploded over his back and neck so he could not speak. He glared as balefully as he could at Snape.

Snape did not respond at first. He rolled his wand between his fingers thoughtfully. “What brought this line of questioning on? A nightmare? Or a dream?”

“I thought I heard you say the spell as I was waking up. I never asked for your help,” Harry mumbled. “Every lesson made me feel weaker. Worse. The dreams came more frequently after lessons, and you just scoffed at me. But if I couldn’t resist them, I could still help. You wanted me to fail.” Snape surely hated him too much to listen. Furious and angry, Harry shut his eyes to signal that the conversation was at an end. Blocking everything out, he plunged back into sleep.

There was a fuzzy green figure by his bed this time. Harry squinted into it.

As soon as she spoke, Harry recognized her voice. “Severus is having his evening meal, and I am feeling well enough to sit, so I thought I would sit with you. Before that, he was negotiating with St. Mungo's for a private room so we could protect you from prying eyes together.” McGonagall said, prim as ever. She was was sitting on some kind of wizarding version of a walker. Harry's impression—not helped by the lack of glasses—was that it had too many legs. “The Ministry shouldn't know you are here, yet. How are you feeling, Potter?”

“Awful,” Harry replied. The pain was more general than sharp now, and he was able to move.

“I see.”

There was a thought occurring. Harry struggled to remember, pulling it from his mind as if it had occurred many weeks ago. "We were having our Astronomy OWLs on the rooftop. You were Stunned.”

“I was. I am still moving quite gingerly,” McGonagall said simply. “They had to restart my heart, which was a nasty shock, I can assure you, and then Severus’s news came. McGonagalls do not break down so easily, however. I assure you that I can defend you as well seated as standing.”

“Thanks... Professor. I think. Are you… are you two guarding me from Dumbledore or something?”

McGonagall inhaled sharply. “I cannot speak for Severus.”

“Oh.”

“I want to see you healed, and healed well, Harry. You frightened us.”

“Sirius died,” Harry whispered.

“Yes. But we both know that is not the whole story.” McGonagall hesitated. “I believe you had reason for your actions that night. Perhaps you could help me put together the pieces of what happened in my absence. Or any other factors in your decision that you wish to share.”

Harry shook his head. There are too many secrets to keep safe, even from those he usually trusts.

“I was not thinking of today,” McGonagall said, sighing. “I know it will be hard for you. But when you’ve had some time to think about it…”

Help them put together the pieces, she said. Harry turned the thought over in his mind. If he has time to think about it, what to say and what not to say, maybe he could tell her a little more. “I’ll try.”

“There is nothing more I could ask of you, Harry.” McGonagall clasped Harry’s hand firmly.

Harry said vaguely, “I don’t… I don’t think of myself as all that unhappy, you know.”

McGonagall sighed. “I know, Harry. Some dragons lie deep… far beneath mere happiness or unhappiness. Sometimes life tickles them for us. Even if we weren't looking for trouble.”

Harry didn't know what to say to that.

McGonagall woke early in the morning, so she stayed alert until Snape came back around noon when Harry took lunch and McGonagall fell back asleep in preparation for a mild session of physical therapy. To everyone's relief, she regained strength steadily. Harry had developed a slight intolerance to Skele-gro, so his healing went more slowly than the Healers liked. They were brisk but cheerful. By the second day Harry stopped sleeping quite so much, but by the end of three days Harry's body had improved enough that he was able to use crutches with splints, and the Healers outfitted him with new glasses. They were rimmed in a thin, fragile-looking gold. He thought they looked a little flimsy, but they were his first glasses that had not been paid for by the Dursleys.

In the meantime, Harry was mostly bored stiff. St. Mungo's was noticeably quieter than it had been at Christmas, but whenever a new patient was admitted, Harry tensed.

It was McGonagall who kept a pulse on the activities of the Order and quietly intercepted a visit by Neville, Luna, and Ginny while they checked on Ron and Hermione; she invited them to see Harry, provided that they were “quiet” and “behaved.” They brought the news that Hermione was hit by a nasty Dark curse the Healers had not heard the use of since the last wizarding war. Ron was injured badly by the attack of the brains, which disturbed Harry, but his friends accepted the news with matter-of-factness and a distinct lack of surprise.

“The mind and the thoughts within it are very powerful, Harry,” Ginny explained when she saw his confusion. “Witches and wizards get overconfident because they think magic can heal so much of the body, but it’s all but powerless to heal a frightened and unwilling mind. What Ron experienced was a mental attack embodied, and that’s not something people are equipped to experience, because it can only occur because of powerfully unnatural magic. Luna says the Quibbler has been writing conspiracy theories about the Ministry’s experiments with thought magic since forever, but she never expected to see it confirmed because the research is so controversial. If she decided to talk, her dad just might blow a gasket.” Behind Ginny, Luna nodded earnestly. “It will be painful, but in the end, Ron will be okay, because he is going to recover physically sooner, although it might take him a bit longer, mentally. Hermione’s still touch and go.” The others nodded, agreeing with her explanation.

Neville had brought a small potted plant with red-edged arrowlike leaves and curling arms, probably intending to prune it quietly in the corner; it looked a tad overgrown. He fiddled with it absently. “I can’t imagine what you feel, losing your godfather,” he whispered to Harry. “He’s extended family to me, too, if you go back far enough. I know it must be hard. I mean, if nobody says anything, it’s weird, and I—” Neville’s ears reddened. “But we don’t have to speak of it again, if you don’t want to...” He clutched the pot more tightly, as if it could protect him.

“It’s all right, Neville,” Harry told him sincerely.

“Professor McGonagall said you got hurt,” Luna said vaguely, her eyes unfocused. “But it didn’t seem like you had been hit when you and Dumbledore left the Ministry...”

Ginny gave Luna a sharp look. “Then what happened?” she asked, turning to Harry.

“I did something stupid,” Harry said quietly.

“Well, what did you do? Jump off a broomstick?” Ginny said, eyes flashing. “None of the teachers would tell us anything—"

“I fell.” Harry lowered his eyes to his lap. “I jumped off a tower.”

Ginny stared at him. Then she began to giggle, and finally to howl. “God, Harry, how could you? I didn’t think you were that stupid. No way. You are too much.” Ginny stamped her foot, shoved her face into her elbow, and bent over to muffle the sound of her laughter. The others looked to the door nervously, hoping she wouldn't get them thrown out for being loud.

“Yeah, but falling to death just doesn’t tend to work very well for wizards,” Neville mumbled. “Case in point…” He clutched the plant pot for support.

Harry said nothing.

When Ginny sobered, she scowled. “Riddle got into your head again, didn’t he.”

“Yeah,” Harry said in a flat voice, dropping his eyes to the coverlet. The image of Dumbledore’s impassive face with folded hands and his blue X-ray gaze came and filled his vision, unasked for. He banished it. “He did. But I’m alive now, and I… Look, at that moment, I didn’t really want to be.”

Ginny covered her mouth with both hands, looking as if she was about to cry. “God, Harry.” She stalked away to the window, not looking at any of them, and quietly wept.

Harry looked to Neville in silent question.

“She’ll cool down,” Neville said, looking after her. “The important thing is you survived, right? She’s upset because…you know. She cares about you and you never talk about yourself with anyone.” Neville looked uncomfortable. “You know she used to have a crush on you, right?”

“I know, Neville.”

Neville looked like he wanted to say something else, but he didn't. He nodded and sat himself down in a corner with his plant.

“I like your new glasses. They do bring out the green in your eyes! Are you going to keep them? Let’s play a game, Harry,” Luna said brightly. “That always takes my mind off of things. Exploding Snaps, Gobstones, Wizard Chess… What shall we play?”

Harry leaned back against the pillows. “How about I just watch you?”

Luna looked at him shyly. “If you’re sure…”

“I don’t mind, Luna. Really, I don’t.” He glanced around quickly; nobody was watching. "Luna, can I ask you something?"

She smiled.

Harry swept the fringes of his hair out of the way of his scar. "Does it look...different, now?"

Luna blinked and leaned forward to study it. "Hmm. I thought it seemed like a fresh scratch before. It sort of seems to be sealing, doesn't it?"

"It's not white, is it?"

Luna shook her head. "No, not yet."

Harry sat back, not sure how he felt about that. "Thanks, Luna. Don't tell anyone?"

"No, of course not, but I doubt I'd be believed even so," Luna said gravely. She thought for a while, then perked up. "How about a story, then?"

"I'd like that, Luna."

Harry's not quite sure how she led into it, but Luna proceeded to tell an imaginative and surprisingly salacious tale of Harry’s coming sixth year using her Exploding Snap cards to tell the most ridiculous fortunes with silly voices. Her imagination was a lot more enjoyable than his or Ron’s dismal predictions for Trelawney’s Divination class. Harry laughed himself sick. Once she calmed down, Ginny wandered over to listen. She smirked whenever Neville, continuing to prune quietly in the background, let out a mild snort. Harry marveled that he had never heard Neville soft, feathery chuckle before.

“It’s good to see you smile, Harry,” Luna said softly as she packed up and said goodbye. “I’m sorry about your godfather.”

“Me, too,” said Harry.

Chapter Text

“Minerva. A moment.”

Minerva looked up from the scrying spell she cast on a mirror to perform her last checks on the condition of the Gryffindor dorms. It was a tedious task, and she was getting a crick in her neck, but she couldn't lose her place. “I’m almost done, Severus. Are Potter's friends finished in the next room over?”

"Not yet." Severus made an impatient noise. “You know you can leave this part for the house-elves. I’ll conduct a double-check myself before we collect Potter's things and move to your safe-house.”

“Oh, would you do that?” Minerva sighed. Letting the scry-glass fall, she gave her shoulders a shake. “That was irksome.”

“Should I fetch his trunk and pack his things while I’m at it?”

Minerva gave him a steely look. “Are you asking for my permission to snoop?”

“I’m asking how likely to be offended Potter would be if I did so.” Severus's expression was still grim.

“The answer is not very, but since he has never given me reason to do so and he thinks so little of authority already, I find myself reluctant to invade his privacy. Not to mention I have strong reason to suspect that his boundaries were routinely violated in the Dursley household. In due course you may find out more if you force him to pack up in front of you in your usual dictatorial fashion.” McGonagall rubbed her eyes. “Which, need I remind you, would be distinctly uncordial and unethical. So I must ask you kindly to refrain, however informative it might be. In a few hours, Harry can pack for himself.”

Severus made a non-committal sound.

“Severus.”

“I’ll behave myself. Doubtless, with the exception of that odious map, the Cloak, and his wand, the boy doesn’t have access to any truly interesting possessions, and he probably doesn't even bother to hide them, unlike some of my young, foolish Slytherins.” Severus snorted. “Or the older ones, for that matter, when they start to believe they can hide things from me. Problem is, they often can. For a time.”

“I don’t envy you that job.”

Severus cast some sort of spell on their surroundings. A peculiar stillness like a curtain of something discreet and easily overlooked fell around them. “I try to have as few of these conversations as possible, and yet… I keep forgetting,” Severus said as he turned slowly in place, “That Potter doesn’t know half of what James Potter knew at his age.”

Minerva steepled her fingers, waiting for the explosion.

“He doesn’t think ahead like James did!”

“He was raised like a Muggle, Severus.” Minerva sighed mightily. “James knew pureblood customs, spells, and games like the back of his hand. He knew enough to explore any possibility and pursue any plan he put his mind to. You won’t find your schoolboy rival in him. He just isn’t there.”

Severus grunted. “But Potter never asks.”

“No. Harry has Ron Weasley to advise him in such matters, and does not consult with any Hogwarts teacher aside from Hagrid or Lupin except in dire need. Unfortunately, Ron lacks interest in the subtle peculiarities of wizarding culture and cannot be trusted to anticipate which cultural aspects Harry or Hermione would miss.” Minerva rubbed her hands to warm them.

"So you say, but with access to such a well-connected friend, even a blood-traitor like Weasley, I find him appallingly incurious."

"Harry studiously avoids arbitrary punishment," Minerva said wearily. "If he breaks the rules fair and square in the pursuit of adventure and receives a consequence, so be it—he knuckles under detentions, and blushes at an unexpected reprimand. Contrary to your accusations of attention-seeking behavior, he was so dizzy when I appointed him as Seeker, I almost had to remind him to breathe! He was terrified! Oliver Wood told me later that the boy thought I was going to rap his knuckles with a stick!" Minerva paused to catch her breath. "And Harry did not say a word. He is self-reliant to a fault. He won't protest or ask for help or relief when doing so would reveal that he is out of his depth. Though he was woefully underage, he did not take the advantage of that excuse to seek the advice of a single teacher during the course of Tri-wizard Tournament. He simply takes stock of his surroundings, pursues what he observes, and infers the rest, and his conclusions are very often accurate. Haven't you ever wondered why he went to the trouble to sneak past Fluffy, and all the rest of the challenges, in the first place?"

Severus' lips thinned as he prepared to launch into familiar invective. "I assumed that he, as a first year Gryffindor, saw a challenge and decided he had to try his luck against it. He skated by on the skill and effort of Granger the know-it-all and his loyal Weasley, just as he does in class—"

Minerva cut him off. "Without a doubt, none of them could have proceeded so far if they had acted alone. But it was Harry who realized what the school protected, and the danger that posed to it. Without him they would neither have suspected nor acted on the knowledge. He came to me first, but to my regret, I thoughtlessly dismissed him. You must seek Hagrid to get the full story." Minerva shook her head. "You made it clear from the beginning that you had it out for him, so you cannot claim to have ever seen his best side."

"I've seen you grade his essays in Transfiguration—"

"So?" A steely glint entered McGonagall's eyes. "You cannot expect everyone to exhibit your own characteristics, Severus! He may not have a head for magical theory, but he has a gift for the practical, and he has never been thoughtless or reckless in my class. Professor Flitwick is pleased with him, and he is no easy mark! He has an open heart that unfailingly reflects the genuine kindness that is shown to him. I do not appreciate your accusations of his glorying in fame, and I hope you have not voiced them in his hearing. It is not only utterly preposterous, it is unbecoming to you, and insulting to Harry’s native intelligence. What pride he possesses is more akin to yours than James’s, in fact.”

“Mine?” Severus sneered.

“Yours, yes. For better or worse, James was truly confident in himself, his skin, and his actions. Your fault is to presume moral superiority when you know you have already relinquished it,” Minerva responded tartly. “So does Harry, but he is not impervious to correction and guidance from an adult whom he trusts, or reliant on priggish titles to justify his behavior.”

Severus winced and half-turned from her.

“You deserved that,” Minerva said mildly, and then more quietly, “We've spoken of all this before. Why are you really here?”

“….Harry accused me of not preparing him adequately for Occlumency.”

Minerva took a deep breath. “I daresay you didn’t, as I would have told you if you hadn’t been so damned secretive all year. I know you were spying. It is no excuse.”

Severus stayed quiet.

“Shall I enumerate the reasons?” Minerva held up a finger. “Firstly, Harry never received an education in Muggle meditation, let alone wizardly meditation such as the kind that prepares one for an Animagus transformation. Second, I imagine you did not prepare him with the basic teachings to strengthen his mind under optimal circumstances before you attacked him. True, he does learn quickly on his feet—but that does not mean he had the tools to perform the task you required of him. Third, you did not seek to establish a bond of either gentleness or trust. In fact, you sought to enrage him without making it clear that your verbal jabs were part and parcel of your intended exercise, and doubtless drew upon old toxic vitriol. The verbal beating would have left him drained and less capable of performing Occlumency when it mattered most: overnight.” McGonagall raised her eyebrows and crossed her arms. “All of that holds true even if we can call your teaching of Occlumency an educational exercise, and not a tortured lesson in humiliation from Harry’s perspective."

"Lastly, and this is not your fault,” she said, eyeing Snape until she was satisfied that he is paying close attention, “you were unable to refuse to be placed in a situation charged with high emotional risk, and you did not have the distance for the task to be safe—either of you." Minerva paused. "Albus knew that, but did nothing to mitigate it when he knew you were unable to advocate for yourself under the Dark Lord’s surveillance. You felt cornered and threatened. You should not have been. I know that because you’re not ordinarily an incompetent teacher. Unfortunately, as I trusted in your general competence and in Albus's discretion, I was not aware that you had floundered so badly until the charade was over.”

“Potter cannot expect gentleness from his enemies,” Severus replied flatly. “He must be tested.”

“You are not his enemy. You are his teacher, and the only one capable of the skill Albus anticipated that he required, at that. Apparently.” Minerva’s nostrils flared.

“You could be,” Severus said, after a moment.

“Me? His Occlumency teacher? Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Severus. You’re the one with the legilimens experience.”

“It is not mere flattery. You are right—the headmaster and I were hasty. Potter did not have the grasp of the basics that he needed to retain advanced lessons.” Severus began to pace.

“Then you owe him an apology.”

“I will not apologize for pushing for his continued survival—”

“Regardless of your intentions, you did lose sight of his survival,” Minerva said dryly. “Long before you engineered circumstances so you had an excuse to stop teaching him, which was also not about his survival. Have you ever apologized to him?”

“He would think I had gone mad if I tried.” Severus stopped. “I’m serious: you could teach him the basics far better than I can. I can teach him to defend himself under pressure. But you would be far more effective at teaching him to explore and to build the resiliency he needs first… What you need to know of my skills, I can teach you without great difficulty. Mind-reading is in some ways easier than shielding.”

“Then you believe he may still require the skill of Occlumency?” Minerva looked questioningly at him.

“Perhaps.” Severus hesitated. “He has a better chance of learning it now that..." the horcrux influence is gone, or nearly so... "we know Voldemort is actively attempting to access him, and Potter has an incentive to apply himself."

"And if he does not?" Minerva pursed her lips. “Severus, I’m wondering: why were your expectations so high in the first place?”

“Expectations? High? I only required him to practice! To make the attempt! He did nothing!”

“He may not have done as much as you liked, but I doubt he did ‘nothing.’” Minerva raised her eyebrows. “You completely demoralized him in the course of the lesson and ruined his hope in the efficacy of practice or in the thought of pleasing you. He responds to praise, Severus.”

“You know I can’t give him that.”

“Severus Snape, master wielder of the backhanded compliment, can’t find anything to praise? I’m shocked.” Minerva rolled her eyes. “Think for a second. James Potter would have walked out of that class during the first half hour. Harry didn’t.” She stood. “Severus, I’m begging you. If you are so disillusioned with Albus Dumbledore, for the love of Merlin, quit spying.”

“Thus making me a target.” Severus locked his jaw.

Minerva grew sad. “We are all targets, Severus. But to continue to spy will kill you just as surely as to quit.”

The Healers started Harry on crutches the minute Neville, Ginny, and Luna left—paired with a stern warning not to overdo it. Harry crutched around the small bedroom, rapidly falling into a state of disillusionment and boredom.

McGonagall returned not long afterwards. Feeling awkward, Harry crutched back to the bed and sat down. McGonagall seated herself next to him, holding on to her cane. “The school year is officially over. Severus and I have confirmed with the Healers that you have recovered sufficiently that you might complete the process of healing elsewhere, as have I. You must be wondering what will happen now.”

Harry nodded.

“Severus says you refused to go back to the Dursley family for the summer.”

Harry nodded again.

“Good!” says McGonagall more fiercely and forcefully than she meant to, surprising herself. “Then I think it would be best if you stayed with someone connected to the faculty here, at Hogwarts. Of course, you are Sirius Black’s heir, but…”

Harry shook his head. He did not want to go back to 12 Grimmauld Place, either. The prospect made him shudder.

“Legally speaking, that does put us in a bind.” McGonagall peered at Harry over her spectacles. “Not that we think the Ministry intends to check on whether you remain with the Dursleys. Nearly any member of the Order of the Phoenix would be willing to take you, but you are not especially close to many of them, and I cannot guarantee they would be able to protect you. They will find it difficult to defy Dumbledore, whom they trust.” McGonagall was troubled. “I will ask if you can stay with whomever you like, but Severus and I believe that you would be safest staying with him or myself. The Weasleys would take you gladly, but Ron may be long in recovering, and Arthur Weasley himself is barely fully recovered. And of course, they trust Dumbledore. Remus….” she hesitated.

“Remus is a werewolf,” Harry finished for her, “and has enough trouble feeding himself, and staying employed. And…he’ll be grieving.”

Strain evident on her face, McGonagall gave him a tight, heartbroken smile. “Just so.”

“What about Tonks?” Harry asked tentatively, with hope.

McGonagall shook her head. “She’s an Auror, true, but she’s still learning her trade and has a lot on her plate already. She’ll be preoccupied with her work, and unable to spare much attention to care for someone as a ward. Not unless she and Remus were…” McGonagall let herself trail off.

Harry blinked. Lupin and Tonks?

McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose, and recovered her composure with an air of self-exasperation. “Forget I said anything. An old woman’s intuition, Harry. Nothing may come of it.”

Harry stared at her.

“I can’t," she murmured. "They simply must come to some sort of understanding themselves.” She sighed sharply and squared her shoulders. “Perhaps at the end of the summer. I’ll float the idea towards them, so they can prepare if either of them are of the mind to try it. Any other ideas?”

Harry shook his head.

“Then I’m afraid it’s either Severus or myself. Of course, I could inquire with Kingsley; he’s very circumspect. Or he might know of a pair that are suitable to guard you.”

Harry shook his head again. He didn't want to live with a stranger. Especially someone so closely tied with the Ministry... If the Prophet began printing lies about him again, how would he ever trust them?

McGonagall nodded. “As I thought.”

“Can’t I stay in the Gryffindor dormitory?” Harry asked with a sinking feeling.

“You need someone to look after you, someone you respect and someone who knows you well, someone who can guard you. The only ones who live there year-round are the house-elves, the Headmaster, and the Groundskeeper." McGonagall shook her head. "I respect Severus implicitly as my Head of House counterpart and colleague—and he was badly shaken by your, ah, fall. So he volunteered.”

Harry's brow knit together. “When is he coming by to offer, then?”

“He’ll be around shortly. I don’t imagine the last rounds of the Slytherin Common Room should take up too much more of his time…”

Snape entered the hospital wing on cue and paused by the doorway. He and Harry regarded each other for a minute, each stiffening slightly. Snape spotted Harry’s crutches perched on the bed beside him, and looked away, his face darkening.

“Regardless of which of us you stay with for the foreseeable future, I think it is time you two reconcile your differences,” McGonagall said quietly, conjuring a modestly upholstered chair plaid in yellow and mint green for Severus to sit in. “We will need an ironclad plan if Albus tries to meddle. Or the Ministry, for that matter.”

Just to irritate her, Snape reconjured the chair in sleek satin emerald green and ebony. “Your color schemes are atrocious, Minerva,” he muttered as he took his seat.

"He says so to everyone. Only the best for Slytherin." McGonagall shrugged and looked Harry in the eye. “Harry. What happened in Dumbledore’s office?”

Harry opened his mouth and closed it, feeling helpless.

Snape shot McGonagall a look. “No, start him further back," he said to her, then turned to Harry and leaned back in his chair lazily. "Begin with the message you gave me,” Snape prompted him.

"Oh." Harry started. “Right. I told Snape, ‘He has Padfoot in the place where it’s hidden.’ ” Harry takes a deep breath, holding back tears. “I had to say that because I had a dream that he had been kidnapped to be tortured by Voldemort while I was taking my History OWL exam. If Professor McGonagall hadn’t been—we would have gone to her first, but…you know... Dumbledore was gone, Hagrid was gone. I panicked. Hermione insisted we check that Sirius was at home first, so we broke into Umbridge’s office to use the floo there. Kreacher answered and lied about Sirius. Umbridge and the Inquisitorial Squad caught us, and Professor Snape left when I gave him that message. Hermione lured her to the Forbidden Forest until we ran into Hagrid’s brother Grawp and the centaurs, and they started fighting. We fled. I don’t know what became of Umbridge.” In all the commotion, he had totally forgotten where they left her. He had a queasy feeling about that.

“I wondered why she wasn’t sticking her nose into our end-of-year business,” McGonagall said, and frowned. “The headmaster ought to know. I wonder... Continue, please, Harry.”

“Luna, Neville, and Ginny insisted on helping. After the forest, Hermione and I were covered in blood, so we took threstrals to reach the Department of Mysteries. It turned out that Voldemort hadn’t captured Sirius at all, but he wanted that prophecy. The vision was…false.” Harry’s expression twisted. “We fought. My friends got hurt. The Order arrived and Sirius fell through the veil under the archway in the Department of Mysteries. I think…I think he’s dead. In my dream, he said so, too, so it must be true.” The Heads of House looked back at him gravely. “Then Voldemort and Dumbledore fought in the atrium until Voldemort possessed me.” Harry broke eye contact.

Snape looked sour, as if he had swallowed something that given him indigestion. McGonagall paled.

“Voldemort made me beg for death to goad Dumbledore, but he vanished when the Ministry came back to work. That's why the Ministry was forced to admit Voldemort had returned. Then Dumbledore took me back to Hogwarts via Portkey.” Harry took a deep breath. “Dumbledore said he had made a mistake in trying to protect me…my happiness. If I had just learned Occlumency…. He told me the prophecy, the one that foretold my birth and stated that neither can live while the other survives. He said that I was a Horcrux, and he knew all last year that Voldemort could use it to strike back at Dumbledore. And I thought, if I was dead, then maybe Voldemort could be killed, because then he would truly be alive.” Harry let his eyes de-focus. “I thought that would be the end.”

Snape's face went still as stone.

McGonagall inhaled sharply. “I know of the prophecy— But a horcrux? I thought they were a… a myth.” She looked at Snape.

“A fragment of soul, usually stored in an object. Tom Riddle’s diary was one such example. However, we have a living exception in front of us.” Snape frowned and rubbed his forearm. “Albeit no longer one, apparently. But it would be prudent to conduct some tests.”

McGonagall gave him a very strange look. "So that's the reason for Voldemort's mysterious discorporation. And Albus kept that secret, did he?" McGonagall pressed her lips together, then realized what Snape was doing. “Your Dark Mark—”

“Is not bothering me right now,” Snape cut in smoothly.

McGonagall narrowed her eyes at him. “Carry on, Harry.”

“When I jumped from the tower, I saw King’s Cross. Sirius told me that if I didn’t return to life, a fragment of Voldemort would, and he made me cast my Patronus and remember…happy things. If I had the will to come back, that portion of Voldemort would pass away in my stead.” Harry’s fingers kneaded the coverlet.

McGonagall lifted her head. “Matters become more clear to me, though I am greatly troubled. You were failed on several fronts simultaneously. To be candid, Harry, even a full-fledged adult would have trouble thinking clearly in such circumstances,” she said crisply, and clasped her hands.

Harry watched her until she came to a decision.

“Severus, tell me: would it be worthwhile to resume Harry's lessons in Occlumency?” McGonagall asked.

“If Potter put in a sincere effort,” Snape reflected, “It might be. If it is true that he is no longer a horcrux, the effort could be more effective. However, the horcrux may not be as defeated as we hope. Potter’s attempted suicide was quite…crude.” Snape looked uncomfortable. “A potion or a killing curse might have been greatly to be preferred.”

“Severus!” McGonagall hissed. She locked eyes with Snape until he felt the force of her rebuke and he flinched, a nerve jumping in his cheek. So Snape did care about someone's good opinion of him after all, Harry thought. He was vaguely surprised.

McGonagall turned back to Harry. “Potter, what say you?”

“I can make an effort, but only if Professor Snape agrees not to insult me, my friends, or my family during lessons,” Harry said, his voice pitched a little higher than usual. “Which includes Sirius, Lupin, Tonks, Luna, Neville, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione. And…and Cedric," he said thickly, struggling not to stutter over the dead boy's name. "And it would be better if I had some sort of routine to keep me accountable before attempting Occlumency at night…”

Snape was about to protest, but McGonagall cut him off. “Well, he’s not demanding the world and everything in it, is he?” McGonagall raised an eyebrow at Snape. “Are the conditions agreeable?”

"Yes," Snape bit out.

“Good. Severus was just discussing with me the merits of my teaching the basics,” McGonagall continued, and was rewarded when Harry’s face lit up with relief. “I can’t promise how long that would take. Severus would take over from me when the time was right.”

“That would be loads better. Thanks,” Harry said gratefully, then glanced swiftly at Snape and mumbled, “No offense, sir….”

“None taken,” Snape said, though his expression remained sour. “My colleague has made it clear that I owe you an apology, but she did not coach me on what to say.” McGonagall nodded to confirm that this was true, and Snape paused to gather his words. “I made critical errors when teaching you. You are well aware of my bias against your father and his friends, but I made no attempt to limit the extent to which it affected my teaching. I was unaware that the debt I owed your mother and the vow I swore to…to protect you…was twisted until I could not see that I had been working against your best interest in survival and welfare. This is without excuse. If I had performed my duty as a teacher as I swore to uphold it when I first signed on at Hogwarts and resigned from my compromising role as a spy, though you are of an age to take responsibility for your own decisions, you might not have made the choices you did that night. In that sense, at least, you were harmed because of my lack of action and foresight. The moment I did not seek to earn your trust, but proceeded to do without it, I failed you.”

For a moment Harry couldn't believe what he had heard. The next moment, Harry yanked out the drawer, dove for his wand, and pointed it at Snape with a stiffly trembling hand. "Who are you and what have you done with Professor Snape?"

McGonagall cried softly, "Harry!"

Snape only sneered. "I assure you, Potter, it is me. Ask me something only I would know. I did tell you, Minerva..."

Harry's grip tightened on his wand. "What did you say to Hermione when Malfoy cursed her teeth to grow?"

Snape's jaws clicked together. " 'I see no difference.' " Minerva shot him a glance of bottled fury and pressed her lips together; a muscle twitched in her right cheek.

Harry stared at him. "W-what did you teach when you took over the Defense class?"

"How to swiftly identify a werewolf," Snape snarled.

"And w-why were you limping on Halloween when Quirrell—?" Harry jumped.

"That thrice-damned three-headed mutt bit me!" Snape barked.

“D-did you save me from Quirrell, back in first year? When he jinxed my broom?” he asked meekly, slowly lowering his wand.

The room grew quiet enough to hear a pin drop. Harry hears Snape’s soft, surprised intake of breath. “Yes.”

"Uh. Er. All right then." He had his answer. Harry forced himself to swallow. “I mean, I wasn't sure, back then, but.... Yeah. I forgive you.” Harry’s brow furrowed as he said slowly and uncertainly, “Because… that’s a sight better of an apology better than I ever received from the Dursleys. I mean… you hate me. But I hate you, too. But you seemed, uhm... You seem actually... sincere. You're really Snape?” Shaken and dazed, Harry's grip on his wand slackened dangerously, but he did not feel safe enough to stow it again. Not yet.

Snape did not reply. Minerva coughed covertly to get Harry’s attention. “To a new start, then?” she suggested. “Perhaps you could shake on it?”

Slowly, ever so slowly, Harry stowed his wand into his pocket. Numb, almost entranced, Harry held out his hand and was surprised when Snape clasped it with solid firmness. Snape’s hands were pleasantly damp and cool, not clammy. Harry shook his hand firmly, nodded to him once, like he'd seen well-to-do Muggles do, and released. Missing the brief contact, Harry found himself surreptitiously flexing his hands. So did Snape, who appeared equally ill-at-ease.

McGonagall took a deep breath. “I have a proposal. I have a cottage home in outer Hogsmeade that was prepared as a safehouse during the last wizarding war, though I warn you, it hasn’t seen much life of late. It would be a simple matter to renew the protective charms and instate Fidelius. Even so, Harry, you are invited to live with me there, and Severus is welcome to join us when he has finished preparing Spinner’s End for…unlikely guests.”

“I accept,” Snape replied swiftly.

“What’s its name?” Harry asked, curious. McGonagall conjured a note and handed it to him and Severus. Ariel’s Breath, it read, in her formal yet pleasantly arch handwriting. Once he read it, it sizzled away. “Can we go? Wait— I haven't even gotten to check on Ron and Hermione yet...”

“They are unlikely to be awake, you understand, but you can see them on your way out of the hospital.” McGonagall stood with the help of her cane. “Severus will accompany you to Hogwarts, where you will pack your trunk. I will meet you at the threshold of my home.”

“Understood,” said Snape. Harry nodded, and they turned to leave.

“Harry.” McGonagall reopened the drawer beside Harry’s bed. “Don’t forget your Cloak.”

Beaming, Harry gathered up his possessions and stuffed them into his jacket. “See you soon, Professor.”

"Stay safe, Harry."

Snape escorted Harry across St. Mungo's. Ron appeared to be awake, but he also might have been dreaming with his eyes open. He didn't respond to Harry, just twitched and jerked. Snape read his charts and reported that he was just coming off a dose of Dreamless Sleep, and would not wake for another half an hour. Shrugging, Harry wrote Ron some get-well wishes, and backed out of the room quickly. Hermione did rouse enough to say Harry's name, but she also seemed sleepy, and Harry didn't want to disturb her, either. He wrote her another note. Snape and Harry took the lift to the Apparating floor, then paid for a Portkey to take them to Hogwarts Great Hall.

They collected Harry's broom from the Quidditch lockers first. Snape insisted on checking the locker for magical traps. Harry sat on the steps, and they continued the long trek up, up, up to the Gryffindor Towers. The Grand Staircase was not in a forgiving mood, and several times, Snape forced him to sit down when Harry looked out of breath. The third time, Snape took the opportunity to examine Harry's crutches, and discovered that they were too tall, uttering a mild oath. He muttered something about incompetent mediwizards and readjusted them. Bemused, Harry discovered that they worked quite a bit better after that.

"A small readjustment saves effort. Speak up if something doesn't fit right, Potter. I would have seen to your difficulty sooner."

"I thought it was right," Harry protested. "And I was able to walk on them! How was I to know they didn't fit right? That's the way they gave them to me. Anyway, you would have just brushed off my complaint."

"Perhaps you should have known by the fact that you were too swiftly becoming winded, and your underarms sore to the point of developing blisters?" Snape gave him an exasperated look. "Now. Gryffindor Common Room."

"Yeah, I think I'll just sit here, thanks..."

"Get up, Potter." Snape's tone brooked no argument.

Harry scrambled to his feet, only wobbling a little before he regained his balance on his crutches. But when he glanced over, Snape's face was fixed: not with disgust, but with alarm, and his hand clenched the marble of the staircase, hard, as if he was seeing something that wasn't there.

"Are you all right, Professor?"

Snape snapped out of it. "Perfectly," he whispered, then hardened his voice. "I mean, fine. I suppose you never look down, Potter," he finished with his characteristic sneer. Harry stared at him.

"Professor, you're ... afraid of heights?" Even for Snape, that behavior was weird.

Snape's nostrils flared. "No, I am not. Walk on, Potter."

Harry went and paused by the Fat Lady so Snape could enter the tower first. They entered the common room—by now the house elves had settled sheets over the furniture, preparing it for the storage of the summer months. Without the vibrant red and gold fabrics adorning the floors and walls, the tower looked empty and bare, even cold. Of course the fire was out. Harry shivered. No, he would not want to live here all summer alone, after all.

If Snape mentioned his disquiet, he did not mention it, but gestured for Harry to show him upstairs. Harry trudged upwards, feeling reluctant to let Snape into his space. Even not so private space, he reminded himself. He did sleep here with five other boys. Hopefully there wouldn't be much for him to criticize. Although surely he had left his bed unmade... It would be just like Snape to accuse him of laziness.

It was not. One of the house elves must have fixed it, and yes, there were white sheets over all the beds here too. Hedwig was safely stowed in her cage above Harry's desk, looking none the worse for wear. Harry breathed a small sigh of relief.

Snape surveyed the room briskly, then produced a clipboard. "Stay here. I will be finishing Minerva's work in inspecting the Gryffindor dorms and will return shortly. I expect you to pack."

"Yes, sir." Harry didn't move.

Sending Harry a dour and inscrutable look, Snape left the room.

With a groan, Harry knelt by his trunk and began to pack. None of it was very organized, and in fact there were a few items that he really had been meaning to dispose of. He banished everything of the sort, then scrabbled in the bottom to sort the rubble. His fingers collided with glass.

Puzzled, Harry removed the mirror from the trunk, and gazed at it uncomprehendingly.

The realization hit him with the awful speed of a moving truck, leaving him dazed and sick: if he had used this, Sirius wouldn't have had to die. Harry began to shake, and the mirror almost clattered from his fingers as soundless sobs took over his body. As swiftly as the grief had come, anger came faster, and Harry raised the mirror above his head determined to smash it into smithereens—

"Accio object."

The mirror zipped from Harry's fingers, emptiness stinging them a bit. Now furious, he sprang to his feet. "Snape! You," he spat, shaking. "You—"

"Potter." Snape simply looked at the mirror he had just summoned into his hand. “This is a well-crafted artifact.”

Harry stiffened, caught between the instinct to attack, or run. "You have no right—" he snarled.

"Potter, I am a self-respecting wizard. I could not let you senselessly destroy such a priceless treasure in a fit of pique." Snape's eyes glittered. "Where is its twin? This is clearly one of a matched set."

Harry's jaw worked, but he could not make a reply.

“Its twin is somewhere in Grimmauld Place, I take it?”

Harry nodded, heart in his mouth. He knows—

"I will keep this for you until you can be trusted with it. You do not appreciate the wealth you have inherited."

"That's— that's not fair! You can't just—"

“For all his faults, Black had good taste in gifts. You should not despise his effects." Snape dropped his voice. "One day, you may be glad of me. Until then—" His face changed as he seemed to realize something. "We will finish this discussion later. Finish your packing." And he glided from the room.

Harry turned away, away from him and walked back to his trunk, hot and miserable and ashamed, but he threw himself into his task. It did not take long. When Snape next came into the room, Harry was sitting on his trunk, arms folded, at the ready.

"Good," said Snape. "Is there anything else you need?"

"Could you carry Hedwig?"

"Your owl." Snape looked forbidding. "You named her after a saint?" But he picked up her cage nevertheless. Hedwig shifted her feet nervously on her perch and ruffled her feathers, and swiveled her head to rest over one shoulder.

Harry shook his head, pushed himself to his feet, picked up his crutches, and began to slowly hobble back down the tower. Severus levitated Harry's trunk and they descended until halfway down the stairs, when Harry caught a glimpse at Hogwarts grounds. Severus shifted his feet impatiently; something inside him itched to shove Harry away from the window.

"Saying goodbye, then?" he said, snidely. "Is this the best castle view?"

"From here, yes." Harry seemed to realize he was making Snape uncomfortable, and hurried down the rest of the way. Once at the bottom of the stairs, Severus took Floo powder from his pocket, lit a flame in the grate, and called for 'Ariel's Breath.' "After you," said Snape.

Harry hobbled through the emerald flames.

Chapter Text

Harry had never tried to carry anything in his arms while travelling the Floo Network. As he spun, the crutches threatened to separate from him and jam into the chimney brick. Desperate, Harry jammed the rubber foot of one crutch against the other with one shoe, clutching both tightly under one arm, still hurtling crazily through the Floo network. His feet weren't ready for the jarring return of his own weight and he fell, flopping forward onto a sooty, brick floor, letting the crutches drop just in time to save his wrists, but they fell with a sickening crack. At least his glasses did not break on contact with the ground.

Everything hurt. For a moment he could do nothing but groan.

Coughing in the dust, Harry stretched to pull the crutches towards him, and crawled away from the fireplace until he felt he had taken himself out of the way. Belatedly, he pulled his wand out of his pocket with shaking fingers to check for damage, stowed it again, and shoved the new gold-rimmed glasses back up his nose. He scanned his surroundings, half-expecting one of the Dursleys to yell at him while he was blindsided... Wait. Where was Snape? He was supposed to be coming up behind him.

"Reducto! Ventus!" With a powerful gust from her wand, McGonagall cleared the cellar room of all remaining debris and smoke and soot, sweeping several wooden crates and barrels to the side and stacking them neatly, away from Harry's path. "Lumos!" She raised her brightly lit wand, but it did little in the gloom. "Heavens, Harry! Are you all right?"

"I think so," said Harry shakily.

The Floo fire sparked and flared green. Snape moved smoothly through the flames into the shadows of the cellar with one arm extended, holding Hedwig's owl cage as far away from himself as he could. Dragging Harry's luggage behind him, he lowered her cage to rest on top of Harry's trunk; she emitted a low, soft hoot. He met the witch's eyes and greeted her with, "Minerva." He spotted Harry in the dim glow of the fireplace, and halted, narrowing his eyes. Something bothered him. Something he recognized, but what was it? "Potter."

Harry blinked at him owlishly and scrambled to his feet. He straightened more slowly from his tense and defensive posture against the cellar wall, looking from one teacher to the other uneasily. "Professor?"

"Harry. Severus. Welcome to Ariel's Breath." McGonagall forced a smile. "I'm afraid I am going to have to ask you to pass a brief security check. Fortunately, I don't have to." For a moment her eyes gleamed and turned slitted like a cat's, then reverted to normal.

Snape glared at her. "I owe you 2 sickles, a galleon, and a pint. You've promised me a seat at a London football game for several years running."

One corner of McGonagall's mouth crooked upwards. "Acceptable. Harry?"

"Uh...." Harry took out his wand, blinked hard, and tried to summon a Patronus by thinking of his friends, but only a cloudly wisp emerged. He swallowed, shriveling up inside with a mixture of dull dread and embarrassment.

He must have looked downcast, because McGonagall said extra kindly, "No matter, Harry. Think of a detail from your third year at Hogwarts."

Harry scuffed his feet. "When the Fat Lady had to be repaired, we used the portrait of Sir Cadogan instead. For a while, the password was 'scurrilous knave.'"

Snape crossed his arms and looked at McGonagall. "Sir Cadogan? Really? I must have forgotten that."

McGonagall pursed her lips. "Needs must."

Snape sighed. "That portrait has less common sense than the sheep he's painted over."

Harry pictured Cadogan's blustery reply to the insult: brandishing his sword, attempting a pirhouette, and falling off his horse. "Some of Hogwarts portraits are repaintings?"

"Of course. Many of the portraits have long histories, back when the raw materials of paint and pigment and potions formulae were precious." Snape folded his arms. "In Cadogan's case, you'd have to ask Argus Filch or Madame Pince for details."

McGonagall said mildly, "I'd like to see who you would nominate for the position from the sleepy Gryffindor portraits, then. At least Sir Cadogan is alert..."

Snape curled his lip in acknowledgment. "So it seems. Lead the way, Minerva."

"At once," McGonagall replied, and stepped away with a speed that approached her familiarly brisk pace, betraying discomfort with only a wince and a tight grip on the handrail.

Harry followed, not wanting to be left behind in a dark room. Severus picked up Hedwig's cage and his trunk, and brought up the rear. The emerald flames flickered out behind them, and the room was silent and dark once more.

The stairs exited into a hall with Harry's room at one end and Snape's room across from it. Snape swept inside the Gryffindor-themed room and laid Harry's school trunk neatly at the foot of Harry's bed, then removed himself to install Hedwig in the owlery.

Harry found a bed upholstered by a maroon-and-gold comforter took up most of the space with a a small bedside table beside it. Shelves lined the wood-panelled walls, and a cloak rack stood by a modest closet with a mirror inside. Fur rugs lay over the cool floor tiles, giving Harry the impression of a hunter's retreat, though there were no skulls or antlers on the walls. The room was modest, but not uncomfortable. If he could have fit inside the tiny space, Hagrid would have liked it.

"You can perform a warming charm here if it gets too cold," McGonagall said. "In winter it does become chill. Additional blankets and quilts are kept in the hall cabinets. A quick refreshing charm should rid them of spiders and pests. You may alter the decorations with magic to feel at home and practice all indoor spellwork here. I am sorry there is not space to provide you with a desk of your own; however, there is a desk stocked with writing materials and supplies in the living area for you to use, if you wish."

Overwhelmed, Harry scrubbed his eyes. "I don't know what to say, Professor." After years of having to hide magic during the summer months... Harry warmed, a little.

"Then I suggest you unpack and make yourself at home. Severus will stay here—" she pointed to the room directly across from Harry's. "Mine is the master bedroom at the other end of the hall, by the bathroom. We are here to help."

"Thanks, Professor," said Harry. He crutched over to the bed and levered himself up on the mattress to perch on the side and kick his heels against its wooden frame. It was nearly impossible to think what he might redecorate his room to look like... How could he possibly choose from among limitless possibilities?

"Harry." McGonagall reached for the doorjamb for support and balance. "I may be known for standing on ceremony during the school year, but in my own home, I'd prefer to be called Minerva."

Harry blinked at her and made a face. "Professor... Mm. Minerva?"

The corner of Minerva's mouth crooked wryly upwards. "Truly. I'm not going to gut you like a fish for insubordinance, Harry."

"I don't request the same courtesy," Snape muttered out of the side of his mouth as he passed. "It's sir or Professor to you." Snape stalked to his room and slammed it closed. A small cloud of dust rose and fell. The door opened and closed again, firmly, and a latch noise signalled the engagement of an interior lock.

"Do you think he would take points for summer informalities, Professor?" Harry asked, reverting to habit.

"Harry, it's Minerva," McGonagall yawned. Sighing, she shook her head at Severus, put her hand to the latch of her door, and retired for a nap.

Harry cast the unlocking spell on his trunk so he could begin putting his belongings away by wandwork. Here at least he could appreciate an ordinary, boring novelty: the Dursleys would never let him unpack, much less use magic to do so, tedious as it was. Now at least he could painstakingly practice spells; alternating banishing charms with wingardium leviosa to carefully place his clothing would do the trick. Maybe he could make his socks fold themselves like Tonks once tried to demonstrate...

Harry awoke to a light knock at his door. He sat up in a rush, scrubbing his eyes before peering at the shadow by the door. He snatched up his glasses and his wand and looked again. The image before his eyes resolved into Snape.

"Dinner is served," he said sardonically. "Gryffindors don't close their doors before sleep?"

Harry shook his head. "I keep it cracked open. Even if I was afraid of you looking into my room, you keep your door closed anyway. Why? Was I sleep-talking?"

"Not at all. It just seems a vulnerable position. One would think you would prefer seclusion and privacy." Snape's eyes glittered with delight in malice.

Harry pulled himself up to a sitting position and rubbed his arms where goosebumps were erupting. "With all due respect, sir, feeling trapped is worse." Yes, the cupboard had been cramped and Dudley's bedroom had been prison-like, but the Weasleys had broken him out and taken him out for the best night of escape in his life, and that was a night he would never regret. The dreams that kept him awake and alert were the tight bonds to the tombstone of Voldemort's graveyard, Cedric's body at his feet, and Pettigrew's white hand in the distance.

Snape lifted an eyebrow. "If we delay, our meal will cool. Keep up." Snape swept away.

"But...." Harry crutched after Snape to catch up. "Who did the cooking?"

"I did," said Snape, without breaking stride. "Minerva is resting. She is already seated in the kitchen."

"Oh. When did you cook?"

"You slept for several hours."

Harry snuck a glance out the nearest window. It did appear to be dark. "Oh."

Snape glanced at Harry. "Quite."

They entered the kitchen under some kind of stone arch, which uttered harmonious, fluting tones of contentment and welcome.

Minerva blew on her soup and drew up a chair for Harry, who sat down uncertainly, looking around at the bare and unadorned kitchen of stone and wood. A cauldron hung over a crackling wooden fire under one chimney, and a brick oven stood over an unlit furnace.  The counters were swept clean and a few pots and pans and utensils hung on the walls, but the kitchen seemed otherwise empty of food, tools, or appliances. It was still and quiet, aside from the haunting flickering and crackling of the flames. Completely different from the kitchens of Hogwarts, the Leaky Cauldron, or the Barrow.

"Why did that arch make that sound, Professor—er, Minerva?"

"Oh, that? It's an arch of hospitality. It recognizes those friends who are worthy to eat with the house of McGonagall, and as such, under the protection of the house. Its music corresponds to  the moods of family and guests."

"Huh," Harry said doubtfully. "Is that helpful? Wouldn't a worthy friend mean... anyone who eats here?"

"Precisely so, Harry." McGonagall winked at him and raised a glass of red wine. "But that's why it's useful. Anyone who dines informally, with family—that's me—in this kitchen, is counted among friends. Mind you, the formal dinners customary among the noble families have not taken place for several decades."

A small questioning frown settled between Harry's eyebrows, but he refrained from asking what he wanted to know.

Snape ladled soup into a bowl and set it down in front of Harry before drawing his own portion.

Harry stirred his soup. Potatoes, yams, mushrooms, peas, celery, and cream. There didn't seem to be any potions ingredients in it, not that he had been expecting any. He poked at an indecipherable lump. Ah. Chicken.

"In case you're wondering, I went to the grocery for ingredients this afternoon in the Muggle way," Snape said impatiently. "There are no potion ingredients in it."

"I seem to recall threats about slipping things in my pumpkin juice," Harry said darkly. "Forgive me for a little skepticism."

"Severus!" McGonagall turned a hawkish eye on him. "You didn't!"

"It's a little late for your disapproval," Harry told her. He speared a potato, and ate.

Snape smirked.

"But in any case, you couldn't come to harm like that in this kitchen, Harry," McGonagall explained, frowning. "You're under house protection."

"If you say so, but that's what I don't understand," said Harry, frowning, brow puckered as he ate. "How does that work?"

"You're included in the wards now that we've eaten together. Every wizarding household has unique wards and protections. The house magic of Ariel's Breath of House McGonagall recognizes you as a friend of the family and will not allow you to come to severe harm, such as by poisoning or dismemberment or plague, and will block many of the ancient spells recognized as Dark Arts should they be used against you or by you against the family. The magic will attempt to intervene and preserve your life to prevent your dying on the premises at all costs. It will hide and conceal you from common spell searches. The only way to cancel that protection is to betray the family trust."

"How come they don't teach about wizarding houses at Hogwarts?" Harry asked curiously. "Can 12 Grimmauld Place do such things? And how would the house know if the family trust had been broken?"

Snape and McGonagall exchanged glances; it was McGonagall who replied. "12 Grimmauld Place has wards of a similar kind, but its wards' capabilities are far more strenuous and costly. It is well known that the magic of that place utilizes specialized magical concealment and hides its fullest capacity. It is also far less picky about the kinds of magic that can be lobbed within its walls before it imposes penalties. As for trust... that trust must be verbally revoked by the family in question."

Something about that description struck Harry as troubling, but he couldn't quite put his finger on the reason. Harry wrinkled his nose. "Sounds complicated."

"Very. And without a trained heir to the Black household, the wards are near impossible to navigate," Snape said dourly.

"Then the Order of the Phoenix can't access the property?"

Snape glanced at him. "No, the Order has access to the main areas, thanks to the Fidelius. With Sirius gone, the full capabilities of the house are beyond control and its recesses are unsafe to explore."

"But I'm the heir now... aren't I?" asked Harry.

"We would need to confer with the goblins on that count to be fully sure. It is unclear how much headway Sirius was able to make in the legal adoption process. There is a possibility that the heirship has passed to Draco. And you aren't trained." Even without looking at Harry, Snape's expression seemed faintly sour.

"Could I be trained?"

Snape showed Harry a nasty grin that bared all his teeth. "Perhaps after you show proficiency in Occlumency."

Harry gulped and gripped his spoon in an effort to control a spurt of rage. Belatedly, he dropped his eyes from Snape's face. Loss of control—that was the last thing Snape needed to see. Shame curdled in his stomach.

"Harry," said McGonagall, gently. "Harry, listen to me. It is I who will train you first and conduct your lessons in Occlumency. I believe that with care and gentleness, you can increase in ability and skill and succeed. It is not the insurmountable obstacle you have been led to believe it is. I will determine when you have shown a good faith effort and are ready to pursue another course of study."

Folding his arms, Snape scoffed derisively and looked away.

Harry looked up to her reluctantly. McGonagall met his eyes and held them until he flinched and glanced elsewhere. But he relaxed his stiff grip on his spoon.

"If you're sure," he said.

"I am sure you can do this, Harry," McGonagall said, with quiet faith. "I can teach you what you need to know in order to steward your godfather's legacy. And your own birthright as a Potter," she finished quietly.

Harry glanced down at the table, put down his spoon, and leaned on his hands over his knees, kneading them gently in an attempt to subtly stretch out his hands. "I'd like that," he breathed, rocking back and forth a little bit.

McGonagall showed him just a ghost of a smile. "I can't promise that you will be able to withstand Voldemort by the end of the summer. But I think I can guarantee that I can coach you through proficiency in the basics of the technique, whereupon Severus can improve on that foundation. It is our hope that then your foundation can be deemed strong enough to test whether the use of Occlumency actually aids you in stopping Voldemort from accessing and exploiting your connection during sleep, when your defenses are weakest."

"I can hardly say... " Harry was suddenly exhausted. "Thank you, Minerva." Harry swiped at his eyes, suddenly grief-stricken, and said nothing more. But he ate his food, got up when he was full, and left the kitchen unmolested, in peace.

Even in the face of Snape's open disdain, it was a far sight more than what the Dursleys ever had to offer him. And what Minerva McGonagall offered freely was more than what Harry dared ask openly from the wizarding world.