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Chapter Text

The roar of the crowd consumed any last shred of rational thought Harry had left.

The hard ground irritated the cuts on his shins. His head pounded. His stomach hurt. Everything hurt. Cedric’s body was cold underneath his fingertips.

It should have been him. The thought reverberated through his mind, echoing over and over again. It should have been him. The child who once thwarted Voldemort as a toddler dead by his own hand. His story would have been completed.

He rubbed the fabric of Cedric’s shirt between his thumb and forefinger. It was silky, lightweight—the kind of expensive stuff that’s good for exercise. The kind of thing a father buys his son.

Hands gripped his shoulders, pulling him backwards. A voice reached him, “Harry, you need to let go of him.”

“No!” he screamed, or maybe he sobbed. Either way his voice was drowned out by the marching band’s celebratory tune. His fingers dug impossibly deeper into Cedric’s tattered shirt. His once bold yellow and black stripes were dulled by dirt and blood.

Words floated over his head, heavy and deep, but he couldn’t hear them.

This time when he was pulled away, it wasn’t by hands, but by the familiar tug of magic on his back. He struggled against it, holding on to the shirt as though letting go would kill him. And maybe it would. “No! No!” He screamed, but the words were hoarse and crackling, as though the last remains of a once glorious fire dying alone in the night. “He wants his father! He needs his father! Get his father!”

He sobbed, and his grip loosened enough on the shirt for the magic to overtake him. Someone grabbed him roughly. He thrashed in their hold, landing a kick on what felt like a shin.

“You brat!” his captor sneered. Harry had just enough time to think that he recognized that sneer—yes, he knew it quite well, didn’t he?—before the sting of a spell hit him between his shoulder blades, and he knew no more.

Chapter Text

At this rate, Harry was going to need a headache soother.

“You nearly killed him!”

“I was following Dumbledore’s orders unlike some imbecile coming here without taking proper precautions-”

“You knew he was injured and yet you deliberately endangered his life-”

“Better aggravating a few of his injuries with apparation than let him be captured by Death Eaters!” Snape shoved a potion into Harry’s hand. Harry drank the pain potion greedily, barely even grimacing at its bitter taste.

Sirius stood up from his seat beside Harry’s bed. “Just because Dumbledore gives you orders-”

“You don’t want to go there, Black. Or shall I remind you of what happened the last time you so prudently decided to disobey Dumbledore’s advice? I do believe it involves the Dark Lord and a rather lengthy prison sentence.”

Sirius fumed, hair sticking out from his head at all sides. Snape sat in a chair on the opposite side of Harry’s bed, arms crossed over his chest, a smug sneer on his lips. It was probably the closest Harry had ever seen him smile in four years.

Harry was tired.

He had woken up in an unfamiliar place with very familiar faces. Sirius barely spared him a moment to explain that he was residing in his ancestral home of number 12 Grimmauld Place, which gave Snape enough time to shove potions down his throat before they argued. Nonstop. The last day they had either been arguing when Harry was awake or restrained themselves long enough to let Harry sleep.

Sirius did his best to soothe Harry, but it was a moot point when the next second he was loud and angry and arguing with Snape. It was as if he kept forgetting that Harry was right in front of him, even when he woke up in a cold sweat from some already-forgotten nightmare, Sirius didn’t have much to offer in comfort. Either too frazzled himself or trying to find some way to take it out on Snape.

Snape meanwhile refused to leave the room. He claimed that Harry was in such a “delicate” physical state that Sirius may cause him harm if he left, but Harry was almost completely sure he felt compelled to suffer in their company simply because he knew Sirius and Harry wished he would leave. He seemed to even take some twisted personal pride whenever Sirius woefully neglected to attend to Harry. Spiteful bastard couldn’t save his life without getting something out of it for himself, could he?

So they were stuck in a stalemate (or more accurately purgatory) until Dumbledore arrived. His last message said he’d arrive by noon, but as night approached… it was starting to seem unlikely that he’d show up at all today.

He slumped back into his pillows, ignoring Sirius and Snape. The pain potion made his injuries hurt less, but his muscles still ached from overuse and magical exhaustion consumed every inch of his body. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to cast a lumos in the state he was in now.

The room he was currently resting in was clearly some long-abandoned child’s bedroom. Harry wouldn’t have been surprised if the bedclothes had been transfigured from one of the scattered sheets of paper lying on the floor. Dust was settled in every corner of the room. The bookshelves were half purged of their contents. An almost ancient wooden cuckoo clock was mounted on the wall in front of him, quietly counting the seconds passed. The flowered wallpaper was torn in some places, though falling off the wall in most places anyway. The room reeked with abandonment and disuse from the frayed posters boasting quidditch world cup finals some twenty years ago to the faded over-trodden rug on the floor.

Dozing off, he let Snape and Sirius’s voices float over his head. If he relaxed enough, he could almost imagine that they were Ron and Hermione bickering over some inane topic over breakfast. Ron would scoff, nudging Harry to get him to take his side, but Harry would refuse, grinning mischievously at Hermione. She then would roll her eyes, and easily argue with the verbose elegance of a seasoned attorney while absentmindedly adding more sausage to Harry’s plate. Harry would let them argue a while longer until it either devolved into a hysterical bout of teasing or Harry realized he had forgotten to ask Hermione about their last charms assignment.

The food was warm, his stomach was full, his chest was light, and everything was as it should be in the world.

Cold fingers grasped his wrist and Harry gasped, eyes flying open. It was Voldemort, his icy hand tracing the open wound, a crude mimicry of a lover’s caress. He grinned, red eyes relentlessly penetrating Harry’s soul. Harry groaned weakly, turning his head away, begging for him to stop, but Voldemort forced him to meet his eyes with an iron grip on his cheek.

He couldn’t move, couldn’t escape, couldn’t think, completely overwhelmed by being wholly and utterly at the mercy of a monster.

Harry wrenched his wrist from the grasp, eyes darting between Sirius and Snape. He barely recognized Snape’s raised eyebrows and wide eyes. Harry made some movement to open his mouth, to apologize for his mishap, but no sound came out. Everything seemed to come crashing down all around him. The cup. Cedric. The resurrection. The cruciatus. The duel. His parents. The smell of sulfur sticking to his skin and the blood matting his hair and Cedric’s dull shirt covering his cold body.

He couldn’t breathe. He wanted out. The sheets were razors against his skin. The pillows attempting to drown him. He was trapped. This time his luck had run out. This time he wasn’t going to escape. The philosopher’s stone wasn’t destroyed. The basilisk wasn’t killed. His godfather wasn’t free. Voldemort was alive and Cedric was dead and he would soon rest besides the dead beneath their feet.

“What did you do, Snape!”

“Nothing–I was going to apply an anti-scarring balm!”

“Well, were you trying to cut off his circulation? What did you do?!”

“I barely touched him! The boy-”

“You must have done something! He wasn’t like this a minute ago!’

“I don’t know what-”

“Shut up!” Harry yelled, “Shut up! Get away from me!” Everything was happening too fast and his entire body was on fire. His chest ached for more air, his thoughts were rapid-fire spells shooting off in every direction. Before he could even attempt to block one, a dozen more assaulted him. He didn’t know whether he was actually in a bed or still trapped in the graveyard, waiting for the final blow.

A voice came next to his ear, “Harry, you’re safe.” He flinched from the noise. It was Voldemort, invading his mind, violating the safety of his own thoughts. “It’s me, Sirius. I-I promise you’re safe now, Harry.”

Somewhere in his half-melted brain he caught some of the words. “S-sirius?”

“Yes, Harry.” His voice was more confident, more full, less like Voldemort’s dangerous whisper in his ear. “I’m here. Snape’s also here.”

He could still feel the cool air on the back of his neck. He could still smell the sweat on his skin and rot from the potion. He could taste the blood in his mouth, feel the cool stone pinning him to the grave. He couldn’t open his eyes, couldn’t risk his thoughts becoming real. “Is he here?”

“Who?” Sirius said. A hand settled in his hair.

“Voldemort.”

There was a sharp intake of breath. Oddly enough, Harry didn’t think it came in the direction of Sirius. “No, Harry. You can open your eyes. Voldemort isn’t here. You are at Grimmauld Place, in a bedroom with Sirius and Snape.” The hand began to card through his hair, though it kept getting caught on the dirt and blood and who-knows-what-else caked into his bird’s nest. He assumed it must be a relatively disgusting experience.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, making sure he was facing the direction of Sirius’s voice. His breath caught in his throat for a moment longer at Sirius’s expression. There was a certain softness to it that Harry had seen only once before. It seemed to him now a long-forgotten dream, but he still remembered the glint of twilight in Sirius’s eyes as he asked Harry if he would like to live with him. There was the rushing excitement, the overwhelming relief, but-

But now there was fear. Wide-eyed, hand-trembling fear in Sirius’s form. Sirius was afraid. Bold and brash and brave heart-of-a-lion Sirius was scared.

Harry swiped belatedly at the wetness on his cheeks. He had to fix this. Had to salvage this moment between them so Sirius would stop looking at him with fear, which would turn to pity, which would turn into guilt. “Sorry. I was being… stupid. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Sirius was already using that soft tone that people used when they felt pity. He was having a fit over nothing. He knew where he was. He was nearly fifteen. He should at least be able to remember that he wasn’t in a graveyard when he was lying in a warm bed. “I’m sorry. I should have been helping you.”

Harry shrugged, wanting this conversation to end. All he wanted to do was rest. “It’s fine.”

The silence was tense and thick. Harry tried to ignore Sirius’s unkempt hair and frayed clothes and hollowed cheeks. Something twisted in his gut knowing Sirius hasn’t been able to care for himself. By the looks of it, not for a while.

“Potter,” Snape said, and Harry could have thanked him for not forcing him to sit in the terrible silence any longer. Snape held out an open tin filled with a thick balm. “For application to the scar on your right forearm. It does not work on cursed scars,” Snape’s eyes flicked momentarily to his forehead, “but should reduce… average scarring if applied twice a day over the next week.”

Harry accepted the tin with slightly shaking hands. (He was very proud they were only shaking slightly, thank you very much.)

With slow, deliberate motions, he rolled the sleeve and pushed away the rising disgust at the knotted and mangled skin. It didn’t look human. Which in some ways, it wasn’t. It was a spell that stitched his skin back together, not his own flesh and blood. It was unnatural. Everything about it was unnatural. From the knife Pettigrew dragged through his muscles and the snake-like image engraved in his arm to his blood running through Voldemort’s veins.

He hated it.

The balm held a slightly textured feel to it. Swallowing his rising disgust, he lathered it on thickly and if he was using too much, Snape didn’t bother to comment. He covered the scar, then worked it into his skin. Nothing changed, of course. Magic wasn’t always magic.

Harry placed the tin on the nightstand and settled back into the sheets. He was still exhausted, and he was going to take advantage of every second of silence Snape and Sirius were going to give him, even if it was out of surprise.

As he slipped under the warm covers and began to fall into the dark embrace of sleep, the door to the bedroom opened. A rather tired, yet gentle voice interrupted the tense silence, “Good evening, gentlemen. I apologize for the delay.”

Dumble-fucking-door.

“Harry needs his rest, Professor. Is there any way we could let him sleep a while?” Sirius asked. His hand wrapped around Harry’s own.

There was a soft thump as Dumbledore most likely conjured some type of overly-plush armchair by Harry’s bed. “I’m afraid not. I’ve put this conversation off as long as it can be. Any more time and powerful people will begin to draw their own conclusions about this. The boy must be woken up.”

“Please-”

“It’s fine Sirius. I’m awake.” Harry sat straight up against the pillows. Best to face an enemy head on. Moody would surely be proud of him right now.

Taking in the headmaster’s presence, Harry was struck by the fact that Dumbledore looked old. Eyes dreary and posture bent, his robes were wrinkled and although still a horribly bright shade of purple, his hat didn’t match in the least. Yet he managed to smile at Harry in some small gesture of false comfort.

“Anytime you’re ready, Harry,” Dumbledore said. Harry couldn’t help his eyes shooting in Snape’s direction. “Professor Snape may be able to offer further insight into Voldemort’s motives and ask questions that I would not have thought of.”

“If Harry doesn’t feel comfortable-”

“I’m fine, Sirius. I’m not a little kid.” Harry squared his shoulders, summoning his courage. Childhood was not a risk he could take. It was not a risk he could take for a long while now. Perhaps longer than he was willing to admit.

Harry talked. It was not eloquent. It was not poetic. But it was as close to the truth as possible. He ignored how Sirius’s grip grew tighter around his hand and he answered Snape’s questions with an even tone and he stated Cedric’s death plainly, not stopping to ponder why or how or the look in his eyes as he fell to the ground.

Some secrets were better left unsaid.

When he had finished, Dumbledore had gained that far-away look that meant he was stirring up secrets of his own. “Thank you, my boy. You have done us a great service tonight. I will keep you informed of any information arising which regards who masterminded this plan. But for now, you must know that you were sent here because I feared they may have had access to you at Hogwarts, but now I believe they may be within the Order itself.”

“The Order, sir?” Harry asked.

“The Order of the Phoenix, a resistance group against Voldemort’s powers. Your parents were both members at the time of their death, as were both men in the room with you now.” Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, and motioned towards Snape. “Is he safe to travel, by the safest method, of course?”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “It would strain him magically, but he would be fully recovered with rest.” Dumbledore nodded solemnly. “You’re not suggesting the boy be taken back to Hogwarts?” Snape bit out in that even tone that could mean he was about to severely embarrass Harry in front of the entire class or simply ignore the failed potion on his desk without another word.

“No, no, of course not.” Dumbledore waved off absentmindedly with a glance towards Sirius, before returning his focus on Harry. “You must be returned to the Dursley’s–as quickly as possible.”

With one word, all the wind was knocked out of him. He clenched the bedsheets, hands shaking from the strain, or perhaps the cruciatus refusing to leave his fried nerves.

He’s been back to the Dursley’s before. He returned to them year after year with resentment, but there was something settling in his bones that felt distinctly like being trapped against the stone grave, heart pounding in his chest as he was almost sure that the inhumane look contained within beady red eyes was the last thing he would ever see

He shook himself out of the memory. The Dursley’s weren’t dangerous. There was no reason to get worked up over this. He had clearly survived worse.

Much worse.

Still that same sentiment clawed at his throat, that same childish woe that made him feel he was as spoiled and arrogant and self-serving as Snape always made him out to be: but I want my friends.

Ron’s warm smiles and Hermione’s eye rolls and their friendly bickering. It seemed like a lifetime since the last time he’s been with them. Even before the third task, they were too concerned with jamming as many spells into Harry’s brain as possible to really actually get to spend time together as friends.

He missed the late-night gossip in the common room and the strength found in Ron’s hand on his back and Hermione willing to aim her wand at anyone who dares threaten to harm Harry. He missed the safety of being surrounded by the people who love him most in the entire world. He ached for the simple, warm feeling of belonging that encompassed every last ounce of fond teasing and sarcastic laughter when he was with his friends.

He swallowed, knowing his face betrayed his true thoughts.

Sirius was the first to react. “No!”

“Please allow me to explain myself first.” Dumbeldore kept his attention on Harry, seeming to ignore the newest threat. “The Order may be compromised. As of right now with the information we have, your relatives may be the only place that is safe for you. You are in an incredibly vulnerable position right now, my boy.”

Some angry rabid animal was clawing at his neck, making his words stick to the inside of his throat, forcing the anger to build and build within him. His nails were already digging into the palms of his hands. His jaw was already clenched, heart thudding in his chest.

He shouldn’t have been this angry. Life was unfair. Sometimes people died. Sometimes fathers lost their sons. Sometimes children lost their parents. Sometimes he didn’t always get what he wanted. It was a story he knew too well for fire to be pulsing so furiously through his veins, seeking escape.

Sirius had that intense look about him, as though the dark caress of static before the first strike of lightning cracked through the sky, bright light all too willing to mar the innocent summer storm.

“You can’t do that! They won’t take care of Harry. They don’t treat him right and Harry won’t say as much but it’s enough to know that he would rather live with a barely-exonerated murderer and traitor than the people raising him his entire life! He’s not safe there!” Heat warmed Harry’s face. Out of anger or embarrassment he didn’t know. All he did know was that hearing Sirius talk about him like he wasn’t even there left a sting somewhere in his ribcage and the faint cry of et tu, Brutus? on the back of his tongue.

Snape had that overly bored expression on his face as though he were a cat trying not to appear interested in its prey. “On the contrary, Black, no matter what temper tantrum Potter has thrown to get you to believe-”

“Severus, if I may,” Dumbeldore interrupted with a hand landing on his arm. Though the movement appeared to be light, Snape shifted, clearly made uncomfortable by either the gesture or the interruption, or perhaps a combination of both. After a moment, he relaxed back into his deep black robes, settling his glare on Harry as though it was his fault Dumbeldore effectively told Snape to shut up.

The old headmaster peered over his half-moon spectacles, one hand stroking deliberately through his beard. “This is the safest option for you, Harry.”

Pretending that the sheet wringing in his hands wasn’t an indication of his discomfort, Harry cleared his throat, yet hated how his voice still came out shaky, discordant, childish. “You promised.”

That was what it all came down to. Harry was tired, too tired to fight, yet Dumbledore had promised. Just for a few weeks. It isn’t that long, Harry. Your friends are still here, Harry. Hogwarts will always be here to welcome you home, Harry. It’s only a few weeks, Harry.

“There are dangers within Hogwarts. There are dangers within the Order, which will be convening in this very safehouse within the next twenty-four hours. The Weasley residence is not nearly equipped with the protections you are currently in need of, nor am I willing to expand the target on your back so soon. Simply put, it is time that the protections that you have been maintaining on the house are put to proper use.”

Harry resisted the urge to squirm under Dumbledore’s intense gaze. He did shift uncomfortably when a gnarled hand landed towards the bottom of Harry’s leg. His eyes burned with the intensity of hundreds of battles won and thousands of mistakes made.

“I would not do this without your best interest at heart, my boy. You must know that, Harry. My only goal is for you to be safe and happy.”

It was easy to forget that Dumbeldore was an immensely powerful wizard. That greater wizards than Harry have cowered under the point of Dumbledore’s wand. That for all the people against him, he had more powerful allies than Harry will ever know.

Which was to say that in the end, it didn’t matter whether or not Harry believed Dumbledore. Whether he felt betrayed that Dumbledore didn’t offer him any help with preparing for the tasks this year or that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t actually appreciate having to wait over twenty-four hours for Dumbeldore to actually come talk to him after arriving from the third task with a dead body didn’t matter.

It wasn’t like he actually had any choice. Oh sure, he could shout and scream and whine and even beg, but behind those kind eyes and good intentions was raw power–and it wasn’t the kind that could come out of a wand.

Harry nodded, swallowing around the lump in his throat. It frightened him more than he’d ever admit to realize he didn’t have any escape. No one was perfect. Not even Dumbledore. He could only hope it didn’t fall on his shoulders to realize it.

An instinct that sounded distinctly like Hermione’s gentle teasing said he should really try trusting adults more.

Then Ron reared his head into the conversation with a thoughtful, Bloody right, mate, let Dumbledore rot! Those Dursley’s deserve to have to make potions in front of Snape until their hands fall off–and then have to be chopped up into potions ingredients themselves!!

“I said no!” Sirius suddenly stood up, hand leaving Harry’s own. “Did we all hear the same thing? Did he not experience torture that some grown men have gone insane from? Harry needs his friends. He needs those who love him.”

“The Dursley’s have cared for Harry-”

“Bullshit! I haven’t cared for Harry for twelve years and even I know-”

“Sirius.” Harry snapped, and he immediately cringed from his own harshness, but maybe he deserved to act a little rough around the edges. He found out he was returning to the Dursleys, after all.

Then again, Sirius didn’t understand the little dance he and Dumbledore did every year. The things said and the things left unsaid. The promises they each had to keep. It wasn’t his fault that he has been left out of this for so long.

Well, at the very least, not entirely his fault.

“Leave it. Please?” Maybe with someone else his rude behavior would be chastised; but with Sirius, the static seemed to evaporate from his shoulders and he fell back in his chair with a soft thud. Sirius would do almost anything Harry asked. Anything to make up for time lost, for errors irreparable.

In the ensuing silence, Harry watched the wooden cuckoo clock silently tick over to twelve. A miniature hippogriff shot out from the compartment under the clock face, signifying the new day. It flew around merrily, making indecipherable patterns around the front of the clock before seeming to tire, and returned to its wooden home.

He wondered idly if this was the kind of magic commonplace in all wizarding houses. The charms on the figurine must be extensive, surely not done by a child or parent, though surely not greatly expensive to buy from a charms master. It would be hard for most to justify spending a small fortune on what appeared to be a child’s cuckoo clock.

Though somebody did. Somebody loved their child enough to buy them a specially charmed clock, just because they knew it would make them happy. Maybe that child loved hippogriffs. Maybe they liked flying creatures. Or maybe they simply enjoyed the clock because it was a gift from someone they loved, and who loved them back.

He ached for that child. For the simple tragedy of a beloved clock abandoned with childhood and a hippogriff forever flying without anyone to love.

“He needs an emergency means of escape,” Snape’s voice jerked him out of his thoughts. “A portkey, perhaps, the usual method.”

Dumbledore nodded. “Most prudent, Severus.” Dumbledore slowly raised his wand, contorting it in a dozen motions that Harry couldn’t catch. He did understand the small piece of Dumbledore’s purple dress robe being cut off and transfigured into an unobtrusive black ring. It was a simple band, a thin line indented minutely through the center its only individualizing feature.

A few complex wand motions followed until the ring gave a great burst of light, and then began hovering towards Harry.

“Right or left, my boy?”

Harry silently proffered his left hand, letting Dumbledore’s magic slide the ring over his index finger. The ring tightened until it fit snugly at the base of his finger, and without warning began to hum with magic. His skin felt as though it was vibrating, electricity barely skimming the surface of his skin. The effect barely reached his wrist, but it was enough to be noticeable.

“The portkey’s magic may feel uncomfortable as it is stronger than most magics. If you press the ring three times, you will be keyed to my office in Hogwarts. It will bring you and only you, and any object attached to you.” Dumbledore leveled him with a serious look. “You must never take it off, Harry.”

Harry twisted his hand, astounded with the level of pure magic simply resting on his finger. But as beautiful as the magic was, there was a flaw in their delicate plan.

“I can’t wear this. The Dursleys will take it away the second they see it.” It was nondescript enough to not be taken on account of Harry’s supposed lack of money, but it would be an understatement to say the Dursley’s would react poorly to Harry wearing something girly.

Dumbledore frowned ever so slightly, seeming to ponder the question. Before he could respond, Snape butted in blandly, “Use a partial glamor. It won’t interfere with the magical qualities of the transportation charms nor the transfiguration.”

“A ward perhaps…against someone else forcefully taking it off…” Dumbledore trailed off, glancing towards Snape.

“Would succeed in only adequately disrupting the transfiguration. Place a strong partial glamor on it and so long as his relatives aren’t inspecting his hands, it will suffice.”

Dumbledore sighed, yet proceeded with yet another complex series of motions and whispered words before Harry felt the hum of magic intensify within the ring. Slowly, the ring faded into the color of his skin, though if he turned his hand a certain way in the light and really focused his eyes until he felt he had double crossed them, he could make out the ring’s shape clearly.

He blinked, and the ring disappeared once more.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’re very welcome, Harry. Remember: press it three times, and you will arrive at my office. I will be notified if you do use the portkey.”

The tingling on his hand began to fade to background noise. It quickly became less of a burden than his aching muscles and the headache that had managed to creep up on him over the last hour.

“Well, then, Harry. I do believe it’s time to pay your relatives a visit.”

A visit. A short, sweet, simple visit. He would be back at Hogwarts, back with his friends, his family, in no time.

Carefully, the headmaster rose from his seat, motioning for Snape to rise as well. “A moment to say goodbye, of course.” Following Dumbledore out of the room, Snape shot him a particularly withering sneer, as though peeved that his prey slipped through his slimy fingers, before shutting the door much harder than strictly necessary.

Right bastard.

As soon as they were alone, Sirius spoke, “I’m so sorry, Harry. I want you to stay here, with me, but I can’t do anything-”

“I know, Sirius, I know. It’s alright.” Harry turned to meet Sirius’s gaze.

Sirius shook his head, eyes frantic. “It’s not alright. You don’t deserve this. And Snape! Merlin, the spiteful greasy git wouldn’t leave us alone. You know I wouldn’t have done anything rash, Harry, don’t you? I just wanted some time to talk to you.”

Through his fringe, Harry nodded. He didn’t like this Sirius. The Sirius that was blunter and sharper than normal. The Sirius who looked as wild and desperate as a caged animal. “Yes, Sirius. He wasn’t being fair.”

Sirius agreed, expression grave. “If you need anything, anything at all, write. I’ll see you soon, pup.” Sirius pulled him into a hug that was much too tight for Harry’s liking on a good day, nevermind when his entire body was still protesting from literal torture; but Harry didn’t comment. He simply accepted the suffocating feeling in his chest for what it was. Sirius had a hard time with these things. He had to let Sirius feel he won this time.

“I’ll be okay, Sirius,” he consoled, “I’ll write as much as possible.”

The hug relented to something reasonable, and the hand rubbing his back actually felt nice after he got used to it. When Sirius pulled away, he smiled wearily.

“Until next time, stay safe for me, Harry.”

He began to rise from the bed, the cold air chilled his legs as they were exposed from the thick blanket.

“Until next time, Sirius.”

Chapter Text

Pull out the weeds. Toss them in the discard bucket. Cover the hole with dirt. Repeat.

Pull out the weeds. Toss them in the discard bucket. Cover the hole with dirt. Pull out. Toss them. Cover the hole. Pull. Toss. Cover. Pull. Toss. Cover.

The mantra repeated over and over again in his mind until everything else faded into the background. He no longer felt the dirt clumping underneath his fingernails. He had long forgotten the protesting of his muscles from the continual movement and thirst for water on his tongue. Even the buzzing anxiety was a distant memory in the face of the unrelenting monotony of Pull. Toss. Cover.

If there was one thing about the Dursleys that he could appreciate, it was that he was never expected to be anything more than he actually was. He didn’t have to be the savior of the entire world. All he had to do was fall back into old habits where the Dursleys made him do chores in order to ignore him, and Harry did the chores in order to ignore the Dursleys.

As he was pulling out a rather stubborn weed from next to a gardenia, a car’s engine roared down the street and came to a slow steady rumble as it stalled then was turned off.

“Boy!”

Harry groaned. Vernon was most definitely home, which meant it was time for Vernon’s favorite new activity over the past week.

Altogether, Vernon had not been pleased that Harry not only returned home two weeks early, but also that he had the audacity to arrive in the middle of the night completely unannounced with a far-too-cheery Dumbledore in wizard’s robes.

The very next morning, Vernon had thrown all of Harry’s trunk into the cupboard and then demanded Harry hand over his wand. What Vernon didn’t know was that the first thing Harry did when he was alone in his room that night before was shove his wand under the loose floorboard by his bed.

Vernon had went mad, turning his bedroom upside down looking for the wand, leaving it in a state of disarray far worse than Harry had thought possible. It was only after Vernon was gasping for air, mustache twitching, did he round on Harry, speaking in a low voice, “I’ll find it eventually, boy, and I’ll make you regret it.”

Now, a week later, Harry rounded the corner into the entryway. Vernon eyed him with a look of unveiled disgust which Harry was sure had nothing to do with the state of his dirty sweat-drenched clothes and everything to do with Harry’s mere existence.

“Turn out your pockets, boy.”

This game, too, has grown familiar over the past few days. Harry pushed the extra material of his oversized shirt out of the way and dug through his pockets. As usual, he was concealing nothing within the pockets and (as usual) Vernon’s face became an alarming expelliarmus-shade of red.

When Harry was about to tell Vernon off and resume his afternoon chores, the larger man stumbled back as though in disbelief.

Harry’s heart leapt to his throat, some long-forgotten instinct telling him this was dangerous. He needed to run while he still could.

“What’s that on your hand?”

Oh fuck.

Before Harry could even attempt to think of some clever lie, Vernon tugged on his left wrist, nearly bending it too far the wrong way to bring Harry’s hand closer to his face. Harry ignored the pain shooting up the snake-like scar embedded in his forearm.

In one motion, Vernon tore the ring off of his finger with his pudgy hands. Whatever glamor was on it ceased to exist under the intense scrutiny of two people. The ring gleamed as bright as a diamond in spite of Harry’s chores involving a great deal of dirt and dust.

As much as he didn’t trust Dumbledore, he trusted that this ring would save him. He didn’t need to be Hermione to know the ring was his only escape if everything went to hell. And, personally, Harry would prefer to be done with Voldemort for the rest of his life.

But you’re never going to be done with Voldemort. Not until he’s dead.

Harry lunged desperately for the ring. Vernon snatched it away, deftly pining Harry against the cupboard door with his other arm. The grip on his wrist tightened from barely-noticeable to definitely-leaving-bruises.

“What’s this?” Vernon growled.

“It’s mine!” Harry fought to escape Vernon’s arm. He was a wizard for God’s sake. Vernon shouldn’t be able to keep him pinned to a wall more effectively than Wormtail charming a stone statue could.

“Are you trying to play me for a fool, boy!” Vernon was now turning a spectacular shade of purple around his neck. It was truly impressive. Harry would insist he needed to be on one of those talent shows. Or see a doctor at the very least. “I will not be taken for a fool in my own home! Where did you get this ring!”

Harry snarled, “It’s mine and it’s not magic! Give it back!”

“DO NOT SAY THAT WORD IN MY HOUSE!” Vernon jostled him against the door. Harry heard more than he felt the back of his head hit the wall behind him. He gritted his teeth against the sharp spike of pain.

“We house you, feed you, dress you, and this is how you repay us! With this- this freakishness!?”

Harry didn’t dare look away from the source of the spittle flying in his face, but from the corner of his eye, he could just make out Petunia standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

Vernon pocketed the ring, then shoved Harry towards the front door. He reaffirmed his grip to the back of Harry’s shirt and just as Harry thought he was going to kick him out of the house to rot with death eaters, pushed him into the stairs. Harry stumbled from the unexpected movement, falling onto steps. Luckily, Harry was quite advanced at falling, and covered his head with his arms from taking any damage. Unluckily, he was not going to like the bruises left along his sides and arms tomorrow morning.

“Well, what do you think you’re doing! Get up!” Vernon shouted, tugging at the back of his shirt. Harry managed to push himself up before the collar dug into his throat. Vernon led him roughly up the stairs only to practically throw Harry into his room. Just as satisfaction ran through Harry at not landing flat on his face, the door slammed shut behind him and the bolts were clicked into place.

Vernon’s booming voice carried easily through the closed door. “And don’t expect anything for dinner!”

Harry scoffed. He hadn’t had dinner in… well he couldn’t quite remember which day Petunia gave him dinner last. Though he was quite sure he had that cheese sandwich for lunch yesterday… or was that the day before?

It wasn’t that bad. Harry has forgotten the last time he’d eaten before. Even at Hogwarts he can’t remember every meal he doesn’t eat. Skip lunch to finish a charms essay here, grab a muffin for breakfast when he was running late to potions there, and soon enough Hermione is lecturing him into eating a five course meal for dinner.

He’s had worse before. Everything that was bad now, has been worse before. He wasn’t a kid anymore. He wasn’t the helpless boy stuck in the cupboard under the stairs, forgotten, unloveable. He had friends. He had Sirius.

Harry shuffled between the discarded toys on the floor. He could never bring himself to do anything about the forgotten toys. Maybe it was for the lack of assurance that Petunia wouldn’t screech at him for trying to throw out dear Diddykins belongings, but there was still a part of him that felt it wrong to touch them, even just to shove them into the closet.

Expertly stepping around the toy fire truck by the foot of his bed, he fell into the lumpy mattress. His glasses dug into his temples, but he couldn’t bring himself to care enough to take them off.

It was one of those June evenings where the sun was still shining as supper approached and it felt as though the night would never come to soothe over the day’s heat, to finally allow the sun a sweet repose. From his cracked window, Harry could hear children screeching merrily in the street, blissfully undisturbed by the exhaustion that has settled deep in Harry’s bones.

Vernon’s deep growl carried up the stairs. Petunia’s remark came through his bedroom door despite the carefully closed locks. Harry turned away from the door, attempting to dispel the sound along with the pit that had formed in his stomach.

His sleep had been irregular and discordant over the past week. It was as though his mind and body were in a battle of wills. Every night, physical exhaustion and weakness would pull him into sleep, only for his mind to force him awake, hands fumbling for the wand under his floorboard, thoughts racing for ways to defend himself against an intruder.

Eventually, he would tire of shaking from his cold sweat, and be forced into the depths of sleep again, only for the process to repeat itself over again.
He was constantly waiting for something to change. During the day he wished for sleep and during the night he wished for the day to come again so he could forget the images of his dreams.

He wanted to write to Sirius, but a letter had come the second day, saying he was only to write if he absolutely needed to. Harry tore it apart, pretending his anger with the parchment had nothing to do with it being barely two sentences long, flippantly signed AD.

It was a lot more difficult to delude himself into thinking Dumbledore cared when he pulled this on him. That was all. This was nothing new. This was no different from the realization that came as stark as daylight one cold night in his lonely cupboard, curled up with scraped knees and tears down his cheeks. The overwhelming dread in knowing no one loved him.

He has had worse before.

Harry pulled the threadbare blanket over his body, wincing as the sensitive skin on his forearm protested from his movement. That was Snape’s fault. Despite giving Harry the anti-scarring balm, the man took it upon himself to spell it into Harry’s trunk before he left, so as to protect it during apparation. Had it not been sitting uselessly in his cupboard for the past week, his scar would have been healed by now.

It was still a bastard move even if the greasy git didn’t know that would happen. He could have at least asked. Then again, Harry nearly laughed at the thought of Snape asking him for permission to do anything.

Now the scar was a near-constant ache. If he flexed his wrist, it stung. If he stretched his arm to dust off the top shelf, the skin pulled. If his shirt sleeve (because Harry was not going to just let the Dursleys see that, thank you very much) brushed against it the wrong way, the texture irritated the sensitive scar tissue.

It was similar to how his scar, the famous one that is, was during his first year with Quirrell. Constantly aching and sensitive to his hair brushing against it.

See? It was the same story, over and over again.

It didn’t matter that he was tired because he’s been tired before. It didn’t matter that he missed his friends, because he’s missed his friends before. It didn’t matter that sleep was a warzone filled with nightmares and waking up in a cold sweat, because he has had nightmares before.

He was fine.

But never before in his worst nightmare was he forced to kill Ron, to see the light fade from his eyes. To fall to his knees besides his form in the damp grass, hands shaking, tears forming in his eyes as a voice called above him. He glanced up, Cedric was looking at him with something worse than hatred, worse than disdain: disgust. He sneered at Harry, "You would have done something if it was him and not me. You don’t care for anyone but yourself."

Harry took a shuddering breath around the tightness in his throat. He didn’t need to cry. There was nothing to cry over. There was no reason his view of the discolored wall was being blurred in front of his eyes.

He had an entire summer of this to get through. He couldn’t let go now. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to stop.

It didn’t matter how desperately he wished for this to all be over. It didn’t matter that he missed the warmth of his friends and wished only to be released from his Dursley prison.

By now, his room had darkened considerably with the sunset. Distantly he could hear the too-loud telly on in the living room, meaning the Dursleys were done with dinner. He could go to sleep now. All he had to do was succumb to the exhaustion, letting it wrap around him like a thick blanket, insulting him from the outside world, and let sleep take him.

If a tear landed on his pillow, no one was there to see it before it dried.

-_-

For once, Harry was awoken not by blood rushing in his ears, but by a whooshing sound outside his window.

Apparation.

Harry turned, swiftly opening the loose floorboard and taking the wand into the palm of his hand. The familiar warmth spread through his core, but was quickly counteracted by the cool air hitting his body as he slipped out of bed.

By the time he had stilled, he could hear faint footsteps on the stone pathway. Harry’s nerves were on fire, poised in preparation for the moment to strike. Every steady tick of his heartbeat lasted a lifetime, every brush of air from the window was a well-timed attack.

No ring. No friends. No protection. Just himself and his wand against the world.

At least Cedric wasn’t here. There was no Ron or Hermione or Neville or Ginny to die in his place. That, in itself, was a relief.

But as the front door ever so slightly creaked open, Dudley’s image came to mind, unbidden. Dudley didn’t deserve to die at the indifferent hand of a death eater. Petunia didn’t either.

Vernon should not die from a death eater. There was nothing that would make Harry admit to otherwise. He didn’t want to think about the person he would be if he admitted to believing otherwise.

There was a creak from the bottom of the stairs, then nothing… too much nothing. A silencing charm, most likely. No one except Harry could avoid all of the creaky steps on the staircase.

He held his gaze on the door, imagining the intruder going up each step. Counting the seconds in his head. When it seemed like too long since the intruder had casted the silencing charm, the first lock on his door clicked open. Then another and another until Harry lost count against the sound of his heart beating in his chest. He raised his wand, an expelliarmus on his lips when the door finally creaked open-

“Arthur?”

“Oh, Harry!”

Arthur smiled warmly at him, lowering a lumos-lit wand so as to dampen the harsh light. Relief flooded Harry, taking in Arthur’s tousled hair and worn clothes. He lowered his wand, and didn’t dare let himself believe Arthur was here for the reason Harry hoped he would be here.

He always wished he had the opportunity to speak with Arthur more often. Arthur had been nothing but kind to him the few times they have been alone together, always that balancing force needed among the Weasley chaos: gentle, sensible, reliable. Although Harry loved the Burrow, Arthur seemed to understand when he was overwhelmed with the constant action and noise that characterized the Weasley family. That he didn’t always want Molly’s attention and he didn’t always know how to react to Fred and George’s antics.

That he didn’t always know how to react to Arthur.

Nevertheless, what Harry most appreciated was that to Arthur, he had always been just Harry. He wasn’t a boy savior nor a child in need of a savior.

But in the grand scheme of things, it mattered very little. Arthur was so often busy with his ministry work and providing for his actual family, that they only had the chance to speak once or twice every year.

The man approached him somewhat stiffly, eyes raking over Harry’s appearance and the wand in his hand, but upon not finding anything too concerning, pulled Harry into a hug. Harry found himself attempting to relax into it, but before he could, Arthur pulled away.

They must be on a tight schedule. Usually Arthur’s hugs last longer than that. He tended to communicate more fluently with actions rather than words.

Hands gripped his shoulders too tightly. He met Athur’s gaze, finding his face more anxious than normal, nearly jittery in a way that didn’t make sense.

“Is everyone alright? Did something happen? Harry asked, pocketing his wand.

Arthur’s head twitched to the side, as though indecisive. “Harry,” the man began, seeming at a loss for words, “I have come to take you away from the Dursleys.”

Harry tore out of the grip on his shoulders. “Why? What are you talking about?”

Usually Arthur’s eyes would soften when Harry did something like this. Arthur would see right through his defense, through his feeble attempt to distance himself. The man would step closer and reassure Harry, easing his fears.

Now, Arthur’s features hardened over. He tugged uncomfortably at the too-tight shirt collar on his robes. “Dumbledore knows you don’t enjoy being here over the summer, Harry. So he has found a way for you to be safe away from here, under the care of myself and Molly.”

Arthur spoke with a type of too-sweet kindness to his voice, as though trying too hard to prove his sincerity. He seemed to lack the usual concern underscoring anything he said to Harry. There was something off about the way his clothes fit too tightly, whereas normally his robes hung just a bit loose around hish frame. His usually slumped posture was completely straightened. There was something different in how Arthur’s movements were too precise, too perfect.

Slowly, Harry returned his hand to the wand in his pocket.

“What was the first thing you said to me when we met on platform nine and three quarters?” Harry said. He tried to emulate that flippant tone Snape used to easily, making it seem like he didn’t actually care. That the process of asking the question was boring to him.

He tightened his grip around the handle, pretending his hand wasn’t shaking.

Arthur’s brow furrowed. “Why, I don’t quite recall anymore, I am afraid. It was just so long ago. But you know you can trust me Harry, don’t you?”

This was wrong. Something was wrong. Everything was wrong. But even if Arthu could forget the first thing he ever said to Harry (“What is the function of a rubber duck?”) and even if he could forget that they didn’t first meet on platform nine and three quarters (the morning after the twins rescued him in the Ford Angela), there was one thing Arthur would never forget.

“I do, Mr. Weasley. But you know how skeptical Mad Eye is. He'd have a fit if I didn’t at least ask.”

Harry breathed in, counting the seconds in his head. Wishing so desperately that Arthur would do it. It was one simple mistake, one simple thing that Arthur would never forget. How many times has Arthur repeated the same words to him over and over again? How much of what Arthur has said to him was simply repeating one tiny sentence?

“Please, Harry, call me Arthur.”

Harry breathed out.

“That’s the spirit, my boy!” Not-Arthur smiled in a way that didn’t really reach his eyes. “Come along now, Dumbledore is waiting to receive us.”

Harry smiled as though he didn’t taste bile on the back of his tongue. He shifted ever so slightly towards the desk so as to have a clear line of sight of the opened door. Slowly, so as not to alarm Not-Arthur, he raised his wand.

It was quite ironic how soon his escape from the graveyard would come in handy. Only one thing was different this time. He steeled himself, knowing the consequences of this action.

Hopefully Hermione wasn’t right when she said getting expelled was a fate worse than dying.

“Accio Harry’s ring!” He commanded, not loudly, but without any doubt tinging his voice. Not-Arthur’s eyes narrowed, cold and calculating in a way that looked wrong on Arthur’s haggard features.

It made him miss the real Arthur. He missed that first August he spent at the Burrow. Where everything about the magical household was… magical. Where he was encapsulated with the novelty of it all: the expansion wards, the cleaning charms, the wizards chess.

The family.

He missed the Arthur that warmed a glass of milk for him when he had found Harry alone in the kitchen in the dead of night, distraught from some nightmare he had long forgotten. He missed the Arthur that encouraged him to talk the only way he knew how: by bombarding him with questions about the muggle world.

All those things seemed to Harry a lifetime ago. They meant nothing to the imposter standing in Dudley’s dingy second bedroom.

The ring flew into the room. Harry caught it deftly with his hand. He observed it in his palm for a moment, then grasped it between his thumb and forefinger.

“Tell Voldemort he’s going to have to try harder than that.”

Realization dawned on the imposter’s face and he lunged forward, eyes wild and desperate, but Harry was already gone.

Chapter Text

Dumbledore’s office was a peculiar thing. It was overcrowded with his various trinkets and artifacts, yet the room was spacious, even by the solemn glow of torchlight.

A tapping came from a sun window above the talking portraits. With a wordless gesture from Dumbledore, the window opened and a tawny owl circled down until it perched on the arm of Harry’s chair.

Harry accepted the proffered envelope with the Ministry insignia and tossed it onto Dumbledore’s desk. Harry scratched the owl’s fur, reminded fondly of Hedwig.

The old headmaster opened the letter, his expression not changing as his eyes flitted across the page.

“You used magic.”

Harry nodded. The owl nudged his palm, prompting Harry for more affection. He obliged, relishing the softness of the feathers under his palm. He wondered whose job it was at the ministry to take care of the owls.

“Why did you use magic?”

“My uncle took the ring from me. The only way to get it with a polyjuiced death eater in Du- my bedroom was to summon it.”

Dumbledore sighed, rubbed his brow. “A hearing will be held for you in two weeks.” He looked somewhere over Harry’s shoulder. “This complicates things.”

“It’s not my fault!”

“You were told to keep the ring on you at all times, Potter,” Snape spat out from his chair in the corner of the office. “Surely even you could have comprehended that the ring wasn’t a mere trinket.”

“If I went after the ring, my Uncle would have thrown me out of his house! So I apologize that you aren’t already celebrating my untimely demise, sir!” The owl yipped indignantly at Harry’s raised voice, then took off from its perch with a great beat of its wings.

“Harry-” Dumbledore consoled. “You did the right thing, my boy. We will… deal with this. Though had we known you were without the ring…” Dumbledore trailed off.

Harry furrowed his brow, making sense of what Dumbledore was implying, but… no. No, that was impossible. Even Dumbledore wouldn’t think to…

“You knew.”

“Yes.”

This word was said without fanfare, without any tinge of sorrow nor a hint of regret. It was only Dumbledore’s sallow cheeks, his hollow eyes that revealed to Harry he felt any emotion about the decision at all.

Harry had the sudden desire to follow the owl out the window.

Dumbledore knew. He knew that an imposter was trying to break into Privet Drive. He knew they would most likely succeed and instead of removing Harry, protecting Harry, even warning Harry, he had decided putting Harry’s life in danger was a sacrifice he was willing to make.

Harry despised the dark shadow sitting calmly in the corner of Dumbledore’s office, as if he were merely an observer. Snape picked up his tea, took a languid sip through his thin lips, and placed it back onto the tray.

“You said I had to go to Dursleys. That it was the only option.”

“We didn’t know at the time that this could happen. I did my best with the information I had, my boy.”

“And yet you left me there knowing I could have been killed!”

“It was a calculated risk knowing-”

“It is my life!” Harry stood, shouting. His bruised torso protested at the swift movement. “You can’t say you’re doing your best and then play God with my life!”

“It was the only way. Severus was under scrutiny with Voldemort and this information was a test of his loyalty. Had you not been there, his position as a spy would have been revealed.”

Harry shook his head, but it only made the rising nausea deepen.

Harry didn’t trust Dumbledore, not really. Not in any way that mattered, and yet this still left him reeling. It wasn’t only the sting of betrayal, it was the empty feeling in his stomach from losing what he didn’t know he had left to lose.

“You-” his voice cracked, “you could have warned me. All I needed was one owl- I would have acted out a scene. I would have done anything you asked.”

“My boy,” Dumbledore soothed in a low rumble that intensified the pressure at the back of Harry’s throat, but Dumbledore did not deserve his tears. “I am so sorry I could not protect you, but at some point, we must each choose between what is right and what is easy.”

Molten lava ran through his veins, bursting out of him as a volcano long overdue for eruption. “Then you chose wrong! How easy is it for you to sit in this office and tell yourself lies! How dare you pretend you have it harder than the rest of us, just because you decide who will be sacrificed next from the comfort of your armchair!”

There was a rigid satisfaction in seeing Dumbledore deflate, his wrinkled
features unable to meet Harry’s eyes, his gnarled hands incapable of placating Harry’s rage. It was exhilarating, the ash in the air, the fire burning simply because Harry made it so.

“I’m sorry, my boy. Maybe one day you will understand.”

A long silence followed. The various whizzing and buzzing of Dumbledore’s trinkets did nothing to fill the empty silence of the old man’s denied forgiveness. Harry sat back down heavily, nearly collapsing in the armchair.

He longed for Sirius.

It was so much more difficult, he found, fighting the losing battle on his own behalf without Sirius there with him. The dim satisfaction of triumph had already faded like a sunlit winter afternoon, leaving him cold and in want of comfort. His actions have changed nothing. Dumbledore will live to make another fucked up decision about his life and Harry will live to deal with the aftermath by himself.

It was futile. To assert his will against Dumbledore’s was to rage war against the stone walls of Hogwarts, knowing each strike of his fist only served to hurt him more in the end.

Hogwarts’s beloved castle walls were turning to a prison of brick before his very eyes. No longer could he claim sanctuary under them when each year they betrayed him with more indifferent violence than the last.

Kill the spare!

I can touch you now. Yes… how lovely it is to have your blood running through my veins.

Bow to me, Harry Potter. Didn’t that old fool teach you how to duel properly? We wouldn’t want Dumbledore to think you dishonorable.

Snape’s teacup landed on the try with a succinct clink, drawing Harry’s attention.

When Snape met his gaze, his crooked nose doing nothing to hide his distaste with having to be in Harry’s presence. “Potter, you will be residing with me for the foreseeable future.”

It was like hearing the hammer hit the last nail into the coffin. He was numb. He couldn’t even think about the enormity of what was being implied by that simple sentence.

“What about Sirius? Why can’t he take care of me?” His protestations were as empty as the regrets of the dead.

“Black is on a mission for the order. And before you even impetuously dare to ask, Weasley and Granger cannot be saddled with the dangers your presence imposes on their families.” Snape crossed his arms over his chest as though he were an impudent child. “Believe me, Potter, if there was another way, I would have found it.”

Harry sagged, wilting in his seat. It was true. Every word of it. It may just be the first time in Harry's entire life he agreed with what Snape said.

“Can I owl them? Can I see them?”

“No.” Dumbledore said, still refusing to meet Harry’s gaze. “There is a small possibility you may be able to see Mr. Weasley, but only after a few weeks. It is much too dangerous right now.”

Harry shifted, suddenly uncomfortable with the too-fluffy texture of his chair, feeling as though he was being compressed by the air around him.

“Anything else, headmaster?”

“Do as Professor Snape tells you,” Dumbledore sighed. “I trust him entirely with your safety.”

Harry scoffed, but couldn’t bring himself to comment.

Snape stood. He towered over Harry, scowling like some kind of unimpressed hippogriff. “We will go by floo. Our destination is Spinner’s End. The password is wormwood.”

“I thought we were going to Grimmauld.”

“Grimmauld is being occupied by the order, which still contains the unknown spy who put your name in the goblet. It is not safe,” Dumbledore said.

Without waiting for Harry to reply, Snape strode towards the massive fireplace, declining his head slightly to fit within it. Shouting the prior information, he disappeared in a glory of green light.

When the fire burned brightest, when the heat of it filled the air, it was the very same color that had blinded Harry’s vision when Pertigrew flared his wand, when Cedric fell to the ground.

Harry approached the fireplace stiffly, reached into the ceramic shoe-shaped pot as though afraid a snake would jump out and bite him.

“Harry,” Dumbledore called. Harry refused to turn to him. “You are so much stronger than you know.”

If it wasn’t the middle of the night, if he had not just argued with Dumbledore minutes before, maybe he would have the willpower to fight. Instead he stepped into the fireplace, replying dully, “And you are weaker than you think.”

A few paintings gasped above their heads, muttering words of disgust, but before Dumbledore could think of a reply, Harry threw the powder to his feet and followed Snape through the floo.

Chapter Text

When Harry was spat out the other side of the fireplace, he fell to his knees, battling the rising nausea coming back at full force.

“Please do refrain from ruining my carpet. It would be such a hassle to clean.”

Harry staggered to his feet. When the room stopped spinning, he was standing in a dingy living room that smelled faintly of mildew and dust. There was a once-green couch and matching loveseat facing the mantle. Closest to Harry was a coffee table littered with scratches and dents with legs shaped like the crooked branches of an ancient tree. Cobwebs haunted the green curtains and a mostly empty bookshelf occupied the back wall.

Snape scowled, taking insult with Harry standing within his general vicinity. “Follow me, Potter. I refuse to speak with you any longer tonight.”

Harry nearly snarled at the man, but kept his eyes focused on the yellow flowered wallpaper instead. Maybe the Dursleys weren’t such a bad option after all.

Snape led him up a creaky staircase with various portraits of beaches and mountains hanging on the walls. At the top of the stairs was a short hallway with only three doors. “Yours,” he jabbed a finger towards the closest door. “The bathroom, and mine. Enter it, and you will be short one hand.”

This apparently indicated that the conversation was over, as Snape strode off in the direction of his room and slammed the door without another word.

Harry stepped to his door. He placed his hand on its dulled knob, hesitating when he realized he had to open it to reveal what it held behind. He found his knuckles were beginning to turn white, a pounding sensation rising in his chest.

He shut his eyes against his distorting vision, not understanding this unexplained terror washing over him. What was he afraid of? Was it Voldemort he imagined on the other side of the door? Did he fear Cedric’s dead body lying prone on the floor? Did he expect Vernon on the other side, intent to snap his wand in two? Would Dumbledore be standing there with a prison sentence on his tongue, disappointment tinging his tone?

For a terrifying, agonizing moment, the world was flying around him, and Harry was frozen in place. Pinned down by the weight of his racing breaths, the blood rushing in his ears, the taste of copper in his mouth.

Then he opened the door. He let it click shut behind him.

It was a children’s bedroom.

Baby-blue walls and a beautiful night sky patterned quilt and a fluffy dark blue rug. The lower parts of the walls were littered with hand-drawn stars and an ethereal painting of a moonlit forest hung proudly above the bed. The base of the bedside lamp was shaped as a crescent moon.

Harry found his way to the bed, perched on its very edge. He ran a hand over the quilt, letting its soft texture sink into his skin. The blanket was pilled in some places. There was a hand-sewn patch covering one corner. It was worn from being overhandled, overloved.

Harry sobbed.

Silently, at first, the tears fell and the great gasping breaths hurt his lungs, but slowly the enormity of his grief could no longer be contained and a choked sort of sound escaped from somewhere deep in his throat. He fell back onto the bed. The tears tracked across his nose and down his cheek before sinking into the quilt, ruining its soothing texture.

Dumbledore betrayed him. Sirius couldn’t take care of him. Voldemort was back. Snape was in charge of him. He missed his friends. He missed Hogwarts, but not the Hogwarts awaiting him in September. He missed being a first year frustrated with not being able to navigate Hogwarts’s winding halls and corridors, yawning in transfiguration class because he was up all night researching Nicholas Flamel. He missed the time when he was still learning what it meant to have a friend and to be a friend, when Dumbledore’s antics summed up to a magical cloak and a cryptic comment about the mirror of Erised.

He, inexplicably, missed childhood. As dreadful as it was, it remained a simpler time in Harry’s life. It held within it the distant feeling of ignorance. That blissful not-knowing how bad he really had it, when his world had consisted of Petunia’s chores and Vernon’s insults and Dudley’s bullying and nothing more to complicate it.

It was Dumbledore’s fault. All of it. He was the one to banish him to Number 4 Privet Drive. He was the one who did nothing while his school years turned to shit. It was his action and inaction that culminated to this moment, to Harry alone in a darkened bedroom, sobbing into a stranger’s quilt.

Harry raised his fist, slamming it into the bed, attempting to take his rage out on the tragically soft mattress.

But as soon as he hit the bed, the anger dissipated. Because it didn’t matter. In the end it really just didn’t matter whether it was Dumbledore’s fault or Voldemort’s fault or an act of God. He was alone and everything that was ever good or worthwhile within him was being drained piece by piece.

He searched desperately for some memory of a carefully chosen quilt, but there was none. There was no hand to patch together the place where it had torn. There was nothing but leftover rags and discarded hand-me-downs.

He cried in jealousy of this mystery child, in rage over the injustice of life. But most of all, he cried from knowing that more desperately than haphazard plans of retribution, more anxiously than his deserved compensation, Harry wished to be loved.

He apologized silently to his dad and mum for taking their sacrifice for granted. He apologized to Ron and Hermione for not being able to accept their love. He apologized over and over again to Sirius, who loved him for so long, but was too far. How dare he ask for more when Sirius was there for him? His godfather gave him advice for every trial and challenge last year, worried at his bedside after the third task, and fought for him no matter the cost. He nearly gave up his own life to protect Harry.

He shouldn’t need anymore. He shouldn’t have to ask for more than that. If Sirius could love him, couldn’t he find it within himself to be fulfilled by that love?

He needed to appreciate what he was given in life. He needed to see that Sirius was enough. Hermione and Ron were enough. He didn’t need Dumbledore. He didn’t need knick knacks and trinkets. This was enough. He had enough.

As exhaustion began to weigh him down, Harry shifted to lay his head on the pillow, removing his glasses and placing them on the nightstand. After a brief moment of indecision, he placed his wand on the nightstand as well.

It had to be enough because there was no more to take.

He faded into sleep wondering if it might not be so bad to never wake up.

_-_

“Where is he!” He fumed, wand pointed to the target of his ire. His death eater kneeled before him. The only other person in the room with him was Pettigrew, uselessly enraptured with the glorious scene.

He was furious, but there was a certain glee undermining the fury. It was the freedom of this power being his again, his long-awaited plans finally coming to fruition.

His revenge was no longer a far-away ambition. It was here. It was happening. And no one could stop it.

“The boy used a portkey to get away. It won’t happen again.” The voice trembled despite the man’s firm discipline over his body. The death eater was afraid, and that was a small joy that he could relish entirely.

“Oh, I know it won’t happen again, lest I inform Severus to allow his hand to slip the next time he brews your potion.” He let his voice drag along the words, tasting their sweet nectar. The fruits of his life’s work had never felt vibrant, so lively.

“Thank you, my lord. You are a kind and merciful lord.”

“Merciful? Tsk, tsk, Barty. You should really know better by now. Crucio!” He yelled with delight.

Harry’s eyes flew open. He reached blindly for his wand, but when the warmth seeped into his palm, he realized he wasn’t in any danger at all.

There was no panic. There was no racing heart or shaking limbs. He wasn’t even scared. Even in the unfamiliar room, he remembered with perfect clarity the events that led to him asleep in his day-old clothes on top of a quilt.

It was the breaking of dawn outside his window, the light just beginning to filter into his room. The residual night air still chilled his skin, but outside the chirping had turned from crickets to morning pheasants.

He remembered the dream, but his emotions were… distant. He was distraught, but not because he experienced something bad. It was almost as if someone else had told him a story. A scary story, yes, but a story all the same. It didn’t play that usual trick that all nightmares did upon waking where for a few moments, he believed it was real.

Most odd was the tangible sense of content. But it was greater than content. He was nearly happy, satisfied with what happened.

Which was another issue altogether: what the hell had happened in that dream?

Torturing Barty? As in Barty Crouch? Was it some sick way his mind was trying to seek revenge for the graveyard? Did he blame Crouch for his misfortune?

Harry had been Voldemort, but that didn’t make sense. He never feared becoming Voldemort, nor feared that he would torture someone innocent.

It was downright bizarre, even for a dream. His subconscious had finally managed to produce a fluke of a nightmare. In his opinion, it was probably better to not look a gift horse in the mouth.

It was only when he reached up to run a hand through his hair did he become aware of the aching from his scar—the one on his forearm. The skin was on fire, throbbing with the intensity the injury itself had caused. He pushed the sleeve up, expecting to see the area irritated, but the serpentine scar was resting peacefully on his arm.

He must have strained it in his sleep.

“Potter!” Snape called. “Get out here!”

Harry wasted no time testing Snape’s patience this early in the morning. Better to get this over with now so that he didn’t have to let his thoughts wander to what torture Snape had conjured up for him.

He opened the door, surprised when Snape was not in the hall. Instead, the man was standing at the bottom of the staircase, accompanied by Harry’s trunk.

“A friend of yours collected your things. The headmaster had the courtesy to send them along.” Snape grumbled. He appeared the same way he had yesterday: perfectly dark robes, dark shadows under his eyes, dark curtains of hair hanging around his face.

“Which friend of mine?”

Snape rolled his eyes. “Some house elf.” Dobby! “Gather your things and ready yourself for breakfast.” He made to walk off, but Harry wasn’t going to let him go that easily.

“What about my relatives?”

Snape paused, mouth curving upwards as though pleased with himself. “What about them?”

“Are they okay?”

“They’re perfectly adequate, Potter,” Snape said. Harry knew the curt answers were just to get a rise out of him, but even so, he could feel the first dredges of anger begin to spark within him.

He marched down the stairs with a soldier’s determination. He would not let Snape make him mess up this early into the game. He could do this. This was like his entire thing. Maybe he got carried away arguing with Snape at school, but if he needed to, he knew how to play the game. He knew how to be easy to ignore, but not easy to push around. He knew how to strike the balance between submissive, but not scared.

Which is to say he grabbed the handle of the trunk without meeting Snape’s eyes and dragged it straight back up the stairs. Snape’s footsteps retreated from the foot of the staircase as he reached the top step.

Harry made the quick decision that he'd rather risk Snape’s ire over him taking a shower than over him arriving at breakfast with day-old sweat still sticking to him.

He showered and got ready quickly, then went downstairs. The house was small, nearly a cottage more than a house, and it didn't take Harry long to find the kitchen on his own.

He’d seen Snape eat before. The man showed up to meals with almost neurotic punctuality, but it was still startling seeing him seated at a small table, a book in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

It was so… human of him.

“Desist your unnecessary staring and sit down, Potter.” Snape said with an impressive amount of vitriol for this early in the morning.

The table only having four chairs, Harry opted to sit across from Snape rather than next to him. His chair creaked when he sat down, and wobbled from its uneven legs.

“I do hope you are capable of eating while listening, Potter, or else this will be a strenuous conversation for the both of us.”

Which meant that the eggs and sausage on the table weren't just for Snape, they were for him. Which meant he had to serve himself eggs and sausage in front of Snape and eat at a table with Snape.

Bloody weird.

“I am, sir.”

Snape scowled, searching for malice in Harry’s tone, but soon continued, “I want to be very clear. You do not own this house. I will not have you running amok through these halls, fulfilling your pitiful impulses. I do not care what lengths your pitiful relatives took to please your melodramatic tantrums-”

“I do not have tantrums!” But Harry’s protest went unheard.

“In the mornings, I will find work to keep you from getting into your usual bouts of dangerous trouble. In the afternoons, I expect you to work on your summer assignments. And in the evenings you will entertain yourself quietly.” Snape said this last part as though sucking on something particularly sour, as though allotting Harry Potter free time over his summer vacation was a truly gruesome task.

Harry forked more egg into his mouth. This entire thing wasn’t much different from the Dursleys: chores, annoying adults, pitiful insults. All things he has had plenty of experience with and more.

But Snape wasn’t the Dursleys. He wasn’t nearly so dumb as Dudley, who would forget to breathe if it were possible; nor was he as blunt and straightforward as Vernon’s dull intentions. But as refined as Petunia’s vengeance and her sometimes savvy manipulations, even she lacked a certain creative precision in her anger that lined every one of Snape’s words.

Snape shifted in his seat as though preening. Harry’s appetite began to fade.

“You will treat me with respect, and I will not bend to your will. You are a child, and like it or not, you are under my authority here. If you deliberately disobey me, you will be disciplined accordingly.” Snape placed his book down, leaning over the table towards Harry. “You must learn, Potter, that there are consequences to your actions.”

Harry tensed, tightening his grip around his fork. He felt his vision tunneling, his anger resurfacing.

Snape knew nothing of consequences.

We’ll take it at the same time, be champions together! On the count of three!

“I am bloody aware of consequences! I’m not a child!”

One…

“Yet you insist on acting like one!” Snape slammed his hand into the table, nearly making Harry jump. “Foolish, arrogant, self-centered, naive—you have no sense of what dangers you get yourself into, what danger you put others in-”

“I do not put others in danger!” he cried, though it was in vain. He was trembling again. It seemed he was shaking a lot these days, as though his body could not contain within it the strength of his anger.

He was angrier a lot these days.

Two…

“I will not have this incessant backtalk. I refuse to be subjected to your impertinent attitude everyday!”

“I never asked to be here!” Harry shouted. They could both play this game. “If you can’t stand this so much, why don’t you throw me to Voldemort then! It would be awfully convenient for everyone if no one had to worry about me anymore, wouldn’t it?”

Three!

“That’s it,” Snape growled. He stood up, nearly toppling his chair over behind him. “Up, Potter–I said, up!” He pulled out Harry’s chair from under him. When Harry stood up, Snape grabbed his shirt and led him into the entry hall to a door underneath the stairs.

For one frightening, terrible moment before that door opened, Harry expected behind it to be a cupboard. He relived not the nights stowed away in the cupboard, but the days curled up behind the door, the light just barely streaming in through the cracks on either side of the door’s hinges. He felt within him the same loneliness, the burning embarrassment, the oppressive failure, and more often than not, the aching cuts and bruises.

It was then, that last moment before Snape’s hand landed on the door handle that he struggled in Snape’s grip, managing to wrench himself out of the man’s grasp. He jumped backwards, just out of Snape’s reach.

And everything stopped.

Harry was frozen in place, waiting for Snape to make the first move, to bark some scathing insult at him, to suddenly leap forward and take him over the knee, to whip out his wand, just something, anything except for this silence, this staring.

Snape opened the door, and though Harry had a poor view of the inside of the room, he could see the stairs lining the bottom of the floor, the railing mounted on the wall.

A basement.

That… did not ease his fears.

“My personal potions laboratory, which you are only to enter at my express permission or accept the risk of perishing a painful death.” Snape raised an eyebrow, daring Harry to protest. “You will be delegging frogs for me in return for your tantrum, a task even you should be able to complete adequately.”

At Snape’s expectant look, Harry shuffled to the entrance, still not convinced Snape wasn’t going to push him down and lock the door behind him. Luckily, Snape did not have such plans and a light came on as the two descended the stairs, prisoner and warden.

The bottom of the stairs revealed a room not unlike the potions classroom. The workbenches were longer and a great deal of unprepared potions ingredients lined many of the tables, but the atmosphere was near identical. The floor was made out of stone, the walls out of brick. Shelves of labeled ingredients and potions textbooks lined the walls.

Then Harry’s heart leapt to his throat.

Towards the far end of the room was a cauldron, but unlike the others on the workbenches, this one was situated on the floor and was the same exact size as the cauldron Voldemort had risen from before Harry’s own eyes.

“The frogs are over there, Potter. Place the legs in the container next to them on the counter. The bodies can be disposed of in the bin on the floor.” Snape, thankfully, pointed at a workbench towards the opposite end of the room. The potions master got straight to work checking over a few of the cauldrons on the workbenches.

Now it was like the Dursleys. It was just the same menial task over and over again. He had probably delegged frogs a hundred times over at Hogwarts. There was no difference here.

He just had to tune out the cauldron looming in the back of the room, the fear worming its way through his body. That was all. It was truly no monumental task. As much as Snape may be led to believe, he wasn’t actually a child.

Harry grabbed the scalpel and got to work.

Chapter Text

The room was brightly lit, reminiscent of a hospital’s harsh lighting. The long table was a dark, nearly black wood with a glossy finish, contrasting with the white marble floors. The walls were a deep green with paintings of battlefields hanging on the walls, though decidedly void of any talking portraits. The room was saturated in wealth, in power.

He sat at the head of the table while his most loyal death eaters resided next to him. Lucius… Crabbe… Goyle… The rat stood in the corner, a truly pitiful sight. His cowardice was not only a disgrace, but a personal affront to the true meaning of his cause. He had no business being in this room, breathing the same air as them.

Then again, the rat had proved his uses.

With a flick of his pale hand, the door opened inward to reveal his new pet project.

“Crouch. Do join us. You wouldn’t want to keep us waiting longer.”

Crouch stepped forward, the image of bravery, of pride. Of all of them, he was the youngest, the most naive. He held both the advantage of not bearing the weight of the last war and the disadvantage of not knowing the realities of it.

To him, Crouch was just a boy, something that he could hold in the palm of his hand, pliable, malleable. He was so eager to prove his worth that it was all too easy to convince him of his place, to whisper lies in his ear, to imbue him with the delicacies of his dark power. Crouch may be a man, yes, but he was a man who had gone too long without any guidance and now can’t help but let its sweet seduction overtake his soul.

After all, eventually the souls of men tire of rebellion and restlessness. It is man’s nature to long for a leader, to be free of the implications of their actions.

It was easy, all too easy, in fact, to see the similarities… yes, so similar to him. Although time had much dampened his sweet innocence and staunch insecurity, Severus would always share Crouch’s specific breed of impurity.

It was that knowledge that gave him confidence in his estranged potions master’s loyalty. Fear may be powerful, but nothing holds a tighter grip on a man’s soul than his lust for divine sanctuary.

“Lucius, if you would begin with your report.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Lucius preened. “My contacts-”

“I believe I have more important intel to report tonight, my l-lord,” Crouch interrupted, gleefully. His eyes darted between the men at the table, never remaining on one for long.

Lucius glared at Crouch with unmasked fury. The other men shifted uncomfortably. Crouch remained unaware of his misstep.

He was annoyed, yet intrigued. Even in his eagerness, Crouch did not usually forget such blatant matters of respect.

“Yes, Crouch?” He drawled. He tapped idly on the table, its surface cold to the touch.

Crouch’s eyes narrowed, but his face was still foolishly marked with unmasked pride. “It’s not just the ministry. Dumbledore’s sheepdogs don’t know either.”

The words circled around his head, over and over again. With each pass, his elation multiplied by tenfold until he was swimming in pure ecstasy. This changed everything. He always knew Dumbledore was a fool, but this was beyond all expectation. Age has made the old coot complacent.

There was much to plan. So much to plan. But for now, a celebration.

Crouch really was uncannily like Severus.

“You have pleased me, Crouch.” He inspected his wand in his hand, feeling the grain of its wood between his thumb and forefinger, relishing the sublime tingle of its magic resonating through his skin. “But you must learn to obey your lord. Crucio!”

Crouch jerked, his body convulsing until he fell to the floor. His death eaters looked on, amused. Harry felt drunk on life itself.

The pleasure faded for a moment. What was that? That thought? That wasn’t him. He focused his attention on the intrusion. When it became plain in his mind, his anger flared. He should have known—should have expected this side effect. He cursed his blindness, but it was of no matter. He knew the solution to this problem.

The boy must be destroyed.

Harry gasped awake, clutching his wand.

His forearm hurt.

He laid in bed, staring up at the star-filled ceiling, paralyzed by being thrusted into the waking world. He let the overwhelming emotions swell and crash over and over again, waves pounded the shores of his consciousness. It was best to ride it out, he knew. Best to just let it happen and deal with the aftermath after the great storm had retreated. Then he could see clearly what remained.

When he was no longer shaking in bed, he turned to his clock, mindful of his forearm.

Early. Much too early to get up and risk Snape’s ire, and too dark to do anything by natural light.

Harry groaned, and accepted his exhaustion. He managed to sleep nearly the entire night only to feel irrevocably drained. He was getting sick of this. Not to mention Snape had noticed his exhaustion and was beginning to take advantage of his slow-moving thoughts. He’d sometimes assault Harry with easy potions questions just to see him falter and then rip into him for “wasting the educational opportunities presented to him.”

Right bastard.

His thoughts inevitably wandered back to his dream. The long room and the death eaters. The frighteningly real emotions and life-like sensations.

He felt he could still touch the cool glossy table, still feel the cushioned seat. When he rubbed his thumb against his wand, he expected the texture to be grainy, rougher from decades of use, not the smooth finish of his wand.

This dream was just like the one he’d had the first night. Complete with the torture of Barty Crouch and Harry somehow believing he was Voldemort.

The dream’s cresting joy and chasmic anger was unlike anything Harry had ever felt before. Usually dreams were specific, maybe not in the topic of the dream, but almost always in emotion. Whether it was fear or guilt or hopelessness, there was always something tangible that remained after.

But this left him empty, the emotions slipping through his fingers. He was little more than a marionette awaiting his puppeteer to give him life once more.

Instinctively, he reached towards the dream’s pride and elation. He wanted to be embraced by its warmth once more, let it overwhelm his senses. But the longer he laid in the darkened room, the more he thought of Crouch convulsing on the floor, how the glee derived from Crouch’s anguish and the pride came from the display of his power.

He felt sick.

He wasn’t Voldemort. He wasn’t Voldemort.

Harry clenched the bedsheets in his fists, restless. He couldn’t deny it. He wanted to go back. As sick as it was, he wanted to fall back asleep into his dream once more. He wanted to feel in control again. He wanted to feel something other than nothing. He wanted to know that when he did feel something, it wouldn’t be a constant cycle between guilt, fear, and anguish.

His subconscious had finally revealed to him what Harry had feared all along. That was the consequence of his life, of what he had endured. Deep down, he wanted to hurt others to return the pain that had been doled out to him.

He was like Voldemort. Powerful, angry, dangerous.

Remarkably, he found himself thankful that Dumbledore had confined him to this prison and assigned Snape as warden. At least now he couldn’t hurt anyone he loves.

Harry stared at the stars on the ceiling until their glow faded from the morning light seeping in through his window. He remained there, paralyzed, until he could no longer avoid the imminent danger of not showing up on time for breakfast.

Harry showered and dressed without aggravating his forearm too much. As was becoming customary, Snape was seated with his book and coffee and Harry found his spot opposite of the spiteful man.

They did not greet each other, nor did Snape even spare him the decency of some nonverbal recognition of his arrival. Harry simply began serving himself a piece of toast and evenly spreading the marmalade.

The marmalade was amazing. It wasn’t the cheap stuff that Petunia would buy filled with more added sugar than Harry could possibly tolerate even when not half-starved. This one was richer, with a more vibrant taste.

Yet still, Harry’s stomach recoiled at the first bite.

He sipped his milk, tried to hide his discomfort. Took a nibble, avoided Snape’s eyes. Broke off a piece of the crust, feigned indifference.

Snape glared at him. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Playing with your food like some distractible five-year-old,” Snape’s eyes returned to his book, scanning the page.

Harry shrugged and bit off a corner of the bread, grimacing as it was becoming cold. He ripped off another piece of crust, then took the first piece and nibbled a bite off of it.

“I said stop it!”

“I’m not doing anything!”

“Your skills of observation are deplorable, Potter, but even you know this behavior is unbecoming of a toddler, much less a teenager. You are not a child.”

“I don’t see how what I’m doing is bothering you! It’s my food. I can eat it how I want.”

“That would be true, if it wasn’t actually my food that you are eating in my kitchen.”

Which was ridiculous because this was a safehouse that Dumbledore said he owned with food that surely Dumbledore would have provided.

Then again… since when had Dumbledore done anything reasonable?

Harry pushed his plate away. If Snape was going to argue with him, he might as well get something out of it. “Fine, I'm done eating then. The toast was burnt anyway.”

Snape snapped his book shut and rose from the table. “You insolent spoiled brat!” Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Snape bit out, “Another word out of your mouth, and I’ll have you in the lab for the rest of the summer because believe me, Potter, you are not as subtle as you may have been led to believe. I know why you despise doing chores down there.”

That was impossible. There was no way Snape knew about his fears. Harry was sure of it. It's not like he cowed every time he was near the large cauldron. It wasn't like he flinched from the sound of bubbling potions or shuddered when the smell of sulfur hit his nose.

Snape couldn’t know.

But then again, the man was there when Harry had recounted the events of the graveyard. Harry learned long ago it was a dangerous mistake to underestimate Snape’s intelligence.

The warmth drained from Harry’s face. He tried to maintain his determination, his anger, but he knew he was betraying himself from the way Snape’s lips curled into a thin self-satisfied smile.

“Come, Potter. There are cauldrons that need scrubbing.”

As Snape turned his back, a shiver went up Harry’s spine.

He hated Snape. Hated how he made Harry feel small, how he used every one of Harry’s fears against him with a biting accuracy that Malfoy could only ever wish to emulate.

Harry gathered his courage to rebel against his sentencing, to yell at Snape’s retreating form, only for his threat to resurface to the front of Harry’s mind once more.

Snape was a right bastard for using this against him, but what angered Harry more was that it had worked. Standing at the top of the basement steps, he was not only afraid of the laboratory, but also of Snape’s threat lingering in the air.

He was letting Snape win.

“Problem, Potter?”

“None, sir.”

He had to prove Snape wrong. If he stood tall enough, if he was confident enough, Snape wouldn't be able to accuse him of any fear. Then he wouldn't be able to use this against him anymore.

Harry descended into the laboratory, already knowing it was going to be a long morning.

-.-

It almost happened again at lunch.

Harry maintained his cool exterior in the basement, yes, but it came at the price of the anxiety bubbling underneath his skin’s surface.

He felt that one flash of green light, or a single word spoken in the wrong tone would throw him over the edge. His skin itched. His leg bounced restlessly under the table.

He couldn't eat the food in front of him. His stomach was in knots.

He could hear Hermione's voice in the back of his head, urging him to swallow more than two bites. He could feel the phantom touch of Ron’s hand on his shoulder, attempting to ground him in reality. He remembered how eventually he would give up and retreat from the Great Hall in defeat, and later in the dorm room he would scarf down an apple or banana Hermione had brought from lunch.

Snape glared at him over the top of his book. “If you're not going to eat your food, Potter, then get out of my sight.”

Harry retreated to his bedroom, but not before catching the bewildered expression on Snape’s face.

In the blue room, as Harry had begun to call it, he tried taking a nap to ward off the morning’s exhaustion, damning the consequences of Snape finding him up here lazing about. But he was restless, his thoughts incoherent, his hands still jittery, his forearm aching.

He got up. He tried writing the introduction to his charms essay, his thoughts wandered. Everything distracted him. The creaking floorboards were too annoying to ignore, the songbirds’ tune not muted enough by his closed window. The ticking of the grandfather clock at the bottom of the stairs agitated him. His seat was too hard, his long-sleeve shirt too scratchy against his arms. Even the way his hair fell around his neck and his glasses rested on his face irritated him.

His skin was itchy, felt dirty. He got up, paced the length of the room to ward off the feeling.

He was angry. And he didn't know why. He was angry with everything and everyone. Snape, Dumbledore, Voldemort. He was angry with his friends, with the stars on the bedroom ceiling, with the creaky floorboards and the birds chirping and his glasses always sliding down his nose.

He was angry with himself.

He should have talked to Dumbledore. He should have played to the man’s compassion, then he wouldn't be in this situation.

Harry shouldn’t let Voldemort have control over his life like this. What happened in the graveyard was over with. He couldn’t change the past. He needed to let go. He needed to regain control of his own life.

It was all his fault.

If he were stronger, if he were smarter, if he were quicker-

Avada kedavra!

Harry took a shuddering breath.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to tear down the walls and break the window. He hated this. He hated Voldemort. He hated-

himself.

Harry rummaged through his trunk and took out the only thing that might be interesting enough to distract himself: Tactical Defense Against the Dark Arts for the Advanced Wizard. Hermione had leant it to him, though Harry had little doubt in his mind that she bought it specifically to give him something to look forward to doing when he was training non-stop in the weeks before the third task.

The book was thicker than even his transfiguration textbook. The pages worn with time. Hermione had said it was used as they don’t print new copies of the book anymore.

The weight of it in his hands reminded him of his friends and the warmth of the common room. He found the words comforting, and after a while, was invested in the practical uses of using transfiguration in dueling. Eventually he could no longer contain himself and retrieved his quill and parchment to take notes on the novel.

Harry had nearly six feet of notes on the book when Snape demanded he show face at dinner.

He approached the dinner table, taking in the welcoming smell of chicken and potatoes.

Snape’s cooking was, inexplicably, good. It didn’t really make up for his intolerable personality, but it was good enough that Harry actually did want to eat it.

Yet, despite his afternoon of relative peace and quiet, the same turmoil returned to his stomach. He choked down a few bites and sipped on his water, but ultimately couldn’t quell the surfacing nausea.

He glanced towards Snape, who was looking at him like he was a potions ingredient found in the wrong jar. Harry tensed, feeling on edge.

He didn’t want a repeat of what happened this morning, but with every minute shift in Snape’s demeanor, it appeared confrontation was inevitable.

“Why must you insist on pushing your food incessantly around your plate instead of just putting it in your mouth?”

There it was.

If they were going to argue, Harry needed to play his cards like he did this morning. With a dash of denial and a pinch of deflection, Snape would forget about this by tomorrow morning.

That was, if Harry could eat his breakfast tomorrow morning. But that was a problem for tomorrow Harry.

“I am eating it. Look.” Harry obediently ate a piece of the chicken.

“No. You are pretending you are eating. You’ve been avoiding your meals all day.” Snape glared at him. “I do not understand what your issue is with placing food in your mouth.”

“But I am eating.” Harry forced another bite past his lips.

“Do not lie to me, Potter!”

“What do you want from me! I’m eating it! I told you its good!”

Snape fumed. “I want the truth!”

“I am telling the truth!”

“Why do you refuse to eat! Do you believe me to have poisoned it?”

“No! And I already told you, I am eating!”

“And yet the food that actually makes it to your stomach wouldn’t be enough to sustain a mouse, much less a teenager!”

He remembered the way this conversation, or confrontation rather, had gone before. Except then it had been with Ron and Hermione in soft tones curled up in the boys dormitory. They had wanted some quiet to get some work done, but something seemed so monumental about traversing the cold stone walls on a Sunday mid-winter afternoon that they simply had to stay within Gryffindor tower.

The beds in the dorms weren’t big, but luckily they had only been second years, and all three of them could fit comfortably under the comforter of Ron’s bed.

Hermione had brought chocolate croissants she saved from breakfast with some anti-perishment charm she found in a fourth year textbook.

The act of it was so monumental, so intimate to Harry, that he couldn’t accept the chocolate treat without feeling he didn’t deserve it, not after everything his friends had gone through for him that year.

That conversion had been in whispered tones and broken confessions and soft sympathy. It was acceptance and embarrassment and the discordant attempts at honest communication all teenagers must struggle through.

This… not so much.

“I eat plenty! I’m just not hungry!” Harry shouted.

“Unless you have been stealing food behind my back, there is no reason for you to have no appetite!”

“I haven’t been stealing food!” Harry dug the fork into his hands. The only times he had ever said those words had ended with a sting on his cheek and the darkness of his cupboard.

“I demand the truth, Potter!” Snape’s fist struck the table, jolting the silverware.

“How many times do I have to tell you! I am not hungry!”

“I will not be lied to in my own house. Tell me the truth immediately or suffer the consequences!”

Harry hesitated to respond. Snape’s desire for the truth was insatiable and Harry was off his game. It was a losing battle. Harry was going to end up back in the lab or worse.

This was his last chance to come out of this with some of his dignity intact. If he conceded something small, it would protect him. It had to be just enough for Snape to sink his teeth into, but not enough to give everything away, to leave an open wound in his chest.

Harry steeled himself.“My stomach hurts!” he screamed, “If I eat, I’ll just throw up!”

Snape opened his mouth as though to argue, but instead clicked it shut. He seemed conflicted, not able to settle on one emotion before his entire expression hardened, leaving only a guarded mask.

“Are you sick?” Snape muttered. He raised his wand at Harry, and a number appeared above his head, just out of Harry’s sight. Snape eyed it before whispering an incantation. A flask with a blue liquid flew into his open palm. He pushed it across the table. “You’re running warm. A stomach soother. The entire flask.”

Harry downed the potion, its smooth texture foreign on his throat. It was a great deal tastier than most potions he knew, sweet yet savory.

The potion settled in his stomach, but Harry felt no change. His stomach was still in writhing knotts, nausea still creeping up his neck.

“Did it work?”

“Erm… yes, sir.”

Snape rolled his eyes, letting his irritation show. “Lying, Potter? How original of you,” Snape said without much bite. He appeared distracted, eyes fluttering between Harry and the empty flask on the table. After a moment, he seemed to settle on his decision and another flask flew into the potion master’s hand, its contents lilac in color. “Only a mouthful this time,” Snape said, though Harry already knew the correct dosage of this potion.

The familiar taste filled his mouth. Sweet, but with a somewhat bitter aftertaste, its texture grainy on the back of his tongue. He was reminded of the times spent overnight in the hospital wing under Madam Pomfrey’s charitable eye. Her kind words and worried tutting were so often the last thing he had heard before falling back to sleep in the uncomfortable hospital beds.

A warmth settled within his core and the tension in his jaw and shoulders dissipated. His anger with Snape faded into the background noise of crickets chirping and rain pattering on the windows. The turmoil in his stomach retreated.

It was a calming draught.

He took a bite of chicken and it didn’t feel like swallowing a lead block, didn’t leave the taste of burnt sulfur lingering in his mouth nor the remnants of abject disgust.

“Oh.”

This was new. The twisting feeling in his stomach dissipated so seamlessly. He expected some side-effect, some catch that meant it wouldn’t actually work.

At the very least, it explained why soup had always tasted better in the hospital wing, when Madam Pomfrey was most lenient with the calming draughts.

He never knew there was a way to ease his pain, that his pain was so easy to ease.

He was betrayed again. Even without anyone here, he was betrayed by the knowledge that anyone could have seen he was struggling and done something to help him–Sirius, Mcgonagall, even Dumbledore.

No one had bothered to notice.

“‘Oh?’ Is that all you really have to say, Potter?” Snape sneered. “Did you really think I was trying to poison you, to keep you from ever eating again? Well, I will not have you running to Dumbledore proclaiming your mistreatment here.”

Which was probably one of the most absurd comments to ever come out of Snape’s mouth, considering… well, everything about his relationship with Dumbeldore; but Harry could live with that so long as Snape didn’t try to wrangle any more of the truth out of him. Harry’s will was fraying and he knew he would not survive another verbal barrage.

He felt delicate, brittle.

Harry really didn’t need Snape to know that his gut so often clenched when food was served to him. How he tended to get all mixed up between fear, disgust, and gratitude when eating with the Weasleys. How many meals he turned away from because the gratitude didn’t prevail, and he was forced to make excuses for his lack of appetite for fear of being rude.

Even his friends didn’t need to know how a warm dinner sometimes only reminded him of Petunia’s shrill voice and his face-flushed shame. How he was transported back to those evenings where Petunia would offer him a plate of food, only to dump its contents into the garbage, citing how “Only good little boys get food.”

It was only Ron that figured out his issues with meals multiplied by tenfold when he was guilty. That he couldn’t bear to eat something fulfilling and warm when he didn’t feel he deserved it. Ron was smart like that, able to connect the dots between the nights Harry woke up from some nightmare and the mornings where Harry only nibbled on toast.

Snape eyed him for the rest of the meal, ensuring that his plate was cleared. Harry wilted under the intense scrutiny, and retreated to his bedroom as quickly as possible.

It was at breakfast the next morning, after a regular terror-filled nightmare, that Harry was surprised by the presence of the lavender bottle on the table. He eyed Snape for a moment, wondering if it were a trick, if the spiteful man would insult him the moment he grasped the bottle in his hand.

But even when Harry took a mouthful of the potion and the warmth resonated through his body, Snape made no comment.

It remained there for lunch and dinner and still managed to surprise Harry at breakfast the next morning. When Harry drained the last drop from the bottle with his breakfast two days later, it was refilled at lunch.

Its presence was unobtrusive, nearly forgettable between his spats with Snape and nightmares and schoolwork. Harry didn’t always use it, but whenever that coil of guilt welled up within him, it was always within arm’s reach.

Still a right bastard though.

Chapter Text

Snape was watching him. 

Like some kind of itch at the back of his head he couldn’t scratch, he knew Snape was watching him. When he was bent over a section of the backyard garden, a shadow would appear in the kitchen window. When he served his punishments in the lab, Snape’s eyes would burn holes into his back. 

Harry was sure of it. He has had a lifetime of experience with people staring at him. Whether because he was the weird smelly kid with hand-me-down clothes or because he was the Boy-Who-Lived caught at the center of the Hogwarts gossip ring, he knew when people were looking at him. 

It was getting on his bloody nerves. 

Usually he knew why people were watching him. There was the snake-talking incident and the godfather-on-the-loose incident and the I-didn’t-put-my-name-in-the-goblet-of-fire incident, but Snape had no good reason to be watching him. 

Which meant that he was getting paranoid, expecting the sour potions master to be there even when he wasn’t, afraid to take even a small break in his chores for fear of gaining a reprimand from Snape. 

Bloody git. 

Harry knew he shouldn’t confront Snape over it. He had no evidence proving Snape’s vigilance nor the leverage to demand the man stop watching him. Confronting him would be a no-win situation for Harry. 

And yet, inevitably, Snape pushed him over the edge. 

It was a relatively peaceful Friday afternoon. Harry didn’t spend his morning in the potions lab and the night prior he managed to fall back asleep relatively early into the night from his nightmare. He was more rested than he’d been for a while. 

He worked on his herbology assignment for most of the afternoon, but tired of it after completing the second body paragraph of his essay, and felt he deserved to reward himself with spending some time with his defense against the dark arts novel.

He sat on the floor leaning against his bed frame. He nearly cramped his hand taking notes at such an awkward position, but overall liked the freedom of actually being able to use the floorspace of his bedroom. Between the discarded toys in Dudley’s second bedroom and the importance of keeping floor space clear when sharing a dormitory with four other people, this was a newfound freedom for Harry. 

Consumed by the text’s analysis of using common jinxes when fighting many adversaries at once, he failed to notice the sun dropping behind the treeline and the distant call of his name from downstairs. 

All of which could be attributed to a mistake, to Harry being in a forgetful mood. What wasn’t a simple mistake, was how Harry somehow failed to notice the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

In all fairness, after nearly a week with Snape, the man had yet to come into Harry’s room, preferring to only deal with Harry in controlled environments of the kitchen or lab. 

But never, ever, should Harry let his guard down so severely as to allow the unthinkable to happen. 

There was a knock at his door and Harry didn’t even wait for the sharp call of “Potter!” before he sprang into action. There was little time to act and even less time to think.

He acted on instinct alone, taking the fastest course of action possible. He shoved the book and the scattered notes under his bed and leapt to his desk chair. The knock came again. 

“Potter! What the devil is going on in there!” 

In those precious seconds it took Snape to speak, Harry opened his herbology textbook to a random page, and made an effort to find his quill and some spare parchment, but couldn’t seem to find any on his desk. 

It was then that Snape opened the door, wand at the ready. 

Harry actually found it quite interesting that Snape used the traditional Heisenberg wand grip as opposed to the modern Rochester grip that has been the standard in most European wizarding schools for the past century. Although the Rochester is by far the most popular and easiest to handle, it is often believed that the Heisenberg-

“What were you doing?” Snape bit out, lowering his wand. His eyes scanned the room, seeming to run across Harry’s unpacked trunk and unmade bed. 

Snape shouldn’t be in here, trying to stick his abnormally large nose where it didn’t belong. Harry attempted to feign nonchalance, ignoring the presence of the hairs raised on the back of his neck. 

He needed Snape to stop blocking the only bloody exit in the room. 

“Herbology work, sir.” 

“Really?” Snape raised an expectant eyebrow. “I see. Though, do tell me, Potter, how exactly are you doing your Herbology essay if your ink and quill are on the floor?” 

Ah, so that explained why he couldn’t find his ink and quill on his desk.

“I was, er- writing on the floor. I prefer to read at a desk and write on the floor, sir.” 

Snape did not appear pleased with his answer. “While this is fascinating, Potter, truly, why don’t I take a look at the papers you unsuccessfully shoved under your bed?” 

Quicker than horror could even cross Harry’s face, Snape ousted the papers from under his bed, right along with the book. 

Snape could have his notes. Snape could lay into him and tell him how stupid he was  and burn them in the fire. Hell, Snape could take away his ink and quill for all he cared, imprison him within the confines of the potions lab, and Harry wouldn’t even protest. 

But the book . 

Harry’s heart was in his throat because that book was his and the only person who was allowed to take it back was Hermione. Because holding that book in his hand was about more than defensive tactics and complex shield charms and innovative curses. 

It was about warmth and acceptance. It was Hermione’s encouragement and Ron’s hugs. It was about everything he had gained in Hogwarts. It was about every awful thing he shedded from his life when he left the Dursleys. It was that everyday beauty in the ordinary, in the kindness between friends. 

It was about how that book was the only thing that made him feel human these days. It was his tether, his lifeline when he felt like he was floating between planes of existence, not quite sure if what he was experiencing was actually his reality. 

It was about feeling alive again. 

When Snape’s eyes landed on the tomb, it was the very same, in his mind, as Vernon noticing Harry holding something behind his back. Snape summoned the book, and he could imagine Vernon turning him around with such force he almost lost his balance, undoing his iron grip on the prized possession so roughly Harry was sure he nearly sprained his fingers.  

He could feel the warmth of the fire on his skin. It was the closest he had ever been allowed to go near the fire, when it was on, anyway.  The fire overwhelmed his senses. The heat suffocated him. The burnt scent filled his nose, made his eyes water. He stepped back, afraid of the violence, but Vernon shoved him closer. Harry very nearly fell into the grips of the flames. 

He watched it burn, the colorful wax melting before his eyes. For a second, he believed that it would survive. He didn’t really know how fire worked, why it seemed alive, yet only lived to destroy. 

They spent all of recess on it. Harry had been sitting alone when the new kid in their class came up to him with a blank sheet of paper and an invaluable set of crayons. They drew a picture of a forest with all sorts of beasts and plants scattered around. It was the most fun Harry had had with… anyone . Ever. 

And now it burned. 

“That’s mine!” 

“I’ll give it-”

“No!” Harry yelled. “I said it’s mine! You can’t have it!” He stood up to grab the book from Snape, but with a flick of his wand, Harry was forced back into his chair. When he attempted to stand again, he was stuck to its seat. 

The book was in Snape’s hand. His long fingers were opening the book, his eyes scanning the title page, the note from Hermione written inside and-

“I said it’s MINE!” 

There was a burst of light in the room. For a moment, Harry thought Snape had caused it out of anger with Harry, but Snape looked up from his inspection, appearing as shocked as Harry. 

In a second, the light took on the shape of an outstretched hand, though with jagged, lighting-like edges. It darted out like a snake to its prey, and quicker than Harry could follow, ripped the book from Snape’s hands and returned it to Harry’s lap.

Just as suddenly, the light faded from the room. 

Harry was panting. Snape was as still as a muggle statue. 

The power exhausted him, but in spite of that, he felt stronger. He felt invulnerable. 

Which was probably why he did something incredibly stupid. 

“And quit watching me!” 

Snape stepped back, as though startled. “What in Merlin’s name are you talking about, boy!” 

Harry grimaced. He hated when people called him that. 

“You- you're watching me whenever I’m doing chores and stuff!”

“Potter. You are not only a teenage boy who has proven time and again to have outstandingly poor impulse control but also a mere student who is wanted dead or alive by some of the most dangerous and powerful wizards in the world. Why would I not be watching you!” 

“But I-” 

“Believe me, Potter, if I wanted to spy on you, I am plenty capable of doing it without garnering your attention. How do you think I have survived deceiving the Dark Lord for so long?” 

And he did it again. How many times was he going to underestimate Snape until he accepted that the man was just stupidly intelligent. 

Harry repressed the urge to shudder from the thought of the man watching him behind his back, or really anyone watching him without him noticing. Even before Moody, he always felt like he was constantly on the lookout for danger. 

This did not help matters. 

“Are we done here?” Snape barked. “I could care less whether or not you come eat, but I do not want to hear your moaning when you're hungry tonight.”  

Like Harry would ever complain about being hungry from missing one meal. Snape turned from his room, leaving the door ajar. Harry followed him after a moment, feeling they very much still had unfinished business. 

Harry did accidental magic. 

Snape allowed Harry to keep his wand on him but with the explicit threat of what would happen if he did magic when it was not an absolute emergency, but this was real magic. Magic that went against Snape’s direct orders to him. 

Why hadn’t Snape punished him yet?

He took his seat at the table, shoveled some of whatever was on his plate into his mouth. 

“Where did you get that book?” Snape said, tone markedly neutral. 

He’s dangerous. He’s not trustworthy.

But could he really lie to Snape and get away with it? 

“A friend gave it to me.” 

There. That wasn’t a lie nor the entire truth. 

Snape smirked. “Ah, I see. Ms. Granger then.” Damnit. “Was it a gift?” 

Harry shrugged. He didn’t like this. The book was private. Revealing its secrets took away what made it special. “Yeah, sure.” 

Snape hummed. “And where did she get it from?” 

“I… don’t know. Probably owl order or Hogsmead.” 

“So it's a recent gift?” Snape took a sip of his wine. “For Valentine’s Day perhaps?” 

Harry’s face heated. “No! She gave it to me because she thought I was stressed about the third task! It was just meant to be something to cheer me up… even if it did save my life like a dozen times over in the graveyard.” 

Snape relaxed in his chair. Harry chewed as violently as possible. 

He always relied on being smarter than adults. Even with Vernon and Petunia, once he got smart and savvy, it lessened Vernon's blows and dulled Petunia’s tongue. 

He hated being out of his depth like this. He couldn’t figure out Snape’s angle here. What was he trying to get Harry to admit to? 

“And how exactly did some old children’s book save you?” 

Harry fumed. 

“It’s not a children’s book! It’s an advanced textbook! I learned how to summon my wand because it was outlined in chapter 1 of basic defensive skills every wizard should know. I deflected like a dozen curses from Voldemort’s bloody peanut gallery with the Auror’s shield in chapter 3. I levitated a gravestone in front of Cedric’s body to block it from their line of sight as mentioned in the second section of chapter 2. I even used a ground-softening hex like in the author’s notes at the bottom of page 62! I’m not reading some kid’s book!” 

Harry huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, meeting Snape’s gaze head-on. 

Snape looked at him with that sort of vague disinterest that Harry could never read. He couldn’t tell if Snape was just messing with him or if there was something greater he was working for. 

“Well, then, Potter. It appears you have more than dumb luck after all.” Snape stood and waved his wand, clearing the table. 

“Hey!” Harry called, “I was still eating that!” 

“No you weren’t,” Snape beckoned him from his seat, “Now hurry along before I change my mind.” 

Snape walked to the corner of the kitchen where there was a back door and opened it the meadowed backyard. 

“You have your wand?” Snape asked. 

“Yes, sir.”

Snape seemed pleased. Whether with himself or Harry, he didn’t know. “Then do get out here.” 

Harry stepped through the dingy door, nearly tripping over the uneven brick stairs. The cool evening chilled him through his shirt like the wind rushing around him when he played quidditch. He’s worked a few times on the beds of herbs by the house out here, but hadn’t had much reason to venture further to the overgrown yard, especially since Snape had warned against straying too far away from the house. 

Now in the golden light, the meadowed yard was ethereal. Colorful splashes of summer-pink lilies and fully-bloomed hydrangeas and perfectly purpled wild lilacs and a dozen other flowering plants that Harry couldn’t name. As he followed Snape into the center of the field, he caught the too-fast flashes of fireflies in the corner of his eye. 

Harry took a deep breath. The air tasted a little like freedom. 

“Potter! Wand at the ready!” 

“Wait- w-what are you-”

Light tore through the air, Harry dodged out of the way. “What the-” Snape fired off another spell that Harry had to dodge. 

“Basic defense principals! Never dodge a spell that you can block! Or did you not even skim through chapter 1?” 

Harry pulled his wand out of his pocket. Oh, it is so on, Snape. 

Another spell flew towards his chest, but this time Harry aimed a shield charm at it, absorbing the impact. 

More spells shot off. Harry struggled to maintain his shield charm. 

But even so, the duel was incredible. Harry hadn’t felt so alive since he’d last been on a broom. Spells whizzed past his year, the taste of copper on his tongue, the sweat threatening to drip into his eyes. His heart was pounding and his lungs struggled for air but his head was clear and chest didn’t ache. 

Even more incredible was Snape . 

When Snape incanted, Harry didn’t recognize a single spell that came out of his mouth. However, Harry rarely heard any incantations at all as nearly every spell he shot were performed in complete silence. 

Silence made spells quicker. The slowest thing about casting a spell was its incantation, and taking that away meant faster spells. Faster spells meant faster dueling. Faster dueling meant more victory. 

Harry didn’t realize it until Ron had told him explicitly, but most wizards could do a handful of relatively easy, everyday spells with little more than a flick of their wand. A levitation charm or even a more powerful augumenti done silently was truly nothing to bat an eye at. 

But silently dueling… 

Even Voldemort said most of his spells out loud. Granted, most of the spells Harry had heard Voldemort cast were unforgivables, which were impossible to do without an incantation. But still…

Snape was a powerful wizard. 

There was one spell Harry could perform silently. Between the barrages of light he managed the occasional silent expelliarmus . 

The rare times he could send off more than that, it was only the children’s jinxes he’d known since first year. Jelly-leg jinx, levitation hex, giggling charm—nothing that would impair Snape for long even if they did hit. 

Which was to say Harry was losing. 

He was losing stamina, both magically and physically. His movements were becoming slower. Each spell he blocked no longer exhilarated him but exhausted him. He was getting slow on his feet, overusing his shields, repeating the same spells over and over again. 

Now that it was considerably darker, it was difficult to see between the flashes of light flying through the air; but when he did make out Snape’s form cutting through the red-orange sky, the potions master was calm, unfazed. He was completely in his element, spells deftly flying from his wand.

He was, in a way, elegant. 

In a last desperate attempt, Harry eyed a tree branch hanging above Snape’s head. He shot off a cutting hex towards it, hoping it would catch Snape by surprise. 

The light shot through the air, getting closer, closer to the branch. 

The spell missed the branch entirely, shaving a few leaves off of the tree. 

Harry took some jinx to the chest, falling to the ground. The next second he was frozen under the familiar chill of petrificus totalus. 

He stared up at the empty sky, a few spatterings of stars beginning to appear in the murky haze of twilight. 

Then Snape’s form came into view. He picked up Harry’s wand from the ground, then pointed his own at Harry’s chest, reviving him. 

Harry groaned as he sat up, his chest aching from whatever had made him fall down and his limbs sore from the effects of the freezing hex. Harry stood, not appreciating being on the soggy ground while Snape loomed over his head. 

When Harry reached for his wand, Snape retracted his hand, forcing Harry’s attention towards his face. 

“Your spellwork is abominable,” Snape started in that familiar way that meant he was going to be going at Harry for a while. “Your defense is uninspired. Had I actually wished to do you harm, you would have been dead ten minutes ago. Though your effort wasn’t half-bad, you clearly do not have sufficient practice nor experience to have any effect on an actual opponent. Not to mention when you do have a single original thought, you completely miss the target of your spell when it is as simple as a mere cutting hex. Had I not known you were fifteen years old, I would have assumed from your spellwork that you must have been a first-year. You have all but wasted my time, effort, and energy.” 

Bloody git taking him out here just to defeat him in a duel Harry had no business in winning and then insult him for nearly a minute.

Snape offered Harry’s wand handle-out. Harry grasped it, but Snape refused to release it from his grip. 

“Do attempt to fare better tomorrow, Potter.” 

Before Harry could respond, Snape released the wand and turned towards the house, leaving Harry alone in the middle of the field. 

That bloody stupid self-serving intolerant crooked-nosed petty-

Wait a second. 

Tomorrow?  

Harry walked towards the kitchen door, attempting to shake the confusing thoughts from his head. It was no wonder Snape kissed up to Dumbledore when he shared the man’s penchant for vague comments and-

Wait a second. 

My effort wasn’t half-bad? 

Chapter Text

The next morning, Harry awoke after the sun rose. 

Which was an achievement in and of itself. It was probably his first uninterrupted sleep since right after the third task, where he was most likely unconscious than actually asleep for the entire night.

He stretched his limbs. They were sore, but in that good way after a hard quidditch practice that felt satisfying in its pain. He went through the motions of the morning in a sort of pleasurable familiarity. The shower wasn’t warm, it was delightfully warm, water soaking into his weary skin. His clothes were the softest texture, the most exquisite fabric. Even the freezing bathroom tiles that usually annoyed him excited him because he felt the coldness on his feet so vividly. 

Downstairs, Snape was in his usual position, but what was completely unusual was the stack of nearly a dozen defense textbooks on the kitchen table. 

Harry raised an eyebrow, but Snape didn’t look up at him, but today, that didn’t annoy Harry. He sat down, shoveled some pancakes into his mouth greedily, forgetting about calming draught resting on the table until he grabbed the maple syrup. 

“What’re these for?” 

Snape looked at him, clearly disturbed by his interruption. “I do believe they are for reading , Potter. Though perhaps I should put them away if we are not aware of the purpose of books.” 

Harry ignored the jab. “Do you want me to read them?”

“Actually, they’re for the stray cats to tear to shreds. Of course they’re for you, Potter! I don’t see any other dunderheads around here trying to waste my time.” Snape bit out, and there was definitely some malice in his voice, he was clearly intending to insult Harry, but Harry was in too good of a mood. A full night of sleep was a hell of a drug apparently. 

Harry nearly laughed. It was an absurd thing to say. If Snape actually thought he was a dunderhead, he would never have offered the books to Harry. It was that train of thought that distracted Harry enough for him to respond on instinct, not realizing who he was talking to, the deliberate distance he was closing by saying, without any hint of sarcasm, “Thanks.” 

Snape tensed, clearly uncomfortable with what Harry said before his entire demeanor changed. He snorted derisively, waving off Harry’s gesture of good-will.

 Which was true. He loved defense books, and he only vaguely recognized one of the titles. He did recognize about half of the authors, having seen them referenced before in various textbooks he’s read. He was grateful for what appeared to be…almost a gift. 

“It’s not a gift, Potter.” There goes that theory. “It’s an assignment. I want you to read the first chapter of Jolene Jane’s Most Jagged Jinxes and take notes on each of the spells outlined in the chapter.” 

Jolene Jane. One of the most important witches of her time. The jinxes she invented were ingenious in their simplicity. Their invention turned the tide of the goblin wars of the early 17th century. She was an academic at heart with a passion for teaching. She even-

“Potter? Did you hear anything I just said?” 

“Yes, sir. When should I read the chapter?” 

“You can start after you’re finished here.”

“No… chores, sir?” 

Snape raised a bored eyebrow. “Would you rather be doing chores, Potter?” Harry shook his head quickly, perhaps too quickly. Snape smirked. “That’s what I thought.” 

He finished his orange juice and placed his plate into the sink. As he attempted to lift the stack of books off of the table, Snape waved his wand and the books instantly became lighter. 

When Harry was about to turn into the hall, Snape called, “Potter!” Harry paused, facing Snape. “If you do magic without my supervision, you will wish you were dead.” 

Snape really was a fan of ominous punishments. “I’ll keep that in mind, sir,” Harry chirped. He turned the corner and quickly made his way up the stairs. 

He had a textbook to read. 

-.-

The bedroom was much brighter now as it neared midday. The house was quiet and content. Though Harry paid the peaceful morning no mind, enraptured with the text in front of him. 

The first summer homework assignment Harry had completed was his defense homework. It was, in fact, the first time he had been given defense homework in his Hogwarts career considering the circumstances that arise from teachers attempting to kill him. Moody’s assignment wasn’t actually all that difficult, but it was lengthy and tedious and made Harry want to pull his hair out doing a defense assignment for the first time since he had Lockhart. 

This was fascinating. 

He read the entire first chapter. He read the author’s note in the beginning which gave a brief biography, detailing the author’s schooling, work as a spell-maker, esteemed career as an educator, and the advocacy for the equal education of disadvantaged groups in wizarding society. 

Harry had to show this to Hermione. 

She would dote over the book like it was a long lost child. Even Ron would find the military history embedded throughout it interesting. 

But neither of his friends were here and he couldn’t even write to them. For now he would settle on taking the best notes possible, his hand even beginning to ache from the quill clutched so long in its grasp. 

Hermione had rubbed off on him. 

He didn’t consider himself good at school. He wasn’t one of those smart kids that just got things easily nor was he able to dedicate himself enough to actually sit down and study enough to get high marks, and therefore he wasn’t like Hermione, who was one of the few people who was able to do both, exceeding all expectations. 

Maybe some of that was Dursley's influence, but even at Hogwarts where he literally studied something as interesting as magic school was just… difficult. He only did well in classes with good teachers and he only ever excelled in classes with really good teachers.

But if there was one good thing that did arise out of the tournament, it was his new understanding of defense against the dark arts. After so much of his time last year was spent relearning basic defense principals, internalizing so many spells and concepts and laws and theories, he got it .

He could see it. He could visualize defense spells in his mind in a way he couldn’t with any other subject. When he read about the leg-tying jinx, he could imagine a dozen different situations he could need it in. If someone was running away from him, if someone was running towards him, if he needed to trip his opponent, if he needed to tie them up. He wondered what would happen if he attempted to use it on one of those giant spiders. Would one spell tie all their legs together, or would he need three spells? 

It was these thoughts that made things stick. Learning transfiguration was much more difficult when he couldn’t think of a practical situation where he would need to change a matchstick into a needle. Learning defense was so much simpler because he’s been in life or death situations. Even some of his days getting beat up by Dudley helped him create a practical setting for the spells to be used in. 

It did help that defense was not only something he did with his friends, but also the way he had connected with Remus in his third year. Learning the patronus charm was one of the hardest things he had ever done, but it also led him to Remus. It was the charm that saved Sirius, that let him have his godfather back. 

Part of it, Harry had to admit, was duty to his friends. Sometimes he would think that if he had known this spell or if he had thought of this tactic, he would have been able to save Cedric. Anything could be the difference between life or death. 

Accio portkey!

Once done with the prescribed notes, he stood, and recreated the wand movements required of each spell, making sure no magic flowed through the wood. When he was about to call it quits, Snape made it clear he was expected for lunch. 

Lunch was a quiet affair. Harry was buzzing with questions about the chapter, but couldn’t bring himself to ask Snape anything. He didn’t want to ruin the quiet. If there was any chance that Snape still wanted to duel again today, he didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize it. This morning could have been a close call. 

Harry held his tongue as they finished lunch. He was nearly shaking in anticipation. For the duel, for something to explode. It felt like they’ve gone too long without a fight. Which was true. This was the longest they’ve stayed (mostly) civil with each other. 

And then it did happen. 

“Outside again, Potter. I’d prefer to leave my furniture intact.” 

Harry rushed to follow the potions master outside, doing little to hide his excitement. 

The yard was different in the midday sun. It appeared more ordinary in its beauty, less otherworldly. The air was a bit more humid, the sun a little harsher on his skin, but the visibility was thankfully better than last night. 

Snape made him perform each spell first individually. Harry got nearly every one on the first try, except for the hardest in the chapter, which he needed two attempts for. 

“It appears your studies weren’t a complete disaster.” Thank you… I think? “Now we duel. I win if I incapacitate you. You win if you successfully use every spell. We begin on the count of three.” 

“One-” Snape readied his wand. The Hesienberg hold, as was usual for the man. Harry followed suit, though he stuck with the Rochester hold. 

“Two-” Harry breathed in. He could do this. 

“Three-” Snape smirked, and the first spell was hurtling towards Harry before he could exhale.

He lost. 

“Again, Potter!” 

He lost again. 

“Are you even trying, Potter? Again!”

And again.

“I should have known it was a waste of time doing this with you. You’re as useless as a muggle child. Again!” 

He had five of the six spells out. His entire body was aching, panting as he couldn’t catch his breath. The sweat was so thick on his brow that it was beginning to obscure his vision. If he didn’t win here, he would be too tired to win the next one. 

He couldn’t let Snape have this. Defense was his thing. Snape could bully him all he wanted for being bad at potions because Harry was a horrible potions student, but this, he had to prove he could do. He knew he could do this. 

Snape shot a stunner at him. Harry deflected it. Only to have to dodge out of the way of some hex he couldn’t name. 

He couldn’t do this any longer. The spell was coming towards him. He knew it was coming towards him. His legs were too tired to move out of the way. 

He shot off the last jinx blindly, relying solely on his general idea of where the spells were coming from. 

Snape’s spell his him squarely in the chest, sending him to the ground. When he tried lifting his hand, he was stuck to the grass, as though someone had superglued him to the earth. 

He heard rustling among the plants, then Snape’s face above him. 

“Did I do it?” 

Snape’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Yes, Potter. It counts. You used all six spells before you were incapacitated.” 

Snape released the spell and allowed Harry to get up on his own. He brushed the dirt from his jeans, tugged at the sweat around the color of his shirt. He wished he was able to wear short-sleeves, but he despised the idea of Snape seeing the scar on his forearm. 

“It appears we will be doing this again tomorrow.” And that apparently marked the end of the entire conversation as Snape turned to go back into the house.

Harry followed wearily. At this rate, he was going to have to start showering in the afternoons.

-.-

The next two days followed very closely in the same manner. Harry read in the morning then practiced with Snape in the afternoon. The duels were hectic and chaotic, and Harry takes much more than he gives, he’s learning and that’s all that matters. He could never do this by himself. Hell, he couldn’t do this even with his friends. 

He found himself beginning to copy some of Snape’s movements without realizing it. He started returning his wand to its starting position after every spell instead of leaving it where the last wand movement ended. He stopped over exaggerating his movements when he got tired, keeping his flicks and twists precise. He even began copying the little movements Snape made with his offhand, keeping it out to help counterbalance his weight. 

Harry had half a mind to be annoyed by these changes, but he was too excited with the fact he was already starting to get better. 

It’s the best he’s felt since the tournament. Maybe even longer. He didn’t know. There was something so satisfying about getting up over and over again, each time learning something new until he found what he needed to get the edge on Snape. 

He slept better. He didn’t feel the constant ache in his chest that he felt he had to distract himself from. Happiness didn’t seem so fleeting.

It was another oddly quiet dinner. The petty spats were beginning to die off at meal times, leaving them with less and less to say to each other. 

“Potter,” Snape said. He waited until Harry glanced up before continuing, “I am going to be absent for the night. You are to remain here. Do not leave the house. Do not open the front door. In an emergency, floo to Dumbledore’s office. Should I not return by 9 o’clock the following morning and you receive no message from Dumbledore, you are to floo to his office. Do you understand everything I have told you?” 

It was a little abrupt, but that was the way most information was relayed to Harry. Without warning. 

“Yes, sir,” he replied. 

“Good. I will be leaving at 8.” Snape made to leave the room, most likely to hide away in his lab until the time came for him to leave. 

He knew he shouldn’t ask. If Snape had kept the information to himself for this long, then it was probably because he wasn’t planning on sharing it with Harry. Still, he couldn’t ignore his own curiosity.

“Where are you going?”  Harry asked. 

“None of your concern.” Snape dismissed sourly.  “But to dissuade you from unnecessary speculations, it is work for the Order. ” 

Snape turned again, and Harry opened his mouth to push the man further, but found he didn’t even know the next thing to ask. He had no idea what the Order was up to, no idea where to even start to pry more information out of him. He didn’t know anything .

He was being kept in the dark, distracted with Snape and his isolation from his friends and Sirius so he would forget to bother asking those questions about what the Order was up to. 

Just like everything else in his life, it was Dumbledore’s fault. The headmaster was forcing him to be kept in the dark. Forget giving Harry a choice in the matter, he wasn’t even given an explanation for why he wasn’t allowed to know even who was in Order. 

The door to the lab clicked shut and Harry was left alone in the empty kitchen with the slowly fading daylight. 

-.-

Tonight was a splendid night. 

Perhaps not truly significant, not in the grand scheme of things, no; but there was a sublime pleasure to be taken in knowing Severus would be present tonight after being away for some time. 

It was the pleasure of knowing that he had thoroughly thwarted Dumbledore. The old coot couldn’t see past his half-moon spectacles to see that which was right in front of his eyes: Severus had only one master, and it was not him. He learned long ago not to underestimate Dumbledore’s power. Oh, how foolish he once was, how naïve. Dumbledore was the biggest threat to his ambitions, wielding more raw political and magical power than any other person in Britain. 

But it was Severus who proved the man had a blind spot. Dumbledore was sentimental. It has clouded his judgment so thoroughly in regards to Severus that he believed the boy had switched sides in this war simply because he wished it to be so, because he wished to believe that Severus was born good and was waiting his entire life for his true colors to shine through. 

Dumbledore was wrong. Severus would be the man’s downfall. 

He stepped into the parlor, though parlor may be a bit of an understatement. The room was much larger than its name would suggest, and cleared of much of its furniture. Along the walls remained a bookcases and a few cabinets bearing the fruit of the Malfoy’s family heirlooms. Doubtless there were many dark objects within its shelves. 

He sat on the only chair in the room, a regal piece of furniture, though it could pass as merely quaint if in the right context. It was made of a dark wood, the legs and arms of the chair curling outwards then back in, intricate patterns carved along the wood. It was felted with a pitch black fabric with a tall back. 

Then again, Dumbledore was only a small piece of the equation. The main reason he so adored Severus was this . 

His death eaters formed a circle, not too large, but enough that there was space enough between them. He knew those in attendance tonight, and he thought of the one who he forbidden from attending. 

“Present yourself, Severus.” He commanded.

He remembered once, when Severus was just a boy, he had such fire within him. He had been impassioned, headstrong in that way only youth could sow. He was filled with such contradicting emotions: anger, love, grief, jealousy. There was such turmoil within him. He remembered how the boy was once restless, a leaf caught in the wind, aimless and uneasy. 

Voldemort had been the one to ground him.  

Severus strode towards the center of the circle, head held high, facing him without delay. He knelt, bowing his head.

This was what he was capable of. He made Severus into the wizard he was today. It was his hand that guided the mere boy into the man who stood before them all now. Severus was one of his shining accomplishments.

Severus’s position was rivaled only by Lucius. Both were powerful informants and were of his most cunning and strategic advisors. What they each lacked in raw magical power was made up in their individual expertise. Severus’s potions advances were indispensable while Lucius’s knowledge of the ancient blood magics was proving more useful everyday. Each could use words as precisely and powerfully as their wand, able to whisper doubts to pervade the minds of even the strongest men. 

But it was Severus who held himself with such a quiet dignity that Lucius could never manage. Severus was ambitious, yes, but Lucius had the infuriating quality of always attempting to step on toes. Lucius continued to confuse pride with arrogance, and it nearly caused more trouble than he was worth. 

As for his newest spy… Crouch was a long way off from being able to compete with Severus. 

“I serve only you, my Lord.” 

He turned Severus into this. He had recognized Severus’s potential, and here it was, the fruits of his labor. He was perfect. 

“You may rise, Severus.” 

Severus met his gaze. A glimpse of the potion master's mind revealed flashes of conversations with Dumbledore, an interaction with Lucius at the door of the manor, a stray thought about a potion brewing in his lab. 

“What is your report?” His voice was like the tearing of parchment, in a way silky, in a way dangerous. The precursor of great danger. 

“Dumbledore is going through with his plan to recruit from the werewolf villages in the south and to send his gameskeeper into Giant country for reconnaissance. There is unrest within the group. They are growing tired of Dumbledore’s web of lies.” 

The Giant country was new. The other information, not so much. 

“And of the boy?” 

That was all the specification that was needed. Aside from potions, Severus's expertise resided with Dumbledore’s heart. 

“Hidden in a safehouse under the Fidelius. It is somewhere in Scotland, close enough to Hogwarts for Dumbledore to keep tabs on the boy, but its exact location is known only by the Headmaster and the boy’s escaped godfather.” 

“His godfather?” 

Severus remained tall under the scrutiny. He knew exactly what was being asked of him. Severus was one of his most trusted for a reason. “Yes. Sirius Black has been caring for the boy. They are as close as father and son, and Dumbledore couldn’t bear to keep them apart after everything Potter had been through.” He sneered this last part, his disgust clearly visible. “Neither are allowed to leave the premises. They are regularly given food and necessities through floo by Dumbledore himself.” 

“Weaknesses?” 

“None. Dumbledore is adamant about no one else having access to the safehouse after what happened to the Potters the first time. Not even Remus Lupin is allowed to visit.” 

The Fidelius could not be as easily exploited as the wards on the boy’s house were last time. There had to be a way through. He was getting that boy. 

“What do you suggest we do?” 

“Wait, my Lord, for an opportunity to present itself.”  

Oh, Severus. Sweet, naive, Severus. 

That was the wrong answer. 

With a lazy flick of his wand, he shot out a stinging hex. Severus grasped his left shoulder, gritting his teeth. 

A warning shot. 

“Do not lie to me, Severus. It is so unbecoming of you.” 

“My Lord, I know nothing-”

A cutting hex to skim his leg. Severus fell to his knees, eyes squeezed shut in pain. 

“Lucius has already informed me of the trial in three days' time. Do you deny it, Severus?” 

“Dumbledore said no such thing. He said the boy got off with a warning. My Lord-”

Severus cut himself off as he could no longer speak. The curse on the potions master cut the air off in his throat, essentially choking him. 

Severus further fell. He was on all fours, gasping for the air that couldn’t get into his lungs. A few whimpers left his throat, an attempt to beg for his redemption, but no discernable sound made it past his lips. His arms collapsed, now laying on the floor. His hands clawed at his neck, his chin, his face, trying in vain to find the air he was denied. 

He whispered the counter-incantation and the spell was released. Severus gasped for air as a starving man would inhale food. 

His leaf grounded once again.

“Do better next time, Severus. I expect more than mediocrity from you.” Severus met his gaze once more. Embarrassment, shame, guilt, and anger, all welled beneath the surface of Severus’s mind, but more than anything was the single defining thought that so endeared him to Severus so long ago.

 I will do better next time .

“Dismissed, Severus.” 

When Severus turned, he caught a clear glimpse of the mark on the right side of his form, starting in front of his earlobe and extending a few inches down his neck. Blood began to seep out the wound, winding its way down his neck and staining his collar. 

Severus rejoined the circle. A few more Death Eaters reported their findings. A few more Death Eaters bled. The stain on his collar only grew, beginning to travel down the front of his robes, but Severus remained there in his quiet dignity, somehow turning his red mark of shame into one of pride. 

Harry was going to be sick. 

He fell out of bed, actually fell onto the floor, a sting shooting up through his side, but he ignored it. He shook the tangled blankets off of him as he stood and nearly threw himself out of his room and into the bathroom. He barely made contact with the cool porcelain bowl before retching his guts out. 

Damn him and his abnormally large appetite yesterday. 

He shuddered at the sour taste of sick in his mouth and the bathroom tiles’ chill beginning to seep through his thin pajama bottoms. Or maybe it was the remnants of the nightmare beginning to seep back into his mind. No, it was the feelings, yes, the feelings. The carved wood under his hands. The felt chair behind his back. The slight chill in the air of the parlor. The sounds of boots clinking on tiles. It was in the details. He was learning that the hard way. Terror was in the details. Stillness is only horrifying when sleep does not accompany it. Hiding was as much of a children’s game as it was one of life and death. Spells zipping towards him weren’t so bad when Snape was at their origin. 

Snape . 

Fuck . 

Harry leaned over the bowl again as a new wave of emotions overwhelmed him. Some were his own, most were not. He squeezed his eyes shut. In the dark bathroom with his head pounding, it was difficult to discern between which were his own and which were from the dream. Dream Voldemort. Pride, discontent, anger, disgust, distrust, fear, but fear of or fear for? 

He managed some more bile into the toilet. When he finished again, he had a sudden surge of gratitude for the lack of Dursleys. If this had happened at Privet Drive, he would have already been thrown into the backyard or worse for making all this noise. 

He flushed the toilet, nearly flinching at how the sound seemed to boom and echo throughout the bathroom. He was weary and tired and confused and distraught. He felt hot, and the tiled floor was blessedly cool.

Just a minute. Just a minute and he would get up and rinse out his mouth and at the very least, lay down in bed. If he was up to it, he would also remake his bed and tuck the sheets under the mattress, the way he should have when he made it a few days ago. 

He closed his eyes. It would only be a minute. 

-.-

“Potter!” Someone shouted, “What the hell did - Rennervate! Potter, what the bloody hell did you do!”

Harry groaned. He opened his eyes, but immediately flinched away from the bright light. 

“Potter!” 

“Quit shouting at me!” Harry yelled back. That was Snape. Which meant Snape was waking him up for some reason. But it didn’t feel like he was in his bed. His muscles hurt, he was laying on something hard. His head was pounding and his mouth felt fuzzy.

Oh . The nightmare.  

“Did you have alcohol?” 

“What! No!” Harry squinted at figure looming over him. He couldn’t make out Snape’s features against the harsh lighting, but even without his perpetually sardonic voice, he could manage to make sense of Snape’s silhouette enough to know it was definitely his teacher. 

“Then look at me, Potter.” Snape snapped, already at the end of his patience, which was an extraordinarily bad sign for Harry. Harry looked where he believed Snape’s eyes were on his face. This must have been satisfactory as Snape bit out in an even tone, “What did you do?” 

“I-I-” but it was too late for lies. Or perhaps too early? Harry’s mind was still catching up with events that did happen last night, much less trying to come up with lies to cover them up. 

“I- uh- I had a nightmare and needed to ah…throw up. Then I may have… fallen asleep here.” Harry finished lamely. Harry must have appeared pathetic enough while saying this as Snape actually backed up a step. 

“I… see,” he said uncomfortably, which would have been funny enough to make Harry laugh in any other situation. 

Harry used Snape’s momentary silence to stagger to his feet. He moved his mouth experimentally, nearly wincing at the feeling of dried sick on his chin. 

Snape stood there, unyielding to the silence. Harry waited a moment for him to speak up, but apparently Snape had nothing to say. 

“I can… handle myself in here,” Harry prompted, “To… er- clean up, that is.” 

Snape nodded. “Of course, of course,” he said dismissively. His features began to come into focus now that Harry was adjusted to the world of the waking. His hair was straggly and out-of-place. His skin held an even deeper layer of pale than it usually did, the area under his eyes darker than Harry had ever seen them. He appeared haggard, more guarded than usual. “I shall take my leave. I will be… resting this morning. When you are hungry, provide yourself with cereal.” 

Harry nodded, watching as Snape turned to leave the bathroom. Just as Harry was about to turn away, dismissing Snape’s odd behavior as nothing more than exhaustion, he caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. His heart leapt to his throat. He clutched the wall for support. As Snape moved, his hair nearly obscured it, but it was there. It was clear enough for Harry to know he hadn’t imagined it. 

A thin scar trailed down Snape’s neck, starting just at the earlobe and stretching a few inches towards his collar. 

Snape closed the door behind him, leaving Harry alone in the empty bathroom. 

They were real. The dreams were real. 

No, think of all of the possibilities. Ron always told him he needed to do that more. He couldn’t keep jumping to the first conclusion that came to his head. Actually think .

He had a dream that Snape got a mark on his neck from Voldemort. This morning, Snape had an identical scar on his neck.

It could have been prophetic, like they learned about in divination. Some wizards had the ability to give prophetic dreams.

But the gift of prophecy was not usually developed so suddenly, nor did the dream make sense if it was prophetic. How could only one part of the dream be prophetic and not the others? There was no central symbol or theme besides Snape. It wasn’t prophecy. 

It could be chance. Harry dreamed that Snape would be injured in such a manner and here they were the next day, Snape miraculously recovered from a recent identical injury. It was absurd if that were merely chance. 

What was more likely? That what happened was merely chance, or that there was some unknown branch of magic causing Harry to see into Voldemort’s head when he dreamed. 

The dreams were real. 

It was the only satisfactory explanation. All of them were real. Voldemort’s disappointment. Barty Crouch’s torture. Snape ’s torture. 

His arms were shaking from his white-knuckle grip on the counter. He turned the faucet on, splashed cool water on his face, took a breath that didn’t really ease the tension in his chest. 

It was real . 

He had to do something. There must be something he should do. 

What was he meant to do? 

He sunk back to the floor, leaning against the wall. There was nothing he could do. He had no access to a library to research the dreams on his own. He wasn’t allowed to owl his friends or his godfather, nor did he even have access to an owl to disobey Dumbleodre’s rules even if he wanted. 

There was nothing he could do. 

One idea crossed his mind. He should tell Snape or Dumbledore about the dreams, but he abandoned the thought as quickly as he thought of it. 

He didn’t trust them. Telling Snape would basically just mean telling Dumbledore and telling Dumbledore meant getting dismissed out-of-hand, leaving him confused and embarrassed by the trust he placed in the man in the first place. Embarrassed by the fact he kept crawling back to the headmaster no matter how many times Dumbleodore had proven to Harry that he couldn’t be trusted. 

He was tired of always being made to be the fool. 

Harry got to his feet. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. He may have actually looked worse than Snape. Though in all fairness, Harry’s hair was this messy on a daily basis. The only real changes were the bags under his eyes, the weariness to his form. 

Dumbledore didn’t get to know about this. It was time for Harry to keep something for himself. Let the old coot be in the dark for once. Show him what it's like to be everyone else for a change. 

It would be his little secret. 

Chapter Text

Harry didn’t bother getting himself breakfast. Even with the lavender flask sitting in its spot on the kitchen table, he couldn’t bring himself to actually go through the motions of making the cereal for himself. 

He needed to get out.

He was trapped. Even after the shower had refreshed him, he was still uneasy on his feet, queasy from everything he’d just learned. 

Snape lied to him about leaving for the night. Voldemort was unwittingly allowing Harry to bear witness to his nighttime actions.  His trial was in three days. Snape was tortured.

That, that more than anything made him stop short. His stomach turned at the image of Snape clawing at his own throat, his potion-stained hands carving angry red lines on his neck. 

Whether he had ever been willing to admit it to himself or not, he had always pictured Snape as so… strong. Snape was known for his displays of anger not because they were funny or immature, but because he wielded his anger like a well-sharpened sword, slaying his opponents with brutal accuracy. Harry felt there was nothing he could do to bend Snape’s will if it was against him. The man was infuriatingly better at everything than everyone around him. Even Dumbledore had deferred to Snape when Harry had posed the issue of the portkey ring’s visibility. One of the most powerful wizards alive was not only outwitted, but knew he was outwitted when Snape was in the same room with him. 

The absurdity in Neville’s ridikulus grandma-fied Snape wasn’t just their stony-faced professor dressing in drag, it was seeing the look of pure embarrassment and surprise on Snape’s features, it was Snape appearing defeated. The man was an unmovable wall. Harry could not think of anything capable of even cracking Snape's so carefully dignified composure. 

“Do not lie, Severus, it is so unbecoming of you.”

His forearm burned. 

He couldn’t take it anymore. Never before had he had such an intense feeling of claustrophobia as he did in that dingy cottage kitchen. Funny how he could survive ten years in a cupboard without claustrophobia, but one kitchen was enough to throw him over the edge. 

He shoved the back door open, barely managing to catch it before it slammed into the house.The backyard was still mostly in shadow from the house’s shadow in the morning sun. The fresh air was cool against his skin and dewdrops wet the bottom of his pants as he traversed the thick grass, but he felt numb to it. 

He didn’t know whether it was the static of anxiety or magic that tingled against his skin. He needed to do something. He needed to release something within him.

He knew it was a bad idea. But after all, Snape had just been tortured, surely the man wouldn’t be waking up anytime soon?

Harry pulled his wand from his pocket, nearly fumbling the wood between his numb fingers. 

The first thing he casted was an expelliarmus . A spell incapable of doing any actual damage. The tree he aimed it at remained steady. 

He threw another one at it. And another. And another, until he was flinging the spell from his wand with almost reckless abandon. The tree didn’t budge. 

He channeled everything into the magic. His anger, his fear, his guilt. He needed to get it out. He needed it gone, purged. He couldn’t keep living like this. He knew this was bad for him. He needed to get rid of it. 

If he poured everything into this now, surely it wouldn’t come tumbling out of him when he didn’t want it to. It wouldn’t stick around to ruin his life, filling his days with anxiety and his nights with terrors of his own mind. 

He didn’t stop until he tried casting the spell again and nothing came out of his wand. He incanted the spell aloud, but only got a few shots off before he could no longer even cast with that. 

He laid down on the grass. Now physically exhausted, his muscles were able to release their tension. He starved them of the energy to be on guard, poised for danger. 

The day was growing later, the dew having most evaporated from the grass. It was definitely nearing, if not already, midday. 

He wondered what Sirius was doing. 

Sirius should be here. Or rather, he should be with Sirius. There were some things that Sirius was bad at, some things that he just didn’t quite get, but at least Sirius always tried to be there for Harry. There was something comforting about having someone in his corner, even if they were the worst fighter Harry had ever seen. 

Sirius was still learning. And Harry was still learning how to have Sirius in his life, which meant sometimes things were complicated and sometimes things left unsaid should be said and things that were said turn into regrets. It was messy, but it was good. It was progress. 

He just wished they had the opportunity to get better at it. If he spent the summer with Sirius, they could have managed to figure it out. 

Why did his thoughts always wander back to Dumbledore? 

So much of it was his fault. Dumbledore didn’t prioritize Harry getting to spend time with Sirius. Dumbledore didn’t do anything to make sure Pettigrew didn’t escape, instead relying on a bunch of thirteen-year-olds to catch a rat. Hell, Dumbledore, with all his political power, couldn't get Sirius a fair trial to prove he didn’t betray his parents. 

All roads lead to Dumbledore.

Harry sighed, getting to his feet. He really didn’t fancy Snape finding him asleep where he wasn’t supposed to be for the second time in one day. 

When he stood, he nearly toppled back into the grass. His head was spinning. Harry half walked, half stumbled towards the door. Who would have thought magically exhausting oneself after throwing up and not eating was a bad idea? 

Hermione. That’s who would have thought. Ron, too, if he was being honest. Really, he could picture the quidditch team yelling at him, attempting to force him into taking better care of himself. Wood would front the offense, insisting that Harry’s health was vital to winning the House Cup, and didn’t Harry know they were 231 points behind Slytherin? 

It was by sheer force of will that he made it upstairs without falling backwards and breaking his neck. His head was pounding by the time he made it to his room, and he wasted no time simply falling once again into his bed, ignoring how everything ached, how his forearm burned. 

Harry fell asleep, thankful to have finally outrun his discordant thoughts.

-.-

Snape did not emerge from his room until it was past time for dinner. 

Sometime in the late afternoon, Harry had grown hungry enough to eat a banana off of the counter and drink some water, but hadn't had anything else today. 

It was over some reheated leftovers that Snape didn't even bother serving himself, did it become apparent to Harry the only reason Snape had come out of his room at all was to speak to Harry. 

“Potter, it has come to the Headmaster’s attention that you should be… informed of certain circumstances before the day of your trial,” Snape spoke. His voice rasped slightly from sleep and disuse. He appeared marginally better, his hair less lank and eyes having lost that bloodshot look about them, but he still had a certain aura of exhaustion hanging around his frame. 

It had lightened considerably, but Harry knew the faint impression along Snape’s neck was the same scar that had sent him spiraling this morning. 

Harry did his best not to stare at it, not wanting to draw Snape’s ire. 

“In two days, you will travel between here and the ministry and back again. You will be escorted by a trusted veteran member of the Order, whom you will treat with the utmost expect and who will expect you to follow their orders without complaint.” 

That did not inspire hope in Harry that he would like this member of the order, but Snape didn't leave room for his protest.

“Once at the ministry you will be safe from attack from the Dark Lord’s forces. When, because you absolutely will be confronted with certain enemies, you are to speak as little as possible and let the Order member handle confrontations between you and anyone who attempts to speak to you–whether it be someone you know or the minister himself. Understood?” Snape glared at him, but it didn’t have its usual bite. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good.” Snape sighed, a hand reaching up to rub his brow. “Which brings us to the last matter that must be discussed.” Snape picked up a newspaper previously unnoticed to Harry and passed it across the table. 

It was the Prophet, published over a week ago. Various moving pictures littered the front page, but by far the largest was the image of Amos Diggory sitting in something that suspiciously looked like Cedric’s bedroom. He appeared distraught and after a moment he became overwhelmed with the emotion and had to cover his face with a handkerchief. 

Then he read the headlining title. 

BOY-WHO-LIVED INVOLVED IN DIGGORY MURDER? TRUTH REVEALED 

In an interview with mourning father, Amos Diggory, I had the chance to investigate the events surrounding the suspicious murder of Cedric Diggory and get clues to the questions readers have been dying to know the answers for. Who was Cedric Diggory? What was his relationship with the Boy-Who-Lived like? And what is the real reason Headmaster Dumbledore refused further investigation to be done at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry? Story continued on page 10.

“I don’t understand,” Harry said. He swallowed, now grateful that most of his plate was already cleared. “Voldemort-”

“Do not speak his name!” Snape yelled.

He didn’t have time to argue with that. He focused on what he had to say, on not letting his voice waver. “Riddle killed him. Don’t they know that?” 

“No, they don’t.” 

“They…they didn’t believe him? They didn’t think Dumbledore was telling the truth?” It would make sense. Dumbledore would have appeared to be a lunatic suddenly claiming that a dead man was alive.  

Snape shook his head. “Why must you be an utter dunderhead! Read! Can’t you read?” 

“I did read it! I just don’t understand what you're trying to tell me! Just say it!”

“No one knows the Dark Lord killed Diggory because the Headmaster didn’t tell anyone the Dark Lord killed Diggory!”

The newspaper fell out of Harry’s grip. 

“W-what?” 

“Dumbledore told the Minister and the press that Cedric died from a tragic accident with an Acromantula mere meters away from the cup. You witnessed the event and even in your shock and anguish, you took Cedric’s body with you, believing he had to be returned to his father. It was as good as a story as he could come up with. He fabricated evidence showing Diggory’s blood held toxins and the only thing left to do was to replicate puncture marks along his arm.” 

Harry felt empty. 

“As this information circulated,” Snape continued, “Dumbledore made moves specifically to protect you. He immediately took you out of the public eye, refused to comment on your whereabouts, and deflected questions about your personal wellbeing. Altogether, there began to arise speculation regarding your role in bringing Cedric’s body back, which eventually led to this.” 

Harry swallowed. He looked at the table, not able to meet Snape’s eye. He knew the potions master was watching him, analyzing his reaction. He did not wish to be analyzed. He already felt like some specimen, some thing rather than a person. 

“They think he’s covering for me.” 

“Put simply, yes.” 

“But why?” Harry begged. He begged unabashedly. This was too important, too crucial. He needed to understand.

“The press is right about one thing: the Headmaster wishes to protect you. He knew that had he insisted that the Dark Lord had risen, the ministry would do everything in its power not only to deny it, but to discredit yourself and Professor Dumbledore. You would be faced with never-ending slander which would follow you into Hogwarts.” 

“What does he call this!” 

“A desperate grab for attention,” Snape said carefully. Harry rubbed his hands together, angry with himself for snapping at Snape when he was giving him information he desperately wanted. “With time, this will die down. The claims are almost entirely unfounded.”

“He literally covered up the actual cause of Cedric’s death!” Harry shouted, already forgetting himself. 

“And that’s why I said almost unfounded, you imbecile!”

Harry huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. It was impossible. If they lied they were liars and if they told the truth they were liars. It was a no-win situation. 

Snape shifted in his seat. “By keeping the Dark Lord’s return a secret, he preserves valuable allies that would have otherwise abandoned him in the face of total press slander. He is doing this so that as the Dark Lord is attempting to build his ranks in secret, we can do the same with our old allies.” 

Secrets, secrets, secrets. It was always secrets. Dumbledore had an affinity for secrets and manipulation. Not unlike their resident dark lord. 

“It’s not just the ministry. Dumbledore’s sheepdogs don’t know either.”

“He didn’t even tell the Order, did he?” 

Snape glanced up sharply at him. “No, he didn’t. It was too much of a security risk. There are holes in the Order, and not all of them report directly to the Dark Lord. The only people that know are the Headmaster, myself, Black, and you.”

That was why he couldn’t owl his friends. Why he couldn’t see the Wealseys. He wasn’t trusted. He was one of the holes in the Order. 

He hated Dumbledore. Hated how everything he did seemed so right. There was no argument. There was nothing he could protest. 

“I bet he likes it,” Harry said, picking at a loose strand on his sleeve. “I be he’s happy Dumbledore refused to tell anyone he was back.” 

Snape shook his head, needing no clarification. “He’s a fool. He thinks himself invincible.” 

Harry tilted his head. He ran back through those dreams, those memories of being Voldemort. It was scary how clear his mind was, how clear his ambitions were. Voldemort was no fool. 

“No. No, I don’t think so.” 

“Excuse me?” Snape sneered.

“If Riddle thought he was invincible, he would have already burned down a dozen villages and revealed he was back. He knows he can fail. He knows he’s already living on borrowed time. It’s Dumbledore who is the fool, believing he can continue to tell lie after lie without ever being caught.”

Harry looked at Snape. He was up to a challenge, a confrontation. Snape stared at him in a way that Harry couldn’t really read. But after a moment he broke away. “In any case,” he said as though Harry had never spoken in the first place, “It is therefore of the utmost importance that you keep this to yourself, even with your escort tomorrow. It must be a secret.” 

 “What if I forget?” 

Snape leveled him a particularly withering gaze. “It’ll give me a headache dealing with the fallout.” 

Snape stood, clearing the table with his wand. “Do you have robes?”

“Er- no, sir.” Harry followed. 

“Robes will be procured for you,” Snape led him into the living room, still in a state of disuse despite both of them living in the house for nearly two weeks. He went to a bookshelf just next to the fireplace and removed a thinner novel from one of the bottom shelves. “Your assignment tomorrow is to read as much of this as possible so you don’t make an utter fool of yourself during the trial.” 

“And dueling?” 

Snape smirked. “Eager to fall flat on your back again, Potter?” 

“You’re just scared because I’m getting better!” Harry accused. 

“Well then, I’ll have to start teaching you less. Merlin only knows what kind of trouble you will find when you’re actually capable with a wand.” Harry almost bit out a retort about already being capable with his wand, but Snape interrupted. “After the trial. Tomorrow you should focus on understanding that.” 

Harry turned the thin book over in his hands. It had a fabric cover, rough against his fingertips. “Yes, sir.” 

“Good.” Snape moved towards the stairs. “I am going to retire for the night,” he said as if he hadn’t been in his room all day. Then again, Harry knew torture really just had a way of making you feel drained. Who would have thought? 

As the sound of Snape’s footsteps retreated up the stairs, Harry found himself stuck with the realization that not only did he and Snape have a productive, civil conversation, Snape had even let him get away with outright insulting him. 

Surely it was only because Dumbledore had ordered Snape to relay the information to him today. There was nothing more or less to it. Snape was fulfilling whatever duty he felt to the order. Harry had nothing to do with it. 

But he had let Snape get away with insulting him. He didn’t find himself indignant over the comment about Snape almost always winning their duels. He wasn’t embarrassed or put out or even angry. It felt like teasing. 

Since when did Snape tease him? 

They were both tired. That was it. Both of them were too exhausted to fight the other, leaving to this temporary truce. In a few days, they would be back at each other’s throats, and the duels would be nothing but an excuse for Snape to take out all his pent up Harry-hatred on him. 

Harry groaned, and made his way towards the stairs. Time to think about ways to unframe himself for murder, convince Dumbledore that he would pinky swear not to tell his friends about the darkest wizard of the past century re-aliving himself if he was allowed to owl them, and then start his book on Wizard etiquette for public spheres. 

When did his life get so weird?

Chapter Text

The robes were itchy against his skin, but at least they covered his arms. He hated looking at the scar on his forearm, much less the prospect of having it out in the open for everyone to see. 

He was perched on the tepid green couch in front of the fireplace. The robes Snape had deposited in his room last night were a rich navy blue with a gold trim in a flower-like geometric design around the ends of the robes. Although Snape had grumbled something about being “a bloody potions master turned tailor” he had dutifully helped Harry shorten the cuffs and end of the robes to a respectable length with little complaint.

They were waiting for the Order member. It was still early, but they were told the member was meant to come early, and that they would be properly vetted before Dumbledore allowed them through the floo. 

Snape was pacing. Back and forth behind the couch, and though Harry couldn’t see him, he could still hear him. Back and forth.  Back and forth. And every once in a while:

“Who are you to greet individually at the hearing?” Snape suddenly said, the words coming out in a great rush, as though he was being timed on how quickly he could say them. 

“The minister and the head of the Department of Justice.” 

“And what are their names?”

“Cornelius Fudge and Amelia Bones.” 

More footsteps muted only slightly by the thin rug. Harry yawned despite his knee bouncing. He hadn’t slept well the night before.

“How will you address the Minister?” 

“The Right Honourable Gentleman, the Prime Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge.” 

“And Ameilia Bones?” 

“Madam Director of the Department of Justice, Ameila Bones.” 

Snape made a noise that was almost an affirmation but was mostly a grunt, and continued his incessant pacing. No wonder the rug was worn so thin. 

“Did you cast the accio like I told you to?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Are you sure?” 

Since when was the bloody git so neurotic? 

“Yes, sir.” Harry groaned. 

“Don’t give me cheek, Potter.” Snape sneered. “If they check your wand and that’s not the last spell you casted-”

“I know! You’ve told me like a million times already!” 

“And I’m telling you again so that you get it through your thick skull: you could be expelled!” 

“I already casted it!” 

“I never said you didn’t.”

“Yeah, but you’re acting like it!” 

“You do not have the best reputation to back that statement up.” 

“Just check my wand then if you don’t believe me.” 

“I do believe you, Potter, it’s just that-”

Snape was interrupted by the fire suddenly roaring to life, nearly making Harry jump off of the couch. A figure appeared, and at first, Harry couldn’t make them out in the harsh lighting of the flames, but then they stepped out of the fireplace, and Harry couldn’t contain his excitement. He sprang from the couch, nearly knocking the man over with the force of his embrace.

“Mr. Weasley!” 

“Please, Harry,” he chuckled, the noise like the crackling of fire, and brought his arms around Harry, “Call me Arthur.” 

And Harry buried his head into Arthur’s shoulder. He had a sturdy embrace, not constricting, but by no means timid. Harry smiled, reminded of Ron’s hugs. Though his friend would kill him if Harry pointed this out to him, it was true. Arthur and Ron were very much the same when it came to their affection: never shy, but never overwhelming. 

He had missed Arthur. He missed Ron. He missed all of the Weasleys. 

It felt good. Arthur’s clothes smelled like woodfire and the Weasley kitchen and the lavender soap Molly washed their clothes with. And this time Arthur held him tight and didn’t let go, even with the tight schedule they were meant to be following. This time Harry knew he was safe to loosen his death grip around Arthur to something that wasn’t so desperate, to something that just let him be, without the fear of Arthur pushing him away. 

After a long moment, he stepped back, and Arthur passed a hand through his hair as he ducked out of his arms. Arthur’s own hair was neatly combed, though he appeared to have missed a tuft of hair sticking up on the back of his head. His suit hung just a tad too long on his frame, the cuffs nearly creeping up to his knuckles. Arthur glanced a bit around the room, eyes stalling where Harry believed Snape was standing behind him, before returning his attention to Harry. “By Merlin, you’re getting tall! Might even be catching up to Ron soon enough.” 

“Don’t get my hopes up,” Harry said, “I don’t think I’m ever catching up to him. Let’s settle for not letting Hermione outgrow me.” 

Arthur laughed. “True, true. Oh! I nearly forgot, Molly sent me with these, in case we don’t have a chance to see you on your birthday.” Arthur picked up a dropped cookie tin on the ground. Harry took it and was surprised to find homemade treacle within it. His favorite. “This was all very sudden, mind you, even for Dumbledore’s standards, and well- with all this talk of keeping you hidden this summer, we got nervous that we wouldn’t see you so- this is the best we could whip up for you given-”

“It’s perfect. Tell Molly I say thank you and I love them.”

Harry put the tin on the coffee table behind him. Arthur smiled, and moved towards Harry slightly only to stop himself, letting the space between them linger. 

In that time, Snape rounded the couch and shook Arthur’s hand. The movement was rather rigid, almost a forced pleasantry, but Arthur still smiled warmly in return.

“Professor. Glad to see you are well.” 

“And you,” Snape said which was by far much more than Harry had expected him to go for greeting Arthur. “I do have a piece of brief business I wish to discuss with you before your departure—in private—if you have a moment.”

“Yes, yes, of course, Severus. Lead the way.” 

Snape turned towards the hallway, only to round once more on Harry. “Do not do anything stupid. We will return momentarily.” 

Snape led Arthur out of the room and Harry could tell by the sound of their footsteps that they went down the stairs to the potions lab. He waited on the couch for a few minutes, wondering what business Snape could possibly have with Arthur of all people when the two of them were nearly complete opposites. He inspected the briefcase Arthur left behind, the rich, yet worn leather, the initials carved into the handle. He almost decided to eat a treacle tart, but the business was indeed short and Arthur was in the living room only a few minutes later, bidding Snape a good day. 

“Now, Harry, we have a long journey ahead of us. Do you have your wand?”

“Yes.” Harry offered it from his pocket. 

“Excellent, then we are off.” Arthur brought the floo powder pot down from the mantle, allowing Harry to take some. “Our first destination is King’s Cross Station, platform nine and three quarters. I’ll go through first to make sure no one is waiting on the other side. Severus,” Arthur acknowledged Snape, “You know what to do if you don’t receive my message.” 

Snape nodded, and Arthur was off with a simple, “King’s Cross Station, platform nine and three quarters!” 

Harry stepped into the floo when Snape nearly yelled at him, “Potter!” 

“What!” Harry rounded on him, “You nearly made me drop my powder!” 

Snape stood there, ever the stoic, though still perpetually tired. He shook his head, perhaps exasperated with Harry. “Don’t do anything stupid, and mind Arthur. Don’t tell him anything you’re not supposed to.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

With those last reminders, Harry threw the powder down and disappeared into the light. 

-.-

The journey was much longer than expected. They went through the floo only to apparate only for a quick stunt on broomsticks only to use a portkey only to take the floo all over again. It took the better part of an hour, which was impressive considering wizards had the ability to bloody teleport wherever they pleased.

The journey was growing tiresome. Harry’s head was spinning, and his stomach was beginning to become upset. Not to mention his growing anticipation as each transport brought them closer and closer to their final destination.

They were in a small town, and that was the extent of the information that Harry knew. It could have been muggle or magical or somewhere in between. All he knew was that the houses appeared to be older, made mostly of stone and brick, and the roads were much closer to dirt than pavement.

“This is the last one, Harry, I promise,” Arthur assured. Harry nearly sighed in relief, but felt it may be rude to do so. “Turn to me for a second.” Arthur lightly took Harry’s chin in his hand, the feeling of which distracted Harry so when he looked up, he startled at the wand pointed at him. He flinched out of Arthur’s hand, stumbling a few steps away from the man. 

“Sorry,” Harry blurted. Heat bloomed on his face. His gaze fell downwards despite himself. Despite the need to not seem so goddamn childish all the time. 

He definitely wasn’t thinking about it. He was having a pleasant morning with Arthur. He wasn’t going to think about it. 

“No, it is me who should apologize. I was attempting to go quickly to get you to the ministry sooner, but I should have told you what I was doing first. I’m sorry.” Arthur spoke gently, but with Arthur it didn’t matter to Harry so much that he was being treated gently because that was how Arthur treated everyone. Arthur was gentle. It had nothing to do with the fact that Harry happened to be there. 

Harry swallowed. “Alright,” he said because he had nothing else to say. Which made his face heat even more. He didn’t know how to respond to Arthur sometimes. Didn’t know what was expected of him here. He felt terribly like he walked into a test he had forgotten to study for. 

“I needed to see your face to make some superficial transfigurations on your features to make them less recognizable. We will be going into the heart of London, and I don’t want anyone to recognize you until we are safely within the ministry.” Arthur remained where he was, allowing Harry his own space. Harry appreciated the sentiment. “When you’re ready, I need you to step a little closer.” 

He wasn’t afraid of Arthur, so he moved in front of him once more, lifting his face so that the taller man could see him better.

“Alright, then, I need you to be as still as possible. The stiller you are, the less discomfort you will feel.” Arthur took his chin again ever so lightly between his fingers, just to keep him in place. His hands were warm. “If you feel you must move away, tap my arm, and I’ll stop.” 

This time, Arthur lifted his wand much more slowly and Harry resisted the urge to shut his eyes. A few incantations flew from his lips and Harry felt some of his features begin to change. His nose elongated, his cheekbones became less pronounced, his hair shortened and straightened. 

“Just going to put a glamor on your scar, Harry, and we’ll be good to go.” Arthur pointed the wand directly over his forehead and incanted the proper spell, and a blanket of magic washed over him. Arthur retracted his wand and removed his hand from Harry’s chin. “There we go, that’s a good lad.” 

Harry sighed, relaxing once more. Arthur wouldn’t hurt him. He already went through that phase with Arthur. No need to repeat it. No need to feel scared of him. 

No need to be so dumb. To throw everything Arthur did for him back in his face. 

He couldn’t do anything right. He couldn’t last a week at the Dursleys before getting himself so royally screwed that he was up for trial. He couldn’t let Arthur care for him right. Couldn’t get over Dumbledore’s betrayal right. Couldn’t even manage to sleep through most nights without waking up, thrashing in his bedclothes. 

He was a screw up. 

The robes suddenly felt too big for him, too expensive for him. The soft material too nice for him. Arthur’s warm smile suddenly burned his skin.  

Arthur was turned away, his wand out. Why was Arthur’s wand still out? Why was he standing there at the side of the road expectantly? 

He got his answer when a whoosing filled the air and the great purple bus came to a screeching stop on the side of the road. Shunpike announced their arrival and Arthur introduced him as some nephew twice removed. 

With a hand on his arm, Arthur led him onto the bus and told him to sit in the crap seats. The bus took off, furniture sliding everywhere, but Arthur must have used a sticking charm to make sure theirs wouldn’t move. Even without the sliding seats, Harry’s stomach still clenched from anxiety. 

“ Muffulato, ” Arthur whispered. “Everything alright there, Harry?” 

“Yes, sir- er- Arthur. I-I’m alright.” But Harry felt like he was going to puke any second. Lies. You shouldn’t be telling him lies . 

Arthur hummed in agreement. His hand was still on Harry’s shoulder, rubbing circles into the taunt muscle. “I see. I must pick your brain about a certain muggle contraption I have come across very recently. You see, it is a sort of flat disc, like a-a frisbee! Yes, a frisbee, but much smaller and much thinner, and every single one I have seen has the same dimensions, only a few centimeters in diameter, and each appears metallic—though sort of holographic—on one side with still drawings on the other.” Harry stared at a piece of gum stuck to the floor, but he could hear the excitement in Arthur’s voice as he described the object. “Do you know what this object is?” 

“Sounds like a CD.” His voice came out flat, and Harry decided it was better than it coming out wobbly. 

“A see-D? Like seeing the letter D?” Arthur asked, voice dropping to a serious tone.

“No, it’s- well it’s a compact disc. A CD. It stores information on it.” 

“Information! By Merlin! Like a book?” 

“Not really… more like a moving portrait. You need a special type of player to decode it and then it’ll make sounds, or sometimes pictures as well. Depends on the type of disc.”

“This is just fascinating to me, absolutely fascinating. And tell me, have you ever used one of these?” 

Harry met Arthur’s eyes. “Well, I’ve never used one, but I’ve seen people use one. I had a teacher who played us stories with them, so in that case, they were sort of like a book, but it sounded like a person reading kids books. Then my cousin likes to watch movies on them every once in a while, but I don’t usually watch with him.” 

“I see, I see… I’m going to have to write this all down the second I sit down at my desk. You have been most useful.” Arthur smiled, and Harry laughed lightly. Arthur had a way of making the ordinary seem absurd. 

“Aside from the CD,” Arthur tilted his head to the side. Harry focused on his features, not wanting to get sick from the too-fast landscape passing in the window behind him. “How has your summer been?” 

Harry shrugged. “Weird. I don’t- I don’t think there’s any better way to describe it. Nothing feels normal anymore.” He tugged at the cuffs on his robes. “It’s still strange to be living with Snape, even if things have… settled down a little bit.” 

“Settled down how?” 

“We just- He’s not.” Harry sighed. “We’re not fighting as much anymore. I mean, he still annoys me and I get on his nerves, but I don’t think he’s threatened to turn me into potions ingredients in at least a few days. It’s weird.” 

Arthur hummed. “The way I see it, it sounds perfectly normal.” 

Harry snorted. “Then you’ve never been in a potions class with me and Snape.” 

“No, no, I’m serious. Now that you two are forced to live together, you’ve gotten tired of fighting all the time. It’s exhausting to be angry, it weighs on the soul to be mean to others, even if we believe they deserve it. You both simply exhausted yourselves.” 

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely,” Arthur nodded seriously. His gaze grew more intense, then softened to something decidedly very fond . “It’s just like with the kids. No matter how long Ron and the twins fight, eventually fighting gets boring, gets tiring. It’s more fun to play nice, even if it takes a little extra work.” 

Harry didn’t respond, not really knowing what to add to Arthur’s analogy. Though the mental image of Snape as a toddler throwing a tantrum nearly made him giggle. 

“Snape’s been teaching me to duel,” Harry said after a long pause. 

“Really?!” 

Harry laughed. “Yeah, I don’t think even he expected it. He just took me outside one day and now he has me read these books about defense spells, and then he tests me on my comprehension by dueling with me.”

“Are you enjoying it?” 

The bus swayed particularly hard. Harry only just stopped himself from falling into Arthur. Shunpike yelled a half-hearted apology from somewhere up front. 

“I do. It’s the best, actually. I’ve never had more fun learning anything ever . And Snape is brilliant behind a wand.” 

“He is an excellent wandsman,” he agreed, “I’ll never forget the first time I went on a mission with Snape, he critiqued my wandwork,” he laughed, his eyes lost in nostalgia, “I was so taken aback by the fact some scrawny twenty-year-old not only had the audacity to correct me, but was also right . Defense is one of his true passions.” 

“What about potions?” 

Arthur made a non-commital noise. “Perhaps, but I often suspect otherwise. Not everything we are good at has to be what we are passionate about. Snape has a brilliant mind. He would have made an excellent master of any subject, but perhaps he knew a potions master would be much harder to come by than a defense master in war.” 

Harry sucked in a harsh breath, squeezing the fabric of the robes in between his hands. 

He had been wondering all this time why Snape was so good at defense. All these years, he had assumed the rumor about Snape’s desire for the defense against the dark arts position had been just a rumor, but over the past week he had grown less sure. Snape was so hard to read. Every slip of his emotions was gone quicker than Harry could decipher what it meant, but the only reasonable explanation for Snape’s interest in Harry’s defense skills was that Snape liked defense. 

Which raised questions for why he was so good at potions as to even have a mastery in it. Harry came to the conclusion that it had something to do with the wizarding war, as most peculiar things could be explained by the war, but never was able to pin the reason. 

 Maybe Snape couldn’t get a second masters when there was a war going on. Maybe it was easier to get his potions mastery than his defense mastery because all of the defense masters died out in the struggle against Voldemort (or for Voldemort, but he didn’t want to think about that). 

But never did he think of it like that . 

“What have you been learning?” Arthur asked. 

Shifting to the new topic of conversation, Harry eagerly supplied him with the various spells he had learned over the past week, and even some of the history and tactical application he was studying. Arthur listened intently the entire time, occasionally interrupting Harry to ask him questions about certain topics or offering his own input on the value of different defense strategies. 

The conversation carried them to London where Shunpike told them it was their stop. Harry followed Arthur off of the bus and was surprised to realize somewhere along the trip his stomach had much quieted. 

The second all of Harry’s limbs were out of the bus, the great monstrosity took off and disappeared long before he could turn around. 

The street was packed with people, all milling about like bees in a hive, no one apparently noticing the bus that defied all of their preconceived notions of logic. The buildings were squished together just as closely as the people crowding the sidewalks, except their presence was stagnant. It gave off the odd feeling of immortality in a way. While they all milled about, those pieces of human achievement watched over them with disinterest, knowing they will be there long after they leave.

“Quickly now. Stay close.” Arthur gripped the sleeve of his robes, pulling him through the crowd. They walked between and among so many people. Faces flashed quicker than he could take them in. A dark skinned man in a dapper suit. A teenager with a backpack, headphones over his ears. A young girl in pigtails, her arm swinging where it was connected to her mother, who pulled her closer, scolding her for straying too far. A woman in a tennis outfit. A police officer. A construction worker. A student. A nurse. None of them even sparing them a second glance. 

When they stopped at a street corner to cross, Harry asked, “Are we illusioned?” 

“No need.” He shrugged, and when Harry saw his eyes, he could see just how pleased Arthur was with himself. “Many would insist that it is necessary, but very few realize that their world is just as strange and variable as our own. Perhaps we may not appear normal to them, but we certainly do not appear dangerous.” 

The light switched and they crossed with the mass of people, and Harry grinned, but still didn’t understand. “But why risk it anyway? Wouldn’t it be safer not to?” 

“Perhaps,” Arthur said, and Harry struggled to hear him over the noise around them. “But I believe that both worlds should live together, and that starts with showing people like us that it’s safe to walk in these communities and getting… these folk to realize there is nothing wrong with those who appear different.” 

Harry allowed himself the time to think about that. He couldn’t fathom wizarding society being integrated with muggle society, or vice versa. He saw Aunt Petunia screeching at him for regrowing his hair in one night after she shaved it off the evening before. He felt Vernon roughing him up for magically appearing on top of the school roof. He heard the words come flying at him like missiles crossing the sky “You good-for-nothing freak! Just like those awful bruttish freakish parents of yours!”

He shuddered. Arthur shot him a worried glance, the hand on his sleeve wrapping around his forearm entirely, squeezing him in reassurance. It was only luck that Arthur was on his right side, not inflaming his scarred arm. 

They walked for a few more minutes in silence, a busy street not really conducive to a serious conversation. Cars whizzed by, vendors shouted over the heads of the crowd, but eventually Arthur pulled him into a gleaming red telephone booth. 

The inside was markedly dirtier than it appeared from the outside, not to mention it took most of his core strength to press himself far enough into the wall so as not to touch Arthur. Dust and dirt lined the bottom of the booth and above them a few pieces of gum were stuck to the ceiling. 

He picked up the phone, dialing a number into its panel. “Arthur Weasley and Harry Potter.” A few seconds passed. “The hearing of Harry Potter.” 

There was a ding in the booth, and Arthur returned the phone to its original place. Harry thought they had to go back out on the street for a second before the booth gave a jolt, and then began descending. 

“Now this does have a disillusionment charm, though it is probably unnecessary. Oh! Speaking of, I must remove the changes to your face. It is quite the fine if you walk into the ministry disguised,” Arthur took his wand out. Harry merely held still, knowing what to expect this time and the volume of the booth requiring him to be within reach of Arthur. 

They descended further, and the further they descended, the greater the sinking feeling in his stomach became. 

“You’re going to be fine. Headmaster Dumbledore already has everything worked out, and the Professor has given you all the necessary information. The only thing left to decide on are the details.” 

“Details?” Harry asked. 

“Yes. I need to know whether you want to tell the truth or use a fake story.” 

“Wait… Dumbledore didn’t already decide? He’s giving me the option?” 

Arthur nodded. “Technically, he gave me the authority to decide as even though he knows more about politics, my own domain very much encompasses law, especially muggle relations law. And I have decided that both options are feasible, and therefore am turning the decision over to you .” 

Harry took a deep breath, feeling his hands shaking at his sides. He was nervous. Adrenaline was shooting through his veins. He shook his head. This was ridiculous. How long has he been asking, begging Dumbledore to let him make a decision about his own life? How long has he wanted exactly this? And now that he has it he feels overwhelmed, paralyzed, the telephone booth turning claustrophobic. 

It was the weight of the decision. Even despite Arthur’s words he felt he was going to mess up. He could imagine Dumbledore’s disappointment, his gentle tone when he would tell Harry, “This complicates things” again. He imagined the way his insides would twist up even further then they did now. 

“What would Dumbledore do?” 

Arthur grimaced, opening his mouth slightly before closing it again, then offering, “He would lie. Politically, it is better for him. But as far as you are concerned, both options are perfectly fine. The trial is nothing more than for show. As long as we give them any excuse for your underage magic, you will get out of there without even a slap on the wrist. Both are perfectly fine options.” 

Only for show ? Which implied the decision was already made, and it was made in his favor, somehow. It was up to him. Up to him. He could lie, and no doubt please Dumbledore, or he could tell the truth and ease his own conscience. 

“Harry… I am not going to tell the Headmaster of our conversation. As far as he knows, whatever we say today is my decision, not yours.” 

With that simple sentence, all of the tension came out of his shoulders. He let his head fall back against the telephone booth, letting the cool metal sink into his skull. 

Dumbledore wouldn’t find out. 

It was a sudden thing, to realize he was afraid of Dumbledore, but it was also the truth. There was a pressure to act as Dumbledore would want him to, to live up to whatever expectations he had of him being the Boy-Who-Lived. Harry knew that Dumbledore’s perfect golden boy wouldn’t mind lying, not if it served a greater purpose. Dumbledore has made it clear that that was what was expected of him, even if he knew Harry wasn’t ready to do it yet.

He clenched his fists, letting his nails dig into his palms, letting the skin turn red, then white. 

“Tell the truth.” 

When he met Arthur’s features again, he was carefully stoic in a way that made him appear very suddenly like Snape. He leveled his gaze on Harry carefully, not allowing pleasure nor displeasure seep into his eyes. “Is that what you want?” 

“Yes.” 

Then Arthur smiled, teeth crooked. “Then that is what we will do.” 

Suddenly, light streamed in from the bottom of the booth, and the darkness ascended higher and higher until Harry was surrounded by light. They were in a large room with a huge domed roof. Below them were people, wizards scurrying about like ants along the forest floor, not even glancing their way, too caught up in their own business. The walls were made of black bricks, the floors appearing to be of white marble. The light must have been artificial considering their underground location, but felt and acted as though true sunlight was seeping in through the faux windows. 

What Harry found most magnificent however weren’t the sheer amount of people nor the great golden centerpiece statue of some ancient wizard conquestor long forgotten, but the images appearing on the domed ceiling. Across the ceiling were circular patterns, appearing almost like the constellations in Harry’s astronomy textbook. Each contained within them a differently formed geometric pattern, many even contained smaller circles inscribed along the main circle’s outer edge. In the center of the room was the largest one, nearly three times the size of any of the other circles on the ceiling, but by far also the simplest. It was composed only of a single outer and inner circle with a triangular pattern repeating between each. 

As the top of the telephone booth obscured their images, he came to the belated realization he recognized those patterns. It was a while ago now, but Hermione had shown them to him. They were spell motifs. They were now a mostly archaic way of studying spells. She had to memorize a few basic patterns for Arithmancy, but they were an incredibly complex field of study, even for someone as brilliant as Hermione. 

The telephone both landed on the ground. Arthur opened the door and they both tumbled out, blessedly free. His eyes found the ceiling again, and he heard Arthur chuckle from beside him.

“Beautiful, isn’t it? One of the few perks of working here everyday.” 

“Do you know what that one means? In the center?” 

“Ah! The light-giving motif: for as long as we have light, we have hope. You probably know it as lumos .” 

It was so simple. Simple enough that many wizards performed it not only without incantation, but without a wand . It was the spell Harry used to stay up studying for his herbology tests and the spell Hagrid used when trekking him and Ron through the woods in their first year and the spell Snape pointed towards his eyes when he had caught him out of bed in his third year. It was used to light up the boys dormitory for midnight exploding snap tournaments and the spell Ron used to talk to Harry in hushed voices in the dead of the early morning. 

Magic used to be so full of discovery and wonder for him. He remembered that first time Hagrid had performed a lumos charm in front of him, in that dingy coastal shack that Harry had no real desire to remember, but he could still recall that sense of wonder. If he tried hard enough, he could almost reach out and still touch it, but the feeling had faded long ago. 

How quickly did he learn to take such feats of magic for granted? When did magic become such a given in his life that the uniqueness of a lumos no longer filled him with excitement for the world he got to be a part of? 

There was an obvious enough answer. Harry knew it without having to think it. Especially when it was connected to the very same reason he was standing in the ministry in the first place. 

Arthur placed a hand towards the top of his back, beginning to lead him away from the now rising telephone booth. He forced his gaze back to the floor, to the reality in front of him, and let Arthur guide him deeper into the Ministry. 

Chapter Text

The ministry was impossibly bigger than it appeared from the lobby. 

Arthur got him registered with a visitor’s pass and confidently led him towards a larger hallway then through a series of smaller hallways. They went through a series of identical doors and identical hallways and Harry swore they must have passed the same painting of the hippogriff at least three times.

Yet with every turn deeper into the Ministry, they still passed a steady stream of people. 

“Mr. Weasley!” A woman called behind them. Arthur turned first, stepping swiftly in front of Harry. He didn’t attempt to lean around him to see her. “The incident regarding the O’Maley family has worsened overnight. Daniels wants them indicted and I tried to tell him it’ll only worsen matters, but he’s not listening to reason.” 

“Yes, yes, I am plenty aware. It’ll take at least a day for the paperwork to go through. In the meantime, have Song manage it for today and if Daniels doesn’t come to reason, I’ll have words with him tomorrow. Now, unless there is anything else…?” Arthur said, tone actually open to the prospect of further work. 

“No, that covers it. Everything is already sorted out. Have a good day, Mr. Wealsey!” Her footsteps were already retreating on the marble floors. 

“I’ll try, Ms. Rogers, I’ll try.” Arthur answered, and they were off again, navigating through the halls more labyrinthine than the Hogwarts dungeons. They came to an elevator and stepped inside, when someone else joined just as the door began shutting close.

“Hang on, Harry,” Arthur gripped a handlebar hanging from the ceiling. Harry was immensely glad he did, as instead of going down or up, the elevator immediately threw them backwards. 

“The hearing has been moved to ten,” the man spoke. He had a deep bristly voice like the low grumbling of the magic staircases moving in Hogwarts. He was tall with dark skin and wearing green robes. He stood still, seemingly not dismayed by the elevator throwing them every which way. 

“By Merlin! Ten? Do you know why?” 

“My guess is Malfoy, considering the news came to me through Fourten–Matthew, not Allyn. I assume I don’t need to tell you why Malfoy would pull this string, do I?” 

Arthur sighed. He turned his head towards Harry. “This is exactly the reason we left so early. Harry, this is Mr. Kingsley Shacklebolt. If you are ever lost in the ministry, he is another face you can trust. He was in the Order in the first war.” 

“I work in the Department of Justice with the auror administration.” Shacklebolt said by way of introducing himself. Harry was going to attempt something polite in response, but Shacklebolt readjusted his robes, and said, “This is me. Good luck. Give them hell for me, will you? Those stuck-up pain-in-the-arses need it.” 

Arthur chuckled and Shacklebolt left when the elevator opened. Just before it could close, a wooden cane lodged in the door, pushing it back open. Mad Eye Moody shuffled inside with the usual clink of his cane against the floor. 

“Mr. Weasley, Harry,” he acknowledged gruffly. His mechanical eye skipped right over Arthur, focusing directly on Harry. It scanned him from head to toe and Harry resisted the urge to step fully behind Arthur, but Arthur shifted, shielding Harry from Moody’s scrutiny.  Moody stepped fully in the elevator, turning towards the door. 

“Good morning, Alastor,” and his voice had turned cold. Its edges hardened like a lake under the first fall freeze. “Business as usual?” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t say usual, not by a long shot.” He licked his lips. “This trial has everyone in a ruckus, trying to get a glimpse of him,” he jerked his head towards Harry. Harry resisted the urge to make a smart retort, but heeded Snape’s advice from the other day. “Smart of you to take the back way, it is. Less people around.” 

“Indeed. I had believed less people would come this way.” Arthur said. Harry found himself pressing into the back of the elevator. If Arthur didn’t trust Moody, then he didn’t trust Moody. It didn’t matter how the ex-auror attempted to help him last year. Between the two of them, he trusted Arthur more, thank you very much. 

They stayed in silence for the rest of the time, but Harry had the distinct feeling Moody was watching him, even though he never even glanced in his direction. Eventually, the elevator stopped and Moody got off.

Arthur squinted at his watch. “We’re going to be just in time. It looks like luck might just be on our side today.” 

It was then a silky voice asked, “Room for one more?” 

It was Malfoy, dressed in fine black robes, his blonde hair pulled back in a queue. He preened for a second, apparently self-satisfied with himself, and didn’t wait for either of them to answer before stepping into the elevator besides Arthur. 

“Heading down for the trial so soon?” Malfoy asked. 

“Why, of course. We wouldn’t want to be late, especially considering the time change on such short notice. Rather inconsiderate, if you ask me.” Arthur bit out, his voice now nonchalant, aloof in a way that almost made Harry feel he was suddenly with Not-Arthur again. 

Malfoy only further straightened his back. “I do understand how it may be hard for a man of your station to…shall we say, fall behind? Completely understandable how one may be flustered over such an abrupt change in plans.” It was peculiar how Malfoy was only paying attention to Arthur, almost completely ignoring Harry.

“Ah, yes. Though I must confess, I do utterly sympathize for men of your station. Wealth will always blind you to the reality that the man with less strings pulls each with more weight.” Arthur jabs a finger into one of the buttons on the control panel. The elevator comes to a swift stop, doors opening. “Come, Harry. We have business to attend to.” 

Arthur carefully ushered Harry around Lucius. Harry didn’t even catch a glimpse of his face before the door closed behind them. 

They walked down more hallways, weaved down flights of stairs. The air was colder at this level of the ministry. Arthur checked his watch, nearly tripping over a bench. “Damn, Lucius. He knew I’d waste time taking you off of the elevator early. I apologize, Harry, but we are going to be late.” 

Harry picked up his pace, letting the sound of their footfalls fill their ears instead of his racing thoughts. It almost felt like they’d never reach the end of their quest when Arthur grabbed Harry’s sleeve and they went down a much thinner hallway. 

“Through this door is your hearing room. Do you remember what to do?” Harry nodded. “Good. Be polite. Tell the truth. And don’t speak unless I tell you to. I’m going to take care of this, got it?” 

“Yes, Arthur,” he managed despite his dry throat. Arthur gave him a warm smile before opening the door, flooding the corridor with blinding light. 

Chapter Text

The room was essentially a large amphitheater. As Arthur stepped out of his way, the full Wizengamont came into view. Though he knew from Hermione’s government rants there were no more than sixty wizards, to him it felt as though thousands of hungry eyes were watching him. 

There was a single empty place among the rows and rows of occupied seats, and Harry was sure that were he to look at the golden nameplate gleaming on the back of the chair, it would read in a perfect script A.P.W.B. Dumbledore .

(Perhaps, in another universe, where Dumbledore tells the ministry about Voldemort’s return and they still don’t believe him, perhaps he has already been stripped of his political power, perhaps that seat isn’t empty, but refilled. But here, Dumbledore is still powerful, so much so that he can’t even show face at Harry’s own trial.)  

The floor where he and Arthur were standing was empty save for a single seat and table. Each one of their clacking steps echoed on the stone walls. 

They were so far underground. An entire civilization beneath the feet of the waking muggle world. They were so afraid of muggles that even when they held all the power, even when they were attempting to put a fourteen-year-old in jail for a misdemeanor, they still needed that distance, that safety, as though  they had suffered an abuse not yet forgotten. 

The robes were swimming on him, he was sure. The lights were awfully bright, but he forced himself to follow Arthur into the center of the room, forced himself to stand still when Arthur announced their presence to the court. 

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it. How often in his life had he known every person in a room to be watching him, yet here, when he was for once innocent of what they were accusing him of, could he not stand tall in spite of it?

He was guilty, he knew, just not of the crime they were accusing him of. 

Smile. He needed to smile. Non-threatening, Snape had said, though clearly he too had disapproved of the advice. 

“I express my gratitude for your consideration today, Madam Director of the Department of Justice, Amelia Bones, and The Right Honorable Gentleman, the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge.” He looked up, pretended he was only meeting the disapproving gaze of his Headmaster, not the poorly-made facade on Fudge’s face from his raised seat. He was good at falling back on old habits, transferable skills and all that.

“You are late to your own hearing, Mr. Potter.” Fudge said. He, too, was attempting to do something not usually expected of him. He lowered his voice to a growl, almost experimentally, then realized he didn’t have it in him to be intimidating. “Care to explain yourself?” 

Before he could even think better of it, he glanced over at Arthur. Arthur straightened his back further and adopted a stern tone not entirely unlike the one he had used when lecturing Harry and Ron about why they were not , in fact, allowed to do death-defying stunts on their brooms during the summer. It was stubborn and unyielding, but not entirely unresponsive. “It is entirely my own fault, Minister. I was not made aware of the… recent changes to the hearing schedules today.” 

The minister made a disgruntled noise, but as the silence overcame the courtroom, a quiet clicking made itself known to Harry. 

He hadn’t noticed it before, but now it was obvious, there were in fact two familiar shocks of red hair here with him, as Percy Weasley sat right below the minister, furiously clicking away at some sort of typewriter. 

“May we be seated, now? I do wish to not prolong this hearing,” Arthur prompted. 

The minister waved a dismissive hand, as though catching up with Arthur. “Yes, yes, please be seated. The hearing of Harry James Potter will now begin.” 

Arthur motioned for Harry to take the only seat in the room. Harry attempted to keep his posture straight, his legs from tapping out a jittery beat on the floor. He could barely focus between it all. The lights and his heart in his chest and the numb feeling in his hands that made it feel like he didn’t even have hands at all. 

It was fine. Arthur had said he was going to be fine. Snape said he was going to be fine. 

“Mr. Weasley, I am sure your duty is done here. You may return when the trial adjourns.” 

Arthur blinked, smiled kindly. “I hope you are not implying, Minister, that after I had vocally announced myself as a witness for the defense, that you are still attempting to leave a fourteen-year-old boy to stand alone at his own criminal trial.” 

Fudge coughed, “Well, yes, of course, I had simply not realize d-” 

“Glad that’s settled then,” Arthur said, and it was nearly enough to make Harry laugh. Arthur Wealsey shutting down one of the most powerful men in the wizarding government. 

Fudge moved on by shuffling parchment loudly on his desk before announcing, “The charges against the accused are as follows: That he did knowingly, deliberately, and in full awareness of the illegality of his actions, having received a previous written warning from the Ministry of Magic on a similar charge, produce an Accio Charm in a Muggle-inhabited area, in a Muggle-inhabited house, in front of a muggle, on July the third twelve minutes past one in the morning, which constitutes an offense under paragraph C of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875, and also under section thirteen of the International Confederation of Wizards’ Statute of Secrecy.” 

What.

Fudge attempted to glare at him, but it was nothing compared to even a below-average Snape Glare Harry had weathered a dozen times before. “Are you under the age of seventeen?”

“Yes-”

“And are you aware that it is illegal to produce magic outside of school while under the age of seventeen?” 

“Yes, but-”

“And are you aware that it is illegal to produce magic in front of muggles?”

“Yes, but I didn’t-”

“Did you or did you not produce an effective accio charm on the morning of July third?”

“Yes, I did.” Harry could feel a headache growing behind his eyes. If only they could dim the torches. The light was too hot, too bright. 

“And did you indeed receive a warning three years ago about the use of a levitation charm in the presence of muggles?” 

“Yes, I did.” Harry shifted in the hard-backed chair. He could just make out Arthur in the corner of his eye, a soldier at attention, a snake waiting for his moment to strike. 

“Does the defense wish to argue against the evidence provided by the prosecution?” Fudge taunted. 

“Yes, we do.” Arthur responded smoothly. Without waiting for Fudge to respond, he approached Harry’s seat, “Harry, did you cast an accio charm in the presence of a muggle on morning of July third?” 

“N-no. There were no muggles present.” Truth. He was telling the truth. That was good, right? 

Arthur nodded. It was an encouragement meant only for Harry. “And where were you when you casted the charm?” 

“In my bedroom in the- my house.” 

“What is your relationship with the muggles in the house at the time?” 

“They’re my family, my blood family.” Arthur was looking at him, even though Harry knew Arthur and him should both be addressing the Wizengamot, but it was easier if he could just pretend it was him and Arthur, that he had messed up and Arthur was going to reprimand him. Arthur was a fair judge, jury, and executioner, better even than Molly. He always made sure Harry’s side of the story he heard first. 

“And what did you summon with the charm?” 

“A-a portkey. It was a black ring, with a small line indented through its center.” 

Arthur hummed and reached into his pocket and it took Harry a second to catch up with the dull circle of metal laying in the palm of his hand. “The defense submits Portkey 250695-0644 as evidence to the court. Records pulled from the Department of Wizarding Transportation will show that the portkey was registered by Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore for the intent of Emergency Use. Now,” he took his wand from its holster, “with a simple revelio incantatum -” 

From the ring a great burst of magic flew out of it. The blue streaks filled the air, further shedding the room in bright light, until they started to settle into numbers. They were backwards, facing towards the Wizengamot, but if Harry focused he just make out the forms of 03.07.1995 .

“It should be recorded,” Arthur continued as though without interruption, “ that the spell revealed that the date of activation was the third of July, 1995, and that the Beetertwap Halo landed on the defendant, Harry James Potter.” Harry tilted his head, not seeing any halo, until he looked down at his arms, and saw there was an eerie blue halo surrounding him form, being emitted from the ring. 

“Harry, did you willingly activate the portkey on the morning of July third?” 

“Yes, I did.” 

“Why did you need the use of the portkey?”

Harry swallowed. “Someone broke into my house in the middle of the night.”

Murmurs erupted among the Wizengamot. Arthur continued, a river cutting through stone. “Would you describe the events of the break in to the Wizengamot?” 

Harry schooled himself. He could do this. If he could talk about the worst night of his entire life to Snape, he could do this tiny thing in front of a couple dozen old scruffy wizards. Nevermind the fear he felt when the front door opened, the rush of blood when he saw the imposter for what he was, the crushing defeat of Dumbledore’s betrayal not even ten minutes after. 

Arthur smiled at him. 

He recounted the story quickly, efficiently. Every once in a while Arthur would make a sort of circling motion with his hand that implied Harry needed to explain what he was saying more. 

When he was done, Fudge was the first to burst from his seat, “You cannot possibly be implying that this is anything more than purely speculative evidence!” Harry looked towards Arthur, but the man was busy meeting Fudge’s gaze. “He could have activated that portkey at any time that day. That doesn’t prove anything!” 

“It is solid, circumstantial evidence that this court is required to take into account before determining a verdict,” Arthur paced a few steps away from Harry, took his eyes off of Fudge. “As for proving something, I do recall that our great democracy maintains that all defendants are innocent until proven guilty. Which, as I am sure you are aware, Minister, means the burden of proof rests with the prosecution, not the defense.”

“Such things are not set in stone.” He waved off. 

“Clearly not, as in my twenty years in the ministry did I ever expect a simple case of underage magic to be tried under the full Wizengamot.” 

“The boy had multiple instances of underage magic abuse in the past. As previously stated, he casted a levitation charm in July three years prior, and cast an expansion charm on  a muggle no less not a year later!”

“You better than anyone should be aware that both were determined to be Involuntary Underage Magic, which are completely legal exceptions to the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery as per the 1905 revisions. Madam Bones?” 

The woman with a severe face next Fudge shuffled her own stack of parchment on her desk. “That is correct, Mr. Weasley.” 

Fudge clenched a fist around his quill until Harry thought he was going to break it. “What of the boy’s disciplinary record at Hogwarts. His past actions clearly show that he is irresponsible and with his recent… role in the death of Cedric Diggory, it is only right for this body to be concerned for the safety of the wizarding world.” 

Arthur lurched, mouth opening to argue when a piercing sound interrupted him. 

“Hem-hem!” 

The voice was like the squeak of chalk on a blackboard, straining to the ear. For a moment, Harry believed the noise to have come from Madam Bones, before a shorter witch seated somewhat behind Fudge leaned towards the side to whisper something in Fudge’s ear. She had a round, nearly pudgy face that reminded him vaguely of Dudley, but with a brush of sharper features. Her pointed nose accompanied by an equally pointy chin, and most importantly, the stark pink robes making her stand out like a lost flamingo between the black-cladden delegates. 

Fudge cleared his throat, “The Chair recognizes Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Ministry.” 

“Thank you, Minister.” She continued in that voice not entirely unlike Petunia’s shrill tone when he did accidental magic, “May the court be aware this trial is to investigate the actions of Harry James Potter on the third of July, 1995 in regards to an infraction under the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Magic. Such inquiries into the speculated actions of a young man do not hold any standing in a courtroom, and the Minister of magic did not mean to imply any other sentiment.” 

That sounded… good. Even Arthur took a step back in surprise. 

“Furthermore, this esteemed body will not lower itself to the consequences of acting press speculation and should act only with the best interests of the state in mind. Thank you for the time, Minister.” 

She sat back down and disappeared behind the Minister almost as if she never spoke at all. 

“I must concur and reiterate Madam Secretary Umbridge’s statement: Harry’s actions in the death of Cedric Diggory have no bearing on why he is here today. What we do have here is testimonial and circumstantial evidence showing that Harry acted out of self-defense. As it is both legal for an underage wizard to use magic out of self-defense in subsection E of the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Magic law and the possession and use of a registered portkey by an unaccompanied minor over the age of twelve has been legal since the seventeenth century, Harry Potter is not reasonably guilty of the crimes he is accused of today.” 

He could see Fudge’s jaw clench, the muscle jumping every once in a while in barely-concealed anger. 

A few murmurs made their way across the Wizengamot. He took the moment to glance at Arthur, who met his gaze warmly. Arthur crossed the distance between them to stand just behind Harry’s chair, then placed a hand on his shoulder. He squeezed, and Harry felt the tension begin to drain from his form. His furiously pumping heart began to settle.

He was going to be alright. 

He didn’t listen when Madam Bones called for the vote nor did he whip his head from side to side trying to count the number of hands that raised. He simply sat there and let Arthur rub small circles into his shoulder. 

“Cleared of all charges. Court dismissed.”

With his verdict, chatter erupted out of the Wizengamot. He was still shaky, still felt like he had once again come close to death, but it was going to be okay. 

Arthur helped him out of the seat, and led him towards the doors. “This time,” Arthur said with a look over their shoulders, “We are taking the actual back way out of here.” 

-.-

Arthur took him out to lunch. 

Harry was changed into his far more comfortable muggle clothes. He hated the bulky wizarding robes. He never thought he’d relish the feeling of cotton and denim on his skin. 

They were seated in an awfully run-down restaurant that Arthur positively delighted in. He was seemingly enamored by the sticky menus and wobbly table and smell of spoiled milk that pervaded through the too-hot air so pungently that Harry could almost taste it on his tongue. 

“That was excellent work, Harry. Simply excellent.” Arthur opened the menu in front of him. “I’m very proud of you.” 

Harry was suddenly very glad Arthur’s attention was taken up by the menu. He barely repressed the urge to hide his face in his hands as the heat rose to his cheeks and spread down his neck. 

“You did most of the talking,” he muttered in some attempt to not take all the credit. It was true, in any case. Arthur did do most of the talking. 

“Hmm. I suppose I did. But you stated your testimony very well and ignored Fudge’s claims and even didn’t fidget half as much as I expected. You did admirably,” Arthur said. He had somewhat loosened his tie since sitting down and took off his coat when they entered the restaurant. Even in his button down he seemed more relaxed, more Arthur-like. 

Harry shrugged, and made a half-hearted effort to look through the menu, but knew nothing would look appetizing. He felt awful. The heat was not helping the sweat that stuck to the back of his neck nor the headache beginning to come to full power behind his eyes. His stomach was tight and only grew tighter scanning the prices on the menu. All he wanted was to lie down in a cool room and not have to think for a good long while. 

He wanted to go back to Spinner’s End. 

There began to emerge a sort of routine at Spinner’s End, a day-to-day domesticity that not even Snape could taint enough for Harry to not find comfort in it. There was a certain freedom allotted to him there that he hadn't had the privilege of having at any other point in his life. He missed his friends and Sirius and Hogwarts dearly, but there was so much less pressure on him now. As much as he was able to be himself around his friends, he still often felt he had to be the one to protect them. On some level, they were his responsibility to keep safe, to provide for. He wanted to seem strong around them, if only so they didn’t have to worry about keeping him safe, even if they ended up doing anyway. 

It didn’t matter what Harry did in front of Snape, he’d always be a selfish spoiled James Potter spawn. Whether he was happy or sad or angry didn’t matter much past whether he managed to piss Snape off enough to spend an hour in his lab. There were no real consequences to his actions. There would be no worried looks at dinner or lectures in the common room or glances over his head. 

Snape never asked him to be more than he was capable of.

It wasn’t exactly home, but it was… sanctuary. He was beginning to grow fond of his blanched-blueberry bedroom and the patchwork-flowered meadow and even the creaky spot at the bottom of the stairs that Snape always seemed to step on.

Spinner’s End was known. Spinner’s End was safe. 

The waitress returned with glasses of water and asked for their order.

“I’ll take a cheeseburger for myself and Harry…?” 

“I don’t need anything. I’m- I’m not really hungry.” 

“He’ll have one as well,” Arthur smoothly covered. Harry kept his gaze on the table, face flushing over Arthur having to order his meal like he was a kid. Everything felt discordant after the rollercoaster of the morning, like standing on solid earth after flying for hours on his broom. 

The waitress left. “I-I really don’t need anything.” 

“Do an old man the favor of humoring me.”

Harry snorted, thinking of Dumbledore’s wrinkly eyes. “You’re not old.” 

“No? You don’t see this graying hair? Because it’s all the twins have been teasing me about all summer long. Frankly they’ve almost convinced me I’m on my deathbed.” 

He laughed, but the sound was dim even to his own ears. 

“Do they… know yet about the verdict?” Harry asked. 

“Yes. Dumbledore is informed immediately via owl of any decisions the Wizengamot makes when he is not there. He should have had ample time by now to pass the information on to the necessary people.” 

“Like Snape?” 

Harry didn’t know why it was important for Snape to know in that moment. He could picture the man grumbling about Dumbledore interrupting his important potions work to inform him of something so trifling, “You mean I have to teach Potter for another whole year!”  

“Yes, the Professor should have been informed within minutes.” Arthur took a sip of the tepid water. “Though the verdict was entirely planned. Unless we truly messed up, you were going to be cleared the entire time.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“The Headmaster pulled favors within the Wizengamot to essentially buy their vote. That sort of thing has a ripple effect, ensuring that enough members would vote for you before you even stepped into the courtroom.”

Dumbledore had orchestrated the entire thing. There was no trial. It was all theater from the very beginning. It made no difference what he did or didn’t say. 

Dumbledore was always in control. His influence was inescapable. Everywhere he looked, everywhere he turned, he was there. In any corner of his past, in any glimpse of his future, it all went back to the Headmaster. 

It was a position held by only one other person in his life, though he didn’t think Dumbledore would appreciate the comparison to their resident Dark Lord. 

“But that's…” 

“Illegal?” Arthur ventured. “Yes, very. Which is why in this particular section of law, our muggle counterparts hold the more noble position. As a wizard, you only have a right to trial by jury in felony cases. This sort of misdemeanor requires no jury or attorney which leaves such things vulnerable to political influences.” 

And they called the muggles backwards. The entire thing was just to make Harry seem like some sort of delinquent. Harry resisted the urge to groan. 

“I hadn’t realized you needed to know that much about law to be in the muggle artifacts office.” 

Arthur smiled sadly, eyes wandering towards the busy street outside the window. “You don’t. I just happen to have had a passion for law in my youth.” He returned to Harry, “I still do retain much passion for law, even if I have never pursued it.” 

“You wanted to be a lawyer?” 

He nodded, returning to his water. “I did, but things didn’t work out. I was faced with the choice between following my own passion and doing the right thing for my family, and I chose my family.” 

He always knew of Arthur’s commitment to his family. It was obvious in everything he did. In his clothes that were a decade out of style so can buy his son new dress robes. In the world he envisioned for his children to grow up in. In his quiet commitment to making sure everyone had enough to eat at dinner before him. Arthur was everything needed of him from his family. 

“Do you regret it?”

“Absolutely not.” The strength of Arthur’s resolve startled Harry. “Do not mistake me for an unhappy man. I have my work and I do it well. I have my wonderful family, and the opportunity to aid the Order, to do something that truly ignites my soul.” Arthur's gaze grew intenser still, as though he was imploring Harry to do something but Harry had no idea what he was being asked to do. “Had I pursued law, I’d have mounted far too much debt on my family. I would have never been there to help Molly with the kids. I’d have lost so much for having gained so little.” 

Harry swallowed. The movement pulled at his throat. “I understand. Or, at least, I think I do.” 

“You’re young, Harry. I expect that you may not.” 

The soft rock music clicked over to some saccharine sweet pop song that Harry didn’t care to know. “I didn’t expect to see Percy there.” 

Arthur grimaced. “I want my children to have everything I couldn’t, Harry.” There was something in that statement meant for him, somewhere in the way Arthur’s eyes didn’t stray from his own. “But Percy’s ambitions are blinding him to Fudge’s ministrations. Fudge is a fool, but he’s not stupid.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“He’s using Percy. Obviously and overtly to get to myself, and more importantly, to get to Dumbledore.” 

There are holes in the Order, and not all of them report directly to the Dark Lord.

“And Percy is too proud to admit that he earned that spot on anything less than merit alone,” Arthur said. “It’s a perfect recipe for disaster and the reason my part in this little excursion was so last minute. Dumbledore didn’t want to risk Percy finding out what we were doing.” 

Harry rubbed at his brow. He was too tired for anger now, but perhaps tomorrow he’d have it in him. 

“What about that woman? The one in pink?” 

“Ah. Dolores Umbridge. She’s a half-blood who has spent her entire life making a name for herself in politics.” 

Harry frowned. “What does her blood have anything to do with it?” 

“In politics? Everything. There is a vast difference between something that doesn’t matter and something that shouldn’t matter . You and I both know that were she at this table with us, we wouldn’t treat her any differently because of her blood, but in the world of politics, it’s a completely different story.” 

“Oh. I see.” He understood that difference, in his own way. 

“For her position, she is very much an unknown. We know that she wouldn’t be sympathetic to our cause, but we don’t really believe her to be a threat to it. Not yet, at least.” 

Harry shrugged. “She seemed nice.” 

“Perhaps. On the one hand, she may have defended you out of belief for the fair pursuit of justice and on the other…she may have only been doing P.R. control for the Minister.” 

Harry’s attention drifted to the bustling street outside the window. Groups of people passed by like clouds rolling across the sky. Every once in a while a car horn or irritated shout would make it past the window. He appreciated the lull in the conversation, found comfort in the quiet company.

The waitress returned with the two steaming plates and retreated with their quiet thanks. 

Arthur began to eat his burger, but the greasy-thick scent only further turned Harry's stomach into a seething potion. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and he barely resisted the urge to shut his eyes against the rising headache.

Arthur had been so pleased with himself. So happy to be able to take Harry out to lunch, to do something for him, and now Harry was throwing it all back in his face. He was ungrateful, wasting the money Arthur spent on him when he knew the Wealsey’s had so little. He should have offered to pay himself. Should have just forced himself to order the ham sandwich. It was a lot cheaper than the cheeseburger. 

“Do you need this?” 

He had closed his eyes somewhere in all of that. When he opened them, Arthur was holding a thin vile. He didn’t connect the dots at first, not until Arthur released his hand, revealing the lilac color of its contents. 

“H-how did you? Where did you-?”

“Drink first. The waitress can’t see you from where she’s standing right now.” Harry obeyed, quickly uncorking the bottle and downing it. As Harry allowed the cool relaxant to spread from his core to the ends of his fingers, Arthur hid the bottle back in his jacket. 

He took the first bite of the cheeseburger, and Harry was sure no burger had tasted better in his life. “Thank you.” The words came easier than they had all morning. 

“He’s taking good care of you. I can see that, now.” 

Harry inhaled sharply. He never would have expected those words to be ascribed to Snape. He wasn’t sure if Snape did deserve them, not after everything he had done before. There was so much of Snape’s venom still lingering in his bones. He couldn’t so soon forget the torments of his potions class, the injustices his friends had suffered.

He trusted that Snape wouldn’t throw him to Voldemort’s feet and that he wouldn’t do anything to threaten Harry’s life but… that was it.

(Then again, he was slowly learning to trust in the lavender bottle resting on the kitchen table.) 

“He’s kept me fed.” Was what Harry settled on. Anyone who fed him was better than the Dursleys by a mile. 

“And entertained with the dueling?” Arthur teased. 

“More like tiring me out with dueling so I’m not such a pain in his backside.” They both laughed. “But I still manage to be a pain. Then he puts me to work in his lab as if I’m serving detention.” 

“That does sound like Severus–trying to solve all of his problems with potions.” Which made Harry laugh, and the mediocre burger tasted better than it did before.

“I didn’t- I was-” Harry took a deep breath, “I didn’t realize he would do something like this ,” he motioned towards the empty flask. “One second he was angry with me for refusing to eat, and the next I had the potion in my hand.” 

Arthur shifted in his seat, pulled at the cuffs of his sleeves. “I won’t sit here and tell you that Severus cares,” he said, “because I’m not quite sure if he does. He is an incredibly bitter, stubborn, and often exhausting man to be around. However ,” Arthur raised his brow, “he also has an incredible mind, a keen eye, and adheres to a rigid moral code.” 

“There’s no way,” Harry spat, “What about what he did to Professor Lupin! And the vile things he has said to Hermione! He once made Neville feed a botched potion to his toad, you know!” Harry exclaimed as though it were the equivalent to premeditated murder. 

“I said he adheres to a rigid moral code–I never said anything about it being a conventional one.” 

Harry shook his head. He’d never thought to decipher Snape’s actions because he acted with such a consistency that Hary never thought of him as anything other than their vindictive potion’s teacher. But he did save Harry’s life when Quirrell cursed his broomstick and tried to save Harry from Malfoy’s snake in their second year, and even well- even made sure he had the balm for his forearm after the third task. There were even the smaller things—how Snape once yelled Harry’s ear off for nearly cleaning out cauldrons without gloves on or how Snape had defended him when he was accused of putting his name in the goblet. 

Or how he made sure Harry was able to eat at his meals. 

He was still a vindictive bastard, but he had very well earned his right to not be on Harry’s May Attempt to Murder Me list. 

He had the rest of the summer to think about Snape. For now, he wanted to focus on Arthur’s kind eyes over a greasy meal in a dingy London restaurant. 

“How have Bill and Charlie been faring?” Harry asked, and Arthur beamed.

Chapter Text

Harry tumbled out of the floo, landing with his usual amount of elegance. Which is to say flat on his face. He groaned, pressing the heel of his palm into his eyes in an attempt to quell the rising nausea. 

“Still not used to the floo, Potter?” 

“Shut. It.” 

He managed to get to his feet by himself to find Snape sitting in the armchair with the Daily Prophet open, appearing as though he didn’t notice Harry tumbling onto his living room floor. 

When he lowered the paper, he held himself with that particular stature that a few weeks ago Harry would associate with a hungry fox stalking its prey. But now it simply meant Snape was pleased with himself, though often still at Harry’s expense. 

Harry fell into the couch, burying his face in the cushion and nearly jumped back off when Snape bit out a barking laugh. The couch was fatally musty and he got a mouthful of old fabric, but he didn’t have the energy to turn around. Not even to defend his honor to Snape. 

Not that it was worth defending. Snape had seen him much worse than this. No point in pretending otherwise. Not when he was so drained. 

“By all accounts, a successful mission,” Snape taunted. He could hear the smile in the bastard’s voice. Harry groaned. There was a pause, then in a more restrained tone, “Even the headmaster is pleased.” 

Dumbledore was pleased. 

Somehow, somewhere, that did not make him feel better. There was little satisfaction for what he had accomplished, and what warmth he did have from Arthur’s praise slipped through his grasp at those words. 

Dumbledore was pleased.

He didn’t want Dumbledore to be pleased with him. He wanted to make him angry. He wanted to shock the old headmaster. He wanted desperately to do anything to prove he’s not just his little golden boy. He was grown up. He was making his own decisions, having his own opinions now.

He wanted to be something Dumbledore could not tame. He wanted to be unruly, merciless, careless, heartless. He wanted to be sharp and fearless and bitter. He wanted to be the strike of lightning and the cold glare of repentance. He wanted to be everything Dumbledore feared he could be. Feared he  would be.

But right now there was an ache in his gut that slowly rose up through his chest and made its home in his neck and he very suddenly knew there was nothing to stop his tears. 

“If you’re going to act that way, then just go to bed.” 

Harry groaned because he knew anything more would reveal the wet spots he was creating in the fabric of the couch. He refused to let Snape see this. He could hold perfectly still. He could avoid the embarrassment of a gasping breath and a choked sob. He had years of practice. Just pretend the door was slammed shut. Just pretend he knew no one was coming to bandage his cuts and kiss his bruises and the cupboard would remain darker than the night. 

“I know you're not asleep already. Get upstairs or I’m going to do it for you, and you won’t like the way I do it. And there’ll be no dueling tomorrow.” 

Harry steadied himself. Focused on anything to not cry. The tears stilled, which meant he had to go before they came back. 

He pushed off the couch slowly, angling his face away from Snape, swung his legs onto the floor. Then came the key to the entire act: he raised both his fists to his face, pretending to rub at his tired eyes, when really he was wiping the wetness from them. 

Luckily he hadn't cried long enough for his nose to run. Or his face to turn red. The eyes being red could be explained away by the rubbing. He repositioned his glasses and stood up. 

He risked a glance at Snape. He didn’t appear as coy, his features having flattened out, but his brow was now creased. Harry’s head was filled with too much fog to understand what that meant. But the Snape he knew wouldn’t hesitate to accuse him of crying had he believed it, so he would take the win for what it was. Regardless of Snape’s… snapey features. 

He went towards the stairs, but was stopped before he could get out of the man’s line of sight. “Potter!” 

“What!” Harry said roughly. He wouldn’t turn around. Snape would know his expression didn’t match his tone. He would see right through the entire thing. He knew Snape was smart like that.

“Get some rest.” 

Harry went up the stairs, grasping the smooth wood of the railing for support. He did not respond. He did not have the energy to even understand what that meant. Snape was usually so straightforward, so easy to read. He didn’t like this side of him that he couldn’t grasp so readily.

The blue room greeted him with his dirty laundry and unmade bed and scattered parchment.

He needed to get the robes off. Immediately. If he waited any longer he would be in bed with them until morning. Just one more thing. He could go to bed without brushing his teeth, without a shower. He just needed the weight of these damn robes off. Just needed to be in his muggle pajamas. Just needed to be just Harry. 

He got into the too-large shirt and the pants that very nearly did fit him right since they were from Ron, collapsed into his bed, and pulled the quilt over his body.

There was a relief in it all. In being in Spinner’s End. In Snape’s sardonic comments. In the blue room. In his worn pajamas and soft quilt. It was safe. It was familiar. 

This relief, Harry found, did not help the weight lodged in his throat. It made it worse. It made him want to sob. It made him want to scream. It made him want things he had no business wanting, things he hadn’t let himself desire in so long that he couldn’t put words to it for fear of the sheer grief of it all. 

Harry wept. 

He tried to deny himself. Over and over again in the silence of his darkened room he would calm himself. He would prepare himself to close his eyes and go to sleep, but then one of his lingering thoughts would make it all come rushing back and he would weep once more.

He had thought himself exhausted. He didn’t think he had the energy to cry this much in one night. He didn’t think himself so weak-willed as to cry this much in one night. But long past the time he heard Snape’s footsteps creep past his door did this cycle continue. And long after it ended he could do nothing but stare blankly at the little stars on his ceiling, wondering if they too ever felt the fear of falling from the sky. 

When he fell asleep, it was to the light beginning to seep in through the cracks in the blinds. 

Chapter Text

They had a quiet morning, which was not unusual. Until Harry did his defense reading for the day, there was little to talk to Snape about unless they were shouting with each other. As he had told Arthur, there was less shouting now.

Better to have a quiet morning. There was much less of a chance of Snape finding out just how deep the bags under his eyes go. 

He would pretend that he could handle a shouting match with Snape right now because he was not delicate. He has been through hell and back. He could take some mean words. If it were to come to that. 

Harry made a diligent attempt at the defense work assigned today, but no matter how interesting he found the theory, the words kept blurring on the page. His head was heavy. The only thing keeping him from his bed was the knowledge that it would either be a completely fruitless endeavor, or he would fall so deeply asleep that he’d have to deal with the embarrassment of Snape finding him tucked in bed at lunch. 

So, no bed. 

He despised this sort of limbo where he was too tired to really focus on anything but could not go to sleep. Every half hour or so his frustration would run out and he’d go to the bathroom, turn the facet to the coldest it would go and thrust water into his face until his cheeks numbed. 

It helped some. But not enough. 

The time to duel came with Harry dragging his feet outside and the mid-afternoon meadow nearly engulfing him in heat. He was tired, yes, but even more so he was seething in frustration. He’d wasted much of a perfectly good day, proven he was too weak to merely function when presented with a single night’s missed sleep. What happened to the boy who could do manual labor for hours on barely a piece of toast? 

He’s grown weak. 

Snape instructed him to cast the spells he reviewed today. Despite not even knowing whether he learned hexes or curses, he had the three new incantations memorized, and through sheer force of will commanded his magic out of him and through the wand. It was a sort of ugly feeling, as though he were tearing fabric apart at its seams, each stitch popping off with a perverse crack. Magic was usually smooth, natural, an opening of a current, a river finding the ocean. It had finesse and texture and complexity that was beautiful in and of itself. There was something beautiful in the wonder of a feather soaring in the air, in the strength of a patronus’s ethereal protector, in the power held over a body under the cruciatus .  

This was an instinct more primitive than brute force.

But the spell was casted successfully, so they had to duel. They kept the same rules as always. Snape won if he incapacitated Harry. Harry won if he used all of the new spells. They duel until Harry wins. 

Snape got him with some stunner within a minute. Harry barely resisted the urge to stamp his foot in frustration like a child. He readied his wand again, and decided that if he was determined enough, if he furrowed his brow enough, he could ignore the fact he was already dead on his feet. 

On the count, he immediately fired off a few offensive spells. He was forced to raise his shield spell against the incoming streams of light. He shot off an a silent expelliarmus before having to immediately raise his shield again. He really should be using a stronger shield charm than an absorption-based protection. 

He dodged a spell that narrowly missed his shoulder. He didn’t recognize Snape’s form in the meadow beyond the point where the spells originate. In his mind, he was simply fighting a dummy. Meaningless light was flying through the air. 

It was a struggle to remember which spells he needed to perform to defend himself, much less in order to win the duel. 

He knocked one spell off of the list, but he was overcompensating. Dodging more than he was shielding, and there was no way Snape was not catching on to his antics. He shot two spells back to back, and Harry’s wand flew out of his hand.

“Are you even trying?” Snape said. 

Harry snatched his wand from the man’s grip. “I’m not the one dueling someone less than half my age.” 

“And you are so arrogant as to not realize I’m going easy on you. Truly spectacular. Your blindness knows no bounds.” Snape shot back. Harry growled, and went back to his position. 

They started again, and Harry was growing desperate. Sure, he’s come out of these dueling sessions having only defeated Snape after five, even six duels, but never has he known this level of exhaustion. Usually, instinct would have taken over by now, giving him the artificial boost of energy to make it through the duels. His passion for defense would have made the duel at least as interesting as it was painful. 

But now he just felt dread. He wasn’t going to make it through another round of this. His head was pounding. His heart fluttering unevenly in his chest. He was too hot and too overwhelmed by the feeling of his hair sticking to the back of his neck and the dryness in his throat. He needed to finish this. 

He forced one of the spells out again and barely dodged something that was probably a stunner. 

He had to do this. He had to prove he could finish this. He wasn’t weak. 

They traded a few more spells before Harry flung the second new spell towards Snape and nearly missed the light coming towards him from the relief. 

One more. 

He was dodging and shielding nearly every second. Snape was keeping him busy, not letting him cast offensively. What nonverbal disarming charms he got off were not enough to distract him. 

Then, Harry had an idea. 

It was an easy charm, though it had little practical use. Unless you were Fred and George. In which case, you would take great joy in teaching firsties how to perform it, just to get a dose of chaos. 

Harry casted the spell, hoping Snape was now too far away to hear him. All it did, all it was meant to do actually, was to make a loud distracting sound. Usually, someone would shoot it into the air to draw attention to themselves, but Harry couldn’t risk pointing his wand so far away from where the torrent of spells was coming from. Instead he pointed it at the ground, attempting to place it relatively in the middle of where him and Snape were standing. 

It landed much closer to Harry than Snape, creating an almost deafening BANG! 

Less than a second later, Harry knew he fucked up. 

He smelled sulfur. He could feel it. The desperation. The dread, the exhaustion. The burn in his forearm. His magic aching, begging with him to stop treating it so cruelly. He was using too much of it, he knew, yet he still demanded more. Surely he could demand this one thing of himself when there was a dead boy in the grass. 

The blasting hex tore through the gravestone behind him with a deafening BANG! He ducked on instinct, and saw a piece of solid stone land in front of him. He wondered whether or not it would have hit his head were he still standing. If he had passed out, would Voldemort have killed him immediately? Would he be revived and killed or captured and tortured further for fun?

Two dead boys in the grass, a mere few feet too high. 

Voldemort had such eerily pale skin. It was almost pure chalk-like white. His face was a false mimicry of something pretending to be human. It held the right components in the right places, but it was smoothed over, devoid of any evidence of ever having laughed or squinted at the sun. He cackled, pure magic radiating off of him in waves.

He was in a meadow and a spell was aimed at his chest, but he couldn’t raise his wand. He stumbled, falling to the ground, and distantly knew pain bloomed in his side but didn’t quite know how or why. His head hit the ground second, and he was sure one second he was staring into a blue abyss and the next a crooked nose and severe eyes were hovering over him. 

The sky was blindingly blue. A beautiful, endless blue. Harry thought it much too cheerful for a living graveyard reunion. 

“You were meant to block the curse, you idiot!” 

He was an idiot. Who did he think he was? His luck was running out. A lifetime of luck used up in the span of fourteen years. He wasn’t fooling anyone. These pitiful attempts at defense, the what-if’s he ran through his mind, trying to find another answer, another way to end the story, but in every corner, Voldemort was still there.  He couldn’t deny their connection. He has defined his past, present, and future. Voldemort haunted his mind. The ghost of his magic was engraved in his scars. His eyes pierced him. His wand was raised. The dead laid beneath their feet. 

His life was but a fool’s errand. How it took him so long to figure out, he didn’t know. Hermione had been a good friend to not tell him. Surely she had it figured out long ago. But now, he knew his purpose, and it was to live a short life, to reach martyrdom before he turned fifteen. 

He was an idiot for ever thinking otherwise.

Despite the inevitability of it all, he still felt an overwhelming guilt that was almost like grief. It was blurry around its edges, like an overexposed polaroid. Raw from the heat of it all. “I’m sorry,” he begged. “I’m sorry.” His parents didn’t ask for a son with a bounty on his head. They deserved better than him. They deserved a son that wasn’t a martyr. 

They deserved to be alive. 

He shuddered in the afternoon heat. “Yes, yes, you should have blocked the curse. Were you truly so exhausted as to not even manage a half-shield?” A voice snapped at him. “You better not have a concussion. I am not capable of taking care of concussed dunderheads.”

Oh.

Only Snape used words like dunderhead. 

The scratchy grass and the blue sky and the ache in his ribs didn’t come back to him so much as the graveyard faded from his mind, revealing what was there all along, underneath the illusion. His heart still fluttered in his chest and his mouth was still dry, but the right details were there. Mostly Snape. There was scratchy grass and blue sky and an ache in his ribs there too, but Snape’s crooked nose definitely was not. 

Snape’s head tilted and Harry just barely kept himself from crying out from the sun hitting his eyes. He still flinched and closed his eyes. Snape, with his incredibly vast vocabulary, deadpanned, “Motherfucker.”

Harry nearly passed out from laughing. 

“Oh, yes, laugh it up, Potter. You will not be laughing when you are sitting in a dark room for a week bored out of your mind. I should have never done this.” 

“Wait, no! I’m fine! I can still duel.” 

Now it was Snape that looked amused. “Really? You can stand up, get into your ready position, and cast spells with a concussion.” 

“This isn’t a concussion.” One time Petunia’s frying pan found its mark, but it never did so again. Harry learned his lesson the first time ‘round, thank you very much. This was nothing compared to that. “Look!” 

Harry rolled over and attempted to stand up. This immediately resulted in a wave of nausea overcoming him and he promptly threw up in the grass. He collapsed under his weight, luckily not in the pool of throw up, causing his ribs to protest. 

“Okay. So I might have a concussion.” 

“Oh, really? I would have never guessed, you brat.” 

“I’m concussed, not deaf!” Harry shouted and then winced at the sound reverberating through his skull. 

“You are a dunderhead.” Snape groaned. “What am I meant to do with you?” 

“Don’t worry. Dumbledore can’t fire you.” 

Snape gave him a vaguely disgusted side-eye. “I wish he would.” 

“Still not deaf!” 

Snape ignored this. “Alright. I am going to use a blinding hex on you in hopes that it will decrease your light-sensitivity sufficiently enough for you to walk inside.” 

“But how will I see where I’m going?” 

“Pott- how do you even come up with such inane questions?” 

“The raw power that comes with being the Boy-Who-Lived. It’s all gone to my head, ‘esser.” He wanted to pout that it wasn’t an inane question just tell me how I am getting inside but knew Snape wouldn’t answer him.

“That’s enough from you. Disvedere. ” 

His world went dark, but it wasn’t the sort of darkness of night or locked inside his cupboard or even with his eyes closed. It was as if there was nothing to see at all. There was nothing where there used to always be something. It was like trying to recall an answer while staring at a test. There was nothing there to recall. 

Very suddenly his heart began its furious pounding again. He didn’t know where his wand was. There was no warning if something happened. He couldn’t run away. He couldn’t fight back. He’d just have to take it, but he wouldn’t even know what it is until it striked his skin. 

It was the sort of dread that kept him anxious and wide-eyed, staring at the cupboard door for fear of missing the moment it was ripped off of its hinges. 

Ignorance of the final blow was a mercy. Anticipation was torture. 

“Try standing up now.” 

Harry flinched from the noise, and the worst part was not knowing if Snape noticed. Surely the man would just write it off as sensitivity from his concussion? 

He stood up using muscle memory, ignoring the flaring pain in his side. When he swayed a bit before rising to his full height, a hand caught his shoulder and steadied him. 

“Don’t fall again.” 

“Wouldn’t have thought of that one, professor.” 

“Dunderhead.”

“Git.”

“Brat.”

“Dungeon bat.” 

“Don’t push it.” Snape nudged his shoulder, “Start walking so you can stop being a fall hazard.” 

Without thinking, Harry began moving forward. He let Snape nudge him in the right direction and passed through the doors spelled open. It wasn’t until they reached the top of the stairs that Harry realized he had forgotten to be nervous about the entire thing. 

“Your room is a mess,” Snape said. There was the sound of things moving around him, but too much was moving at the same time to know what Snape had done exactly. 

Harry rolled his eyes. He hoped it had the intended effect. “Let me see again.” 

“Not until you are sitting down.” 

Harry sat on the bed without Snape’s help. There was an incanted, “ revedere ,” and Harry was in his darkened room. The blinds had been closed over the windows, andhe could just make out a neat path from the door to his bed was cleared of his spare parchment and dirty clothes. 

“Don’t you have a potion for this kind of thing?” 

“There is a potion, but it must be given in doses precise to the militer based on factors such as weight, magical core strength, severity of injury, and multitude of other factors—unless you wish your brain to dissolve into pink mush and drip out through your nose.”

“Oh. You can’t measure it?” 

Harry couldn’t see Snape’s expression, but he could nearly feel the glare through his, “Do I look like a healer to you, Potter?” 

He shrugged. “It’s too dark to tell.” 

Snape moved towards the bed and it took Harry a second to realize he was holding a vial out to him.  “For the pain. I believe you are already well acquainted with this potion.” 

The citrus smell hit his nose and he didn’t need to be told twice before downing it. Funny how the last time he was given a pain potion was also by Snape.

He expected Snape to leave then, but his sneakers magically untied themselves and moved off his feet, followed closely by his glasses floating off of his head. 

Snape waited for him to get into bed before leaving him in the room. 

Now, Harry was sure that had to be the end of it. Snape was going to let him sleep it off for a day or so. Maybe the man would even remember to bring him something to eat sometime tomorrow. 

It felt like he was only asleep for a few minutes before he was greeted with the sound of Snape’s voice again. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Just look at the light.” The end of Snape’s wand was lit. 

“I’m fine. It’s just a concussion.” 

“‘Just a concussion’ can turn into ‘just brain bleeding,’ and you will go to sleep and never wake up.” Snape extinguished the end of his wand, apparently satisfied with the results. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.” 

The door clicked shut. Harry lay alone in the darkness, feeling suddenly lost. 

It wasn’t like brain bleeding was that common. He’d been fine when he was younger. It’s not like the Dursleys ever bothered to keep an eye on him when he was injured. Snape shouldn’t be… being so neurotic about the entire thing. 

Each time he fell back asleep, he didn’t really expect to wake up to Snape again, yet each time he would awake and the potions master would be seated in his desk chair beside his bed. 

It was long after Harry lost count of how many cycles they went through when he asked, “What time is it?” 

“Just past 2 in the morning,” Snape responded, “Do you need more potion?” 

The pain had flared again, but it wasn’t that bad. Especially since he wasn’t doing anything. He was about to say as much when the cool glass was pushed into his hand, and it would be more rude to refuse it than to accept. 

The relief made him feel drowsy and he slumped back against his pillow. 

“I’ll leave you for a bit longer this time. It looks like you aren’t going to die in your sleep. Unfortunately.” 

Harry stuck out his tongue. He didn’t hear Snape’s reply before falling asleep. 

-.-

The next day was far more confusing. 

Snape gave him toast for breakfast. In his bed . He checked in every hour or so and told Harry in no uncertain tone to call if he threw up which was ridiculous. If Harry called for Snape, his voice would only be able to carry downstairs. There was no way it’d reach the lab, certainly. Which meant the only logical explanation was that Snape was forfeiting that use of his lab for the day for Harry. 

The other possible explanation, provided by the Hermione living in his head, was that Snape had put some kind of spell on his room so that he could hear Harry if he called. That was a little more acceptable, but also meant that Snape had taken the time and energy to do it in the first place. 

It was around 3 in the afternoon that Snape declared him Definitely Not Going To Die, having been a full 24 hours since the initial injury. 

“Madam Pomfrey is unable to be taken away from her duties.” Snape said, “ You are going to just have to rest for a few days.” 

“A few days? But that's so long.” Harry complained. It was quite childish, but he was feeling sleepy after taking another pain potion. “Usually I’d start working again tomorrow after having a concussion.” 

Snape gave him a funny look. “What do you mean?” 

“You know. If I was stupid enough to get a concussion, my Aunt and Uncle would let me take the next day off so I wouldn’t barf everywhere, but they’d expect me to go back to work the following day,” Harry explained. It was weird to have to explain something so simple to Snape. Usually Snape was smarter than that. Maybe it was because he was talking about muggles and Snape was a pureblood? He wouldn’t be surprised if Snape were a pureblood. It might explain how he ended up as a spy against Voldemort. Maybe he only joined to impress his blood purist parents and then traded sides once he realized he was being an idiot. 

Somewhere in the cloudy thoughts in the back of his mind, Harry realized this was the first time he ever brought up his relatives in front of Snape. This would have horrified him in any other situation, but that pain potion dosage was definitely a little too high, and it soothed over any of the rising anxiety before it seized him. 

“Did you work at a store that they owned? Or somewhere else?” 

“Neither. I did loads of chores for them though.” Harry yawned. “You know, normal stuff.” 

Snape’s chair creaked. Harry closed his eyes. “What’s ‘normal stuff’?” 

“It’s… you know-” Harry giggled, “Don’t you do chores, Professor? Like laundry and cooking and cleaning. Some yard work.” 

“You did that a day after having a concussion?” Snape asked, “Are your Aunt and Uncle complete idiots?” 

Harry nodded, but it was harder to accomplish while lying down. “They’d make Lockhart look like a genius.” Harry laughed and Snape had the decency to look amused. “Or was Quirrell the bigger idiot for letting Voldemort hang out on the back of his head? Plus, you know, if it were me, personally, I wouldn’t keep touching the thing that was burning my hands off, even if that thing was an eleven-year-old boy I was trying to kill.” This made Harry dissolve into a fit of giggles. 

Snape rubbed at his brow. “I am… lowering your dosage of pain potion.” 

“Nothing ever bad happened.” Harry said. 

“Potter, what are you-”

“When my relatives made me work. My head would hurt and it’d get much worse throughout the day. The absolute worst was if I needed to go outside to do something. But there was only one time that I can remember having to work outside. I thought I was going to pass out from the pain. Psh-” Harry turned onto his back, Snape’s shadow just barely in his peripheral. “What an idiot I was. It takes a lot more pain than a concussion to pass out.” Snape was definitely right about lowering his dose of potion. His head felt heavy trying to decipher between what he was thinking and what he was saying. “It did teach me to not go letting myself get concussions though.” 

“Where were you getting this concussions from?” Snape asked. There was definitely some incredulity in his voice. It was hard to tell. 

“My cousin and his friends mostly. They’d… you know.” Harry made a circular gesture with his hands. This seemed like a satisfying explanation to Harry, but Snape was being deliberately obtuse about the entire thing.

“No, I don’t know, Potter. What would they do?” 

Harry shrugged. “They’d chase me ‘round, and when they caught me, they’d rough me up some. So each time taught me a good lesson ‘bout getting caught. I never made the same mistake twice.”

The statement hung in the air, neither of them filling the silence. After what seemed like hours to Harry, Snape stood and walked towards the door. 

“I’ll wake you for dinner.” 

-.-

Snape let him sleep through the night without interruption. He slept well, mostly. The nightmare he did have was of hard lessons learned at the hands of the Dursleys, and well, Harry lived with that nightmare for eleven years. There was nothing scary enough about Vernon's shouting or Petunia’s sneer or Dudley’s fists to prevent him from falling back asleep. 

Snape woke him up in the morning with cereal. Harry was deemed not enough of a fall hazard to prevent him from brushing his teeth and running a fruitless comb through his hair in the dark. He even changed his clothes without inducing too much dizziness. He was very thankful to not have his sweaty shirt on him anymore. 

Now, surely, was going to be the end of it. He wasn’t in danger of hemorrhaging or whatever, he wasn’t going to asphyxiate on his sick. Snape would leave him be for the day, maybe with the exception of lunch and dinner. 

But Harry was wrong. It wasn’t every hour, but every once in a while footsteps would creak up the stairs and Snape would open his door and ask him how his pain was, if he needed water or anything to eat, if he had been sleeping or awake. 

It was bloody weird for Snape to be treating him like a child. 

The third time Snape had come into his room unprompted, Harry had had enough. 

“I don’t need a minder. I can take care of myself.” 

Snape crossed his arms. “I don’t care what you can do, you shouldn’t be doing anything. You should be resting.” 

“I’m not tired anymore. I’m fine.” 

“You are not ‘fine.’ you are suffering from a serious brain injury.” 

“Everyone gets concussions!” 

“Everyone does not get concussions and those who do must take the time necessary to heal from them.” 

“I am done healing.” 

“Fine.” Snape flicked the lights on and snapped the blinds open with a flick of his wand. Harry immediately shut his eyes, not able to withstand the bright light. In an instant, the lights were back off and the blinds were lowered. 

“I would’ve adjusted to the light,” Harry protested. 

“You are exhausting to deal with. I will not argue further with you about this.” Snape snapped back. He did something with his wand, pointing it towards the ceiling. “If you turn those lights on, I’ll know,” he sneered.  Snape slipped out the door before Harry could protest further. 

Harry listened to his footsteps retreat down the stairs and over the creaky floorboards of the living room. 

Harry pulled the quilt closer to his chin. There were a few specks of light littered across the room from the holes in his blinds, like stars in the night.. 

Now it wasn’t a cupboard. The bed was too thick and the quilt was too soft and he knew the difference between a closet and a bedroom. The air wasn’t musty and thick with dust. If he reached his hand out, his fingers didn’t bump into the door only a foot away. He knew he wasn’t trapped. 

Yet he couldn’t help the awful feeling that Snape wasn’t going to come back. He wasn’t allowed out anytime soon. Snape was angry with him. He shouldn’t have pushed Snape like that.

He was being forgetful, and being forgetful was dangerous. He’d get hurt if he wasn’t careful. 

Harry knew it was easy to punish through deprivation. 

Snape had been caring for him for two days now. It was only expected that his patience had worn too thin. Harry was… needy. 

You are exhausting to deal with.  

He didn’t need Snape taking care of him constantly. Perhaps too little would be better than too much in this case. If worse came to worse, he could get up and provide for himself. He’s done more with more injuries before. Snape leaving him alone worked out better for everyone in the long run. Snape wouldn’t get tired of him and he would get time alone. 

He wasn’t afraid there was a locking charm on the door. Nor was he afraid he’d have to relieve himself on the floor. Nope. There was nothing he was afraid of. Nothing about this situation that reminded him of the Dursley’s tender care. 

Harry was too awake to rest. His mind was in a storm, the same thoughts going around and around. The same fears surging up and coming back down, waves crashing the shore. 

Sometime later that felt like hours upon hours, his door opened, and Snape had soup. Well, leftover soup now. 

Harry tensed, ready for the condition, for the trick. Snape was vindictive enough to bring him something to eat only to vanish it before his eyes. That was the game, wasn’t it? He would tell Harry he didn’t deserve the soup, or better yet, he didn’t need the soup. He’d eaten two times today already, hadn’t he? Two meals was generous, three was a luxury. 

Snape ordered him to sit up in his bed, his voice just above a whisper, but it echoed like a cannon in Harry’s mind. His hands shook, the possibilities ran through his mind. Snape could throw the hot soup on him. He could eat the soup in front of Harry. He could force Harry to eat it and then punish him for taking advantage of his generosity. And those were just the tricks Petunia used. Snape was a hundred times smarter than Petunia. 

“Were you sleeping?” Snape asked tersely. Harry silently shook his head. Words were caught in his throat. 

The tray was placed over his lap. The soup was steaming. It smelled as good as it did last night, but the chicken didn’t make his mouth water this time. 

He nearly cursed himself for raising the spoon with a shaky hand. Somehow the first bite left his throat dryer than it was before. 

Despite his low voice, Harry jumped at the sound of Snape’s baritone, “Would a stomach soother help you?” 

Harry shook his head. Silently damning Snape for being able to pick up on his hesitation and damning himself for not being able to hide his anxiety. 

Snape sighed. “Eat what you can without getting sick. I don’t have any calming draughts that won’t react poorly with the pain reliever I gave you.”  

And wasn’t that a loaded sentiment? Eat what he can ? 

There was no such thing. No matter what he ate, Snape would claim it was too little and force him to eat more. He’d tell Harry he was being ungrateful. After putting up with him these two days—hell these two weeks —Snape must be at his breaking point. 

There was, of course, nothing Harry could do. His only choice, only feasible choice, was to follow the order. 

It was slime going down his throat. He could not appreciate the chicken nor the vegetables or the little pasta in the soup. It was agonizing and the entire time he felt like Snape was staring at him, but he refused to look to the side. He didn’t want to risk meeting the man’s gaze. He didn’t know what he would find there. Disgust? Anger? Pity? He didn’t know which would be worse. The pity, most likely. 

When he had managed a little less than half the bowl, his stomach’s protesting renewed in strength, and he was not risking it further. 

He silently moved the tray off of his lap to the side of the bed between him and Snape. Harry sucked in a sharp breath, waiting for the man’s response, waiting for the blow. Snape wasn’t a man of hesitation, no. He was a snake, waiting for the perfect time to strike, for his prey to be at its most vulnerable. 

Snape stood and left the room. 

The soup turned to stone in his stomach. 

Of all the things Snape could have done, this was perhaps the worst. Anticipation of the thing was torture. 

This wasn’t right. None of this was right. Here were the facts: Harry wasn’t dying and he acted like a brat. He argued with Snape, disrespected him. 

He should be punished. 

This was unnecessary. Snape was treating him like he was delicate. But Snape would rather die than treat him like he was delicate, which means the potions master thinks he is dying. But Snape told him in no uncertain terms that he was going to live. 

It was unnecessary. That was the common denominator. 

He has been sicker than this with a hundred less comforts. He has been hurt worse than this without care. He always made it out in the end. He was always fine. The Dursleys, if nothing else, taught him that the limits of physical decay were just a bit farther than anyone really wants to believe it can reach. 

Snape should be one of the people who understood differently. Harry did not believe the man had never witness torture before. Not when Voldemort’s followers, in their decade-old robes, were greeted with the torture of a fourteen-year-old upon their warm welcome. 

Snape should know the human body’s limits. 

But instead of acting in accordance with that knowledge, he… insisted. Incessantly insisted. He insisted on rest and darkness and rest and soup and more rest. He let Harry be lazy and let him drink pain relievers even though he knew he could survive doing chores without them. 

Snape should not think Harry worthy of this level of insisting. 

It couldn’t be to save grace with Dumbledore. Most likely, the headmaster already knew. And again, this insisting was not necessary to keep Harry alive. Dumbledore’s golden boy would survive less. 

I don’t care what you can do, you shouldn’t be doing anything. You should be resting.

The pain potion was confusing him, that was all. His mind was still muddled despite Snape having lowered his dose. 

Snape was just– he was being– 

Snape didn’t care. That’s what Arthur had said, right?

No, he said he didn’t know if Snape cared. That was a different thing entirely. 

Harry was running out of other options. It wasn’t out of convenience. It wasn’t to stay in Dumbledore’s good graces. It wasn’t to keep him from dying. Did potioneers have some sort of ethics code to “do no harm”? He didn’t think so. Besides, Snape told him he wasn’t a healer. 

It was unnecessary. It was too much. Harry was too much. His life was too much. 

It was too much to think that perhaps Snape was taking care of him. He wasn’t– there isn’t–

People didn’t usually take care of him. 

That was as much as he was willing to admit.

Chapter Text

“Piss off!” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Oh, sorry. Piss off, sir .” 

Snape’s face contorted slowly from shock to anger, as though each feature took effort to move. First was the downward furrowing of his  brow, then his sneer, followed last by the tightening of his fists at his sides. 

“What is it that I have done wrong exactly?” Snape sneered. 

“What have you done wrong? It’d be much quicker to say what you’ve done right! I don’t understand what you don’t understand about personal space!”

“You have been sick!”

“I’ve been fine for days. It’s you who’s keeping me up here like some kind of volatile hostage!” 

“Enough!” Snape left his plate on his dresser with a thunk. “I’ll see you tomorrow in my lab at 9 am!”

“Fine!” 

Snape slammed the door behind him, leaving the shelves to rattle in his wake. 

-.-

“Crucio!” he yelled. The filth flailed on the ground, having lost control of her limbs. There were jeers from the small gathering of people, but he paid them no mind. This wasn’t mere entertainment. This was purpose. This was power. He needed to show them he was their leader. He needed not just their devotion, but also their belief. 

It was a reclusive area, picked for that reason. The next closest house was too far to notice anything and much too far to call for help. The moon shone overhead, but it was difficult to make out the constellations’s solemn gaze over the fiery blaze. The house would burn until the next morning, making it the perfect backdrop for tonight’s show. 

Every wizard must see this reclamation of power, this taking of what is rightfully theirs. There would be no more wizarding world, he was sure. There would only be wizards and those beneath them. 

The spell ceased, yet the woman was still shaking on the ground. She was turned away from him, but he didn’t mind so long as someone had a good view of her face. 

Very few people naturally had the stomach for such tender ministrations and quiet convulsions. There was an art to creating the illusion. The illusion of turning a someone into a something. Of obscuring the soul and letting only the flesh be seen. The illusion had to be complete in their minds for the trick to work. 

Dirty blood. Dirty blood. Dirty blood. 

Hm. There were younger guests today than usual. He’d already killed the son straight off. They’d work they’re way up to the children. But perhaps he’d skip the disembowelment tonight as well. Go just for the eyes and the nails and finish it off by suffocating her to death. Yes, that should suffice nicely. The way they clawed at their throats always gave it a nice dramatic end. 

It was only theater, after all. 

His eyes flew open. His forearm ached. He did not go back to sleep that night. 

-.-

“I have had it up to here , Potter!” Snape said. It was not the first time this phrase was uttered in the past week. Or the past hour. “What lengths must I go to to curb your insolence?” 

“Was I not clear enough the first time, Professor? You could leave me the fuck alone!”  Harry motioned towards the backdoor. He gripped his empty glass tighter in his hands. The sky outside was hinting towards that golden yellow color to signify the coming of dusk. 

Harry was not having a good week. 

Everything had been sharper and duller at the same time. His thoughts were sluggish but his senses had claps of thunder shaking the very air. He nearly rushed out of his room with his wand in hand when he had heard Snape come out of his bedroom this morning. 

While he was enjoying the freedom of not being under lock and key, he was not enjoying the constant goddamn arguments. Whatever tiffs they were having at the beginning of his stay were nothing compared to battles they fought every single day, from breakfast to dinner. Every argument, a new line was crossed, another punishment doled out. He didn’t even remember which argument led to Snape taking away their dueling practices. It was early on, and Harry wasn’t entirely convinced the entire punishment was just a ploy because Snape didn’t think his concussion was healed yet. 

Then they argued again and again and again. Over his punishments. Over Harry’s parentage and Snape’s teaching abilities and what they were having for breakfast and what the weather was like outside ( Muggy. It was most certainly muggy. Not whatever stifling means.) They argued about Snape being a know-it-all with a stick up his ass and about Harry never being able to fucking apply himself to anything that doesn’t involve a broomstick. 

In short, they argued over everything. 

Harry spent hours cooped up in the basement chopping and peeling and mincing whatever shit Snape put in front of him, but eventually even Snape grew tired of Harry invading his personal lab and sent Harry to serve his punishment doing other chores. The problem with this was that Snape apparently didn’t know that chores were an expectation, not a punishment. 

Chores didn’t hurt. Punishments—well, Harry knew a lot about the hurt required for fair justice. 

“Don’t you see, Harry? It’s only fair, dear boy. Crucio!” 

This argument? This argument had something to do with Harry spending all of his non-punishment time lazing around his room and refusing to do his homework. Snape came out here to set him straight, tell him to stop day-dreaming, but Harry wasn’t going to have it. Not when Snape was yet to put his money where his mouth was. 

The nightmares weren’t helping either. But seeing Voldemort torture a muggle was definitely not weighing on his conscious. And the other normal shit was no different than normal. It was nothing that he couldn’t deal with and nothing that was making him act like this. 

“You must complete your summer assignments.” Snape growled out. 

“No.”

“Potter, I am warning you!”

“And? What are you going to do? More potions? More chores? Why should I bloody care!” Harry shouted.

Snape looked ready to throttle him. It was a beautiful sight. So close to the breaking point.

“I’ll call the headmaster.” 

Harry cackled in the way that made him recoil from the creeping memory of an erratic laugh reaching his ears while he was thrashing in the cold grass.

“You think the headmaster gives a shit? Like really gives a shit. Well—I’ll tell you, professor, you have something else coming when he tells you exactly how much time he has to spare to deal with summer homework. ” 

There was a force stirring up in his center. It has happened now a few times in the past few days. A tightening of rope, pressure being put on just the weakest point. The anticipation of the inevitable snap. 

“How dare you speak of the headmaster in such a manner!” Snape yelled. His face truly contorted into something ugly. He was more furious than Harry had ever seen him. “You know nothing of what that man has done for you!”

“I know PLENTY!” Harry screamed. “If Dumbledore cared, don’t you think he would have checked up on me?! Hell, a letter would have sufficed!” 

“Please, Potter, it’s been less than a month.” But no, that was where Snape was wrong. It hadn’t been a month, no. It’s been fourteen years. Fourteen long years of cupboards and fists and words that stuck to the insides of his head like mud to the soles of his shoes. Harry was shaking. There was noise in his ears, slowly clouding everything else, as though he were being plunged into the Great Hall at dinner. The student’s voices overlapped each other over and over again until the noise was nothing more than noise and his mind struggled to float over the sea of forgotten souls. 

“Are you truly so vain? Tell me, what exactly makes precious Potter so entitled to the headmaster’s attention when there is a war-”

“I SAW A BOY DIE.” 

Shattering.

 Everywhere, all at once, like a great strike of lightning. The snap of a rubber band. The window shattered. The lights shattered. His glass shattered. He was numb. There was nothing he could feel. 

Harry didn’t wait to see Snape’s reaction. No, he couldn’t. He was a coward. If he’d been stronger, he’d have stayed, taken it like a man. Forget being a coward—he was plain dumb. He knew the consequences of his actions. 

He ran. 

Out the backdoor and through the meadow and into the forest just as the door slammed open again. 

Too fast, too fast, too fast. His wand in his pocket, jutting into his thigh with every strike of the ground, chafing his leg through his jeans. The collar of his t-shirt sticking to the front of his neck, choking him, suffocating his breath. The magpie’s call. 

He would have never ran from Vernon. Running made it worse, made the hits land harder, his voice yell louder, his cupboard darker. 

In spite of knowing that, there were always times Harry was scared out of his goddamn mind. An all consuming terror, a fire given amble accelerant. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t tell his left from his right. There was nothing to be done at that point. He would run. Vernon would catch him. He would pay the price. 

There was no such thing as debt with Vernon. He did something wrong. He was punished. The only waiting that had to be done was until Vernon got home from work. 

Harry fucked up. 

That was what was happening. He fucked it up again. He always, always fucked up. 

He kept running. Gasping for air as though a drowned man, he kept running. He perceived nothing more than the absolutely necessary—which trees to dodge, which roots to jump over. 

Finally, his legs gave out. He tripped over a root, fell into the underbrush. He landed on his elbows and knees. He felt that jolt go through his body, but nothing more. 

He was going to die. It would be okay, wouldn’t it? Death was but a warm embrace, the moment between sleep and consciousness, the gentle caress of a mother’s touch. He was fourteen years overdue. His debt was in need of just compensation. Justice. Justice. Justice. Due justice for all but him. 

His head tilted towards the sky, finding that peculiar pattern of leaves obscuring the sun’s radiance. The light seeped in through the lightning-like cracks, hiding the brilliant blue above. Every leaf was so delicate, fragile against the harsh elements. 

It was the trunk that survived the winter. Not the leaf. 

“-at me. Potter. Potter. For the love of God, Potter, look at me!” A deep voice snapped. There was only one voice it could be. 

Harry shook his head. He clenched his fist. 

“No- no- stop!” Snape’s hand took his wrist, forcing his fingers to unfurl. Harry made a noise from the back of his throat in protest. “There is glass stuck in your palm. You’re going to hurt yourself further, Potter. Can you hear me?” 

“No! Go ‘way!” He clenched his eyes shut. He tried pulling out of the hand on his wrist, but he couldn’t muster the strength. He just wanted to be left alone to die. Was that too much to ask? 

“Don’t move.” 

Harry did not move, but not because he was following the order. 

Slowly, he felt movement in his palm and the odd feeling of many somethings being pulled out of his skin. He hadn’t realized there was that much glass stuck in his palm. He hadn’t realized there was any glass stuck in his palm. 

“I’m running a diagnostic. Even if it’s crap.”

Harry’s eyes flew open. “No!” He shifted away from Snape. The bastard. “Leave me alone.”

“I can’t leave you alone,” Snape said. His wand was pointed towards Harry. 

“Yes, you can.” 

“No, I can’t.” 

“You could.” 

“I can’t.” 

“You would’ve.” Harry whispered. It was a secret. He wasn’t meant to say. “You wouldn’t have cared before. But now you do.” 

Snape sucked in a deep breath. His robes were rumbled. His chest was still rising and falling rapidly. Harry thought he even saw sweat soaked around his collar. 

“I am… doing my job.”

“No, you’re not.” 

Snape ran the diagnostic instead of answering this statement. Harry felt a slight tingle over his body, then glowing dots of red appeared on his elbows and knees and a few spots on his arms. 

“Where does it hurt most?” Snape asked. 

Harry shrugged. “I dunno.” 

“What do you mean, you ‘dunno’?” Snape took out a small string bag from the inside pocket of his robe. 

“Everything feels sort of numb and fuzzy. Don’t deny it.” 

Snape pulled out a bandage that was too large to fit in the small string bag. It was a funny sight, Snape sitting in the leaves and dirt under a wild forest canopy. 

“Deny what?” 

“You wouldn’t have done this before.” The before was something that does not need to be defined despite the fact there were many possible definitions. But to put a definition on it would be to admit when exactly things began to change, and Harry wasn’t ready to put that into thought. 

Snape took his hand into his own. He began the process of carefully rubbing antiseptic into the cuts. It soothed an ache he wasn’t able to feel. The moment stretched into infinity and just when Harry thought he’d never get an answer, Snape conceded, “You’re right.” 

Harry pushed the hair out of his eyes with his other hand. “So?” 

“So what?” 

Harry shrugged. “Why're you doing all this?” 

“Don’t read into it. You'll hurt yourself.” Snape unfurled some of the bandage, beginning to wrap it around Harry’s palm. 

“I just want to understand what happened.” Harry said. “I just- I need- need to understand.” 

“I do not owe you an explanation for my behavior. In fact, I believe it was you who had explanations to make.” 

Harry groaned. “I’m sorry, alright? Really, I am. I was just… I don’t know. I don’t know what got into me.” Snape motioned for his other hand to inspect. “I was being an idiot. And a dunderhead. And a spoiled brat. And whatever else you called me.” 

“You see, Potter. That is precisely the problem.” Snape said in a low tone. He dropped the hand, having determined there were no injuries. “You are not an idiot. Or a spoiled brat. Or a dunderhead. What you are is a complication .” 

“A… complication?” 

“Yes, precisely.” He said as though it were the weather. Snape raised his wand to Harry’s sleeve, and made it disappear with a slight jab. “Why must everything in regards to you be so much more complicated than it initially appears? You- you are-” Snape chuckled, and it was not something entirely sane. 

“I am what?” 

“I don’t know.” The antiseptic was going into the scraped skin on his elbow. The ministrations were almost tender in the way that they weren’t purely medicinal.  “And that is the problem.” 

Harry stared at the curtain of hair obscuring Snape’s face.

“What the bloody hell does that mean?” 

“It means,” Snape bit out, then sighed. Tension dissipated from his shoulders. The motion repeated once more before he continued in an even tone, “It means you have shown yourself to be… competent. And reasonably attentive when you want to be. Merlin, and spoiled is farther from the truth than I could have gotten.” Snape gathered some more clean gauze and bandage. “Brat’s still accurate though.” 

Harry didn’t have a response. He didn't have a single thought that could begin to process that information. Snape continued in spite of this. 

“I am simply giving myself enough time to come to new conclusions about your character. To retest and reexamine the evidence presented. That is it, Potter. Nothing more and nothing less.” He tugged Harry arm closer to him, the potion-stained hands gentle on his skin. It was his right arm, where he didn’t bear the mark on his forearm, but the scar from the basalik’s bite was embedded into the fleshy part of his upper arm. 

Harry resisted the urge to pull at the strands of his hair until they snapped. He resisted and resisted and resisted. That was all he ever did. Life had not been kind to him. Or had he not been kind to life?

He was a freak. He was a hero. He was scrawny. He was powerful. Dumb. Clever. Good. Bad. Liar. Savior. 

The Boy-Who-Lived. 

He hated that name more than anything. More than Voledmort and Dumbledore combined. That reminder of what was taken from him, what was expected from him. He’d do anything to get rid of those words. He’d carve out a new name for himself, even if it was in his own skin. 

But there already was an open wound in his chest, but in a good way. He didn’t know how a wound could be good. But it was there. It ached. It spread from the deepest part of his ribcage and extended to his stomach and encroached through his throat. 

He didn’t think it was possible for anyone to see anymore than what they saw. He was preceded by his fame, by his appearances, by his parents. There were no first impressions. There was only what others thought when he walked into a room. 

To think that Snape of all bloody people-

It couldn’t have been Dumbledore? Because he’s spent four years vying for Dumbledore’s attention, for his advice and comfort. It’s been four years of him doing everything and anything to get Dumbledore to look past his half-moon spectacles and see him.

But for Snape to be attempting to do so, even when Harry didn’t have to beg? Even when he’d given Snape no reason? 

“Thank you,” Harry croaked, and nearly regretted it when the hand stilled around his elbow. “For another chance.” 

There was a long pause when the only sound that could be heard were the birds chirping and the animals scurrying across the underbrush. It was growing chillier, goosebumps began to appear along the sides of his arms. 

“Do not make me into a saint.” Snape’s voice was distant, flat as though he wasn’t entirely there. The wind picked up, the light dancing across the forest floor as the leaves swayed back and forth in a great rush. “It would only succeed in making a fool out of you.” 

“I think we both know I’m well past that point, professor.” Harry laughed. Snape raised his head, eyes oddly piercing. Ever so slightly, the grip on his arm tightened and when Harry thought he may have done something wrong, Snape let out a broken half-chuckle. 

“It would appear that way.” 

Snape finished his work on his right and turned his wand to his left sleeve. Before he could protest, the sleeve also disappeared revealing the bleeding skin and the mess of tangled muscle on his forearm.

“Didn’t I-”

“You did,” Harry blurted. “You did but you put it in my trunk. And my relatives take my trunk away over the holidays. I couldn’t use it until I was here and by then it had been over a week and I’d figured…”

“It was too late,” Snape supplied.

“Yeah.” 

Snape suddenly looked very very tired. He rubbed at his brow. “Your relatives… take your trunk away. The one which contains the entirety of your existence in the wizarding world.” 

This was a line of questioning that was decidedly where Harry did not want this conversation to go. “I always make sure to hide my wand. It’s not like I’m defenseless or anything.” 

Snape shook his head. “And your summer assignments? Do you sneak those out as well?” 

Harry scoffed. “Why would I risk doing that? Does it look like I have a death wish?” Harry said as if he did not just wish for Snape to let him die a few minutes ago. In his defense, it had at least been ten minutes. “I usually do them at the end of the summer when I make my escape and spend the rest of August with the Wealseys.” Harry fiddled with the end of his shirt and shivered in the cooling air. “Third year was probably best in terms of homework. I spent all of August at the Leaky Cauldron, so I wasn’t distracted by Ron and the others. I think last year was the worst considering the whole attack at the World Cup.” 

“Merlin, I’d forgotten you were there for that.” Snape now worked on the still open wound, tending to the delicate flesh. “I could never forget your stunt at the Leaky Cauldron though. Did you really have to spend so much time at that ice cream parlor?” 

“You knew about that!?” 

“Knew about it? I had to follow you around for half of the time you were there! Making sure Black didn’t decide to make an attempt on your life.”  

Harry gasped when Snape tugged a bit too hard on his skin. Snape murmured a quiet apology in return. “I always thought that was suspicious. I didn’t think Dumbledore would go for the whole letting-a-thirteen-year-old-stay-at-an-inn-for-a-month-by-himself thing.”

“You should have seen the headmaster. He nearly lost it when he realized what happened. Professor McGonagall talked him down from storming into the Leaky Cauldron himself. By morning, he’d completely changed his mind and it was myself and Professor McGonagall attempting to tell the headmaster that you needed to be returned home, but it was to no avail. What’s worse, he refused to tell us why you should be allowed to stay at the Leaky Cauldron.” 

Snape finished, returning his sleeves to their rightful place and then casting a warming charm around them. “How are your knees?” 

“Worse, I think.” At the very least, they hurt like a motherfucker now that the adrenaline had faded. 

“Alright, I’ll bandage them before we attempt our hike back.” Snape began the same motions on his right leg. 

“Did you ever find out what happened in my second year?” 

“I do believe I was the one to find yourself and Mr. Weasley with a wrecked car .” 

Harry laughed, unable to contain the absurdity. “But do you know why we took a flying car to Hogwarts?”

“Because you had a death wish?” 

“Better.” Harry leaned into the tree trunk behind him. Exhaustion was making him relax despite the Dursley talk.  “The Malfoy’s house-elf knew Lucius had given Ginny the cursed book. So the house-elf spent all summer trying to stop me from attending Hogwarts. His last resort was simply closing the doorway to the platform when I tried to go through. Ron was just unlucky to be there with me.” 

“That is… completely ridiculous.” Snape huffed, and it was almost an amused sound. “Which makes it exactly the sort of thing to happen to you.” 

“I thought you were actually going to expel us.” The bandage tightened around his knee. “I was sure I was dead.” 

“Dead or expelled?”

Harry twisted his shirt in his hands. “What’s the difference?” 

Snape started on the second knee. Harry grew tired. The forest darkened. 

“What’s this?”

Harry sat up to look at the area Snape was focused on. He was gesturing to Harry’s right leg where a long slash went down the side of his calf, ending just next to his achilles tendon. “That was- let’s see. I was nine I think. Or maybe ten. My Aunt—not the one I live with, my Uncle’s sister—has these dogs that she brings to the house when she comes to stay with us. They’re completely vile. Usually when they attack me, I climb up a tree or onto the counters. But this time, my arm was hurt and I couldn’t climb with just my right arm, so I dangled from the lowest branch. And it was a very low branch, so one of her dogs scratched me good.” 

“I see.” Snape said. “And why was your arm injured?”

That was not a Snape-safe story. Not in the slightest. Not in the way Vernon bent his wrist too far the wrong way and probably sprained the damn thing. Harry couldn’t even remember what he was in trouble for. Something serious, but he’d have been more injured if it had something to do with magic. 

“Sprained it playing rugby—a muggle sport.” 

Snape focused on his knee for a moment longer, letting the statement linger. “You seem to have a long history of injury, Potter.” Harry stiffened. 

“Clearly, I’m still as clumsy as ever.”

He nodded, apparently satisfied. “Yes, clearly.” 

Snape finished his knee and helped him stand up. Harry winced, the throbbing in his knees starting anew, but it wasn’t truly unbearable. 

“How long did I run for?” 

“About eight minutes.”

“That’s it?” Harry looked around. Forest surrounded them on all sides. “Felt longer.” 

“You’re about to find out how much longer it can feel.”

Harry groaned. 

“Git.”

“Brat.”

Snape stepped forward and led him back home. 

Chapter Text

When they got back inside, he and Snape made stiff excuses to each other and avoided each other for the rest of the night. There was an ill-fitting feeling about what happened in the forest that sat heavily between them when they were back in the small house with the walls that always had defined their relationship back in place. Snape side-eyed him with feigned disinterest. Harry pretended not to notice.

That evening, sleep came easily, but peace did not. 

He woke up first shaking, but not in a cold sweat, sulfur in his nose and green behind his eyes. It was somewhat expected, but it was a bad one from the way his heart thudded in his chest and he couldn’t quite get the itchy feeling underneath his skin to go away. 

In spite of what he believed to be another night spent staring at his bedroom ceiling, his eyelids grew heavy once more. 

He was ripped from the Voldemort nightmare and tangled in the sheets, shaking once more in a sweat-soaked shirt. He was panting, the back of his throat dry, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth uncomfortably. He groaned, then whimpered, then stifled a sob in his arm. 

His forearm burned. 

He couldn’t get his image out of his mind. The bedroom wasn’t there. Just the man and his daughter. Just the heat of fire and the jubilant cheers piercing the air and the crackle of wood and the pride in his chest. 

Just the scent of flesh burning. 

Vivid. Vivid. His dreams were vivid but did they even count as dreams? Dreams were supposed to be fake, contained within the mind. This was different. This was reality attempted to be contained within his mind. This was memory not dulled by time. It was experiencing life without life. It was the burning blood being drained from his arm, knifepoint cool against his skin. 

Footsteps. His heart racing again. Blindly, his fingers curled around his wand. He forced himself to sit up, ignoring how his arm nearly buckles under the weight of pushing his upper body off the bed. The door slammed open loud loud loud and there was a black figure in a the doorway, a dementor in the train car, an omen in the night. He didn’t wait. He got off two spells. He didn’t know which ones he chose, but the shadow of a black stick came flying across the room and his enemy fell to the ground, groaning. 

“Potter, you dunderhead! It’s me!” 

Harry’s chest heaved. The figure struggled on the floor for a moment, before rising to their feet. The light turned on, but only the bare minimum needed to see in the room. Snape’s figure came into view, a dark night robe having replaced his usual black robes. 

He leant against the doorframe, eyes scanning the room before striding inwards. Harry did not flinch. He made a face. At most cringed, but it was enough to pause Snape’s movement. 

“I need my wand.” Snape gestured towards the floor on the far side of his nightstand, closer to his desk. He went slower this time, but went all the same to pick up his wand. 

“Why’re you in here?” Harry bit out. He wanted Snape to leave. He wanted to be alone so he could spend whatever was left of the night to decompress. He needed time to feel like he was actually in his own body again. He felt like he was going to collapse back into the sheets, too tired to support himself sitting upright in bed.

“I heard yelling. I thought it prudent to… see that there wasn’t danger,” Snape responded carefully. He already retreated somewhat towards the door, but remained planted in the center of the room, lingering. 

“There’s no danger. You can go,” Harry snapped, blood rushing in his ears. For a second, Snape only held his gaze. His weight shifted towards Harry, then he turned and went towards the doorway. Harry nearly found it funny that it wasn’t accompanied by the usual sound of his boots clicking on the floor but feet pattering on the ground.

He turned the light off and shut the door behind him without a word. 

The footsteps got quieter until a door creaked open and closed and he could hear Snape no more. 

He fell back into bed, annoyed with the tangled sheets and how far his shorts had ridden up his legs. He did not bother attempting to deal with these issues. 

His chest had an empty feeling. Something akin to grief, but just a bit too far from it to call it by that name. It was its own monster. Tinged by loneliness, touched by guilt. It had within it both the gentle caress of melancholy and the deep pool of distraught. It was something more and less than grief. 

His forearm burned. He did not go back to sleep. 

Once, when he was younger, he was at recess. He didn’t particularly like recess due to the amount of freedom and power Dudley wielded during this time, but it had been a perfect spring day. The air had been fresh and promising, hopeful even. 

There was a commotion from the far side of the playground, where the kids always made commotions because it was farthest from where the teacher’s aids stood guard by the doors. 

There were shrieks of excitement, and Harry had stood from his place at the base of a tree to see what was going on. He had imagined the gathering was about a new game or a ball being thrown over the fence again or even someone getting married again (Jessica Jones and Steven Carmeo got married last Friday. Dandelions were given to the bride. There were tears in the reception. They got divorced on Monday.) 

What he found instead was Dudley and his best friend, Piers hovering over a bird on the ground. They oooh-ed and ahh-ed at it, poked it some. It appeared to have injured its wing, though still sang the magpie’s tune. 

Piers stepped on it, his small stature more than enough to cause the crack of bones, the blood squirting across the grass, the last noise out of it pitched higher than the rest, a warning call.

When he stepped back, the white feathers were soaked red, and somehow, Harry found, somehow that had been the worst part. 

This was that feeling, only amplified. 

His forearm burned. He did not go back to sleep that night. 

When he ate breakfast with Snape, the dour black-clad man skipped his usual inquiry about Harry’s sleep. Harry nearly commented on this, but at the last second couldn’t muster up the courage to do it. No, not courage. The energy. Yes, he was tired.

He was always tired. Always he ached for rest.

“Your birthday is in less than a week,” Snape said eventually. 

“I know.” Harry said. Three weeks ago, this would have been back talk. This would have been disrespect. 

“You’ve yet to ask about making plans for your birthday.” 

Harry pushed his eggs around his plate. “I already know the answer, Professor.” 

“The headmaster may be-”

“I already know the answer, Professor.” The words sharper this time, a clear refusal. 

Snape did not respond. Not even to reprimand him for his attitude. 

Snape did not assign new work. He said they were going to review today. Make sure his fundamentals were sound, then go over the spells he’s learned this summer. 

Snape said it was because they haven't practiced in a while. Harry didn’t know whether or not to think it had something to do with what happened last night. 

Snape would do that. He was sly like that. He was concerned for Harry’s…physical health like that.

“A jelly-legs?” Snape asked. 

Harry readied his stance, aimed his wand, and then stared at the dummy snape transfigured from a marble. 

“Potter?” Snape said, “Fire when your ready.” 

“I don’t remember.” He muttered, lowering his wand towards the ground. 

“Speak up. No one will ever be able to-”

“I said I don’t remember!” Harry snapped, crossing his arms. He refused to meet Snape’s gaze. He knew Snape was looking at him now, his body turned towards him in the corner of Harry’s eye, but Harry stared straight ahead at the brown dummy.

It wasn’t just basic, it was the definition of fundamental. It was the first offensive spell that first-years learned to get used to magic, dangerous magic coming out of their wand. 

It was beyond stupid to forget the incantation. 

He could picture himself doing it. He knew the proper wand-movements, but he couldn’t seem to remember the words in his mouth. 

He hated how memory always betrayed him. Too vivid in some places, too dull in others. He hated not being the master of his own mind. 

Now Snape was going to rip into him. Tell him he’s an idiot, that he’s proven that Snape has been wasting his time. Hell, this could be the end of these lessons if he didn’t play this right. 

“ Locomotor Wibbly. ” The blue spell shot off from his left, hitting the dummy square in the chest. He whipped his head to Snape who’s wand was already back at his side. Snape slowly turned towards him, dark eyes meeting his gaze. 

“Do I need to demonstrate again or can you manage?” 

“No- I-” Harry faced the dummy once more, prepared himself as he has done a thousand times in his life. “ Locomotor Wibbly! ” 

“Good, but make sure to keep your wrist relaxed,” Snape instructed. He was acting like a proper teacher with positive reinforcement and constructive criticism and all that other shit that Snape wouldn’t be caught dead doing because Snape was a shitty teacher. 

“Wand grip is entirely dependent on which spells you use more often. The Heisenberg is better for offensive-inclined wizards while the Rochester more effective for the opposite.”

“Yeah, but why?” 

Snape rolled his eyes, huffed a breath. “Perform the disarming hex.”

“ Expelliarmus! ” Harry articulated, his wand striking through the air from high to low. 

“Now a shield charm.” 

“ Protego! ” His wand stayed much closer to the center of his body, the movement only requiring a small circle.

“Most offensive spells require movement starting at or right below eye level, but most defensive spells are going to start and end below your shoulder.” Snape held his wand out as though casting a protego . “The Heisenberg grip is over the shoulder here, making the movement into your offensive spells more natural and much quicker, but your defensive spells sluggish. The Rochester reverses this: your defensive arsenal is much closer, but your offensive arsenal is more awkward to reach.”

“Oh. That explains…” He trailed off, regretting bringing it up. 

“What does it explain?” 

Harry shrugged, unable to come up with an alternative to what he was going to say. “The Death Eaters. They all use Heisenberg grips.”

“Correct. However, that is the Dark Lord’s doing. The Heisenberg, you may recall, is also considered much more traditional in wizarding society,” Snape’s voice contained an edge to it, as though the topic displeased him. “If you ever go to a professional dueling match, contestants are often required to use the Heisenberg as a starting position.” 

“So what should I use?” 

Snape shook his head. “Don’t worry so much about it yet. It is true that the Rochester is easier to handle than the Heisenberg. It will be sufficient until you reach the point where the only thing inhibiting your offensive magic is your wand grip.” 

Harry didn’t know if he could remember half of what Snape told them by the time he’d went into his room that night. Once they started the lesson, it was as if it never stopped. Harry asked questions again and again and he thought at some point that Snape would tell him to be quiet or to leave him alone, but eventually they needed to eat, and Snape let him pester him with questions while he prepared dinner (though not before forcing Harry to chop their vegetables). 

He held onto the information like treasure uncovered. He didn’t know what to do with the light feeling in his chest. It was a good feeling, but it began to dredge up other memories he didn’t want to think about. He didn’t want to acknowledge where the goodness came from quite yet. He wasn’t ready. So adults in his life didn’t typically take him seriously and didn’t often give him the time of day when he asked questions. So maybe he has a lifetime of piss-poor participation marks. That had nothing to do with the constant stream of answers from Snape today. 

But, then again, maybe it had everything to do with Snape instructing, instructing, instructing. 

Harry went to sleep that night, tired but content. 

He woke up screaming. 

His forearm burn, blood that was not his own haunted his eyes and screams that were not his own haunted his ears. He shut his mouth as quickly as possible, but that did not stop the footsteps from coming, from the door bursting open. 

Harry leveled his wand at the intruder. The intruder stood with their wand above their head, the Heisenberg hold. They stayed in that tense silence for a second, before the black shadow lowered their wand and slowly turned on the lights to the dull dim of the night before. 

“Stop doing that,” Harry yelled, his voice hoarse. 

“Doing what?” Snape crossed his arms. He was in these blue striped pajamas. Harry startled at the realization that he didn’t have anything covering his arms. His mark was out. 

“Slamming my door open in the middle of the night! It’s bloody annoying!” It was scary, was what it was, but Harry would not admit to that aloud. 

“I heard- you cannot expect me to ignore you when I hear a commotion in here! If you were in actual danger-” Snape continued, but Harry ignored it. He didn’t like that phrase. Actual danger . It made him feel incredibly incredibly stupid. There really wasn’t any danger, was there? The entire ordeal was an overreaction. His mind was so easily tricked. 

There wasn’t any actual danger. 

God, he was going to be sick. 

“Potter?” Snape said, and Harry had the feeling it wasn’t the first time his name had been called. 

“Get out. I wanna go to sleep.” There was no bite left in the words.

There was no actual danger. 

He knew that, didn’t he? He knew. He didn’t have to be told. Snape was mocking him. He knew. 

But if he knew, he wouldn’t be feeling like this. He wouldn’t be close to tears, shaking, sick to his stomach. This wouldn’t affect him. Harry knew the danger was present and yet insisting on acting as though it was him that Voldemort twisted the knees of the wrong way. 

His forearm burned. He did not go back to sleep that night. 

That day they dueled, and Harry won the second round. He didn’t know if Snape was going easy on him or if he’s adjusted to his nighttime insomnia. Regardless, he was angry with Snape.

Harry didn’t know how it started.

“I’ve always been good at defense, but that was before I had Lupin. Then I learned that I liked defense too.”

“Ah, yes,” Snape said, distaste clear in his tone. This was evidently the nicest thing Snape could say about Lupin. 

“He taught me to cast a patronus.”

Snape blinked. “He- what ?” 

“Yeah-” Harry laughed to dispel the tension, “I asked him to teach me to cast a patronus and he did.”

“But you never made a corporeal one?”

“It’s a stag.” Harry grinned at Snape’s shocked expression. 

“How- no. Why did you even want to learn to do one?” Snape waved a hand away, as though shooing away the irrelevant question. 

“You remember the dementors, Professor. I fell off a broom once during a quidditch game. Passed out in a train car. You get the idea.” 

Snape’s brow furrowed. “You actually passed out? I thought that was a… creative exaggeration by Mr. Malfoy.”

“No, I- I full on passed out. Lupin didn’t- well I suppose he wouldn’t have.” 

“He did not.” Snape’s fork clinked against the plate, he took a sip of his wine. “I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of a wizard having that kind of reaction.” 

“Yeah, well, we’ve always known I’m special. You do know I’m the Boy-Who-lived, right?” Harry deflected. Snape smirked, but seemed indecisive for a moment. Harry pushed past this. He refused to talk about hearing his mother die. “What year do they usually teach patronus charms?”

“Seventh, but its not required to perform to pass the NEWT.” 

“Really?” Harry poked the salad in front of him. “Why’d Lupin even let me attempt it then?” 

Snape shifted in his seat as though having seen something unpleasant out of the corner of his eye. “He most likely jumped at the chance to get to know you considering his history with your… parents.” The word father was very clearly meant to be there, but Harry’s father was a very much prohibited topic. 

“Yeah, I suppose.” The thought that Lupin probably never expected him to make a corporeal patronus rang in his head. “When did you learn to cast one?”

 “How do you know I can cast a patronus? Snape said curtly, an accusatory tone in his voice.

Harry shrugged. “I just assume you know everything about defense. And potions.” 

Snape sighed. “I was fifteen.”

“Why’d you do it so young?” 

“I…” Snape hesitated, uncomfortable. “I heard rumors that once you took the dark mark, the dark magic embedded in it made it impossible to cast a patronus unless you had previously mastered it.” 

Harry toyed with the salad in front of him, not really knowing how to respond to that level of honesty, from Snape , no less. 

“I refused to be vulnerable to an enemy for the rest of my life. I mastered the patronus, took the mark, and now… I don’t know if there are any other death eaters capable of casting the patronus charm.” 

The silence hung heavy in the air save for the clinking of silverware. Harry rubbed at the scar on his forehead–phantom aches. The window was cracked open, a cool summer-night breeze passing into the house, but it only served to raise goosebumps on his skin. 

There was an obligation to say it, yes, but at the same time he found that a part of him simply wanted to do it. Maybe just to see what would happen, but maybe a little bit for his own sake as well.

“I hear my mother,” Harry said. “Even when I didn’t pass out, everytime I went outside for my care of magical creatures lessons or went to quidditch practice or wanted to take a walk with Ron and ‘Mione, every single time, I heard my mother the night he killed her. Learning it didn’t stop me from hearing her voice, but it did give me the… knowledge that I’d never have to succumb to it ever again.” 

It was Snape’s turn then to consider his words to let the silence simmer in the summer-cool breeze. “It’s a wonder the headmaster didn’t force the dementors off.” 

“Yeah,” Harry said. He stared out the window, at the fading daylight, the sparkling beginnings of the night sky. It was starting to get darker earlier now, but only just. Flashes of light sprinkled across the meadow. He’d always wanted to collect fireflies. Always wondered what it would be like to hold living, pulsing light cupped in the palm of his hand. “It’s a wonder.” 

-.-

For the third night in a row, Harry dreamt of Voldemort and screamed out in his sleep. Snape rushed into his room, Harry raised his wand. 

His forearm burned. He fell back asleep. 

When he woke up in the morning, it wasn’t to birds chirping out his window or Snape ousting him out of bed for breakfast, but to midday streaming through his windows. He rushed to get showered and dressed, nearly tripped over his feet down the stairs. 

Snape was sitting calmly at the table, his features plain. “Really, Potter, this is pathetic even for you.” 

Harry tensed, shoulders stiffening. His fault, he knew. He was stupid enough not to set his alarm. He should have known how tired he’s been lately, expected this to happen at some point. “Sorry, Professor I- uh.” What excuse could he make? What made this sound better?

Snape smirked. “You look as though you’ve never been acquainted with a hairbrush. I’ve half a mind to spell all your hair off.” 

His… hair? That he forgot to brush because he was in a rush because he thought Snape would be angry with him. 

Snape was teasing him. 

Right?

“It wouldn’t work,” Harry said, “One time my Aunt cut all of my hair off and it regrew in my sleep.” 

Snape chuckled dryly. “Sit down and eat, brat and I’ll attempt to tolerate your rat’s nest.” 

“A real wonder Pettigrew didn’t try hiding in my hair back in third year, huh?” That got them to both laugh. He was getting used to Snape’s short, terse laugh. The sound almost restrained, holding himself back from true indulgence. 

Because Harry didn’t wake up early enough to learn new spells, they dueled for fun for the first time that afternoon. Harry’s best win was spelling a long beard onto Snape’s face. Ron would never believe he’s seen Snape with a beard long enough to compete with Dumbledore.

Harry fell to the ground laughing and Snape didn’t attempt to murder him. 

When Harry woke up screaming that night, Snape barged into his room, and Harry didn’t raise his wand. Snape hovered at the doorway for a tense few seconds before closing it once more, never even flicking the light on. 

Harry’s forearm burned. He fell back asleep, but woke up a few hours later from a dream involving dementors and Ron and boggarts that couldn’t be defeated. 

When Harry tried to study that morning, the blue room stifled him until air could no longer get air into his lungs. He dragged the entirety of his schoolwork outside to sit with the cool wind on his skin and the sun warming the top of his head through his hair. He sat with the ants crawling across his shoe and didn’t mind how his back ached from sitting in the grass because it was better than having to sit in his room, the walls collapsing in on him. 

When Snape found him, he gave Harry a towel to sit on, citing how his jeans already had enough grass stains. 

Harry liked working out in the grass. They should study more often outside at Hogwarts. A heating charm could go a long way in the blustering fall and freezing winter. 

“Of course I knew you stole the boomslang skin!” Snape exclaimed, “Do you think me an idiot?” 

“When we were second years? Absolutely. And we thought we were the cleverest people on Earth.” 

Snape shook his head, exasperated. “I knew. I knew even before Ms. Granger was in the hospital wing from a clearly botched polyjuice potion. What was it again—cat hair?” 

“Yeah. She took a hair off of Parkinson’s robes during history, and found out the hard way it wasn’t hers,” Harry sighed. “Me and Ron went as Crabbe and Goyle. It worked perfectly and we ruled out the heir of Slytherin being Malfoy.” 

Snape scoffed. “I can’t believe you brewed a highly dangerous potion in the girls' lavatory. Do you even comprehend how idiotic that was? Ms. Granger’s stunt in the hospital wing was quite possibly the least of your concerns. You could have died !” 

Harry waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve been told that a hundred times over. Polyjuice was nothing compared to Quirrel.” 

“That in no way addresses my concern here!” Snape said loudly, but also teasingly. “You and your band of misfits have no idea what kind of trouble you get yourselves into half of the time.” 

“Like it’s my fault my name was put into the Goblet of Fire!” 

“And what of yourself and Mr. Weasley eavesdropping on the night of the Yule Ball!” 

Harry raised his palms in defeat. “Okay. So sometimes we go in over our heads.”

“You think?”

“In our defense,” Harry laughed, “nobody ever bloody tells us anything. And when we go looking for information, we just end up in the middle of- you know.” Harry didn’t know the proper word to lump together the events of his last four years at Hogwarts. “Whatever’s going on with the defense Professor that year.” 

Snape laughed tersely. 

When Harry woke that night, there was a split second where he thought he wasn’t screaming. Then the black shadow appeared in his doorway, and Harry didn’t even bother raising his head to acknowledge Snape. 

Snape lowered his wand. Harry closed his eyes, too exhausted to deal with sight. He heard the footsteps move away, but the door remained ajar, and the footsteps pattered down the stairs. 

A few minutes later, Snape returned and he hovered at Harry’s door for a few seconds before stepping into the room. Harry cracked his eyes open to see Snape approaching his bed. He placed a glass of water on the nightstand, quickly taking a step back. 

Harry grabbed the water greedily. He didn’t even care about the water that dripped down the front of his chin or Snape’s hovering. 

“You’re having nightmares,” Snape said.

Harry replaced the glass on the nightstand. “Yes.” 

This constituted the entire conversation. Snape closed his door behind him and retreated into his room. Harry laid in bed and wondered why he was waking up screaming in his sleep for the first time in so many years. The last time he had dreams this bad was after Quirrel. The last time they’d been this tortuously consistent had been when he was a kid. 

He knew the reason. He knew something hasn’t been quite right since the third task, but it didn’t explain why the screaming started now. He was tempted to put a silencing ward around his bed, but knew Snape would realize within a day he’d put a ward up in his room. 

Harry fell back into a fitful sleep and ignored the way his forearm burned. 

-.-

This was the routine that followed over the next few days. 

Harry woke up from having his not-so-fake dreams of Voldemort. Snape would burst through the door, then go get him a glass of water. Snape would ask him if he needed anything else, then leave Harry’s room. 

He was jumpy and irritable and all-around Not Having a Good Day. It was the thirtieth of July. His birthday was tomorrow, but really that meant it was tonight. He always celebrated his birthday at midnight. Alone. 

Snape was watching him when he didn’t think Harry noticed. He attempted to ask Harry a few questions, a few opinions on defensive skill sets, but stopped pushing once he realized that Harry wasn’t interested in talking. 

He passed the day in a dull haze. When Snape shut down their dueling session after his third attempt, Harry didn’t even protest. He simply dragged his feet back inside and collapsed on the couch until it was time for dinner. 

That night it was a mix of desire to see his birthday pass and anxiety about laying his head to sleep that caused him to stay up late enough to watch the clock tick over from 11:59 to 12:00. 

For the first time in five years, there was no knocking at his window. No owls to greet him or half-giant to whisk him away. 

He sat on the floor of his darkened bedroom, unable to make out the stars littering the ceiling, and for the first time in five years, spent his birthday truly alone. 

Harry shuddered in his thin pajamas, but did not cry. He stared at the glowing red numbers on the clock until his eyes blurred them beyond all recognition. He fell asleep on the floor and woke up several hours later. Snape had the decency to not ask why he’d clearly been sleeping on the floor.

“Do you need anything else?”

Harry never responded. 

Chapter Text

Harry went downstairs for breakfast. Snape had acknowledged his birthday but Harry didn’t bother to thank him. Instead he stared at his bowl of cereal, pushing the mush into his mouth. He didn’t want to do anything. He only wanted to crawl back into his bed for the entire day. He was drained. Physically. Emotionally. Magically. 

He tried to picture a version of this birthday where he ended the day better than he started it. He imagined Ron and Hermione, at the very least, but beyond that there was little he yearned for. In truth he didn’t want a party or their undivided attention or even their gifts. He just wanted a day with them. Just wanted to hear their voices drowning out the dull buzz of noise in his mind. Ron’s raspy laugh and Hermione’s melodic I’m-teaching-now tone.

Hermione would notice something was wrong and he wouldn’t want to talk about it. She would shoot a worried look at Ron, who would only shake his head in return. Then, she’d smile sadly and maybe play with his hair for a bit and he’d relax into the touch. Ron would poke him some or even lay on top of him to get him to laugh, and if not laugh, soak in his warmth. 

They’d be at Hogwarts. Tucked away in the boys’ dorm with enough gossip to last a lifetime to talk about because they truly weren’t much better than anyone who gossiped about Harry. They were dumb teenagers too.

Harry was a dumb teenager.

Fifteen. 

God. 

He pictured the first years coming in with pudgy cheeks and wide oh-my-god-it's-actually-a-castle eyes and hands fidgeting nervously. He pictured this and had a sharp jab of fear imagining any of their shaking arms holding a wand to Quirrel or seeing a black shadow suck blood from a unicorn in the words or—hell—deal with an illegal dragon.

He had thought he was so old then. In a way he was, but in all the important ways, he wasn’t. 

He was too young to be this old. Feel this old. 

Fifteen. 

There was a very real chance he didn’t make it another year. He was burning fast and bright. He was a shooting star spiraling, spiraling, spiraling, and one way or another he was going to crash and all he could do was minimize the casualties when he falls. 

Another year. Another target on his back.

Harry sighed into his now soggy bowl of cereal and got up. He was done pretending.

“Sit down, Potter,” Snape said without a glance up from his newspaper. “Eat something.” 

Harry groaned. “I don’t feel like it.” 

Snape ruffled the paper with a melodramatic flare away from his face, then pointedly glared at the lavender bottle on the table. 

“Can’t you lay off for a day?” 

“Are you asking for special treatment from me?” 

“Yes.” Harry got up once more, glad Snape hadn’t thought to cast a sticking charm to his seat yet. “I just know how lenient you are, sir.” He took the bowl from the table and dumped it down the sink, not breaking eye contact with Snape. The effect was lost however when Snape was able to keep his deadpan expression and Harry couldn’t quite help cracking a smile. 

“Incorrigible brat.” 

“It’s my birthday!”

“How many more before you’re of legal age again?” 

“I-I dunno.” Harry winced, suddenly feeling out of place with his hand in the fruit bowl of Snape’s kitchen. He was a guest. In Snape’s home. He wasn’t meant to take food that wasn’t offered. He wasn’t meant to have free reign over anything in the kitchen besides the cleaning supplies under the sink. 

“Potter,” Snape called. Harry glanced over his shoulder. Snape didn’t appear so guarded nor dour in his black robes. His expression was rather open, almost anticipatory. No anger. No clenched fists or beady eyes that indicated things were about to take a turn for the worst. “You’re allowed the fruit if you’ll eat it.”

“Yeah.” Harry took the banana bundle, ripping the smallest one by the stem. “I knew that.” 

Harry returned to the table. Snape squared his shoulders towards him, placed the paper next to his plate on the table, steepled his hands together in a way that distinctly reminded him of Dumbledore’s wrinkled hands.

“Potter,” Snape intoned in a way Harry had never heard before, and this was the moment he could no longer look at Snape. “I apologize for my comment. I did not mean to imply you weren’t welcome here.” 

Harry shrugged. The banana was good. Fresh. A charm, most likely. Hermione would know. “It’s nothing. It was just a joke.” Snape should not be apologizing. Snape did not apologize. Adults did not apologize. Not unless it was Dumbledore apologizing for something that couldn’t be forgiven with words alone. 

“And yet-”

“It’s fine!” 

“Let me finish, Potter,” Snape said and it wasn’t angry, but calm, level, insistent. “And yet, you reacted poorly. Although this is not exactly the summer I would have hoped to have, your presence in my house is not entirely…unpleasant. Therefore, to reiterate, I apologize. The words were not as intended.”

Harry shrugged, the banana peel reaching towards the ground. “It’s okay.” 

“Alright.” This time it was stiff, which was odd for Snape. “Then I have something for you.” 

Snape twisted his wand and out of thin air conjured a package—a present, clearly. It was small, rectangularly shaped and wrapped in plain brown paper with but a thin string in a neat bow tied around it. Snape passed it across the table and Harry’s heart thudded a thousand times over in the few seconds it took to grasp the present.

He was surprised to find the package wrapped with tape instead of a temporary sticking charm, as most pureblood wizards did it. He removed the tape carefully, hating every time the paper ripped along with the tape. 

He knew what it was before he’d unfolded the last piece of the wrapping. But now, he took it in his hands, ran his fingers over the smooth brown leather inscribed plainly with H.J.P on the front cover. He flipped through the journal, feeling the soft paper between his thumb and forefinger. 

“You know what happened last time a teenage boy had a leather notebook with his name on the front cover, don’t you?” Harry said.

“The basilisk is long dead,” Snape waved the worry away, “But if your memory does happen to gain sentience and possess a Hogwarts student with the intent of ultimately using their life force to come back to life: let it be known I take full responsibility for any damages done.” 

Harry ran his thumb over the raised ridges along the spine of the journal, not quite wrapping his mind around what it meant to own something like this. 

“Thank you,” he said instead. 

“Consider it a favor so I don’t have to keep looking at the mess of parchment strewn haphazardly across your room.” 

“I have a system!” 

“What you have is a mess. For someone who insists on writing so much, it astounds me that you don’t already have a notebook.” 

Harry shrugged, going through the pages once more. “Never thought to buy one. Is this waterproof?” 

“Naturally, along with a half-dozen other protection spells I can’t recall. It’s also charmed against ink-bleeding and warded for privacy. However, please do me the favor of not letting Mr. Malfoy get his hands on it. It would be such a pain to deal with.” 

He placed the journal back on the table and began re-folding the wrapping paper. A journal. It was nearly as utilitarian and pragmatic as the man who gave it to him, save for one tiny detail. 

H.J.P  

Though discreet, it was still superfluous. Appendix to the actual function of the book. Snape took the time to think of something Harry would like on his journal. 

And looking at it, tracing a careful finger around its edges, he realized he did like it. If it were his full name flagrantly strewn across the cover, he’d hate the unnecessary attention it would garner just as much as he hated his celebrity status. His initials evoked none of the same fear.

Then his eyes found that carefully curved J and realized that too was deliberate. That stroke represented everything Snape hated about him, but Harry would be distraught without it there. It’d be the very same as having severed all connection with his parents. 

Snape did nothing without thought. That was the way Snape functioned. Yes, Snape was as human as anyone else. Like anyone else, he was often motivated by emotion (anger, mostly—curiosity on the rare occasion) but when he acted , it was as deliberate as the laying of bricks on a road.

Maybe Harry wasn’t feeling as awful anymore. Tired and upset, but lighter. He had a notebook now. Snape gave him a notebook. Snape did something thoughtful for him. 

“Could we duel today?” 

“You don’t want a break?” Snape asked.

“I don’t want to do my lessons but I want to duel.” 

Snape glanced towards the clock over the doorway. “I think I’d have time to do it later perhaps.” 

“Not this morning?” 

“I am… occupied this morning.” 

Harry snorted. “Yeah. Okay.” 

“I am. I must attend to the potions in my lab—unless you’d never like to get a headache soother again from Madam Pomfrey.” 

“I’m just saying if you’re afraid of being beaten, you can just say that.”

“You are more than welcome-”

From the living room came the sound of the fire roaring to life along with a disgruntled groan, hands wiping soot off their clothes. 

For a second, Harry froze, knowing only that there was someone in the house who was not meant to be in the house. An intruder. Fake Arthur and his fake smile and the way his wand shook when he summoned the ring into his palm.

“Harry! Where are you?”

He hated the way that hearing that voice, knowing that voice, did not stop his fork from shaking in his grip. Everything inside him yearned for that voice, would do anything to be comforted and warmed by it, but there was the instinct inside him that told him to stay away. Danger. Danger Danger. He was erratic. He was impulsive. Self-destructive did not mean self-contained. 

He hated this instinct. After everything Sirius has done, he can’t get over himself, still has to make this about him instead of about someone actually giving a damn. Sirius was the only person who stood up to Dumbledore for him (like Arthur). Sirius was the only person to give him advice when he needed it (like Moody). Sirius had a connection to his parents (like Lupin).

He cared whether or not Sirius cared about him. 

(like Dumbledore)

He wished there was an intruder for a second because an intruder, even a death eater, would be easy. Even if Snape had to reveal himself as a spy, at least he knew that it was a danger. He knew how to act. He knew Snape could protect him. 

Sirius was an unknown.

He glanced back at Snape, who tilted his head towards the doorway, a clear indication of what was expected of Harry here. 

“You knew?” Harry whispered.

“Naturally.” 

“Harry!” Sirius’s voice called, more agitated this time. Harry rushed to get into the living room, nearly losing balance from his socks against the hardwood, but was stopped by the appearance of Sirius in the hall. 

“Sirius!” 

He was standing there, out of place in the cramped hall. He didn’t look worse than the last time Harry had seen him, but he did not look…well. His hair was still scraggly and unkempt, his features gaunt and weary with worry. He wore black jeans with a blue jacket covering a blanched yellow shirt underneath, the color muted with time. 

“Ah! Harry!” Sirius rushed over, not hesitating to pull Harry into a boarding-on-bone-crushing hug. “I’ve missed you so much, pup.” 

He loved Sirius and he ached to be held like this, but there was no lack of fear of being suffocated. It felt like his lungs didn’t have enough room to expand, that the pressure was coming from inside his chest, crushing. 

Harry squirmed, unable to hide his anxiety. “Alright, Sirius. I think I get the point,” He laughed. The movement hurt his chest. 

“What!? I can’t hug my godson on his birthday?” Sirius teased, squeezing tighter before letting go. His hands came around Harry’s face, “Oh, how you’ve grown. Fifteen! Merlin, I’m getting old.” 

Sirius released him, eyes sparkling in electric delight. His features dampened when his gaze drifted behind Harry, and Harry knew immediately what had caught his eye. 

Harry stepped out of the way, and found Snape. His features were hardened over, guarded like how he’d always seem in class. 

“Black.” 

“Snape.” 

Snape stepped towards them in the hall, and Sirius’s hand gripped Harry’s shoulder. Snape’s eyes narrowed, sneer beginning to form before that blank mask overtook his features once more. 

Snape gripped the doorknob to his basement lab and made eye contact with Harry. “If you need anything, I shall be in the lab.” 

The door clicked shut and Snape couldn’t have been two steps down the stairs before Sirius rolled his eyes. “Greasy git.” 

It was one thing to call Snape a git to his face. It was part of their… banter or whatever. And he must have called Snape a greasy git behind his back a hundred times over the past four years at Hogwarts, but doing it now was… a betrayal. It felt wrong.

“Yeah,” he said because it would feel much worse to disagree and face Sirius’s disappointment than this slight betrayal. 

“So…” Sirius started, craning his neck to look around, “This is where Dumbledore’s been keeping you for the past few weeks.” 

“Yeah, save for my hearing at the ministry.” 

“Hm, yes–Oh! Yes! Arthur told me you did beautifully. I couldn’t have been prouder of you, especially with all that pressure you were under.” Sirius's hand fell on his back, leading him towards the green living room. Harry kept his eyes pointed to the floor despite feeling Sirius’s eyes on him like the sun burning his head in mid-August heat. 

“Arthur helped me loads. And Dumbledore did his…” Harry made a circular motion with hand, “usual magic. Oh, and- Snape did-”

Sirius scoffed, “kept his usual connections busy?” Harry sat down on the couch with Sirius on his right. 

“No- he gave me advice on how to act in the hearing so I’m polite enough, yeah? He even got these robes for me to wear so I looked proper and all that.” 

“Dumbledore most likely ordered him to,” Sirius rolled his eyes. “How would you like your birthday presents?” 

“I got presents?” 

“Of course! Here,” Sirius pulled out some items from the inside pocket of his coat and placed them on the table. He took out his wand and one by one enlarged the presents to their normal size. 

“This one is from Ron.” Sirius pushed a brightly colored red and blue striped bag towards him. Harry took the orange card sticking out the top in his hand. 

Dear Harry, 

Happy Birthday! Your the best friend anyone could ask for! Sorry it’s not a lot, but it was the best I could do. I hope it helps deal with the Dursleys being so dursleyish to you. Dumbledore says we might be able to owl you more soon, so I promise to write as soon as I can. Love you lots, mate. 

From,
Ron 

As Harry predicted from the note ( really Ron? Still don’t know the difference between your and you’re ? ), the bag was filled with some treats from honeydukes: sugar quills, chocolate frogs, and, of course, treacle tart.

The second was a simpler pale blue box which Harry unfolded just as neatly as Snape’s present in spite of Sirius’s obvious irritation with his tedious ministrations. Inside was a card and a slim box. He took the card first again. 

Dear Harry, 

I hope you are having a wonderful birthday! I miss you so much and I wish that Dumbledore lets us speak to you soon. I hope you are doing alright at the Dursleys and that you don’t mind the rather bleak application of my gift. I can’t wait to see you again! 

With love,
Hermione

Harry smiled. They were worried about him. They missed him. 

He missed them. 

He carefully lifted the lid off of the slender box to reveal a black loop that looked like a girl’s hair tie more than anything aside from a small piece sticking out the side. 

“Ah!” Sirius said, taking the gift in hand. “A wand holster for your wrist.”

“A holster?” 

“Yes, yes, you’re right handed, correct?” Sirius motioned for his right hand and rolled the band of the holster around his hand and onto his wrist where it fit snugly. “Your wand?” He looked towards the wand sticking out of Harry’s pocket. 

Harry hesitated, but gave it to Sirius. Sirius aligned the bottom of the wand with the small box that stuck out and it fell down, seemingly disappearing into thin air. Harry tensed, hoping it wasn’t some awful trick to get rid of his wand forever. 

The wand that saved him from Voldemort. 

“Now, flick your wrist forward, like so,” Sirius’s hand shot out as though he were throwing a frisbee. Harry repeated the motion and his wand shot out of the box and into his palm, ready to cast. 

“How does it go back in?” 

“You have to align the bottom of it with the opening and let go, but it can be difficult to do without practice. I’m sure with time it will become easier for you.” 

Harry did have trouble knowing when the bottom of the wand was somewhat aligned with the holster, but when he did, he let go and it moved horizontally under his palm and into the holster, disappearing from sight. 

Practical yet sentimental. It was a comfort to know his wand was so close at hand and he wouldn’t have to waste precious seconds finding his wand in his jeans or on his night stand. Hermione, without having talked to him since before the final task, knew the stakes had been raised. 

“If I write back, could you get the letters to them?” Harry asked. 

“Of course, of course. I’d be happy to,” Sirius smiled. He could smell the cigarettes smoke in his breath. “Why don’t you open myself and Moony’s present first and then go write them?” 

There was no letter from Lupin. Sirius said it was on account of the fact that he had been away and in truth, had to tell Sirius to buy the gift in his stead. Harry unwrapped a defensive book titled 101 Most Essential Defensive Spells for the Wary Wizard . It was a title he had mentioned to Lupin a while back, he knew. 

“Alright, and this is from me,” Sirius rubbed at the stubble on his face. “I hope- er- well just open it.” 

It was a wide square box that was flattened to about an inch and covered in bright yellow wrapping paper. Inside, the box was white and he uncovered it to find a jagged piece of broken glass inside. 

“It’s a two way mirror. Or rather, part of a two way mirror. Your father and I used them to communicate over the summer months,” Sirius’s voice was trembling somewhat, the words like the rushing of water over a ledge. “I have the matching mirror. If you call my name through this, I’ll know and you can talk to me whenever you want.” 

Harry swallowed thickly. The mirror was a bit smudged, obscuring the details of his face. He found that two sides were actually smooth while the other two displayed the sharp jagged edges. 

He clenched the mirror tighter in his hands and blinked back his tears. 

It was Sirius. He had a connection to Sirius now. They didn’t have to be apart. They were going to be apart, Harry knew, but this was- this was- 

Sirius wanted to be in his life. Harry knew this. Sometimes it was hard to believe this. 

“If you- if you don’t like it, it’s okay. I really don’t mind. I know you're a teenager and you lot want your space at that age and I’m really sorry if I’ve overstepped,” Sirius gestured almost widely with his hands, “You know what? You're right, Harry. It was a- uh- stupid idea. I can take it back and get you-” 

Sirius’s hand reached towards the mirror and Harry jerked it away from him. 

“Harry-” 

“Thank you,” He whispered for fear his voice would break. “Really, Sirius. I-” Harry cut himself off and it was the feeling of Hermione remembering to bring him something from the Great Hall after he missed breakfast. It was overhearing Ron telling their dorm mates to be quiet, will you! on a Saturday morning because Harry hasn’t been sleeping well. It was that feeling amplified over and over again, reverberating throughout a symphony hall. It wasn’t a light feeling, no. It was heavy, the weight nudging at his ribs. 

“Hey,” Sirius said softly with a gentle hand on rubbing at his shoulder. It was this small small gesture that made Harry’s shoulders shake, made the tears seep out of his eyes unbidden by his embarrassment. Because Harry has come to realize that Sirius was, by nature, many things, but softness and gentleness were attributes reserved only for Harry, only for people he loved dearly. 

“Alright, come here. I’ve got you,” Sirius hushed, letting Harry fall into his side, letting his arm fall fully over Harry’s shoulders, cupping the back of Harry’s neck. Gentle. Gentle. Gentle. 

He knew the last time he cried in front of someone. It was with Ron, who consoled him. He knew the last time he cried in front of an adult. It was with Vernon, who scolded him. 

He wanted and wanted and wanted. He cried and he wanted more than he deserved to ask for, than he deserved to ever think about wanting. 

Sirius was being gentle. Sirius loved him dearly. 

It was a heavy burden to be loved dearly. Harry didn’t know how to be loved dearly. No, he did. He knew what he was meant to do when he friends loved him dearly. He knew which gaps were his to fill with Ron and Hermione. But he didn’t know how to do this. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do with Sirius hushing him and comforting him and loving-

He felt sick. He was torn between the rough yet comforting fabric of Sirius’s jacket on his cheek and the fear that ate through his chest that told him to run and run and run. He didn’t know whether or not it had to do with Sirius or with just his own traitorous mind that could never decide what it wanted. 

He wanted. He feared wanting. 

He pulled away from Sirius like a spring having been let go. Sirius looked at him with unveiled concern. He reached a hand toward him. Harry flinched, but only just slightly. Not enough to keep Sirius from cupping his cheek, wiping away the last of the tear streaks on his cheek. He didn’t open his eyes again until the hand retreated from his face. Didn’t let out a shaky breath until he readjusted his foggy glasses on his nose and Sirius’s furrowed brow came into focus. 

“What’s been going on, pup?” Sirius asked. His hand rubbed Harry’s back. Harry shook the touch away. The hand retreated and Harry immediately wished it was there again. 

“Nothing. I’m fine.” 

Sirius shifted in his weight. Harry looked into the floo, knowing Sirius was looking only at him. “It doesn’t seem like nothing.” 

“Well. It is.” 

“Harry-”

“No! Just- drop it.” Harry crossed his arms over his chest. “I said I’m fine. Let’s just talk about something else.” 

“Harry, please-”

“No! I said-”

“I know what you said,” Sirius implored, “I know, and I’m sorry, Harry. But please, let me speak first, and then you can decide what we will do. Alright?” 

Harry nodded. 

Sirius sighed, running his hands nervously over his lap. “It is… difficult keeping secrets. Even at the best of times. It is difficult keeping secrets, but Harry… what you went through- what you are going through is no small matter. And I wish there were more people who you could talk to about… the whole graveyard thing, but right now only myself, Dumbledore, and Snape know. And it doesn’t- it’s not good to keep everything bottled up.” 

Sirius’s hands twisted together. He seemed uncomfortable on the faded green couch, stripped of his bravado. 

“Harry, what I’m trying to say is I care very deeply about you. And I want you to tell me when something is bothering you. I want to be in your life, if you would just let me in.” 

“If I would just let you in ?” Harry whispered. “What the bloody hell does that mean?” 

“It just means that if you tell me what’s going on, I might be able to help. We could get… you know… we could know each other better.” 

“I’m sorry,” Harry sneered, “I didn’t know the only way we could get to know each other better was by digging into my private life.” 

“Harry-”

“And what a load of bullshit coming from you.” 

“What the hell does that mean?” Sirius barked. 

“It means where the hell were you?!” Harry shouted. “What? You didn’t care enough about me to think that maybe, maybe attempting to kill Pettigrew wouldn’t exactly allow you to be in my life very often.” 

“Harry-

“And not to mention that you could have escaped at any point! But no! The only thing that motivated you to escape from Azkaban was to kill Pettigrew once and for all! You never once thought to escape because I needed you? Because I was out there somewhere?” 

“Harry-”

“And now you’re no good to me! You can’t take care of me. You can’t do anything about Dumbledore. You have nothing but trinkets to placate-”

“LISTEN TO ME, JAMES!” 

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. He sat petrified, shocked. 

He should have expected it, having flown too high in a thunderstorm. The shock of lightning.

“Harry. I-I meant Harry . You know that, don’t you?” Sirius spoke. His voice was level, but it was anything but calm. “Harry, I don’t think you’re James.” 

“You gave me his mirror.” 

“Well, yes, but I never intended-” 

“That first night we met-”

“Yes, I know what I said, but I didn’t know you well then. Please, Har-” 

“I just- I feel like you want me to be him.” Harry bit out. “Is that all you wanted? Did you expect me to be just like him?” 

“No, no, Harry,” Sirius said. He placed a hand on his shoulder. Harry shook out of his grip, moved away from him on the couch. 

“Don’t lie to me! Enough people have already lied to me!” Harry shouted and it felt righteous to say. It felt justified.

“I am not lying!” 

“Just admit it! You’ve basically already have! Admit you think I’m-”

“I will admit to nothing!” Sirius yelled. Harry whipped his head around. His face cut jaggedly with his frown. “I am sick of this! I have been worried sick about you for weeks- months- years! I have spent my entire bloody existence thinking about you and worrying about you and this is how you treat me! You dare accuse me of these things!” 

Harry backed away. “Siri-”

“No! I won’t stand for it! Do you know what I’ve done for you? Do you know everything I have lost because of you!” 

His cheeks were wet again, he knew. “I’m sorry,” He whispered, the words barely audible. Sirius continued his barrage over them. 

“I hid in caves. I was treated like an animal. I was on the brink of death more times than I can count and hell- that doesn’t even cover the times I was nearly kissed by those bloody dementors! Great Merlin, Harry, what do I have to do? Tell me! What is it that I must do for you to make it up to you! I already spent THIRTEEN YEARS in Azkaban! Was that not enough?” Sirius yelled. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry begged. “I’m sorry,” he said over and over again, and he meant it. He regretted saying those awful things to Sirius, but part of him still felt that way. Part of him knew he felt betrayed by Sirius, but a greater part of him knew he could not feel that way, not after everything Sirius did do for him. Not when he knew Sirius was the only fucking person that gave a damn.

“Come on, Harry!” Sirius continued, nearly screaming. Harry continued his whispered apologies. “What is it? Must I be tortured? Must I turn myself in to the Ministry and be kissed? What will make you feel better? You name it and it will be done because I am sick of being treated like I haven’t done anything for you.” 

The unmistakable sound of footsteps roaring up the basement stairs like blood rushing in his ear. The door slammed open, bouncing off of the wall, and Harry shut his eyes closed. He couldn’t take it. He felt ripped open. He felt not raw but dead. Like he was splayed out on the mortician’s table, his chest open, his organs removed one by one. He didn’t need them anymore anyway. 

“I think you have overstayed your welcome, Black.” 

“I think you need to keep your nose out of someone else’s business, Snivellius.” 

“This is my house, and I say you go.” 

“I am having a conversation with my godson. I am not leaving until we are done.” 

Harry was shaking. He hated this. Hated how he wished for Snape to win so that Sirius would go, yet also wished Sirius would win because he knew that slight to Sirius’s pride was not something that would go away easily. 

“Let me rephrase,” Snape’s silky voice cut through the sound of Harry’s gasping breaths. “You came into my house, insulted me both behind my back and to my face, and got into a yelling match with your godson after having been informed that he was in need of your guidance. If you don’t leave now, I will personally recommend you never have contact with Harry again.”

Harry’s eyes were still shut. But he heard the creak of the couch and felt the weight shift as Sirius got up. He knew there was a silence that hung and hung in the air and that with every second that passed he curled tighter and tighter into himself. Then, as lightning strikes the earth, Sirius strode towards the fireplace and shouted “Number 12 Grimmauld Place!”

Harry shook. Snape stared at him. Harry could no longer contain it. 

He opened his eyes, and jumped from the couch and rushed towards the hall, not missing the surprised look crossing Snape’s face. He ran out the back door and heard the shout of “Potter!” behind him. 

He really should have apologized for running into the woods. But this time, he didn’t go nearly as far. He collapsed in the thick grass. His head bowed towards the ground, as though praying, and really properly sobbed. His hands dug into the ground, the dirt wedging into the space underneath his fingernails. 

The door burst open, not dissimilar to Snape slamming the basement door open. Not dissimilar to his bedroom door slamming open, a glass of water placed on the nightstand. 

His chest heaved and the sob was ripped from his throat and the magic burst from his hands, his chest, his skin, his soul. His eyes were shut and he thought it was destructive. He was feeling destructive, and even though the release of magic felt good, magic was fickle. It was glass shattering. 

But when found the willpower to open his eyes to look at the carnage he had created (again. He would never forget him.), there were sunflowers and tulips and daffodils and beautiful things were bursting from him. They came alive as though fallen soldiers standing upright in battle. 

From his own destruction came creation and somehow that knowledge made him sob harder. Made his chest ache more. 

He knew Snape was there and it wasn’t a comfort but it wasn’t obtrusive. It wasn’t a violation of the distance they were meant to keep between each other. Maybe all of the little things he overlooked before were violations that he just never noticed because they were so little. Maybe each tiny thing he let go of led him to this moment. To sobbing in the meadow with Snape watching over him not as a vulture but not as an angel. He was an observer. He was someone to bear witness, someone who proved that this was real and Harry was real.

When he stopped crying, it wasn’t from peace but exhaustion. He rolled over in the grass, trampling some of the newly sprouted dandelions, and stared at the cotton-ball clouds lazily drifting over his head. 

He watched and watched and watched the clouds, felt the sun heat his skin and the cloud’s shadow bring him relief. He felt the wind tickle his nose and noticed the clump of raised dirt digging into the small of his back and shook off the tickle of ants crawling over his fingers. 

He breathed. 

It was then and only then that there was shuffling in the grass and the familiar figure appeared over his head. 

“Ready?” 

He breathed. 

“Yeah.” 

Snape offered his potion-stained hand and Harry grasped it. He nearly let go from the shock of having touched Snape at all, but the man held firm and in one motion pulled him from the ground.

He never did get to send those letters to Ron and Hermione.

Chapter Text

Harry was screaming. 

His limbs shook. His throat was dry. His voice was hoarse. 

Everything burned, hot and fiery. The forest blazed and the fire destroyed all within it. The smoke obscured the sky. 

Harry was screaming and then he woke up. 

The stars. He saw the stars glued to the ceiling and met their gentle gaze, their indifferent stare, their violent voyeurism.

The door slammed open. He stood there, wand at the ready. The Heisenberg hold, not the Rochester. Snape would never use the Rochester. 

He was crying. Again. At least, he thought so. It was difficult to tell. His entire body felt floaty. Everything had to be thought about. Was the inhale and exhale of his breath steady or inconsistent? Was he alive or dead? 

Snape was in front of him, closer to the bed. He placed the glass of water on his nightstand. When did he leave to get the water? 

“Potter? Can you hear me?” 

Harry didn’t know the answer to that question. He knew there must be a clear answer and knew it was a question but it did not make sense in his mind. 

He could hear screaming and commands rolling off his tongue like banter among friends and high pitched laughter echoing off the chamber walls. It was a bad one. Perhaps the worst yet. Harry immediately felt guilty referring to the torture of others in terms of how much it affected him personally. As if they didn’t matter. 

“Yeah.” 

He wanted the water but it was too far away. He didn’t have the strength to cross the distance for comfort. Discomfort was comfort. He was used to discomfort. This was normal.

“Do you need anything else?” Snape asked the same as always. As always. It felt like he’s been having these nightmares for a lifetime. How could it have only been a week when it felt like these nights were all he has ever known and all he ever will know. 

He was tired and sick in every way that mattered. He couldn’t go on like this.

Snape was turning towards the door, already leaving. A spike of fear shot through Harry. It took all of Harry’s energy and every last piece of his willpower to push the air out of his lungs and through his lips and make his mouth form the correct sound. “Stay.” 

Snape halted. He faced Harry again and Harry was glad that the only light came from the hall, casting Snape’s face in shadow. He feared Snape’s disgust. His rejection.

“Do you know everything I have lost because of you!” 

When Snape didn’t make a further movement, Harry felt he messed up. He was reliant. Weak. Snape didn’t care. If Snape cared, he would have done something before. He wouldn’t have waited until Harry was forced to stay in his house. He wouldn’t have-

The brown leather journal lay on his nightstand. H.J.P.  

Harry shouldn’t care whether or not Snape cared. Snape was his despicable potions teacher who gave too much homework and not enough praise and lived to see Harry suffer, even if he would never let Harry die. There was a lot of suffering someone could endure before death. 

Harry shouldn’t want Snape to care. It shouldn’t matter what happened next. It shouldn’t matter whether Snape steps towards or away. 

It mattered a great deal. 

Snape moved. He stepped not towards or away, but to the side, to Harry’s desk. Slowly, with deliberation, he pulled out Harry’s chair, the legs trailing along the floor and pulled it to the side of Harry’s bed. He sat down clinically, but not uncomfortably.

They sat for several minutes in silence. With each inhale, Harry breathed easier. It took much longer for the shaking to fade and longer still for his muscles to relax. Snape stayed for this entire transformation, barely moving a muscle. Harry found himself watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, if only to prove the man was living.

Snape stayed.

It appeared that light was peaking through the windows. Harry did not think sunrise was appropriate for his disjointed thoughts, his aching limbs. “I’m cold,” he croaked at last. He knew why he was cold. It had to do with the sweat on his brow and in his hair and soaked into his pajamas. He was still shaking. Just much less now that it was only from the cold and not from shock. 

“You could take a shower or I could cast a cleaning charm.” 

Harry needed time to think about those options. To think about the effort of showering versus the sticky residue of a cleaning charm and what he would be able to withstand. Then was the gargantuan task of conveying his decision into spoken language. Snape stayed there through that silent eternity. Never pushing yet never retreating. 

“Shower.” 

Snape helped untangle the blanket from his legs. Harry stood on shaky legs and nearly collapsed before Snape quickly stepped to his side, letting Harry lean into him. 

Snape’s arm wrapped around Harry, his left forearm resting just next to his own. Snape was wearing his short sleeves again while Harry had abandoned his long sleeve nightshirts since they only served to make him claustrophobic after his nightmares.

Harry’s eyes were drawn to them, to the twin marks. 

“They match,” he whispered.

Snape paused in his step. “What are you-” He cut himself off.

Harry tilted his arm upwards, towards the light streaming in the bedroom from the doorway. He’d never realized how closely they matched. Both etched in their skin from their pulse points to just below the crook in their forearm. 

Harry could see the resemblance clearly now. Where Harry’s scar was thickest at the top of his forearm was where the skull head took up nearly the entire width of Snape’s arm. As his scar approached his wrist, the mangled flesh thinned out just as Snape’s mark thinned into a snake’s body. At the very end where Harry’s scar curved upwards did the snake’s head curved back up towards the skull on Snape’s arm. 

“We match,” Harry whispered again. 

What circumstance would lead Snape to take the mark? He was Snape. He was the epitome of stubbornness. Was he proud then? Was he dreaming of the mark for weeks- years? Did he boast about how much it stung, how it made him a man? 

But Harry found it didn’t really matter why Snape got the mark in the first place. He was here now, bearing the consequences of it the same as Harry was. They shared this mark, an indelible stain on their bodies. They shared the burden of Voldemort’s will over their own. 

“We do,” Snape murmured.

By the time they reached the bathroom, Harry was steadier on his feet. This did not stop Snape from audibly casting a cushioning charm on the tiled floor. 

Harry showered. It was through his Dursley conditioning that he made sure to be out of the bathroom in less than ten minutes—even if he wanted to relish the hot water for the way it made him feel human, even if he craved its warmth again. 

When he returned to his room, steadier on his feet, Snape was sitting in the chair once more. There was a solemn vial of dreamless sleep accompanying the glass of water on his nightstand. His bed had clean sheets. The crescent moon lamp was turned on, casting a soft glow over the room and softening some of Snape’s stony features. It was only a trick of the light, of course—a trick of Harry’s overtired mind. 

“Into bed with you now,” Snape instructed. That was a funny way of thinking of it. Instructed. Snape was a teacher at heart, even if he denied it, even if he acted like he couldn’t be it. He functioned on information, on the steady flow of knowledge from teacher to pupil and pupil to teacher.

Harry got into the bed by himself. Snape kept the distance, allowed Harry to pull the sheet and quilt up to his chin by himself, but he stayed.

Stars, he realized. The sheets were covered with stars. 

Snape stayed. Couldn’t that be enough? 

“I already spent THIRTEEN YEARS in Azkaban! Was that not enough?”

“I think you should consider taking it,” Snape indicated the dark purple potion. “Only a half a gulp if you do. It would be irredeemable of me to let you sleep under a potion until dinner.” 

He was finally warm again. Warm like the Gryffindor tower and inside jokes and bubbling laughter. Warm like whispered comforts and soft gestures. 

Harry took the glass of water in hand, felt the condensation coat his palm. He drank it slowly, letting the cool liquid soothe his throat and sink into his stomach. 

He knew from experience that this fear he felt was called courage. It was what other people called courage. Doing the thing that you feared was honorable. At the very least, that was what Gryffindors thought, but Harry could not imagine any circumstance where he would believe what happened in the graveyard was honorable. 

Couldn’t the coward be honorable too? Was it not enough to do the right thing? Must they be scared while doing it too? 

“Professor.” 

“Yes, Harry?”

“LISTEN TO ME, JAMES!” 

Snape was here. Snape stayed.

“I have something I need to tell you.”

Chapter Text

There wasn’t any need for explicit detail. Harry explained all he could force himself to and ignored the way he stuttered over his words and how his stomach was tied in knots. 

Somewhere in the explanation, Snape’s presence had faded into the back of his mind. Snape was there, but it was not Snape . It was just Harry and the release of his burden. It was the blooming of flowers from his hands.

“It clicked when I- I saw the scar on your neck. That night. I knew. I saw what he did to you and they really aren’t that bad, I swear. They weren’t that bad, but this week was different. It was torture and more torture and I-” 

Harry pulled his knees up to his chest. He stared at the where the quilt was twisted between his hands. He twisted the fabric further until there was a physical ache in his wrists. 

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, shaking. He was on that edge again, but he refused to go over. “I didn’t know what to do. I’ve been waking you up every night and I’m sorry . I should have- should have put up a ward to stop you from hearing me or something but I didn’t think . It feels like I can’t think and it’s torture. I- I don’t know what to do anymore.” His fingers were turning white from the effort of his twisting the fabric between them. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered.

Harry was warm, comforted by the fresh sheets and the blankets. It was raining outside, a gentle patter against his windows and tinting the light streaming into his room gray. He didn’t look at Snape and instead stared at his hands as though he’s never seen them before. Snape wasn’t there. He had to pretend Snape wasn’t there or else it all fell apart. 

Snape took a deep breath. “There is no need for an apology. It is… my duty to assure that you are well both physically and… mentally while you are in my care,” Snape said softly. His hand entered Harry’s line of sight, and tugged on the quilt between his hands until he released it from his grip. His hands were relieved from having to hold on for so long, but they were still sore and the flesh felt raw and difficult to move. 

“Ignoring your suffering was not an option,” Snape said in that soft voice that could almost be considered soothing save for the fact that Snape most certainly did not soothe. Harry almost felt bad for not having the decency to meet his gaze. But he was so tired from Sirius and his nightmares that he knew he did not have the emotional bandwidth left in him to deal with processing Snape’s emotions on top of his own. His own were overwhelming enough all on their own. “Had you placed a ward, I would have immediately taken it down.” 

Harry cracked a smile. Had Snape pinned on that one . 

Glass slid against wood. He followed the sound to his nightstand where Snape pushed the dreamless sleep closer to Harry. 

“You are exhausted,” Snape reasoned. “Half a gulp, and when you wake, you will be better equipped to face this.” 

Harry took the cool glass in hand, swirled the potion slightly in its glass bottle, watching the little flecks of white glimmer in the dark sea of purple. 

“You can’t tell Dumbledore,” Harry whispered. “He can’t know.” 

“Why can’t he know?” 

“He can’t.” Harry shook his head. “He’ll be- he can’t know.” 

“Harry, the headmaster must be informed of the situation at hand.” 

“Promise me,” Harry looked at Snape, meeting furrowed brow and his downturned lips and despising the instinctual fear of Snape’s anger that rose in his throat. “Promise me you won’t tell him.” 

“I promise.” Harry searched for the insincerity in his features, but found only the end of Snape’s crooked nose.

 He returned his attention to the potion, uncorking the bottle. He should really know better than to blindly trust anything someone, especially adult someones say, but he was so tired and for once in his life, he just wanted to take the easy way out. Was that so awful of him? 

He swallowed the potion and barely had time to rest the glass back on the nightstand before falling into the first restful sleep he’s had in a long time. 

-.-

Harry awoke to birds chirping outside his window and muffled voices coming from downstairs. 

With growing trepidation, he got up and got dressed and cracked his bedroom door open. 

“-do you expect? He’s completely isolated from his friends and family after witnessing the death of a classmate and suffering under the Dark Lord’s wand. You know how he’s doing,” Snape snapped. 

“Yes,” the other answered, and Harry wanted to scream. Fire pulsed in his chest because Snape promised, has assured him that he wouldn’t tell and yet here Dumbledore was, visiting the cottage for the first time all summer. “But I would rather hear it from you,” Dumbledore said in that overly calm and collected tone he used when dealing with Harry when he was being particularly discordant. 

“See for yourself,” Snape sneered, and the door was whipped open from Harry’s grasp. “It is unbecoming to ease drop, Potter,” he called.

Harry groaned, silently making his way downstairs save for his feet creaking on the old stairs. The living room came into view as he made his way down. Snape was sitting in the loveseat in his usual black robes, facing Harry. His features clearly displayed annoyance, though Harry wasn’t sure if it was towards him or the headmaster, who was in the flowered armchair, facing away from Harry. He didn’t move to acknowledge Harry as he entered the living room.

He flopped onto the couch, attempting to feign indifference. Dumbledore had nothing to say to him that Harry didn’t already know or that Harry needed to care about. Dumbledore had shown him time and again that he didn’t care. Not to mention that he didn’t even bother to check up on Harry this summer and he hasn’t even greeted-

“Good morning, Harry.” Harry clenched his jaw, giving his attention to the headmaster. “How have you been?” 

“Fine.” Dumbledore didn’t look particularly worse for wear, unless you counted poor fashion statements as he was dressed in obnoxiously bright yellow robes with a repeating sun design imprinted on them. He appeared kind and grandfatherly and all the compassionate gestures that Dumbledore used but didn’t actually mean anything. 

“You told him,” Harry accused.

Snape merely nodded, nonchalant. “That is correct.” 

“I told you not-” 

“Harry,” Dumbledore interrupted, tone grave. “I am profoundly disappointed in you.” 

“What-” 

“You have shown a remarkable lack of judgment and foresight,” Dumbledore continued over him. “You have kept vital information from myself and Professor Snape and possibly endangered yourself and the members of the Order. I am afraid you do not understand the severity of the choices you made.” 

Harry scoffed. “No, let’s tell the truth here. You’re only concerned for the Order and Vol- Riddle. You don’t care what this has to do with me.” 

“Harry, I care for you very much.” Dumbledore shook his head sadly. “But you cannot keep information like this from the Order.” 

“Those dreams are private!” Harry shouted. “You can’t expect me to pour my soul out to you every time something- something happens to me! I don’t- it’s not fair!” He clenched his fists together in attempt to stem the flow of fire in his veins. He wanted to explode, erupt the room into a fiery inferno and let Dumbledore deal with the ash and waste left behind for once. 

“Everyone has a part to play against Voldemort.” Harry did not miss the subtle twitch of Snape’s arm, barely contained. “It may not be fair, but this is yours, and keeping this information to yourself has serious consequences—consequences that may be outside of your periphery.” 

“Don’t tell me about consequences! I know what consequence is.” 

“We’ll take it together! On the count of three!” 

He should be used to Dumbledore’s quiet dismissal, his casual disinterest in Harry’s desires, but the headmaster’s unaffected features infuriated Harry. 

It didn’t matter what Dumbledore said to him. He knew Dumbledore was nothing but a lying, conniving, scheming old man with too much power. It didn’t matter what he said. Harry knew what he was now and that meant Dumbledore couldn’t hurt him. He wouldn’t listen to the lies Dumbledore spun to get him to do what he wanted. 

“I’ve always seen you as an incredibly kind-hearted young man, Harry. I’m disappointed to see you balk at an opportunity to help those who are doing so much to help you.” 

No. Harry didn’t need Dumbledore’s pride. He didn’t care if Dumbledore was disappointed in him. 

The past was the past. It didn’t matter how he began to rely on the headmaster of guidance, for his protection; or how he glowed under Dumbledore’s praise in his first year, or how warm relief encompassed him when Dumbledore announced he believed Harry didn’t put his name in the Goblet of Fire. 

He didn’t care how even though Dumbledore made the most mistakes, he was also the only adult willing to admit them so plainly to a child. 

He definitely didn’t still admire Dumbledore’s wisdom and experience, nor his mental strength and sense of justice. 

The feeling of rocks lodged in his throat didn’t come from Dumbledore sitting there, just a few feet away from him, but unable to look him in the eye. It wasn’t because his cold disinterest—the disinterest that Harry has felt for some time now—felt the same as abandonment. 

“Do you know everything I have lost because of you!”

Because Harry didn’t need Dumbledore.He didn’t need any adults. He didn’t need Sirius or Arthur or McGonagall or Sn-

He didn’t need Snape, who made false promises. Who was the reason Dumbledore was here in the first place, attempting to guilt Harry into speaking about his nights where he thought getting into bed one more time would kill him and the mornings he spent staring blankly at the ceiling, unable to tell whether or not he was in his own body with his own thoughts. 

Things that Dumbledore did not deserve to be privy to. 

“They’re my dreams, and I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“I won’t ask about the specific content of the dreams,” Dumbledore placated. “But I do need you to answer a few questions for me.”

Harry stared at Dumbledore and Dumbledore stared at the armrest to Harry’s right and Snape stayed silent. The rain began to pick up again, tapping away at the windows as though attempting to break in. 

“Well? Are you going to ask?” Harry said. 

“I was waiting for your consent, my boy.” 

Harry scoffed. “Never stopped you before.” 

 Perhaps Dumbledore was weary in the way his posture was unusually relaxed and the bottom of his robes were wrinkled, but he was not as weary as he should be if he cared about Harry’s anger. If he cared about Harry caring about his praise. 

Dumbledore sighed and began his line of questioning. He asked Harry about when they started and how often they occurred and what time of night they generally happen and how he experiences the dreams and how vivid his experiences are and-

“Are there any after effects of the visions that would not usually occur after a regular nightmare?” 

“Er- yes, actually. My scar starts burning.” 

“Your forehead?” Snape interjected with a furrowed brow. 

“Oh, no. The uh- the scar on my forearm. The one that Pettigrew gave me. If I’m not sure whether or not the dream came from him , I know for certain if my forearm burns.” 

“Have you ever received a vision without this occurring?” Dumbledore asked. “Or had a regular nightmare where this did occur?” 

“No. But, as I’ve said, I’ve had visions where on first glance I couldn’t tell if they were visions or dreams, but once my scar burned I knew it was a vision.” 

“Is the pain localized from the scar or does it encompass a greater area?” Snape asked. 

“It… emanates from the scar. Like pulses. The entire area around it feels inflamed, but usually the backside of my arm is mostly fine, just a little… hypersensitive in a sense.” 

Dumbledore and Snape shared a silent exchange that Harry didn’t attempt to decipher, but did feel indignant over.

At last, Dumbledore said, “It could be psychosomatic.” 

“Psycho- what?” 

“Psychosomatic,” Snape replied evenly. “Meaning the pain occurs not because there is physical pain but because your mind believes there is a painful stimulus and simulates the feeling of pain. On the other hand,” Snape shifted in the loveseat, “it could be directly related to the visions and may be a clue as to why they are happening.” 

“You believe it’s related,” Dumbledore said. 

“Yes. Taking into account how the scar was placed there, why it was placed there, and the shape of it-”

“The shape of it?” Dumbledore interrupted. 

“Yes,” Snape said, though his downturned lips clearly indicated his disgust with being interrupted, “It is almost identical to the mark on my own arm.” 

“Curious. Very curious indeed.” 

“Yes, well,” Snape spoke to Harry, “Even if the scar is cursed, it begs the question of how exactly a curse in your forearm would enable access into the Dark Lord’s mind.” 

“Is there any way to tell? If its cursed, I mean?” 

“Yes… and no,” Snape said in his I’m-about-to-lecture-voice. “There is a potion that will show if a person or other living creature is cursed. However, it will not tell how or where or why they are curse, and give your… unique history, it is likely that you were cursed prior to this already.” 

“I was cursed?” 

“There is a high probability the potion will respond to the residual magic in the scar on your forehead due to the fact it was inflicted through the killing curse . We also can’t rule out the possibility that the basilisk bite in your forearm wouldn’t trigger it or that there are no residual or dormant curses on you from the incident in the graveyard.” Snape pushed his hair out of his face and sighed.

“I believe,” Dumbledore steepled his fingers together, “that we should proceed assuming that it is merely psychosomatic unless there comes a time where further evidence supports it being cursed.” 

“But it has to do with him, I swear!”

“Although it may feel that way, Harry, that does not make it a reality.” The distant boom of thunder sounded outside. The rain had picked up to a near-constant barrage against the cottage. “We must act only on what we know to be true.” 

Harry huffed, not willing to debate the topic further. He knew it was real. That was all that mattered. 

There was a heavy silence that fell in the room. The clock above the mantle ticked away. He knew it was off by several minutes by virtue of living with Snape, the walking pocketwatch. It was nearly three now, the long hand just tangent to the elegantly printed twelve. 

“You want to know what happens in them?” 

“If there is anything of significance or even-”

“I’ve seen the spy in the order.” 

When Harry allowed that sentence hover in the air like a wayward broomstick, Snape said teresely, “What exactly does that mean, Potter?” 

“It means that I’ve seen Vol- Riddle talking to him. He calls him Crouch, but he doesn’t look like Barty Crouch. He’s taller, but with shorter and lighter hair. Riddle is very… interested in him. It’s bizarre. He treats him like he’s his pet that needs training. Though I suppose he treats them all like that, but with Crouch it’s super obvious. The only other person-” Harry cut himself. 

“Who?” Snape demanded. Harry shook his head. “Potter you will tell us-”

“You.” Harry said. Snape’s eyes widened ever so slightly. Lightning flashed followed by the distant boom of thunder.“He doesn’t speak about you, and I’ve only seen him with you once in the dreams, but whenever Crouch is there, he also thinks about you. And he sees you as- as his dog almost. He thinks you’re loyal to a fault and super intelligent but sort of in that way when people say animals are intelligent, you know? Like he doesn’t think you’d ever be smarter than him. Like you’re intelligent but only for a-” 

“A half-blood,” Snape finished, then scoffed. “This spy must be either a half-blood or part creature.” 

“I thought he saw you as his equal?” Dumbledore said. 

Snape shot a glance towards Harry. “That is… a discussion for a more private setting.” 

“Yes, of course,” Dumbledore shook his head before returning his gaze to the armrest to the right of Harry. “Is there anything else from your visions, my boy? Even things that seem unusual or odd may be of significance.” 

Harry shook his head. “No.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“I- yes! Yes, I’m sure!” Harry yelled. “Are we done here? I’m sick of this and you know I haven’t even eaten yet today.” 

Dumbledore looked between Harry’s armrest and Snape. “Will you tell him?”

Snape sighed, rubbing again at his brow. “Yes, if I must.” 

The headmast stood slowly, nodding. “Good. That’s good. I know when I am not wanted.” Harry didn’t bother to argue with this comment. No reason to argue with the truth. “Well then. Thank you gentlemen. Take care, Harry. Severus.” 

With a handful of powder and a command, the headmaster disappeared in a fiery burst. 

Which left just him and Snape and the torrents of rain pounding against the windows. 

“I hope you know you’ve earned yourself an hour scrubbing cauldrons, Potter,” Snape sneered. 

Harry scoffed. “What the bloody hell did I do?!” 

“I shouldn’t need to tell you that!”

“No,” Harry countered. “Tell me exactly why I wasn’t justified when he was spouting all that manipulative shit!” 

“Language! I will not be spoken to with such blatant disrespect, and you cannot treat the headmaster that way no matter how angry you are with him.”

Lightning striked the earth followed by the even roar of thunder, closer this time. 

“Why should I care when he doesn’t even care! He just sat there like a rock the entire time! He didn’t even look me in the eye! Why should I have to treat him with respect when he doesn’t even treat me like a human being!” 

“Because he is your elder and knows what is best for you.” 

“Bullshit!” Harry yelled, gritting his teeth. “He wouldn’t know what was best for me if-” if I was drowning at the bottom of the ocean, if Vernon finally put me out of my misery, if there was a noose swinging from my bedroom ceiling.

“You have no idea what forces are acting for and against you!” Snape roared. “You have no idea what role the headmaster has played in protecting you.”

“Protecting me from what exactly!? Am I to thank the headmaster for protecting me from Quirrel or from the basilisk first? Do I send my thanks in writing or in person for protecting me from a hundred-dementor hoard or for protecting me from dying in the graveyard? Oh yeah, that’s right! I protected myself in the graveyard! I saved myself over and over again without Dumbledore’s help.” 

“The only reason you are not dead right now is because of sheer dumb luck!” 

“You don’t think I know that!” Harry screamed. “But guess what! Sheer dumb luck means it wasn’t Dumbledore who saved me! I know I should have died! Not a day goes by where I don’t think about how there should have been two fresh bodies in that graveyard! That he had years of experience on me! That he-” Harry shook his head. He was getting distracted. He wasn’t going to talk about this now.

“The only thing Dumbledore has ever done for me is lead me into danger and expect me to get myself and everyone else out of it unscathed. And now that I’ve failed, he’s not interested in me anymore.” 

“Whatever your issues with the headmaster are, he is still your elder and you are still expected to show him respect.” 

“What-” Harry gaped. “Since when do you care if I show other people respect?! You’re not-” my father, “You don’t get to just dictate everything about my life! Like, oh- I don’t know- who to tell about my dreams!” 

There was a moment where Snape opened his mouth as though to argue, before his entire face fell, the anger seemed to drain from his shoulders, and he closed his mouth before any sound came out at all. 

“Why did you have to tell him! You- you promised me you wouldn’t tell him anything!” Harry yelled. 

Snape just shook his head. “I will not justify my actions to you.” 

 “You- you-” Harry didn’t know what he was accusing Snape of. 

“Betrayed your trust?” he drawled. “Broke your promise? Lied to you?” 

Harry swallowed. Admitting to those things meant admitting he placed his trust in Snape. It meant admitting he did the one thing he knew better than doing. 

“Look at me, Potter, because I will not be saying this again.” Harry met Snape’s black eyes, the severe yet withdrawn expression on his face. He spoke with a sort of resignation in his voice as though relaying a death sentence that had been a long time coming. 

“I am not a good man. I never have been and I never will be. Let this serve as your lesson to not place your trust in me.” 

Lightning striked and thunder boomed in the same moment. The flash was blinding, casting a harsh light across the living room before the shadows reemerged again.

“Do you understand me, Potter?” 

“Yes, Harry?”

“Clear as day, Professor.” 

Chapter Text

The sun mocked him. 

“Are you even trying to block me, Potter!?” Snape yelled, perhaps for the third time. Harry blinked a few times in a fruitless attempt to numb the sting of his sweat dripping into his eyes. 

Harry had to learn occlumency. 

Snape had described the situation with the same disinterest as Ron speaking about their transfiguration homework over dinner after Dumbledore had left. Voldemort having access to his mind was dangerous. There was a chance he was already using the connection to attempt to make Harry go insane. As far as Snape and Dumbledore believed, occlumency was the only long-term solution to this problem. 

Snape, luckily enough, happened to be the only person on the planet able to do this job. 

“Are you even trying to teach me?” Harry huffed, and brought his wand back to the ready position as though doing so would actually help him. 

Dueling had been swiftly replaced by occlumency, though Harry didn’t count himself particularly disappointed. He didn’t want to duel with Snape after the whole… 

“I am not a good man.”  

Snape’s lips turned downward and Harry knew what was coming before the man’s wand jerked forward and the words flew from his lips.

Like drops landing on the surface of a calm lake, the living room appeared in front of him. Snape sat calmly in the chair. “I am not a good man. I never-” but Harry couldn’t hear anymore. It was drowned out, muffled as though by a thick layer of snow. There was a stone in his chest, and the guilt and horror mounted and mounted until it warped the vision of Snape into a dark unnamed creature. 

A flash brighter than lightning and he was arguing with Malfoy, anger consuming him as the intolerable purist spouted shit. Hermione grabbed-

He was by the lake, sun warming his skin and–

He was staring at the fire burning bright. The only way was to send Ron and Hermione back. He has to be the one to find the philosopher’s stone and keep it-

He has the black diary in his hands, the notebook blank, but labeled in neat writing on the cover was Tom Marvalo Riddle . He ran his fingers over the smooth-

The leather between his fingers was the only thing grounding him, from keeping the emotion from overwhelming him completely. He threw the brown leather notebook across the room, unable to tolerate it after what Snape-

The sickening crunch of bones, the magpie’s final call-

“No!” Harry shouted, and he wasn’t exactly sure if it was him or the memory of him. He grit his teeth, and flung himself away from the memory, only to be consumed by another. 

The same crunch, only this time it was that of bones being formed, of violating all laws of nature. He glued his eye to the cauldron, knowing that something would come from it, knowing that if his eyes strayed they’d find a dead boy on the ground, eyes open. The cauldron seethed-

He diligently cut the potions in the laboratory. As long as he ignored the caldron looming in the corner, it was almost a pleasant experience-

“Potter!” Snape shouted, and Harry was ripped from the visions. He was on the ground and most definitely had another grass stain added to the collection forming on his jeans. “This is unacceptable. We have been practicing for nearly a week and you are yet to clear your mind.” 

Harry got to his feet, ignoring the way his knee twinged at the movement. “Then why don’t you just tell me how to clear my mind!” 

“You have not been practicing your exercises before bed!”

He had not. “Yes, I have! But I can’t do it if I don’t know how to clear my mind!” 

Harry had tried a few times to clear his mind, but there was no point. By the time he got to bed at the end of the day, his mind was so full of so many thoughts it was a useless process. 

His thoughts would swirl disjointedly around the memories that had arisen from the day’s occlumency session. Then he’d think about how much he hated occlumency. Then he’d think about how he was tired, but anxiety thrummed, more violent than the magic in his veins. 

Then, just as he was about to drift into sleep, the memory would come back to life with a great jolt.

“I am not a good man.”

“You simply practice until you do so. Until you can compel your mind to be calm, you will make no progress and all my efforts will be for naught.” 

Harry dug his nails into his palms in order to keep from saying something so awful he’d be scrubbing caldrons for a second hour tomorrow morning. (He earned the first hour by blatantly comparing Snape to a particularly foul flobberworm.) 

“Can I leave?” 

Snape rolled his eyes. “Is that all you care about? You don’t care that the Dark Lord has almost limitless access to your mind, that your every thought is vulnerable to the eyes of those who want you dead.” 

“Nope,” Harry declared in a lilting voice. “Sounds a bit like my average Tuesday, if you ask me.” 

“Get out of my sight, Potter.” 

“Gladly.” 

Harry walked as quickly as he could back into the house without it being seen as timid. 

He was a few steps into the kitchen when the backdoor slammed on its hinges and Harry nearly jumped a foot in the air.

His heart thumped wildly in his chest like a bird attempting to escape its cage. His feet planted in the ground, but he couldn’t feel his hands. They were numb. The world was a blur of color and shape and Harry was sure for a second that his glasses must have fallen off and he just didn’t notice until now. 

His ears rang. The noise crescendoed until the entire outside world was blocked out and he thought for one terrifying second that he was going to die from the intensity of it all. From the feeling that he wasn’t in his body, that he couldn’t remember where he was, what he was doing. 

Then the ringing began slowly fading until his surroundings came into perspective, but they were unfamiliar and intimidating, like he’d never seen them before. 

But he knew he had to move. He didn’t know why, but he did it anyway. He’s spent his whole life running. He knew how to run. 

He walked without knowing where he was going until he clicked the door shut behind him and was alone in the blue room. The backdoor creaked open and shut again. 

Harry sat down on the bed as though it were a mortician’s table. He put a hand over his chest and felt his heart and its furious beating. It didn’t feel like his heart but someone’s else’s. Like he was here in this body, but it didn’t belong to him. He was just paying rent. 

He didn’t know how long it took for the numbness to finally fade from his hands. Minutes, most likely. He ran a hand along the blue quilt, let the stitching run under his palm. 

That had started happening.

It happened five times in the last six days. The exact order got mixed up in his head. All he knew was that the first was because the shower handle creaked when he turned it off. The others included the phone ringing, the smooth touch of the basement railing, and the smell of hash browns. 

There was no memory attached to them, just inconceivable panic, as though suddenly his body thought he was dying and every organ jumped at the opportunity to save his life. It was as though the external world folded in on itself until there was no tangible feeling, until his entire world was contained solely within his own mind.

But then he’d end up this way with the ever intensifying feeling that this wasn’t his body and he wasn’t actually here. That he was on the outside looking in, a diligent specter peering through the window. 

Logically it was because of the occlumency. It was the only explanation for it. He didn’t feel attached to any one specific memory, but they were all closer to the surface, as though Harry were standing in the center of a crowd. The voices overlapped over each other over and over again and the more he tried to escape, to muddle through the sweat and body heat, the more lost he became. 

So instead this became routine. He sat on his bed and stared at the ocean-blue wall and pretended that this was normal. This was normal. 

The shower handle. The phone. The basement railing. The smell of hash browns. The back door. 

It was funny that Snape considered Voldemort invading his mind to be the biggest risk to his safety when apparently household objects were enough to reduce Harry to a pathetic mess.

-.-

He didn’t feel inside his own skin when dinner came around. The feeling retreated like the tide and even though he was safe for now he knew the feeling would rise again. 

Dinner was not quiet, but silent. 

Silverware clinked against the plates and glasses thumped against the wooden table, but these were puddles to the ocean of silence that separated them. 

Harry poked at the broccoli on his plate and avoided Snape’s gaze.

He wasn’t eating as much. The curve of the lavender flask glinted in the dusk creeping in through the window. Just like it did last night. This did not change the fact that Harry made no move to choke it down. This did not change the fact that Snape has yet to chastise him about this fact. 

“I am not a good man.”

Snape was not a good man. 

Harry knew this. He didn’t need to be told this. It was redundant, but Snape wasn’t redundant. He was cruel and impatient and snide and temperamental and just plain mean, but he was not redundant. He knew Snape was cruel from the first day he sat in his class, eagerly attached to the man’s every word until the barrage of questions ruined any hope he had of learning potions.

Harry knew the way the tart potion would taste on his tongue, how it may be the only thing that would make him feel less likely to freak out again, but the distance was as insurmountable as crossing the forbidden forest. 

He didn’t know what that flask meant anymore. The flask had to mean something because Snape wouldn’t have left it there if it didn’t mean something. Snape was not redundant.

“I am not a good man.” 

Snape was not a good man. Something changed that night that made him come to his senses. Harry did something wrong. Again. 

Did he really think that Snape cared for him? Was he really so naive? 

He gripped the fork harder in his palm. 

Was he really so broken, so needy, so pathetic as to latch onto the first person to show him any kind of human decency? Did the Dursleys fuck him up that badly?

He needed to know what Snape saw, what the last straw was. Was he too clingy? Too needy? Because for a while there, for a few days-

The feeling of leather between his fingers felt like being seen. The sound of his door bursting open felt like being protected. The warmth of a potion-stained hand pulling him from the ground felt like being cared for. 

He felt like he imagined the entire thing. Like it was him who kept pushing the boundaries, unaware that Snape had been an unwilling participant the entire time. 

There was the leather notebook. There was a quiet apology over a fruit bowl and honest words in the woods and teasing that could be considered gentle by some standards, by the standards of their usual relationship. 

“Do not make me into a saint, Potter. It will only serve to make a fool out of you.”

That floaty feeling prickled under his skin again. He felt oddly detached from the memories. They didn’t feel as real compared to the ones that resurfaced during occlumency today. They felt like he’d read them in a book somewhere, or experienced them through a friend’s whispering. 

Snape did not care. That was what it meant. Snape didn’t want anything to do with Harry, and for good reason. Harry was letting old wounds resurface and blinding insecurities dictate his actions. 

No, Snape was not a good man. 

But the lavender flask glinted in dusk light. 

-.-

Harry spent most of his nights awake and most of his days sleeping.

He didn’t know when this inversion of night and day began but he didn’t sleep well anymore. It’s always fitful with flashes of nightmares that are his own and some that he had experienced second-hand. But at least it stopped the visions. 

Sometimes, Snape yelled at him, and he didn't respond. He just stared blankly back at the man. Other times Harry screamed and he didn’t know why, forgetting the reason mid-shout. 

He spent hours in the bathroom one night. He gazed at his face like he’d never seen it before. The features felt unrecognizable to him. He tried to grasp for the memory of who they belonged to, if he could remember how they looked when stretched into a smile or creased from anguish. 

In his eyes all he saw was his mother. In his skin all he saw was his father. They closed around him, as though embracing him, as though filling in the space that was Harry. 

He didn’t know how he made it back to the blue room that night. 

He knew without a doubt that something was wrong. This wasn’t normal. Not even by the standards of his childhood was this normal. But who would he tell? Who was left? 

-.-

His window was open and it was during that stretch of time that happened every night where falling asleep was a real possibility because of how tired he was. 

Rain fell and that earthy storm-ish scent wafted into the room. It was a peaceful sort of shower. One that washed worries away and cooled the August air to something tolerable and soothed old aches. 

Harry twirled his wand between his fingers, marveling at the wood’s grain and the expertly carved handle and the power at his grasp. 

Harry wanted to die. 

The means was right here within his grasp.

What would it take? He could light himself on fire. But that would take a while and be quite painful. He could conjure rope. He could transfigure a knife. He could line the ground outside with spikes and impale himself by jumping out the window. 

He could use the plastic bag in his trunk. He could run into the woods and hope the coyotes got him. He could run away from the cottage until he had the opportunity to jump in front of a bus. 

But he wouldn’t do any of those things. Those were things other people did. He was Harry Potter. He didn’t kill himself. He waited around until someone else came along and did it for him. 

He thought of Hogwarts and of the feeling of returning to his refuge, but it didn’t evoke the feeling of safety. It evoked fear. He knew what was waiting for him when he returned. Lies. Lies. Lies. 

He tried to imagine the feeling of safety, but it quickly turned into something self-inflicting when he found the answer. 

He wanted to cry but he had no energy to cry. Instead he laid there and wanted and feared the act of wanting. He did not deserve to want. Wanting was what got him here in the first place. 

Harry put his wand on his nightstand and rolled over. He hasn’t stared at this wall in a while. 

-.-

“You are a spoiled, self-entitled vermin! Do you think you don’t have to work for this!? Do you think you are above this simply because you are the chosen one!”

Snape thought their occlumency lessons were going horribly. But in Harry’s opinion, they were going splendidly. This was because Harry had yet to let Snape see something from his childhood. His Dursley-infused childhood. That was much more than Harry expected. 

He’s mostly given up on arguing with Snape. It wasn’t worth his energy. Instead he stared. 

Snape sneered and pointed his wand and snarled the incantation and it felt like Harry was falling and falling and he was never going to land until he was lying in his bed. He was twirling the wand between his fingers. 

Harry grit his teeth and forced the memory away. He pushed it down. No one would ever see that. 

He was getting good at this part, at pushing it down. At making all the bad things disappear. It was a sort of bargain. For every bad thing Harry pushed down, he had to let another surface. A memory for a memory. 

Cedric appeared before his eyes. Alive and healthy. He smiled, and Harry felt his heart flutter in his chest. The cool autumn air-

He had never been so cold in his life. He pushed the jealousy down at seeing Dudley with his warm coat and waterproof boots and hand-knitted scarf. Harry didn’t deserve those things. He was a fr-

Ginny was on the ground. Her face deathly pale on the midnight-black marble floor. He didn’t know what to do. He was going to die. This was it. He didn’t know what to do-

“You spoiled brat! We should have never taken you in!” Vernon was angry angry angry-

Harry shook his head, frantically searching for something else. Anything else to hide behind. 

“Just like your freak parents!” Petunia shouted.  

“Just like your father!” Snape sneered in the cold dungeons. 

“I am not a good man.” 

Silence. Silence. Silence. Snape and Harry ate in silence-

Harry sat in silence while they ate together. They enjoyed the meal while he feasted on their image but grew hungrier with longing. Freaks didn’t get to eat dinner, but maybe if he was really good this week then-

It was a losing battle. Memory and reality mixed. He couldn’t discern one from the other.

“ If you want to hide something, Potter. Then clear your mind!” Snape said, the sound came from everywhere and nowhere. 

Harry knew he was in trouble. He knew this was not going to end well. 

He ducked under the wrought-iron frying pan, Petunia’s disdainful glare following its arc-

The dogs barked madly at him and he climbed up the tree desperate to get out of their reach. Uncle was going to be so mad if he couldn’t do his chores well this week-

Dudley pushed him into the huge pool of mud by the playground. Harry cried out, only for Dudley to grab the back of his head and push his mouth and nose into it. He flailed wild-

Petunia hosed him down, the jet stream bruising his skin, but hiding his tears-

“Uncle, I’m so-” Vernon slapped him, almost casually across the cheek. Harry was almost too shocked to register the sting of it while a hand landed on his shoulder, shoving him towards his cupboard-

He lay in the dark with a swollen eye and a hunger in his stomach that wouldn’t go away. He wished it wasn’t so dark, but it was better in here than out there where Uncle could-

It was a perfect spring day. It spoke of the tentative hope that summer would come soon. He sat comfortably under the tree, alone, but content with not being the center of Dudley’s attention for once. Dudley and Piers were enraptured with something in the grass. 

“NO!” The scene grew blurry but did not completely recede.  

“ Occlude!” 

“I can’t,” He whispered and it was an admission of sin. 

Harry rose from his spot under the tree. It looked like they had some kind of small animal in the grass. 

“I cant!” Harry screamed, but it morphed into a sob halfway through. His thoughts were half in memory and half in reality, and he didn’t know which were which. He didn’t know which boy was him. If either of them were him. 

He knew something bad was going to happen. He couldn’t think. He didn’t know what was happening. He didn’t know what was going to happen. 

He was alone. He was a freak. He was eight and the playground looked so big and the adults looked so tall and he longed for a friend. He longed for meaning in his life. Something to tell him that he was meant to be here. That he was important. That life was important. 

In the grass was a bird, singing while it struggled helplessly. It had a broken wing. The boys poked and prodded it some, clearly interested in it. Harry rushed over to join when their hands retreated and Piers stepped closer.

He yelled at himself to cover his ears, to look away. He was pulled to it as an asteroid to the Earth. It was a beautiful creature, but sad too. Maybe all things beautiful were also a little sad. 

The magpie’s neck snapped, but not before singing its final call. A warning to all. 

The vision broke like when he dropped Petunia’s good china on the kitchen floor. It ripped itself apart like the time Dudley tore his art project into a million little pieces. It bled like skinned knees and split lips and bitten tongues. 

Harry knew the shadow of Snape loomed over him and the sun warmed the back of his neck, but he did not feel these things. 

“Potter-”

“NO!” He screamed and couldn’t tell if he was sobbing, if this was all a dream or reality. 

Wind whipped through his hair. Around and around it cut his skin, a tornado of anguish surrounded him. 

There once was a boy called Harry. He survived the killing curse. Beloved by all, but known by none, he was the boy who was truly alone.

He wanted to help this boy. He knew what it was like to feel alone. If only he could help this boy. If only he could ease his pain and suffering, then maybe the story would have a different ending. Maybe this wouldn’t be a tragedy. 

“Harry! Harry!” A voice yelled. He was not Harry. He didn’t know who he was, but he was not Harry. He was a freak. 

“I am not a good man.” 

“Stop it!” He yelled. 

“Harry, you must calm down. You are going to- you are hurting yourself. Harry-” 

“I’m NOT Harry!” 

He pulled his arms closer to his chest, shut his eyes tighter.

“Do you know who I am?” 

He didn’t. He shook his head. He thought the voice may be familiar like the first smell of spring in the air after a long winter. Like an imaginary friend forgotten with age. He felt comforted knowing the voice was there even if he didn’t know why. 

“You know who I am, Ha- don’t you? We haven’t always been on the best of terms, you and I, but you’d never forget me. I know you know who I am.” 

He shook his head again. The wind died down around him though and he focused on placing the voice. It was smooth yet earthy, underscored with something that could turn violent, like an ax through wood. 

“Perhaps if you opened your eyes?” 

He didn’t trust it. The ax was sharp and though the wood could be used for warmth, the house could burn down. The ax could turn on him. He would be consumed. He knew this. He has been consumed before. He has died and risen again, not as a phoenix from ash but as a ghost from the grave. The dead were buried beneath his feet and he was here without claim on the mortal realm, without his humanity. This was why he wasn’t loved. This was why he had no family. This was why he was a freak. He was undeserving of life when so many others had died before him. When people more deserving than him weren’t given even half a chance while he has been revived from the dirt again and again, against his will, against nature’s law. 

He knew the horror of creation, the terror of rebirth. He knew the blessed curse of life and the beautiful stain of love on the heart. 

At one time he believed in the strength to try again. He had thought himself nobel to rise everyday in an attempt to complete his chores, to earn their praise. And everyday he would be met with at best indifference and at worst disdain. But he always tried again. Always searched and searched for how to be their good little boy. 

He was lost. He has been searching too long and lost sight of himself. 

The natural course of action was failure, death. There would be no rebirth. There would be no more attempts. 

The ax hovered above his head and he waited for the final blow. 

He knew there should be an anxiety to accompany this feeling, but there was none. The anticipation of the final blow was worse than the blow itself. 

“Potter, you- you stubborn idiot! Look at me, you dunderhead!” 

He breathed in. He breathed out. 

Only one person used the word dunderhead . 

He opened his eyes. 

There he hovered, casting a shadow over him like a tree’s leaves over a too-hot summer day, granting reprieve from the sun’s unrelenting light. 

“Hi.” 

“Who am I?” 

“A git.” 

Snape bowed his head away from his line of sight and he didn’t even recognize the sound at first, but Snape’s shoulder’s shook and it was clear the weary potions master was laughing . 

Then he was laughing. Harry was laughing and sometimes his laughter sounded like he was sobbing. His fear made the laughter shine brighter, made it feel more full.

It was perhaps the most bizarre situation he has ever been in his life, lying in the sun-filled meadow, giggling with his dour potion’s professor, but for just this moment he was human again. He was Harry again and he would cling to it for every second that it lasted and he would believe that a second chance wouldn’t be so bad after all. 

Chapter Text

It was odd. He walked back into the house with Snape and he felt okay. It was like when he got a concussion. There was fear and anxiety and don’t trust don’t trust don’t trust brimming behind his eyes with every step closer to the house, but it stayed there. Behind. 

Snape instructed him to sit at the table. Harry sat. Snape made tea, placed the white porcelain cup in front of him like a routine, like they were the same exact people before he stepped into the maze.

“We need to have a conversation.” 

“I’m not interested in talking to you.” 

“Nevertheless-”

“No,” Harry said with something dangerous in his voice, talons out. The cup was warm. 

Snape inclined his head slightly and then they sat in silence. Like they’ve been sitting in for almost two weeks. 

It was nearly the end of the summer vacation. It was nearly time for the both of them to return to Hogwarts and pretend they were the same people they were when they left. Really, that they were the same people before Harry entered the maze.

“You have two options here,” Snape started. “Either I talk and you will listen… or you will talk and I will listen.” 

His hands tightened around the porcelain. “I don’t understand.” 

“There are only two rules if you choose the latter option. You must speak at a volume at which I can hear and–” Snape raised a very insistent eyebrow, “You must be saying truthful things. If I believe you are lying, we will switch.” 

“But why are you doing this?” Harry snapped. “What do you get out of this?” 

The tea was sweet with honey, but it could always be poisoned, the ax always sharpened. 

“I told you already. We need to have a conversation. It appears this is the closest we will get for now. So, I ask again: me or you?”

He didn’t like either option. He was too full. He could feel it in the way his magic was bubbling under the surface of his skin, looking for release. He was static in the air, already full, too full. But that was occlumency for you. It was indiscriminate. It was overfilling. 

He can’t take Snape attempting to put more inside of him right now. He was done. 

But he also didn’t want to talk . That fullness made his head cloudy with memories and emotions that were meant to be dulled with time. That Snape had already gotten much too close to. He knew how to keep a secret, but he hasn’t exactly felt entirely in control of his thoughts lately. 

He wanted to speak. He didn’t want to speak to Snape. 

“I am not a good man.” 

Snape was not a good man. Snape was not a good man. Snape did not care about him.

He could do this. 

Steam curled up and away from the warm tea.

“How long?” 

“Pardon?” 

“How long do I have to talk for?” He fiddled with the cup in his hands. 

“How long do you think is fair?” Snape asked. 

Harry shrugged. “I dunno.” 

“How about ten minutes?” 

Harry let out a shaky breath, nodding. Snape was doing it again. Changing the rules, playing a new game. He hated when the game changed. It was alway him that ended up losing.

Snape waved his wand and a timer appeared in the air, the very same one that Harry has seen a thousand times over in the potions classroom, looming over their practical exams. 

“I’ll start it when you start talking.” 

Harry gripped the mug, clenched his teeth. He had to think of something. 

“I am not a good man.”

Harry bit at his lip, pushed his chair closer to the table, felt his shoulders shudder. 

He chanced a glance at Snape and expected the man to be angry or at the very least annoyed with the seconds that had already ticked by, but instead he maintained that calm expression that hadn’t been anywhere near Harry since his birthday. Snape raised an eyebrow and asked, “Do you need a suggestion?” 

“I don’t know,” Harry whispered. “I- I don’t know.” 

“Alright,” and Snape’s voice was almost gentle in that deep way that the darkness of night was almost gentle. “You can talk about why you don’t know what to talk about.” 

“I think you’re a git.” The clock began counting down. “I hate you.” 

“Really?”

“Yes,” Harry said. “I hate this tea and this mug and this table. I hate this house. I hate Dumbledore. I hate- hate Sirius. I hate the Dursleys. I hate-” myself . Harry shut his mouth. He opened it again. “I hate Malfoy. Both of them, but especially Lucius. I think he’s a dickhead and if he’s going to be a deatheater he could at least be a little more subtle about it.” Harry paused, glancing again at Snape’s calm expression. “One of the best things I ever did was free Dobby from him. Lucius doesn't deserve to have houseelves. He doesn’t deserve most of his life.”

“That is probably correct.” 

Harry glanced at the clock. Seven minutes. 

“I hate you because you forced Lupin to leave the school even though he was the best defense teacher we ever had. I think you should go rot in hell for all the times you let Malfoy fucking Jr. bully me or Hermione or Ron or anyone else in your classroom, and I think you should resign from being a teacher and never be allowed within a hundred meters of school ever again for how you made Neville afraid of you for no reason, even though he’s solid on most of the theory and really does care about potions because of his interest in herbology.” 

Snape nodded. “I see.” 

“And I think you should take a page out of Dumbledore’s book and leave me the fuck alone to fuck up my own life how I like,” Harry said and ignored the way his voice wobbled and his chest felt empty and his world may just be falling a little bit away from him. He was here and he was saying these things but Snape wasn’t there. It was release. “I don’t need anyone telling me I shouldn’t fuck up my life,” he spat, “My life’s been fucked since Vol- since he killed my parents and Dumbledore left me on a their doorstep and Sirius fucked off to kill Pettigrew.” 

Three minutes. Three minutes. Three minutes. He was going to puke. He was shaking. He was going to sob again. He felt like a mess. He felt pathetic. He felt worthless. 

“I’m dumb and I don’t know what I’m doing anymore than any other wizard or muggle. I’m sick of magic and Hogwarts and I’m sick of everything that was good about magic turning to rot. I hate everything, I think. Nothing makes sense to me anymore and the only thing I really want is to go back before I knew about any of this. I want magic to be a forbidden idea in my head and my world to take up Little Whinging. I don’t care how much they hurt me, at least they were always honest about it. At least I knew when and how it would hurt. Now, no one will do me the decency of just telling me whether or not they’re going to hurt me and I can’t take it anymore. I literally can’t fucking take it anymore.”

The timer chimed. The ground reappeared underneath his feet. 

Snape sat across from him and Harry’s chest heaved but he didn’t know how it was heaving. His chest should be empty. 

God, he was such an idiot. 

“Can I go now?” 

“Are you going to kill yourself?” 

“What! No!” 

Snape waved his wand in Harry’s direction and murmured something under his breath. “You can go now.” 

“I know what you did.” He’s spent enough time in the hospital wing to know what it a monitoring ward sounded like. 

“Good,” Snape said.

“Just say you don’t trust me.” 

Snape tilted his head as though considering a question. “I do trust you, but I don’t think you trust me.” 

“Fuck you.” Harry stood from the table and stomped upstairs, damning how childish it made him feel. 

“I am not a good man.” 

-.-

“We’re not doing occlumency today,” Snape said. They were outside in their usual spot for practicing occlumency at the usual time they were meant to practice occlumency.

“Are we here to smell the roses?” 

“No,” Snape summoned a dummy about ten feet ahead of them. “You are going to practice the patronus charm.” 

Harry huffed. “That’s stupid.” 

“Is it?” 

“Yes. I already know how to do a patronus charm. We’re wasting time.”

“We could do occlumency instead if you like.”

Harry groaned, and looked away from Snape, but readied his wand. 

“Whenever you’re ready.” 

Harry breathed in. He breathed out. 

He thought of that memory of a memory and commanded, “ Expecto patronum! ” 

The stag appeared from the tip of his wand and started to leap towards the dummy, but midway through its first jump, disappeared in the air.

Harry shook his head and wiped greasy hair from his eyes. He wasn’t focused. He could do better. He was better.

“ Expecto patronum! ” 

A thick mist came from his wand. 

“Expecto patronum!”

More mist. Harry wanted to believe it wasn’t thinner.

“Expecto patronum!”

The mist thinned. The sun shone. Snape was a dark specter at his side. 

“This is stupid.” 

“You could try a different memory?” 

“But I’ve always used this one.” 

“Which one is this one?” 

“It-” Harry crossed his arms. “I don’t want to tell you.” 

Neither of them made a further move for a while. Snape was a dirty manipulative bastard. Harry didn’t trust him. Harry didn’t want to do this with him. It was like Snape was trying to ruin all of Harry’s good memories. This always reminded him of Lupin. Now it’ll only remind him of Snape. 

Harry wanted to shout. Snape was always able to wait him out. 

“Great change can impact how you cast a patronus. It can even change the form your patronus takes,” Snape said carefully. 

“Why doesn’t it stay the same? Magic is magic.” 

“Because it’s soul magic.”

Harry sat down in the grass. He didn’t feel like standing anymore. He ripped grass out of the dirt. 

“What’s that got to do with anything?” 

There was a moment where Snape didn’t say anything, but then to his surprise, Snape sat down next to Harry in the grass. 

“Soul magic is, to our current knowledge, the strongest magic there is. It is stronger than even blood magic, but often less used.” 

“Why’s that?” 

Snape held up a hand. “Because soul magic is notoriously fickle.” 

“Fickle?” 

“Yes. Temperamental. Changeable. Unreliable-”

“I know what fickle means!” 

“If you say so,” Snape teased, “Take the fidelius charm.” 

Harry bristled. “What about it?” 

“It’s soul magic. It’s exact magical intent is to bind a secret inside of a single soul . It is so powerful that not even the torture curse, an unforgiveable, could force someone who did not want to share the secret to break. Not even legilimency works on the secret-bearer because the secret is kept with the bearer’s soul, not in their mind.” 

Snape looked at him and Harry found himself meeting his gaze. “And yet one traitor unweaves threads upon threads of interwoven spellwork. The fidelius is so strong that unless you have an Albus Dumbledore around, it can take upwards of twenty wizards to cast. But Pettigrew opened his mouth and snapped every last strand of magic around the house.” 

Harry picked at some more grass. “What about blood magic?” He was asking questions again. Questions were meant to be bad. But Snape always answered his questions. But that was before “I am not a good man.”

“Blood magic is not as strong as soul magic. Soul magic will always overpower blood magic if the two are in battle with one another. However, blood magic can’t be broken. It doesn’t matter how one struggles, how one changes their mind, blood is blood. It cannot be denied no matter how one wishes to deny it. Sometimes this is good. Sometimes this is bad.” 

“Is that blood magic?” Harry gestured vaguely to Snape’s left arm. 

“Yes. The mark is a type of blood ritual to bind one to the Dark Lord. Forever. But it also uses an incredible amount of dark magic. Not all blood magic is dark just as not all soul magic is light. For centuries blood rituals were routinely used for adoptive relationships, or even friendships if say, someone with no heirs or romantic partner wanted legal recourse to bequeath their possessions to a friend.” 

Harry hummed. He was tired. He didn’t like Snape right now. But he missed this and even though he felt that was fucked up, that he shouldn’t allow Snape to get away with what he did. This was his reality. He was lonely. He wanted Snape to talk to him about this stuff. Even if it was just to avoid casting his patronus to avoid practicing occlumency. 

“I wouldn’t think wizards would be into changing their blood with their fancy blood status rules and whatnot.” 

“That is… a complicated issue to discuss, but a mostly incorrect assumption.” Snape shifted uncomfortably. Old bastard. Couldn’t take a little dirt and grass. “Blood rituals were typically only ever done when a party from a lower house, a less pure family, was deemed by some society as worthy of being part of an upper house. These were not rituals regularly performed by the poor or  less prejudiced wizards. You would only perform a blood adoption ritual if you believed that blood trumped all.

“It would be like if the Weasleys performed a blood adoption ritual on you. You would sprout red hair and earn freckles on your cheeks, perhaps even grow a few inches, but for what? You already were like a son to them. Their blood being in your veins changes nothing about how they feel about you.” 

Harry attempted to not react to this example of the Weasleys. He ripped more grass out of the ground. Every time the pile of ripped grass next to him got too high, the wind would sweep by and carry it away. 

“However,” Snape exhaled, “The headmaster changed everything.”

“How so?” He asked because this was the most still he’s felt in a long time. His head felt clearer. He knew where the sun was. He did not like Snape. He did not want this to end. He was pathetic. 

Snape shot him a glance that could almost be attributed to pity , sighed, closed his eyes, and said perhaps the last thing Harry ever expected to hear come out of his mouth, “What do you know of Dumbledore’s romantic relationships?” 

Harry made a sound somewhere between a shrieking alleycat and Oliver Wood when the twins got him riled up on game day. “Why would I know anything about that!?” 

Snape snorted. “Relax, Potter. The gory details are not necessary for this conversation.” 

“I don’t know if I want to have this conversation anymore.” 

“You asked. Therefore you shall receive.” 

“No! You can’t make me!” 

“When Dumbledore was a young man, just a bit older than you are now-” Harry covered his ears with his hands. Snape pointed his wand at his throat, and his voice became much louder, “Can you hear me? Is this good?” 

Harry groaned and uncovered his ears. “I know where this is going.” 

“Really?” Snape said and it sounded like he was teasing Harry, but that couldn’t be right. He must be berating Harry. “Do tell me about your newfound power of divination.” 

“A young man meets an astonishingly beautiful young girl,” Harry said in a dream-like voice, “They fall and love and attempt to have kids, but she’s… she’s infertile or something. They were going to go through a blood ritual but she somehow died in the process and ever since it’s been a warning to all to not do the same, even though it was just some freak individual accident that doesn’t mean anything.” 

Snape shook his head. 

“No? C’mon, I’ve got to be close. What killed her?” 

“A young man meets an astonishingly handsome young man.”

“ What? ” Harry laughed through his disbelief because… what?

“They fall in love and want to do something great. They are perhaps the two greatest minds of their generation and they know it and they want to make their mark on the world more than anything else but, they never wanted it at the expense of their love for each other. So they made a pact, a blood pact, to never fight each other. One of these wizards becomes a champion of the light, the head of the Wizengamot, and Chief Warlock. The other becomes the darkest wizard in British history.” Snape wasn’t looking at him anymore, but he wasn’t exactly looking at anything else. “Both live to call it the single greatest mistake of their lives.” 

“Was-”

“It wasn’t the Dark Lord.” 

“Oh, thank God.” Harry was glad to no longer live in the universe where Dumbledore and Voldemort were romantic partners. “Then who… you know?” 

“A man known as Gellert Grindelwald. The details of the entire affair aren’t important to our conversation. What you need to know is that eventually, this blood pact became very very public knowledge as it was the only thing keeping Dumbledore from… defeating Grindelwald. Blood magics have since lost their favor with pureblood families and other aspects of wizarding high society. They’ve been mostly outlawed except under highly specific, ministry-regulated conditions.”

“But… Riddle with the marks and the… this .” Harry held up his own left arm that covered his snake-like scar. The blood reaped from his skin for Voldemort’s resurrection. 

“The Dark Lord has a particular affinity for blood magics. He likes its connection to the old wizarding society. It is the main reason why Lucius rose so quickly through his ranks. Much like my own work in potions… Lucius has always had an… intuitive understanding of blood magic, and the Dark Lord has always coveted knowledge.” 

Harry tucked his knees in and rested his head on them, looking out to where the treeline met the sky in a battle of earth and air.

It explained why no amount of hurled words or… impolite physical contact ever shut those damn wards down. Vernon could have all but killed him, but by God above he would have been safe from Voldemort because blood is blood is blood.

He always did think Gryffindor red was always a little too on the nose. The only reason he regretted not letting the hat put him in Slytherin was that it completely ruined his wardrobe for the rest of his life.

The sun was too bright and began hurting his eyes. He faced Snape and knew the man had been watching him and knew that he was doing nothing to attempt denying it. Harry could almost appreciate it when Snape didn’t try deceiving him. 

“Dumbledore’s gay?” 

“Really? That is what you gained from this conversation?” 

“Seems pretty important to me.” 

“You are incorrigible.” 

“You’re a git.” Harry yawned. 

“What you are is exhausted,” Snape said and it wasn’t gentle. Harry didn’t need to be treated gently. Snape wasn’t gentle. Snape didn’t care. “And you haven’t been eating enough, and quite frankly, Potter, your current shower schedule is more obvious than you think it is.” 

“Shut it!” Harry screeched joyfully. “I let you talk about Dumbledore’s love life! I draw the line at… whatever this is!” 

“The simple solution here is to take-”

“Nope!” Harry leapt to his feet and covered his ears again. 

“You’re really going to leave an old man like me on the ground?” 

“You’re like thirty!” 

“The cruciatus adds another fifty years.”

Harry laughed. He laughed about Snape’s torture and a little about his own torture too. He stood in between the indeterminate distance between Snape and the house and laughed and didn’t care whether or not Snape was laughing, if this made him an idiot. If he was doing all this, feeling all of this just to be made the fool over and over and over again. 

When he finished, Snape looked at him with unfiltered curiosity.

“Go-” 

“I’m going!” Harry snapped with no bite. 

He rushed into the house, remembering to close the back door gently behind him, and found some clothes that weren’t lived-in and went into the bathroom and remembered exactly why he had been avoiding the shower. 

The white tiles reminded him of the night he saw Snape tortured and the morning he found out the dreams were real. The shower handle taunted him with the surreal feeling of being disconnected from his body, of anxiety consuming his perception of the world around him until he was a pathetic mess. The mirror reflected the scars etched in his skin, reminding him of the mistakes he’s made. Even the tub reminded him of the Dursleys, of Petunia’s thin fingers and shrill voice and teeth-chattering water and soap in his eyes and the embarrassment of needing to be clean but unable to clean himself. 

It reminded him of every time he watched blood swirl down the drain. 

Harry wanted and wanted and knew Snape was right, the bastard. He had to do this. He had to do this.

He was so weak.

He dropped to the floor and tucked his knees to his chest and dug his chin into his collarbone. Why was he so fucked? He was doing okay. He was so okay that it wasn’t even- wasn’t even funny. He just laughed and now he was doing what? Moping on the floor of the bathroom like some child ?

But try as he might to will this away the dread in his stomach deepened and his throat constricted and his skin itched and itched. 

He dug his fingers in his hair and recoiled from how much grease was caked into his scalp. A shower would feel good. A shower would feel good.

He shut his eyes and thought of that night. The door bursting open. The fear soothed. The uncertain steps and clunky words of similarity slipping out of his mouth and the cushioning charm and the hot shower that soothed and soothed and soothed and the clean sheets and the warm bed and how he insisted and the final broken confession. 

Harry rose from the ground. 

He opened his eyes and approached the shower and gripped the cool metal and it was almost as startling as the warmth of a potion-stained hand. Harry turned the shower on and the pulsing rush of water through old pipes was louder than thunder and the strike of water on tile was more startling than lightning and it was the hardest thing he ever did. 

Harry stripped and each tug of fabric was the hardest thing he ever did. He stepped into the shower and it was the hardest thing he ever did. He didn’t react to his impulse to immediately step out of the shower and it was the hardest thing he ever did. 

He did this over and over again. He did the hardest thing he ever did over and over again and when he was finished, when he half-staggered out of the bathroom, wet hair in his eyes, he felt twice as broken as he did before. 

He was sick of doing the hardest thing. 

There were clean sheets on his bed. Harry closed the door and collapsed onto the mattress. He was so tired of everything and nothing. He was sick from this back and forth, this constant swing between elation and annihilation. 

He may have fallen asleep when the door creaked open, but he opened his eyes to meet the shadow in the doorway.

“Dinner’s ready.” 

Harry rolled away from Snape. 

“Your options tonight are either you come down to eat or we continue our conversation about your hygiene from this afternoon.”

“What are we having?” 

“Chicken soup.”

Harry groaned. “I’d eat it if it was up here.”

“Only if you let me talk to you.” 

“Not about hygiene.” 

Snape nodded. “Not about hygiene.” 

Harry jerked his head once and Snape’s footsteps retreated quickly and came back slowly. 

Snape turned the light on and Harry glared at him. Snape pretended not to notice this despite the fact Harry knew Snape noticed this. He gave Harry the small bed tray he used while concussed and carefully shuffled the parchment on Harry’s desk to make room for himself to eat. 

He felt empty. 

The chicken soup was Molly’s reprimands and a bustling kitchen and Arthur’s kind smile and the twins up to something and Ron at his elbow whispering “Try it mate, it’s good. No tricks—I swear.”   It was also the crinkling of the hospital wing sheets and Madam Pomfrey’s quiet tutting and Harry with a stuffed nose and sore throat and a pile of missed work from Hermione and, “Like I said, Madam: clockwork. January hits and the flu just finds me.” And somehow it was even eating in the dark and the pain potion wearing off and the quilt’s stitching running underneath his fingertips and Snape insisting and the safety of insisting. 

Snape was watching him. He was waiting for Harry to actually eat the soup, but Harry was so sick of doing the hardest thing. He just wanted to go back to sleep. He didn’t want to face the whirlpool of emotions that would accompany the entire ordeal. 

Snape rose from the chair slowly and all but tip-toed to the side of Harry’s bed. He lowered himself to sit on the edge like he was expecting spikes to suddenly shoot up from the quilt. He glanced at the lavender bottle on his tray. 

“You’re not eating.”

Harry picked up the spoon and shoved some soup in his mouth. It tasted like acid. “But I am eating.” He repeated this motion. “It’s good.” 

“Do not lie to me, Potter,” Snape said gently.

“What do you want from me?” He whispered. “I’m eating it. I told you it's good.”

“I want the truth.” 

“I am telling the truth.” 

“Do you believe me to have poisoned it?” 

“N-no.” Harry’s throat tightened again. “I’m just- I’m so tired. I can’t- can’t- I can’t.” 

“Harry,” He flinched, “I think we need to have that conversation you’ve been avoiding.” 

Harry nodded dully. Eating and talking both seemed like equally awful choices right now. Snape levitated the tray off of his lap and set it on the desk. Wandlessly. Wordlessly. 

“Harry, I’m sorry.” 

“No! You don’t get to say that. You made it very clear what you think of me.” His heart was beating beating beating in his chest but he couldn’t feel it. 

“I shouldn’t have told Dumbledore about your visions. I shouldn’t have told you those things on the day after your birthday. I shouldn’t have pushed you in occlumency.” 

Harry shut his eyes. There were tears leaking out of the corners. He didn’t know any other way to stop them. This way did not work. 

“I was a coward. I thought I needed to protect you from me . But in endeavoring to do so, I have come to hurt you more than the truth ever would.” Snape paused. He conjured a tissue box and placed it next to Harry. Harry did not move to take one. “I was not prepared to face the consequences.” 

Harry stifled his tears. He forced any sound wishing to escape to die in his throat where everything else died.   

“I am not a good man. I have committed unspeakable acts not only in service of the Dark Lord, but also against yourself personally. I had every intention of telling you the truth tonight and letting you decide whether or not you wanted to trust me, but I see now that would not help either one of us.” There was a pause and shifting of weight on the mattress. “Potter, look at me.” 

Harry opened his eyes and it was the hardest thing he ever did. 

“One day you are going to find out what I did, and when you do I want you to remember this: I have regretted this choice every single day of my life and will regret it until the day I die. I was at the lowest point in my life, but that pales in comparison to what I did.” 

Harry shook his head. “I don’t care what you did. I care that you treated me like I was nothing for two weeks. Two weeks.” He tried for venom, but at most achieved over-steeped tea. 

“I shouldn’t have acted in such a manner. I tried to deny that anything happened, but instead learned that I was a fool. Even though I was treating you just the same as I had these past four years, something fundamental had changed.” 

Harry looked away from Snape, from those eyes that dissected him, that took him apart, that made him feel seen. 

“I care for you, Harry.” 

Harry couldn’t stifle the sob that ripped from his throat. His world was crumbling around him and rebuilding itself over and over again. He existed and his cheeks were wet and Snape was here to bear witness. 

He pulled his knees to his chest for the third time that day and rested his elbows on his knees and clawed at his hair and avoided Snape. Avoided the thing that overwhelmed. 

The mattress shifted and the weight resettled closer to him, so much closer to him and he thought it was going to be unbearable knowing Snape was that close to him, but then there was a hand on his shoulder. Snape’s crooked fingers and bony knuckles rubbed his shoulder and it was enough. It was there. He wasn’t too full or too empty. His universe made a little more sense. 

Harry cried and Snape stayed. He stayed and stayed and stayed. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered disjointedly.

“You’re not apologizing for anything. I’m sorry. I was a fool.” 

“Does that make me a saint?” 

“Not unless your Mr. Weasley is the Pope.” 

Harry let out a breath that was as much of a laugh as he could muster. Snape squeezed his shoulder. 

“How about some of that soup?” 

Harry finished the entire bowl.

Chapter Text

Harry slept through the night. 

When he awoke the next morning to the same birds chirping outside and the sunlight streaming in between his blinds at the same exact angle, he thought the entire thing might have been a dream. It didn’t feel quite real to him. 

He walked through the clothes abandoned on his floor until he came to the far corner of his room. He bent down and picked up the leather notebook. He felt uncomfortable dwelling on its texture and placed it as quickly as possible on his desk as though afraid it would bite him as Hagrid’s books tend to do.

He caught sight of the glass shard laying on the corner of his desk, reflecting the dark stars on his ceiling. He shoved it into his trunk and closed the lid.

-.-

“Did you sleep well?” 

Harry swallowed the eggs. His leg bounced underneath the table. Every time he forced himself to stop, he’d realized it was happening again a few seconds later. 

Nothing had physically changed with Snape. He was the same black-clad potions master with a crooked nose and perpetually potion-stained hands and sallow cheeks and greasy hair; but he wasn’t looking at Harry with cold indifference or thinly-veiled resentment, nor did he have that quiet yet intense curiosity about him. 

Harry’s leg bounced underneath the table. His heart picked up its speed as he answered the question, “Er- yeah. Fine.” Which was an incredibly stupid answer considering Snape knew how poorly Harry slept a lot of the time. Harry should be telling him that he slept well or that he didn’t have any nightmares or even do him the decency of telling him he didn’t have any visions from Voldemort despite it being the first time he’s slept through an entire night in… a while. 

Snape raised his eyebrows. “Did you encounter any visions? I didn’t hear-” 

“I said it was fine!” Harry snapped. His knee bounced furiously under the table. “I know I have to tell you when I have a vision and I know how to take care of myself!” 

Snape’s jaw twitched. “Fine. We have other matters to discuss.” 

That wasn’t right. Snape should be practically throttling him by now. He should be demanding Harry do an hour of “detention” in the basement lab. He should be blowing up at Harry. 

So it wasn’t all a dream. 

Harry looked at his plate. He probably finished enough that Snape won’t comment on his portion. He put his fork down and wrung his hands together under the table, trying to shake the feeling that he had to leave the table. There was nothing to run away from. It was just him and Snape and trying to figure out how to deal with “I care for you, Harry.” 

“You must master occlumency. While the legilimency method is one of the most used methods for learning occlumency, I do not believe you are going to find success with it.” 

“Well maybe if you weren’t acting like such a git when we were doing it…”

“Yes, I was treating you unfairly, but I still do not believe you are… equipped to study occlumency in such a practical setting.” 

“So what you're saying… is that you don’t think I can handle learning occlumency?” 

Snape’s jaw twitched again. “I have every faith in you that you can learn occlumency.” Harry’s chest tightened. “I am sure that if we continued in this way, that you would eventually find your footing and succeed. However,” Snape paused until Harry raised his head to look at him, “I also think that it would cause you unnecessary grief and that an alternative method will yield much faster and long-lasting progress for you. ” 

His knee nearly hit the table. “I don’t need to be treated like a kid.” 

“You do not have a choice. We will not be completing occlumency lessons using legilimency anymore.”

“That’s not fair!” 

“It is every bit fair,” Snape replied in a smooth voice. “Considering your recent apathy-” 

“I’ve been fine!” 

“-and increased anxiety-”

“Says who!?” 

“I think the occlumency lessons were a tipping point for you on top of the stress from myself, Professor Dumbledore, and your poor sleep. And, as I already stated-”

“I get it! I’m shit at occlumency!” 

“You are not ‘shit’ at occlumency,” Snape said calmly. Harry wanted to smack him. “The legilimency is forcing unpleasant memories to the front of your mind, and will continue to do so even when I am not leading them there. While this acts as a motivator for some people, for others… especially when there is a lack of trust between student and teacher, it can inhibit the ability to learn occlumency.”

Harry crossed his arms over his chest. “I can handle it.” 

“Be that as it may, you need to learn occlumency as quickly as possible, and that means we cannot allow your pride to get in the way of your progress. It is clear that this is not working for you and that we have to adjust.” 

“Same time?” 

“No. After dinner,” Snape said. “We can work on your patronus this afternoon if you would like.” 

“Fine,” Harry spat. He stood up from his chair abruptly.

“Potter-”

“Am I not allowed to leave? Or is it too detrimental to my ability to learn occlumency?” 

Snape stared at him with his eyes narrowed. Harry didn’t wait for a dismissal before turning away. 

Isn’t this exactly what he wanted? The occlumency lessons were killing him. They were the reason he was feeling untethered from his body. The memories being pulled to the forefront of his mind was making him fall into panic for almost no reason. Every day since they started the lessons he’s dreaded going to them. 

Couldn’t he learn to just accept when good things happen to him?

He was still fuming when he returned back to his bedroom. He hated Snape for changing this on him so suddenly. It was Snape’s fault. Not his. Snape decided he couldn’t handle normal occlumency anymore. Now he had to use freak occlumency. 

Snape always did this. Adults always did this. Just when Harry knew what to expect and what was expected of him, they changed the game. New game. New rules. New expectations. 

He slammed the door to his bedroom shut and stood there in the resulting silence, waiting. Dust particles floating lazily through the stream of light from his window. Birds continued their melodic tune outside his window. He inspected the rumpled sheets and books strewn around the floor of his desk and the shirts overflowing from his dresser drawers.

There was no thundering voice, no booming footsteps flying up the stairs. There was just the sound of the dishes being rinsed, of Snape tidying the kitchen. There was no reaction. Harry swallowed in spite of the sudden dryness in his throat and dismissed the urge to take his wand out. His wand wouldn’t protect him anyways. Not from this monster.

The game kept changing. 

Harry sat down and glared at the journal on his desk. He pushed it aside and leaned back in his chair so his head was tilted to the stars watching him from above. 

He tried to see the last few weeks from their perspective: not from within but from above. He wanted to know where it began, who made the first move, who dealt the final blow, but it was too muddled. There was no beginning. It just simply happened. Harry didn’t know if it was possible to stop it. If he was able to do it all over again, if there was any way to change the events that lead them here.

Somewhere along the way, the taunts became gentler, the gestures softer, as though there was no other natural progression, as though it was almost unavoidable. Snape wanted to teach and Harry learned. Harry needed advice and Snape advised. Harry needed to be healed and Snape healed. Harry wanted to be heard and Snape listened. 

He wondered if it was all a mistake. 

-.-

Another spray of white mist and Harry grinded his teeth. 

“If you told me which memory you are using, I could-” 

“I’m not telling you anything!” Harry shouted. His chest was heaving, and he didn’t know whether or not it had to do with practicing the patronus. He clenched his off hand into a tight fist. 

The memory was fine. He’s always used the sound of his mother’s voice. Even though she was begging for her life. Even though Harry only heard it when the dementors ripped it from his soul. 

It was his mother. He had a cloak and a godfather and a defense professor and his hair and his last name from his father. All he had from his mother were green eyes and an Aunt who would rather treat him like an animal than a human being. 

“That is fine, but my point still stands,” Snape reasoned in that way that made him sound awfully like Hermione, “ You should try a different memory if this one is giving you so much difficulty.” 

“I can do it my way.” 

Snape sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose. “You may fail as many times as you want, but when you do want to succeed, you are welcome to start taking my advice.” 

Harry grit his teeth. “You don’t have to sound so patronizing all the time!” 

“Patronizing? You think this is patronizing?” 

“Yes! It is! I figured this out on my own before, you know!” 

“Really?” Snape sneered, “You had no help from Lupin? No encouragement from the headmaster? None whatsoever? The great Boy-Who-Lived doesn’t need anyone to teach him how to perform a patronus charm?” 

“I can do it on my own! I don’t need your help!” 

Snape was very unimpressed with him at the moment. Harry knew he at least partially deserved this unimpressed look, but it still pissed him off. 

Snape turned and started walking back towards the house.

“Where are you going?” Harry shouted.

“You made it very clear you don’t need my help.” Snape put his wand back into his holster. “When you do want my help, you can come get me.” 

Harry didn’t respond because really, there was nothing he could say. He watched Snape turn and leave the field and shut the door to the house behind him. He watched him tidy up the kitchen through the back window, and eventually retreat further into the cottage. 

Harry shot off an expelliarmus at the dummy, and then a few more for good measure before finishing it off with a satisfying bombarda . 

Then he too went back into the house. He was sick of patronuses. 

-.-

“You should have more asparagus.” 

Harry swallowed his piece of steak. “You should mind your business.” 

“Do you not like the asparagus?” 

Harry shrugged. “It’s fine.” 

“Then you should eat it. It’s a good source of fiber.” 

Harry truly did wish for anything to get him out of having to finish dinner, and luckily, a glowing pale blue ball flew into the room from seemingly nowhere. It hovered over the dinner table where it transformed in a beautiful phoenix, flapping its wings to stay in afloat despite the fact that it was a patronus and didn’t have to abide by the laws of physics. 

The bird faced Snape, and promptly spoke in Dumbledore’s calm voice, “Your presence is required immediately at headquarters. Leave him where you are. Dragon hide.” 

Snape stood up immediately. 

“What’s going on?” Harry asked.

“I don’t know.” Snape walked around the table and into the living room. Harry shot out of his chair. 

“Are you going to Grimmauld?” 

Snape opened the coat closet. “Yes.” He took out a cloak and draped it over him. He did not appear rushed, or particularly worried about an emergency call from Dumbledore. 

Harry’s heart was attempting to escape his chest. Snape reached his hands into the pockets of the cloak, as though checking every one. He sighed and walked around Harry and went back towards the kitchen. 

“Wait-” Harry followed, “When are you-” Harry rounded the corner and ran into Snape who was standing in front of the open basement door with his wand out. He put his wand back in his holster in time to catch the potions that flew up the stairs. 

“I do not know when I will be back. You know just as much as I do.” 

“Oh. Yeah- sure.” Harry watched Snape place the potions into in cloak, not really knowing what to do.

When Snape was done he turned fully to Harry and Harry attempted not to shrink under the man’s gaze. 

“If I am not back before dinner tomorrow, someone will be here tomorrow to watch you or to transport you to another safehouse. They will be a member of the order you recognize, but do not go anywhere with them unless they prove their identity to you first. They may come early, but not before noon.” 

“Wait- why do you even- you’re not-” 

“You are not to leave the house for any reason. The backyard and front of the house are off limits until someone returns for you. You know where the food is when you require it. Your magic shouldn’t be traced here should you require it. Don’t take any potions in my stores, even if they’re labeled and you’ve had them before. Your calming draught refills itself if you give it some time.”

Snape stepped around Harry again and went upstairs before Harry could figure out what he wanted to say. When he returned, it was with a golden pocket watch attached to a thin chain. 

“This is an emergency portykey. To activate it, open the watch. Use it if someone you do not know it here. Use it if you fear for your life. Use it if you are seriously injured, even if it is from your own mistake. Do not let it out of your reach. Do you understand me, Potter?” 

Harry struggled around the air getting caught in his throat. “Yes, sir.” 

Snape searched his eyes for something and then finally handed the portkey over. He swiftly strolled to the giant fireplace in the living room. He checked his pockets once more. Harry stood behind the sofa by the stairs. Just when it appeared Snape would reach his hand into the powder dish, he looked at Harry once more. 

Snape was studying him and Harry had no doubt that he was an open book. He hadn’t been prepared to have to hide this kind of anxiety from Snape. 

“Do what I told you,” Snape said and Harry feared he was imagining the way Snape’s features softened ever so slightly. Something in the hardness in his eyes disappeared. His frown evened out. It wasn’t a soft expression, but it wasn’t so incredibly distant. It wasn’t that of a soldier’s facade. “Stay safe.” 

“You too.” 

Snape gave one sharp nod, reached into the powder dish, shouted his destination with “Dragon hide,” stitched on the end, and disappeared in a burst of green light. 

Harry took the clasp of the pocket watch and closed it through the first chain link, created a large loop. The pocket watch was relatively small and discreet. There were scratches along the outside. Harry put the chain around his right wrist then looped it over itself to make it tighter and tucked the watch into the chain. With his sleeve down, it was relatively hard to see if you weren’t looking for it. 

Harry stood alone in the living room and spent several minutes attempting to remember how to breathe properly. He shoved down the instinct to compare the light of the floo with the green of the killing curse. He refused to confuse this dread of being alone with that of standing alone in a graveyard. 

When he could feel the hardwood under his feet again, he went into the kitchen. He picked up the dishes and scraped off the meat and asparagus left on his and Snape’s plates. He found some tupperware to save the remaining food for tomorrow. 

He washed the dishes by hand. He scrubbed them long after they were clean and long after his arm grew sore. He left them on the drying rack and then decided he couldn’t just leave them there. He found a hand towel and dried each one. He organized them by use. Plates. Cutlery. Serving dishes. When he was done drying, he put them all away.

He stood in the empty kitchen. He locked the backdoor. He made sure the front door was locked. 

Harry sat down on the couch facing the fireplace and stared. He willed Snape to come back. It did not work. He tried to not think about the last time Snape had to leave the house. He tried not to think about how that was a planned meeting, and this was sudden, and what that meant. What danger that put Snape in. 

His skin itched, so he got up. He didn’t know what he was doing until he was crouched beside the sink, opening up the cabinet that he’s never opened before in Snape’s house but that he was much acquainted with at the Dursleys. 

Window cleaner. He would start with window cleaner.  

He didn’t recognize the brand, though he didn’t have much to compare to. Petunia did all of the shopping. Harry only knew the brand that she bought.

He found a rag to use in a bin tucked behind one of the pipes and a few cobwebs and got to work on the kitchen windows. This lead him to clean the side windows and the front windows and the windows on the opposite side of the house. He made sure to take his time, being careful not to leave streaks. Aunt Petunia hated streaks. 

He did the two windows in his bedroom and the one in the bathroom and the mirror for good measure. He did not go into Snape’s bedroom. 

When he was finished, he rinsed out the rag and left it to dry on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. 

He sat down on the couch and stared at the fireplace.

He stood up and went to the coat closet, but all he found were a few variations of Snape’s black coat that surprisingly included a few muggle styles of black jackets. He went upstairs to the linen closet, and found his desired prize: the duster. 

Snape didn’t keep a dirty house by any normal standards, but that was mostly because there weren’t very many people living there. Harry found plenty of dust to clean along his bookshelves and on the coffee table and on the mantle. He stood on a chair in the kitchens and dusted the top of the cabinets and made sure to get the cobwebs in the corners. 

Harry wiped down the kitchen counters and the bathroom vanity and shined the doorknobs and put the shower curtain in the wash and made neat piles of all the books in his room and then organized them by topic. 

He wished Snape hadn’t forbidden him from going outside. There was a flower bed overgrown with weeds that would take at least two hours to do. It did not matter to Harry that it was now approaching ten o’clock. He could manage to pluck weeds by his wandlight. 

He didn’t know why he was cleaning. He just knew he had to. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t go to sleep. He wasn’t safe. 

He polished the silver even though Snape didn’t have anything good to polish silver with. He removed the ash from the fireplace and moved the shower curtain over to the dryer. He fluffed the pillows on the couch. He rearranged the fruit in the fruit basket to make it look nicer. 

He found a sponge good enough for a shower and cleaned the tiles even though they were already shining and dug the dirt out from the grouting even though it was already a pure white. He got the curtain out from the dryer and hung it back up. 

It was almost twelve. His limbs were aching. He didn’t want to think about Snape. He didn’t want to go to sleep. He feared the horrors Voldemort was committing. 

His mind was fuzzy. He had that feeling of being not quite there. He didn’t understand how much time had passed. The patronus only appeared a few minutes ago. It’s been days since Snape left. 

He was exhausted. He sat down on the couch. He stared at the fireplace with hungry eyes. 

He was exhausted. He was lying in his cupboard. He stared at the light in the crack of the door with hungry eyes.

He was alone. 

There was more cleaning he could do, should do. The floors need to be mopped. He forgot to clean the glass protecting the paintings hanging on the wall. There was more to do.

His hands smelled like disinfectant. His eyes stung and watered. His nose itched from the harsh chemicals. The bottom of his shirt was damp. 

The clock hanging above the mantle ticked over to twelve and chimed softly to indicate the new day. Harry rubbed his eyes. 

When his eyes drifted closed, angry red lines on Snape’s neck snapped them back open. 

He felt it was selfish. If he slept he might have a vision about Snape or someone else being kidnapped or tortured. If he had a way to get information that saved someone’s life, he had an obligation to use it. He had an obligation to put himself in Voldemort’s mind, to think his thoughts and feel his desires until he can’t quite tell which are his own and which belong to a monster. Until he feels like a monster. 

He was already halfway there, sitting on the couch, not feeling quite human. What was his discomfort to that of another life? 

He laid down and shut his eyes. He saw angry red lines. His heart sped up. His mind went blank. He opened his eyes. He struggled for breath. He sat up and did not close his eyes again. 

The fireplace was almost seven feet tall. It had rotten-apple maroon bricks and jarring white grouting. It towered over Harry, as though taunting him, putting him in place. 

 “Am I not allowed to leave? Or is it too detrimental to my ability to learn occlumency?” 

Harry deserved to be put in his place after what he did today. After how he threw Snape’s words back in his face. Snape probably hated him now. Snape wouldn’t want anything to do with him now. Harry didn’t know why he feared this. He wanted things to go back to normal all day. He wanted Snape to stop looking at him like he cared about him.

He wanted Snape to come back.

Harry pulled at the chain around his wrist, digging the metal into his skin.

He was crazy. His breath was caught in his throat, and for what? Snape was fine. He was too valuable a player for Dumbledore and Voldemort to be put in any real danger. He was fine.

He was fine. 

He couldn’t decide what he wanted. If Snape hated him he wanted Snape to like him. If Snape liked him he wanted Snape to hate him. He didn’t know why he would want either of these things. Snape was Snape. He did not bend to the will of others. Harry should not attempt to control his opinion of him.

Harry did not think it started with him. 

Snape was the one who gave him the calming draught. Snape was the one who wanted to duel with him. Snape was the one who gave him advice for the trial and healed his knees and helped him with the concussion.

The metal dug at his skin.

Harry had no one else to turn to. If it were Sirius, then he would have been this attached to Sirius. If it were Arthur, he would have been this attached to Arthur. 

But it wasn’t Sirius and it wasn’t Arthur. He got stuck with Snape, and now the bastard has continued to make Harry’s life more complicated even when he wasn’t trying. Then again, maybe he was trying. 

“I care for you, Harry.” 

Harry care whether or not Snape cared about him. He did not know which way he wanted it. If Snape cared for him, then there were unspeakable truths Harry would have to face. If Snape did not care for him, he would still long for him to do so. 

It was easier being the boy in the cupboard.

He couldn’t figure out why Snape cared. 

He knew why he wanted Snape to care. As much as he refused to think about it, there was an answer as obvious as it was pathetic: he was desperate for someone to care about him. He was an orphaned child with guardians who hated his guts. The closest thing he had to a parent was his godfather and former teacher—both too sick, in their own ways, to take care of him. 

Snape was here. Snape cared. 

That did not explain why Snape decided to care. That did not explain what changed Snape. That did not give reason to trust him. 

The fire roared to life. 

Harry was on his feet, wand pointed at the fireplace. Tall black robes and black hair and a sallow face appeared. He was rubbing his eyes with his hands and when he looked up, visibly startled for a moment. 

“Potter-” 

“What did I tell you on the night of my birthday?” Harry said. His voice came out desperate, weak. 

Snape regained his composure. “You informed me you were witnessing visions of the Dark Lord’s actions.” 

Harry dropped his wand. It fell on the coffee table and then rolled off onto the rug. He collapsed into the couch and stared at Snape. 

Snape appeared fine. He had no visible injuries. He stood up straight. His mouth was turned downward. His hair was somewhat misplaced, but his robes were fine. Snape was fine. Snape was alive. 

“You should have been in bed hours ago,” Snape admonished. “It’s after two.” 

Harry shrugged. His tongue was heavy in his mouth. 

“Come on, Potter. You must get to bed.” 

“Where were you?” 

“I was with the Order,” Snape said with clear impatience. “We had an important matter to attend to. I did not come within the vicinity of the Dark Lord.” He stepped closer to the coffee table and beckoned Harry. “You must get to bed.” 

“Was anyone hurt?” 

“No one was injured. Potter-” 

“Was anyone in danger?” 

“Potter, this isn’t up for discussion at this time.”

“Was anyone in danger?” 

“Potter-” Snape sighed, “No. No one was in danger. I will explain more to you tomorrow morning—after you get some rest.” 

“You promise?” 

“I promise.” 

Harry yawned. He tugged the sleeve of his shirt down and revealed the pocket watch. He tugged off the chain and dropped it on the table. He tugged the sleeve back down when Snape softly exclaimed, “Wait-” 

Snape rounded the table and sat on its edge. He beckoned for Harry’s arm and Harry was too tired to resist the instruction. Potion-stained hands teased the sleeve up and revealed the bruised and irritated skin. His fingers were cool on Harry’s skin. 

“Some essence of myrtle is in order, I think.” Snape carefully turned the wrist over. “It doesn’t appear you broke skin.” 

Snape reached into his cloak and offered a nondescript tin. “You or me?” Snape said. 

“I’ll do it.” 

Snape opened the tin. Harry used his left hand to apply it to his right wrist. 

“You need to be more careful with yourself,” Snape said, “You have a bad habit of distracting yourself with pain.” 

“Why do you care?” Harry snapped. He froze. He wilted into the couch. “I’m sorry.” 

 “It is a valid question.” Snape replaced the cover on the tin and put it back in one of the inner pockets of his cloak. “In some respects, it is my job to care. Officially, I am your teacher, and unofficially, it is my job to protect you for the duration of your stay with me.” 

“That doesn’t explain this.” 

“It doesn’t.” Snape glanced at the clock over his shoulder. “It is late.” 

“Why won’t you tell me?” 

“Because I am not a good man,” Snape said hurriedly, “And realizing that after four years I can no longer justify seeing you in pain when I am able to relieve it does not make me a good man.” 

“Why does it matter what it makes you?” 

“It- it does, Potter. You don’t- a good man should be looking after you. Not me.” 

Snape’s eyes were trained on his own hands, as though not aware Harry was there. The clock ticked lazily over Snape’s head, the hour hand steadily creeping up on the three. The house was colder at night and Harry felt exposed with just his sleeve rolled up a few inches. 

“Well that’s a load of bullshit.”

Snape clearly attempted to stifle a laugh. It almost worked. 

“I’m right, you know.” 

“I know.” 

Snape sighed and stood wearily from the coffee table. “Come now. You must be exhausted.” 

Harry barely made it into bed before falling asleep.

Chapter Text

“Did you have any visions last night?” 

“None, sir.” 

“Good. Then we can begin.” Snape waved his wand and the table began clearing itself. Plates floated towards the sink. Snape laced his fingers together. 

Harry couldn’t wait a second longer. “What happened last night?” 

“The spy made a mistake,” Snape began. “Late yesterday morning, a man was admitted to the St. Mungo’s and-” 

“Wait- what’s St. Mungo’s?” 

“A magical hospital located in central London.” Snape explained. He did not chastise Harry for his interruption. “The man suffered from intaking a botched polyjuice potion. It was difficult to ascertain his identity as the potion made him incoherent and his physical features were melded between his own and the person he was attempting to turn into. However,” Snape raised an eyebrow, “the mistake was a relatively common one, and within a few hours St. Mungos realized they had a situation they weren’t equipped to deal with.” 

Snape sipped on his coffee. Harry’s knee bounced under the table. It seemed like it was going to be a nice day outside. The kitchen window was cracked, allowing crisp morning air to tickle Harry’s skin. 

“They realized they had in their care a man by the name of Barty Crouch Jr. A man who has been presumed dead for over a decade.” 

“From my visions!”

Snape nodded. “From your visions. St. Mungo’s alerted the ministry, at which point several members of the Order working in the Department of Justice alerted Professor Dumbledore. Professor Dumbledore’s impromptu patronus summoned me last night to test the botched potion Crouch Jr. had on him to discern who he was attempting to turn into.” 

“You can do that?”

“In a sense. It is a long and complicated process—made infinitely more complicated when performed on a botched potion—that yields very little information, but it was enough to confirm our suspicions about who Crouch Jr. was disguising himself as.” 

Harry waited while Snape appeared to steel himself. His jaw twitched and finally he revealed, “He was polyjuicing himself as Alastor Moody for just over a year.” 

“Wait-” Harry let out a quick incredulous laugh, “You can’t be serious. This is a joke.” 

Snape shook his head. “We submitted the evidence to the Department of Justice who was able to use it to obtain a warrant to search Moody’s home for evidence of identity theft. At about six this morning, they discovered evidence that Crouch had been living there for at least several months, impersonating Moody.”

“But he wasn’t… he didn’t start impersonating Moody until after the third task then, right?” 

Snape shook his head. “Crouch most likely has been posing as Moody since Dumbledore interviewed him for the Defense position. He put your name in the Goblet then offered you help in completing the tasks to ensure you would win the third task. Thus,  ensuring you would be present in the graveyard in time for the Dark Lord’s resurrection.” 

“Thats…” Harry shook his head, “That’s ridiculous… Moody wasn’t exactly the most normal professor we ever had but…” Harry didn’t know how to finish. 

“Do you remember the stolen ingredients for polyjuice potion I accused you of taking?” 

Harry waved the thought away. “Of course, but that doesn’t mean-” 

“The flask he always drank out of-”

“That’s just constant vigilance! That’s not-”

“ Harry ,” Snape cut him off. “A few members of the Order had their suspicions even prior to-”

“I get it, alright!” He shouted, wanting desperately to stop hearing the words that made it impossible to deny. “I get it.” 

Harry rubbed at his face. He couldn’t quite meet Snape’s eyes anymore. He knew it made sense, but that made the entire thing feel worse. If it made sense, he should have been able to see it before. He should have figured it out. 

“What’s gonna happen to Crouch? Do they need to find the real Moody to get his side of the story?” 

Snape pursed his lips together. The muscles around his jaw tightened. His eyes were trained on Harry, but weren’t looking at Harry. “Alastor Moody was discovered dead in an expanding trunk in his home this morning.” 

Harry blinked. His chest became a little more hollow. 

“Harry,” Snape began, but it appeared neither of them knew what to say. 

Harry covered his mouth with his hand and shook his head. He didn’t even know the real Moody for God’s sake, but his mind wasn’t making the same connection. It felt like the Moody who looked out for him this year died. 

Even then, it wasn’t like he had that strong of a connection to the fake Moody. He helped Harry out. He gave him advice when no one else was there to give him advice he sorely needed and desperately wanted, but this was also the man who tortured a spider in front of a class of fourth years (and if the rumors were to be true, a class of third years as well). This was the man who made Harry feel uncomfortable a few too many times, who treated Harry’s gift with the imperious curse like he was some prized animal at the circus, who put Harry on edge even when he wasn’t shouting for him to maintain “CONSTANT VIGILANCE” . 

He had wanted to believe that underneath all of his crude manners and harsh words, Moody was good-hearted. He thought their classes needed to see the unforgivables in action in order to prepare themselves for the real world. He subjected Harry to the imperius because he wanted Harry to be able to survive a chance encounter with a dark wizard. 

He spent more time than he wanted to admit rationalizing Moody’s actions to his friends, trying to get them to see that they could trust him just as much as they trusted Remus last year. He wanted to believe in someone doing the right thing, that there was a reason for everything. Maybe it was cruel, but the world was also a little bit cruel. 

He had forgotten that people didn’t act kindly without reason. 

“Thought he needed to be alive,” he said hoarsely.  

Snape shook his head slowly. “His physical form needs to be intact for the polyjuice to work. He does not need to be alive, so much as he must be… preserved.” 

Harry jumped out of his seat. “Excuse me for a moment.” Snape shot him an incredibly confused what-the-hell-are-you-up-to look, but Harry paid him no mind as he hastily rushed to the back door and pushed it open. As Snape called after him, he made sure to focus on his task at hand. His business would be swift out here. Really, it was Snape’s fault for not having a house big enough for there to be a bathroom on the first floor. 

When he was about twenty feet out, he was forced to collapse in the yard and throw up his breakfast. 

Snape stopped calling after Harry. The acid burned the back of his throat. He coughed through the last of the pain and attempted to spit out the last of the bad taste in his mouth before he stood up. 

He barely managed not to stagger back towards the house, keeping his legs steady underneath him. Snape was holding the back door open for him. He brushed past the man’s robes as he passed him.

He sat down shakily and took the cool glass of water waiting for him at the table. 

“Harry-” 

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” 

Snape put his hands up in defeat. “That’s fine, but I insist on making one matter clear to you.” His hands returned to the table, his eyes fixed again on Harry. “This was not your fault. Barty Crouch Jr. was able to fool the headmaster. It is only reasonable that he fooled you too.” 

“Fine.”

“Harry-”

“I said fine!” Harry shouted. “Just get on with something else already!” 

Snape very much looked like he had many more things to say about Moody’s death. Harry very much felt the world was going to collapse in on itself if he had to think about a man dead for months and months with no one the wiser to his fate. 

“You have a decision ahead of you. There are just under two weeks left of this summer, and now that our spy has been caught, it is safe for you to return to Grimmauld Place for the rest of the summer. Black, the Weasley’s, and Ms. Granger have taken up residence there for the past few weeks, and will continue to do so until September first.”

“It was safe enough for them, but not for me?” Harry cried.

“The Dark Lord does not wish to make kidnappings within the wizarding world. It would arouse far too much suspicion for a man attempting to keep his power a secret. The only exception he is willing to make for this risk is for the capture of yourself.” 

“Oh.”

“Yes. Your other option is to stay here, but it will not be like it has been for most of the summer. I anticipate that in retaliation for Crouch’s mistake, the Dark Lord will require more work from me in the coming weeks. I may not be around as often, and there will be no one else to look after you when I am called.” 

Harry chewed on his lip. 

He felt safe here. Knowing all the creaky floorboards and the sounds of the animals chittering outside at night and how to place Snape’s footsteps in the house made him feel safe. 

The baseline level of trust he had in Snape has increased. It went from an unsteady probably-won’t-intentionally-kill-me-but-may-leave-me-to-die to a solid will-protect-me-from-danger. 

But the only two people in the world he felt safe with were at Grimmauld. He missed them more than he’s ever been able to miss anything in his entire life. He could barely admit to himself how much he just wanted Hermione to spring one of her bone-crushing hugs on him or to let Ron tackle him into something that turned into a hug warmer than he thought a person was capable of giving. 

The twins would be there to tease him, to not let him take himself so seriously. Fred would again attempt to wrangle him into a conversation about investment return while George would bug him to test their new products. 

Molly would insist on stuffing him full of good food and fussing over him until Arthur would come to his rescue, insisting they discuss muggle technology. 

He didn’t know what Sirius would do. 

Sirius might act like a caged animal, desperate and hungry for his approval. He might be angry, loud and shouting and mean. 

He might ignore Harry. 

Of all the things Sirius could do, that was the one that scared him most. The prospect of Sirius just… losing interest in him made him sick. Made him feel curled up to fit inside the cot in his cupboard with the dust tickling his nose and blood on his knees and wetness on his cheeks. It made him feel desperate and hungry for approval.

He didn’t know if he could take it. Even that day when he had broke, when he had realized that Dursleys will never love him, there was something in the back of his mind telling him he already knew all along. He knew that there was something wrong with him from the moment he could comprehend that such a thing could exist in a boy. He was bad. Dudley was good. 

But if Sirius were to do the same, he wouldn’t survive. It would be his fault. It would be throwing Sirius to the fire to watch his love for Harry burn. 

Part of him wanted to go to Grimmauld just to get on his knees and beg. He would confess to his sins. He would tell Sirius anything he wanted to hear if he would only take Harry back, if he would only love him. He could be James. He was always good at pretending to be something he’s not. What was a little longer? What was another mask, another lie, if it was for something as good as this? 

He wanted Sirius back, even if he did not feel he deserved it. He somehow got Snape to care for him. Somewhere in his gut, Harry felt this was right. Sirius for Snape. When he let Snape in, something else had to give. He could never deserve both Sirius and Snape. This was the balancing act of the universe. 

Which made him feel a little like he should give up on Sirius already. 

“If you go to Grimmauld, I would attempt to visit you everyday to hold an occlumency lesson with you. Though I may sometimes be pulled elsewhere by my… other duties,” Snape said. 

Harry banged his head against the wood of the table and groaned.

“Always so dramatic.” 

“Shut. Up,” Harry growled, ignoring how the teasing gesture made his heart plummet further. 

Snape conceded this point to Harry. Harry groaned into the table again. He didn’t want to deal with Sirius. If he stayed here until the school year, he wouldn’t have to deal with Sirius until Christmas at the earliest. He liked those prospects. 

Sirius overwhelmed. 

The mirror that once belonged to his father sat unused in his trunk. 

“Do you need more time to think about your options on your own or do you wish to speak about them more?” 

He didn’t know if being with his best friends and the family that accepted him would mellow out the storm that was his godfather enough for him to be able to enjoy the remainder of his summer. Sirius was a force to be reckoned with. Harry knew this. Harry has felt this.

“Do you know everything I have lost because of you!”

He tasted blood on his lip.

He didn’t want to put himself through it again. He couldn’t put himself through it again. 

Snape sighed. “I need to know what we plan to do with this situation so I can-.” 

“I said shut up!” Harry snapped his head forward. “I’m trying to think!” 

“Harry-”

“Just be quiet! Be-” He gasped for breath. “Be quiet. I need quiet. I…” Harry pulled at his hair as though it would extract the answer from his brain. 

If he stayed, Sirius would know. Sirius would take it as an insult that Harry chose Snape over him. It may ruin any chance of him ever wanting to care for Harry again. 

He didn’t realize his eyes were squeezed shut until the chair next to him creaked and his eyes flew open to make sense of what was going on. Snape had moved to the seat next to him rather than across from him. He was looking at Harry with that intense expression he usually only ever gave his potions. The one that meant he needed to fix something. 

“I’m fine. Go away. I just need more time to think.” 

“That is not the way it appears to me.” 

“What do you bloody know?” 

“I am a spy. It is my job to know what other people are thinking without having to ask them.”

“Then stop-” pretending to care. Harry swallowed the words down. He wondered if Snape could hear them. “I’ll figure this out on my own.” 

“What is troubling you about this decision?” 

Harry didn’t even know why he was fighting Snape. It didn’t make any sense, but he just could not stomach telling Snape about Sirius. He didn’t want Snape involved in his decision. He wanted to prove that he could still deal with this on his own. He didn’t need Snape. 

He didn’t want to need Snape. Reliance made him compliant. Compliance made him vulnerable. Vulnerability will always be taken advantage of. 

“This is about… your godfather.” Snape said the words as diplomatically as he could have possibly attempted. 

Harry shrugged. “Maybe. But I-” He swallowed and found his gaze diverting away from Snape’s eyes. “I can figure it out on my own. I don’t want someone else telling me what to do.”

He wasn’t in a good mood to argue. He was shaky, and still standing on unsteady ground thinking about Moody’s impersonation and death. Arguing with Snape would end with him doing something he doesn’t want to do or with Snape screaming at him because he couldn’t keep his own damn mouth shut. And this time Snape screamed at him it would be different than all the other times Snape screamed at him because it wouldn’t be because Snape didn’t know him and it wouldn’t be because Snape was trying to distance himself from him. It would be because he was Harry and Snape was angry with him . 

Harry wasn’t really equipped to deal with that today. 

When he felt sure that Snape was going to go into him again about making a decision on the issue, Snape said, “Alright then. I will let you make the decision on your own, but I have one last suggestion.” 

Snape abruptly got up from his chair and left the kitchen. Harry couldn’t focus on where his footsteps were retreating to, only on the feeling of the table’s wood underneath his fingertips and how his shirt was stuck to the crooks of his forearms. 

Harry choked on his breath like the time Petunia held him under the bathwater for a smidge too long to be comfortable. His skin itched like the phantom feeling of spiders crawling on his skin in his cupboard. His throat burned like when he had screamed himself hoarse running from Dudley and his gang after school. 

Footsteps came downstairs and into the kitchen through the hall and back onto the tiled floors of the kitchen. When Snape entered his line of sight again, it was with a mask that was less expressive than a brick wall. 

“I think these may be of use to you.”

Snape placed two items on the table that Harry didn’t notice before. It was the brown leather journal and Harry’s quill and inkpot. He knew it was his own from the ink stains on the sides of the pot and sticking some of the feathers at the top of his quill together. Snape never kept his inkpot and quill so dirty. 

“You do not have to use them,” Snape said over his head. “It is only a suggestion.” 

“What would I do with them?” 

“Write, perhaps?” Snape teased. Harry smiled. “Make a pros and cons list. Write the best and worst part about being in each situation. Scribble on the pages until you think of a solution. Transfigure the quill into a coin and flip it.” 

Harry took the quill in his hand and immediately dripped a bit of ink on the table. Snape vanished it wordlessly. 

“I will be in the living room if you need me.” He began his retreat from the kitchen. 

“Professor?”

Snape returned to the side of the table. “Yes?” 

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. “I shouldn’t have been so rude to you.” 

There was more to that statement. There was something there unsaid. Snape may have been a bastard, but Harry was also a little shit. Harry had tried his very hardest to humiliate Snape any chance he got. Maybe it was okay to regret some of that, even if Snape did fully deserve the parts of it he didn’t regret. 

I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so rude all this time.

“I forgive you.” Snape lingered a moment longer in front of Harry, almost as though he was going to say more, but then vanished from Harry’s line of sight just as quickly. 

Harry opened the leather notebook that Snape had gifted him just over two weeks ago now. He looked blankly at the blue lines covering the cloud-white pages. 

This was stupid. He didn’t know what Snape’s angle was here, trying to get him to write about his problem when he has a perfectly good internal monologue to sort this whole thing out with. 

Then, before he could think about it further, he put his quill to the page. 

He wrote first about Ron and Hermione. What he thought they were doing, how they might be feeling, if they got to receive their hogwarts letters yet, if they were thinking of him, how they would react when he told them about Snape, how they would react if they were in the same situation he was in. It went on far past the point where it was adding anything productive to his decision. He knew he missed them. He knew he would see them at Hogwarts where they would immediately be bombarded with fifth year work, dealing with the social battles that is being a teenager, and keeping up with the shenanigans of their new defense professor. 

If he went now, they would have time to talk before they got so very busy with school and there were little spaces they could talk in private. (A mufflato worked well with sound, but did little to conceal facial expressions and gestures best left for private company.) 

He didn’t want to think more about Sirius. Sirius was a risk. Sirius overwhelmed. 

Which left the last person he has been avoiding thinking about: Snape. 

There was no doubt that their relationship would have to change when they got back to school. Voldemort was back and Harry knew he was not against using students as his eyes inside the school. Any indication that Snape was showing different sympathies would not only be grounds for killing Snape, but also used to manipulate him. Snape will most likely seek to eliminate this risk by maintaining both their past distance and animosity. 

In short, he was going to lose Snape. 

That was two reasons to stay and one reason to go. 

He never gets to see Molly and Arthur though. And Sirius will only be more angry with him if he chooses to stay. Snape won’t be around as much anymore, but he doesn't know that for sure. 

Arthur and Molly have other children to look after and they won’t have time to spend with him anyway. Giving Sirius more time may help him cool off his temper. He enjoyed living in the cottage and his lessons with Snape. He has gotten used to the cracks in his walls and the stars on his ceiling.

He felt ashamed to stay with Snape. 

That was the bottom line. If he stayed, he would feel like a coward for not facing Sirius. He would feel like he betrayed his friends by not seeing them as quickly as possible. He would feel like he threw everything Molly and Arthur ever did for him back in their faces. 

Staying would be a Slytherin’s choice. Going was a Gryfindor’s choice.

Harry dried his quill and screwed his inkpot closed once more. He made sure the drying spells on the notebook were working and then closed the page he was working on. 

When he arrived in the living room, Snape was sitting on the sofa. He was reading something that had something to do with defensive strategy from the title and cover. He marked his place as Harry sat down on the side of the couch adjacent to him. 

“I have a question.” Harry said. Snape tilted his head to acknowledge him. “What does Dumbledore want me to do?” 

“Why do you want to know this information?” Snape countered. 

“He just…” Harry ran his hand through his hair. “He thinks about things differently than me. I want to choose for myself whether or not I agree with his thoughts.” 

Snape nodded carefully, still appearing hesitant. He placed the book on the stand end table next to him before replying, “He thinks its best if you stay here.”

“For my safety?” 

Snape shook his head. “No. He now believes that both this safehoure and headquarters are comparable in terms of safety. He is much more concerned that you will attempt to gain information about the Order’s actions without our knowledge either through your godfather, one of the younger members of the Order, or through your own innovation.” Snape paused, further leveling his gaze on Harry. “He then fears that this information will foster a greater degree of distrust between himself and you, which will provoke you to take matters into your own hands.” 

“He thinks I’m going to what? Betray him? Attempt to get him kicked from the headmaster’s position? Tell the press things that will discredit him?” 

“No, much worse. He thinks you will attempt to solve the Order’s problems through your own… methods , and that these will place you in a position of great vulnerability with the Ministry and the Dark Lord.” 

“That sounds…dumb,” Harry finished lamely. 

“Does it?” Snape said lightly, but there was definitely something dangerous hiding in his eyes. “Were you not the student who barreled headfirst into a laberythine of traps in order to protect the most desired object from one of the darkest wizards of all time?” 

“I was like- eleven .” 

“Weren’t you the student who tumbled into the Chamber of Secrets to save a first year from one of the deadliest magical creatures known to wizardkind?” 

“We brought Lockhart!” 

“He was a fraud and you knew it at the time,” Snape continued smoothly over him. “And I do believe I witnessed with my own eyes found you with an escaped convict, a soon-to-be-transformed werewolf and a man who has sought to kill you.” 

“It’s not my fault Sirius literally dragged Ron into the shrieking shack!” 

“And yet you did not go find a reasonable adult to deal with the situation.” 

“Fine.” Harry threw his hands in the air in defeat. “You got me! But I did nothing wrong last year! Bad things just happened to find me!” 

“Not so fast.” Snape was definitely amused with this conversation now. He was teasing Harry. “Do you also recall a certain Yule Ball outing in which you purposely overheard a conversation between two death eaters?” 

“Well, yeah, but that was mostly by accident.”

“And what about the task you almost let yourself drown because you thought the captives were going to be allowed to die.”

“The egg literally told me that the thing I’ll sorely miss won’t come back ! What was I supposed to think? That Dumbledore wouldn’t let students die in a highly publicized international wizarding competition? He was the one who told me he was proud of me for going after the stone and saving Ginny and for saving Sirius from getting the kiss. He told me those things!” 

“What?” Snape cut him off. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean exactly what I said!” Harry argued. “Was I really supposed to think that someone who told me he was proud of child endangerment wouldn’t let someone’s sister die for a friendly competition?” 

Snape rubbed at his brow in that way that meant there was going to be a neat glass of scotch on the table at dinner. “He really did make you this way, didn’t he?” 

“You didn’t know?” 

Snape shook his head. “I am not omnipotent, Potter. I cannot know the details of your private conversations with the headmaster unless one of you confides in me such information.” 

“Oh.”

“ Oh , indeed, but that is a discussion we will have at another time. The point of this discussion is that the headmaster has every reason to fear that you will take swift and potentially life-threatening action at perceived misjustice without notifying anyone of your plans. When asked my opinion, I agreed that it was a concern.” 

“So you think I should stay here as well?” 

“Not at all,” Snape said. “My own opinion is that you should go. You will only be at headquarters for two weeks. There is a very limited chance that you or anyone in your band of misfits will manage to break through the privacy wards around the meeting room during that time. If he is so concerned, he can limit meeting frequency and duration.” 

“You're not just trying to get your house back?” Harry teased.

“Absolutely not.” Snape said and it was with such vehemence that Harry had to resist the urge to flinch. “You have been socially deprived for nearly two months. I believe the benefit of spending time with your friends greatly outweighs any risk that the move invokes. That being said,” Snape focused his eyes on Harry’s. “If you wish to stay for the last two weeks, I will welcome your company here.” 

“Alright.” Harry slouched back against the couch. This debate, however internal it was, was becoming exhausting to maintain. He wanted it over with an hour ago. It was his own fault for not being able to make up his mind, for not being able to trust himself, but it still took its toll.

“You’ve come to a decision?”

“Yeah.” Harry sighed, “I’m going to go.”

Chapter Text

Snape sent the message along that Harry would be staying at Grimmauld followed by a quieter early lunch. 

“Mrs. Weasley would like you to arrive at headquarters in time for dinner,” Snape said. “We will skip lessons for today so you have enough time to pack.” 

Harry nodded and ignored the twist in his gut. This was real. This was happening. His decision actually had consequences. 

He went up to his room. His room. When did it become that? He’s never called an entire room his in his entire life. 

It took him longer than he would like to admit to actually begin packing. He wasn’t exactly occupying himself. He stared out the windows and traced his fingers along the quilt. He stared at the stars on the ceiling. 

When he did start packing, he found himself lingering. There seemed to be a new story attached to everything he owned. It was no longer just the defense book Hermione got him because he was stressed from the tournament. It was the book that Snape caught him reading, that Harry performed accidental magic over, that ended in a sunset duel. 

It was no longer just his pale blue t-shirt that he only really wore on summer nights at the Burrow. It was the t-shirt he wore the night he confessed his visions to Snape.

He spent too long folding his shirts. He didn’t put his books away until he alphabetized them by title. Then he decided he preferred them by last name. Then he regrouped them by increasing difficulty of topic. 

Time did not linger. 

“Are you almost packed?” Snape stood in his doorway.

“Yeah, just about there. I- uh- I have to give these back.” Harry indicated his desk where the robes he wore to the hearing and the defense books Snape had given him lay. 

Snape approached the desk. He took a few books out the stack. “These are dangerous in the wrong hands. If you wish to read them, we will work something out at a future time.” Snape shrunk the books in hand and put them in his pocket. “The rest you can keep.” 

Harry’s eyes widened. “Absolutely not. They belong to you.” 

“They are a gift,” Snape insisted. “If I did not intend for you to keep them, I wouldn’t have relinquished them for so long.” 

“But I… I can buy my own robes. And I can buy these books for myself.” 

“They are a gift so that you do not have to do that. Believe me, Potter, the only thing you are taking from me is clutter from my house. I do not have any use for books with information I already know nor dress robes that haven’t fit me in nearly two decades.” 

“They were yours?” 

Snape touched the fabric, lingering on it for a moment. Perhaps it held memory for him too. “Yes. Every young wizard needs proper dress robes.”

Harry knew the way he would have reacted to that information A month ago. He would have been disgusted, angry. He probably would have gone as far as asking for different robes. 

Yet now, part of him knew his attachment, his own memory to them, grew a little stronger. It was something else he shared with Snape. Another mark of how they were connected. Harry felt lucky it wasn’t one burned into their skin this time. 

He tried not to think about what that made him. That he perhaps craved more attachment. That he felt embarrassed by craving it. 

“Would you shrink the books for me then?” Harry took the robes off his desk and stuffed them into his open trunk on the bed. 

Snape did so wordlessly and offered the books to Harry. When he turned to put them in his trunk, Snape spoke again, “I have one more item I must give you before you go.” 

Snape was holding out a small but thick book. Harry took it and opened it without looking at the cover. The print was small and dense, leaving almost no margin on the edges of the pages. Not to mention the book had been, as Hermione would say, well-loved. The back cover was ripped, the book was littered with dog-eared pages, and writing somehow squeezed in between the tight margins. 

Harry flipped to the front cover. It was titled Occlumency: The Ancient Art. There was a somewhat cheesy medical diagram of the brain with swirls of magic emanating from it. 

“Skip the prologue—It’s all historical background that is not necessary to your goal. Attempt to read the first chapter by this Monday. If you find the text too difficult, we can reevaluate our plan then.” 

Harry turned to place it in his trunk, but Snape’s voice cut through the action, “This is the book that saved my life,” his voice had gone deep and severe. “Please endeavor to not lose it.” 

“Would it be alright if Hermione looked at this?” 

Snape inclined his head. “Yes. In all fairness, she would treat it better than you.” 

Harry laughed. “She would.”

They fell into silence. Harry’s heart felt like it stopped beating, as though doing so would enable him to stop time. He could have just a few more moments here. 

Time did not stop.

“Ten minutes.” Snape warned. Harry nodded. Snape left. 

Harry did his final tasks. He gathered his things from the bathroom. He checked under the bed and found his spare quill. He checked his closet and found the good pair of socks he’d been looking for.

He dragged his trunk down the stairs. 

Snape was seated on the couch. He cast a featherlight charm on the trunk as Harry came into the living room. 

“The password is Janus.” 

Harry nodded and found there was nothing stopping him from going through the floo. It was time to leave. He had to leave.

He placed his trunk in the fireplace. He looked back at Snape. He reached his hand into the floo powder pot. 

“I will see you tomorrow afternoon.”

Harry nodded, swallowing his emotion. This wasn’t a big deal. Snape knew that. Harry had to know that too. This was just the next thing he had to do. This was his choice. “Yessir.” 

He stepped into the floo. The last thing he saw before flames consumed him was the stoic features breaking on Snape’s face. He was gone before he could understand what they transformed into.

-.-

The world refused to come into focus, but he did not need sight to know who’s arms immediately wrapped around him, clinging at the spot just under his ribs that made his insides hurt. 

“I would love to hug you back, ‘Mione, but I can’t until you let me put all this down.” 

She moved back with a quick apology and almost-wet chuckle. Harry stepped out of the fireplace and put his things to the side. Her arms were around him before he even had time to see her face. He earned a mouthful of her bushy hair instead. 

“Dumbledore wouldn’t let us send any letters to you and wouldn’t let you send any letters to us and I worried so much and Arthur told us last night that you were staying with Snape of all bloody people and I couldn’t believe it! But I did hope that if any good came out of it, he probably forced you to complete your summer assignments on time. And I know that doesn't make up for being a massive arse but it does easy my anxiety about the start of the year-”

“I missed you too, Hermione.” His eyes closed and it was just him and the feeling of Hermione’s arms attempting to squeeze him with all her might, as though she could squeeze everything bad out of him and leave only the good parts. 

Harry looked over her head, briefly thankful he was still taller than her. Ron was leaning casually on the arm of a couch, eyes carefully trained on Harry. It was a process they went through when reunited every summer. It started with The Evaluation where Ron would catalog how deep the bags were under his eyes, how hollow his cheeks were, how messy his hair seemed, and a thousand other minutiae that Harry wasn’t consciously aware of. 

“Starting to feel like a third wheel over here, ‘Mione.” 

“Oh- Right. Sorry.” Her arms retreated from Harry’s waist and she beamed. The spots under her eyes were damp. “Got carried away.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” Harry teased. 

Ron gained a few extra inches on him over the summer. Harry was pretty sure he remembered Fred wearing Ron’s Gryffindor-striped tee a few months ago. He grinned as Harry rushed towards him, cheeks summer-flushed with freckles. 

Ron’s arms wrapped around him. Harry attempted to absorb as much warmth as possible, to save the memory of how his heart felt when it seeped into his skin.

“No Dursleys?” Ron said quietly.

“Not no Dursleys.” Harry mumbled. “Minimal Dursleys.”  

“Good, then I don’t feel bad about doing this!” Ron took him into a headlock position and before Harry could even protest knuckle-rubbed the top of his head.

Harry managed an elbow in Ron’s bicep, forcing him to release him from his bonds. Hermione ranted under her breath about their barbaric ways.

“I do it with love, Hermione. Harry knows this.”

“Next time I’m kicking you in the balls.”

Hermione threw her arms up in the air. “It’s my fault. If I didn’t try to hide in a girls’ lavatory, I wouldn’t be here right now.” 

Harry grinned and finally felt like he could look around the room he flooed into. They were standing in a small, yet ornately decorated parlor. The fireplace was surrounded by a couch set of black leather with silver studs lining the edges of the armrests. It seemed like the kind of arrangement meant to show off wealth more so than to be comfortable for anyone involved. The end tables and other wooden pieces were all made of a deep brown wood. The walls were covered in victorian-eque royal blue wallpaper and the lampshades all matched with a royal blue stained glass finish on their shades. 

As his eyes were drawn up, he noticed Arthur leaning against the doorway at the opposite end of the room, observing with unfiltered fondness. 

“Did the Professor give you any trouble coming over, Harry?” Arthur asked. 

Harry shrugged. “He tried, but I told him otherwise.” 

“That’s good.” Arthur focused on Ron. “Show him to your room and come back down. We’re almost ready for supper.” Arthur left them alone in the parlor. 

“C’mon. This place is a bit of a maze.” Ron nudged him towards the exit.

The bottom floor was filled with cramped hallways and paintings of bloody battles with the occasional portrait sprinkled through. The soldiers didn’t really seem interested in his presence, but the portraits eyed him as though it was him hanging up on the wall and not them. 

Hermione did her best to point out where various doors led to on the first floor and which people she has seen using them, but Harry didn’t really catch most of it. Ron led them up the central staircase. When Harry tripped over the warped steps for the fourth time, he cursed under his breath.

“No one can figure out why the preservation charms on the wood wore out,” Hermione supplied. “Charms like these have been known to last over a thousand years.” 

“I know who did it,” Ron threw over his shoulder.

“No. You don’t.” Hermione snapped behind Harry’s ear, making him jump. 

“What have you two been fighting about?” 

Hermione groaned. “Ron thinks Sirius’s house elf, Kreacher, canceled the charms, but I know that house elves don’t behave that way because I’ve talked to them!” 

“You’ve talked to the ones at Hogwarts . They ’re happy! Kreacher is a little shit that hates everyone and everything.”

“That is not true!” 

“Fine. He hates everyone and everything that doesn’t have to do with pureblood ideology.” Ron turned towards Harry. “He called Lupin no less than three slurs the last time he walked through the door. Lupin called it ‘improvement’ because there wasn’t a death threat involved.” 

Harry laughed, but also felt a pang go through his chest. It felt like he missed everything important that happened to the two of them this summer and for what? For his relationship with Sirius to crash and burn? So he no longer knew where he stood with Snape? He was jealous of how easily they talked about the comings and goings of the safehouse. He felt out of place. A guest who didn’t belong. An intruder. 

He knew they missed him. He knew it wasn’t their fault. He knew they were only sharing it to try to include him. But it hurt all the same, like they learned a new dialect that he didn’t know and was just now attempting to catch up on. 

He had to forget it. He was here now and that was all that mattered. He wasn’t jealous. He loved his friends. 

“Kreacher has been dutifully serving a family for three generations, only to be crudely tossed aside and forgotten like last week’s takeaway.” Hermione emphasized. 

“I don’t know what takeaway is, but I’m sure it also deserves to be treated like Kreacher.”

“How do wizards not have takeaway?” Harry asked. 

“Unless you mean a party to go beat someone up behind the Protestant church, I have no idea.” 

Harry laughed, sharing their patented purebloods look with Hermione.

They came to the fourth floor landing. Ron insisted it was most lived because it had the least amount of dark creatures crawling around it at the beginning of the summer. 

Their room luckily wasn’t very far and was a bit bigger than the one he shared with Ron at the Burrow. There were two beds with brass frames and thick mattresses and huge windows overlooking the street below. The walls were a light mustardish yellow color. The bed farther from the door was neatly made, but the one closest had various clothes and books strewn across a quilt which lay perpendicular to the way it was meant to on the bed. The fitted sheet was clearly on inside out. 

“Sorry about the mess, mate. I was using the other bed, but only remembered like ten minutes ago that you prefer to be… you know,” Ron gestured towards the far bed. 

Harry quickly moved to put his things down on the bed if only to not have to reveal how much the thought meant to him. That Ron remembered he didn’t like sleeping so close to the door. That he preferred to have a full view of the room. That Ron would switch without Harry even having to ask. 

“They owl-ordered your school supplies.” Hermione added. “I think Sirius stored them away.” 

Harry stiffened hearing his name. He sat down heavily on the bed and rubbed his hands together. “I’ve got… so much to tell you.” 

Sirius and Snape were one thing. Then he had to figure out how to tell his friends that he saw-

“Voldemort’s back.” Ron stated. Harry had forgotten how his name sounded aloud. In his dreams, they all referred to him as My Lord. 

“You know?” 

“Dumbledore came ‘round this morning.” Ron said, “Told us Voldemort was back and Moody was actually some guy they thought was dead.” 

Harry suddenly felt a lot more out of place being in the room with them. He thought he would get to explain everything to them, like some sort of secret rebellion against Dumbledore, a flaw in his plan that he didn’t account for. But Dumbledore still knew Harry better than most people, and was always three steps ahead of him.

He wanted Dumbledore to have given him the time of day to speak to him about what’s happened, but he knew he would have thrown every word back at Dumbledore. He would have refused to listen. 

He glanced between Ron and Hermione. He wondered if they felt betrayed by Dumbledore’s secrets or if they were able to accept that kind of authority, the strings being pulled over their heads, the curtain pulled to reveal only what they were allowed to see. 

That was a conversation for another time.

“He told us it had something to do with the third task,” Hermione said quietly. “But he wouldn’t give us details. Said it wasn’t his story to tell.” 

Harry ran a hand through his hair, anxiety pooling in his stomach. “Yeah, there’s a lot.” He rubbed the phantom feeling of Cedric’s shirt off of his fingertips on the quilt. “There’s a lot.” 

“Anything we need to know before dinner?” Ron asked, glancing at his watch. The brown wristband was fraying at the end. 

“Sirius visited on my birthday and we got into a massive argument. And I mean massive. It was– it was really ugly.” Harry sighed. “ I said some really bad things and he said… probably the worst things he could say to me. It got so bad that Snape had to fucking break us up and kick him out.” 

“I remember that,” Hermione said. “He wouldn’t give us details. We just assumed he got into an argument with Snape.”

Harry shook his head. “Snape was… weird. He’s going to be coming around to teach me occlumency most days.” 

Hermione jumped, eyes gleaming. “You’re going to get to learn occlumency?!” 

“How do you—yes. Yes, ‘Mione, I’m going to learn occlumency. That’s also a long story.” 

“When it comes to them around here, Mum and Sirius are getting into arguments that either Dad or Lupin have to break up. At first they tried hiding it from us, but at this point they’ve given up.” Ron said. “It’s usually about Dumbledore or the Order. Sirius has been going kind of mad. Says he can’t stand being in here all the time when you’re not here.” 

Hermione didn’t have anything further to add to Ron’s observations so they had no choice but to tread out of the room and down the stairs. 

Ron opened the kitchen door at the bottom of the stairs. 

It was a rather large kitchen, but made cramped by the too-long central table taking up most of the floor space and the mismatched assortment of chairs surrounding it. The tiled floors were navy blue and white and the counters were white marble on top of midnight black cabinets. The smell of bangers and mash made his mouth water. 

“It was for his own protection.”

“How do you know what he-”

“Harry!” Arthur interrupted Sirius. 

Molly’s and Sirius’s heads seemed to snap towards him. The anger on their faces dissipated. Harry felt Hermione’s hand on his shoulder. This left Fred, George, and Ginny caught in the crossfire of Molly and Sirius’s piercing glances. 

Molly was the first to react in the silence. She moved from her station at the oven and bustled around the large table. “Harry, dear! We’ve missed you!” She embraced him without hesitation, her hugs always something fierce, but quick. Then her hands were on his shoulders and she scrutinized his face, not unlike how Ron did earlier. 

She smiled warmly. “It may not be the Burrow, but I did make your favorite.” Harry hoped this was the moment were she would release him from her affection, but instead she patted Harry’s cheek and it left behind the burn of heat warming his face. 

“Molly, dear,” Arthur came in for the rescue. 

Molly backed away with a smile and Arthur immediately replaced her spot. Harry was thankful that Arthur was still quite a bit taller than him at that moment so Harry could use the opportunity to hide his flushed cheeks while he regained his composure.

He hated himself for being this embarrassed. He’s seen her kiss Ron and Ginny’s cheeks before getting on the train and they were affronted and a little embarrassed, but never this overwhelmed, never unable to take the affection for what it was. This was nothing compared to that display of affection, yet it made his heart pound all the same, bringing back the ring of Petunia's voice in his head. He couldn’t really feel the warmth of Arthur’s embrace over the sticky feeling of the word freak wriggling around in his chest. 

“My godson betraying me for Weasleys after all this time?” Sirius called from behind him. 

He released himself from Arthur’s embrace and didn’t have time to read the emotions crossing Sirius’s face before he was promptly smothered again. Harry sucked a breath in harshly because there was fear rising through his chest like a tsunami barreling towards the shoreline, the dread clogging his throat. When Sirius’s hands tightened around his shoulders it felt like he was trying to crush Harry. It felt like a threat. It felt like he was angry. 

Then they were gone, and Harry was floating aimlessly in the kitchen. His skin prickled. He was all smothered out and didn’t know how he was going to manage a meal with prying questions and pitying smiles and food that would stick to the back of his throat. 

He made a beeline for the chipped green-painted rocking chair next to Ginny. Hermione filled in on his other side while Ron sat across. Harry looked up in time to see the flash of hurt on Sirius’s face. The guilt hardened to stone in his stomach. 

Harry put on his best smile. He shoved the food down his throat and shoved away the memory of throwing up in the upstairs toilet the morning after his first breakfast at the Burrow back in second year. Ron left to beg Fred and George to use one of their stink bombs to cover the smell of the vomit (after all, bathrooms are actually meant to smell like shit). They did it without hesitation and even offered mints for Harry. Molly suspected nothing.

Sometimes he did understand Dumbledore. He knew the times when deception felt like his only way out, how it could be his protection, his armor. Even if lying didn’t solve the problem, it could… mitigate it. A half-truth for a half-win. That was always better than a whole loss. 

But Harry only lied when there was no other option, or when the options were to choose between a few bruises and a bandaid or not being able to go to school for the rest of the week. 

Dumbledore lied because it was convenient. 

They were not the same. 

Harry told himself this over and over again at the dinner table. When and where it mattered most, he did not lie. 

“What was Snape like? Did he sing in the shower? Were there potions brewing in his toilet?” Ginny asked. 

Harry shrugged. “He was… very boring. Basically just tried to ignore me for two months.” 

Lie.

“Did he make you sleep in a cauldron?” Fred asked.

“Does he walk around barefoot?” George continued. 

“Did his entire house smell like old potions?” 

“Did you ever see him shower?” 

“Did he have women over?”

“Or does he prefer men?” Ron and Ginny were snickering under their breath, but Hermione looked as though they just told her OWLs were going to be cancelled this year.

“That’s enough boys,” Molly warned. The two of them stopped, but neither appeared particularly contrite.

“You know, Harry,” Sirius said, his fork scraping against his plate. “Just because Snape is a professor, doesn’t mean he’s allowed to… treat you in any negative way.” 

Harry’s leg hit the table. Quite loudly. “I know.” 

“So you would tell us if he didn’t treat you right? Because that is something that the headmaster would want to know.” 

Harry nodded. Hermione’s shoulder bumped into his. Her language of silent support. 

“I understand, Sirius. Snape was fine. Kept me fed and all that.” 

“Right, right.” Sirius hurried to agree. 

Arthur cleared his throat. “You know, I don’t think we ever got a chance to tell Harry that Ron and Hermione made Prefect.” 

“The both of you?” Harry turned to Hermione who broke into a huge smile. 

“Yes! The badges came with our letters! McGonagall was around once and said she’s never had such an easy time deciding.” 

Ron was attempting to shoot Hermione his strongest Not in Front of Harry looks while Hermione talked about the mandatory prefect meeting they were going to have to attend on the train. 

“I completely agree,” Harry said. Ron was looking at him with wide eyes. “There’s no one else I’d rather be Prefect for our year. Seriously, mate, you think I could handle that?”

Truth.

Ginny jutted an elbow in his side. “The first years would be walking all over you before you even made it to the common room.” 

“He’d go around telling them all ‘When I was your age, I killed our evil defense professor. I think you can handle Snape being a little mean to you.’ ” George said. 

Harry laughed with the rest of them, proud to barely feel that twinge of guilt over what happened in his first year. 

It was almost bearable save for the way Sirius’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes whenever he looked at Harry. 

Harry lingered long enough to offer to help with the dishes, but Molly waved him away to join the others stampeding up the stairs. 

When he made it back to his room Ron was in a standoff with Fred, George, and Ginny. 

“You can talk to him tomorrow.” Ron’s arms were crossed over his puffed-out chest. “This is a best friend event only.” 

Fred and George were backing off. Ginny was not going down without a fight.

She noticed Harry approaching. “How about we ask Harry , who he wants to hang out with tonight, Ronald?” She said with false sweetness. 

Ron groaned and threw his arms up in exasperation.

Harry sighed. “Ginny-”

“Harry-” She matched his lowered tone.

“I-” he shot a look at Ron. “We’ll talk tomorrow.” 

She raised her eyebrows. “ Tomorrow .”

Harry nodded. 

Ginny narrowed her eyes. 

“I haven’t seen them since… you know.” 

“You haven’t seen us either!” 

“You just- you guys wouldn’t get it.” 

“Get what?” Ginny’s tone became dark. “Being manipulated by someone you trusted? Being face-to-face with him ? Feeling like it was all your fault?” Fred and George shifted uncomfortably behind her. 

He remembered how he thought she was dead with how pale her skin looked against the cool black marble floor. 

On the count of three!  

Harry clenched his fists. He tried thinking of an excuse. 

“We have been worried about you all summer! You’re as much as our family as you are theirs!” She protested. 

“I know you were worried and I’m sorry, but I’ll talk to you guys about it tomorrow.” Harry stepped past Ron into the room. Ron closed the door behind him with a warning about listening in on their conversation.

Hermione had a notebook out and a muggle pen, already filling in page after page on Harry’s bed. Harry fell back onto the bed next to her. She made a sound of protest as her notebook jostled in her lap. 

“Snape made me finish my summer assignments.” 

Hermione immediately perked up, glancing back at Harry. He laughed.

“You’re not being serious.” 

“‘Course, not ‘Mione. He’s downstairs. My completed summer assignments, however, are in my trunk.” 

“Yes!” Hermione shouted. “Now you won’t have to start the year digging yourself out of a hole. The summer assignments are worth more than you think, you know.” 

Ron sat on the floor between the beds, leaning against the mess that was his own. “We know. You only tell us every year.” 

“Someone has to do it. And the only person with a real excuse is Harry, but even that’s flimsy considering you stay with Ron for almost half the summer.” 

“You telling me having awful relatives doesn’t excuse me from summer work?” Harry asked. Hermione shot him a glare. Harry stuck his tongue out.

None of them wanted to do this. 

Harry wanted to sit just like this, just like they used to be able to do, and talk about nothing. He wanted to listen to Ron talk about what his brothers were up to and how his dad’s job was going. He wanted to listen to Hermione rant about the books she was reading and read in his absence.

He wanted everything to be like it was. 

The feeling of tears pricked his eyes. He swallowed, attempting to regain control. 

If he could live in any one moment forever, it would be this one. This relief in being with his friends again. He was safe. They were safe. Here in this room, nothing could touch them. They were nothing. He wasn’t the Boy-Who-Lived. She wasn’t the greatest witch of their age. He wasn’t the desolate youngest son of six. 

They were just friends. 

Harry took a deep breath. He exhaled slowly, savoring the last breath. 

He started in the maze. That was easy.

His throat seemed to close off when he got to the confrontation with Cedric at the cup. His thoughts came out disjointed, incoherent. Hermione grasped his hand. Ron moved to lay down on the bed next to him. 

He didn’t make it through the graveyard. He delivered the events in snapshots, but even those were in black and white, blurred around the edges. In the end, he couldn’t even will himself to raise his sleeve, too ashamed of what was etched into his skin.

Hermione wrote it down in her notebook, most likely his words verbatim. She noticed his eyes following her hand and assured him it was warded. Harry nodded, almost feeling bad for believing Hermione wouldn’t take Harry’s privacy into concern. It was usually her putting up wards. 

The rest was easier to talk about, but got increasingly more difficult to describe. 

He had planned to keep Snape mostly a secret, but perhaps he was feeling impulsive, perhaps there was something as strong as a calming draught whenever Hermione squeezed his hand, in knowing Ron was by his side, attempting to see the world from his perspective.

He did talk about Snape, and it was difficult to find the correct words, but not difficult to find the courage to look for them. 

“And then he gave me his copy of a book about occlumency. He said it saved his life in the war and made me promise not to damage it—well, damage it further. It’s pretty damaged already. And then I flooed here.” 

For a minute, the only sound was that of their breathing in the quiet house. It was approaching one a.m. The three of them were tired. They would not be dissecting any of the information shared tonight. 

“So… we’re okay with Snape now?” Ron said. 

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Yeah, I think so.” 

“You think?” Hermione asked, her pen hovering above the page. 

Harry sighed. “We’re okay with Snape. Definitely more okay with Snape than Dumbledore right now.” Ron turned and yawned in Harry’s face. Harry pushed him away. “Your breath stinks.” 

“Quiet,” Ron said. “I’m going to sleep now.” 

Harry laughed softly. Hermione put her pen down and closed her notebook, shaking out her hand. She fell back on the bed as well, the notebook still clutched against her stomach.

In a while, they would have to get up. Ron would push the crap off of his bed, and Molly would burst in the door demanding to know what the ruckus was about. She would leave after assuring Hermione and Harry that she didn’t blame them for what Ron did. Hermione would leave to creep into her room with Ginny, saying goodnight to them both softly. Then Harry would curl up under his covers and listen to Ron untangle a blanket from his mess of items and proceed to sleep on his bare mattress. 

But for now, they were going to bask in the gentle quiet that settled in the room, the warmth between friends, and the knowledge that tomorrow, they would get to face the day together. 

Chapter Text

He paced the room. Back and forth. Back and forth. 

He threw a blasting hex at the wall. A portrait splintered on impact, pieces of wood and canvas thrown across the room. At his foot landed a scrap showing a hand holding a golden scepter.

It would be easier if he could blame Barty, if he could chalk it up to the fool’s incompetence, but it was impossible to be blinded when the truth was purer than freshly powdered snow. 

He misjudged Barty. He was the one who equated the luck of a beginner to the expertise of a master. 

He could almost forgive himself if Barty had proven disloyal. After all, it’s much harder to read hearts than it is minds. Hearts were fickle things. 

Never again.

He paused when there was a knock at the door to face the entrance.

The door opened. “My Lord.” The man bowed.